Free Dim Sum Dead by Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

and tipped it on its side onto one of our large lacquer platters. The contrast of the white-cardboard box on the shiny black platter was lovely. Buster would get a kick out of it. The whole oversize scale was fun, and I suspected the idea of gourmet caterers creating fresh culinary delights and then putting them into a take-out container would strike our host as appropriately droll. The salad, when it was completely compiled, would be displayed in the tipped-over carton, spilling bountifully out onto the platter in a lovely large mound. To finish, we’d stick a pair of oversize gold chopsticks into the carton and sprinkle the salad with freshly fried wonton strips.
    I watched Holly work, but my mind kept wandering. I usually consider myself a great judge of people. But Quita McBride had had me worried about several things. What was up with her? She had acted so strangely when we told her about the theft of the mah-jongg set back at the other house that she had me spooked.
    I know a guy, a detective with the LAPD, and I gave him a call. I had to leave a message. I told him I hoped he might swing by and check out Quita McBride.
    As soon as I hung up, I regretted having called. I shouldn’t have bothered him. It wasn’t his problem. Besides, he and I had a weird history. Why did I think I should call?
    Angry with myself, I got back to work. The wok was placed over high heat, and the oil was now at the correct temperature for frying. I started placing the wonton strips into the oil.
    As the wonton skins sizzled, I ran over some of the timetable items with Wes. “We probably shouldn’t start cooking the dim sum until the guests are here. And let’s not dress the salad until the last minute, either.”
    “Right.” Wes had been absentmindedly shaking a large glass jar that contained the Chinese dressing we’d prepared earlier. By shaking it up, he freshly mixed the peanut and sesame oils with the pickled ginger and other spices. This salad dressing recipe was complex, mingling ingredients with varying tastes. It contained white scallions, Chinese mustard powder, and shallots for heat, honey for sweet, soy sauce for salty, and ginger vinegar for sour, along with the spicy chili oil for fire. It was a recipe we had borrowed from Wolfgang Puck and had changed a little over time.
    Wes held up the drink Holly had taken from Quita.
    “Ugh,” he said, eloquent as always.
    “It’s Quita’s version of a Singapore Sling,” Holly said.
    He took a tentative tiny sip. “Ack! I’m poisoned.”
    I looked over at him, arching an eyebrow. Wes was deadly serious about every recipe.
    Ray entered the kitchen. “What up?”
    “Ray, my man. C’mon over here.” Wes waved him to the sink. “I’m going to teach you how to make a real Singapore Sling.”
    “Excellent. They love that shit in the ’hood.” He gave us all a sly grin.
    “Naturally.” Wes grabbed one of the boxes with our liquor supplies for the party and he and Ray set the bottles up on a table next to the sink.
    “Oh, hey. Show me how to make one, too,” Holly said.
    As Ray moved over and made a space for Holly, Wesley picked up what was left of Quita’s colorful concoction and poured it down the drain.
    Wes was our resident mixologist. “Probably no mixed drink has been as mistreated as the Sling. The only thing most bartenders know about the Singapore Sling is that it’s supposed to be pink.”
    “Ah.” Holly looked on as he rearranged the liquor bottles on the table.
    “Singapore Sling,” Ray said, smiling. “Pleasing groins.”
    “What?” Wes said, looking up.
    Holly gave Ray a wicked grin. “Interesting fantasy life.”
    “It’s an anagram. Pleasing groins is an anagram for Singapore Sling. Really.” He was all teeth. “Betcha didn’t know that, Holly.”
    She was staring at him. “An anagram, huh? How’d you know that?”
    “It’s just something my brain does naturally. I got the gift.”
    “You’ve got the anagram gift.” Holly looked