The Mystery of Revenge

By G.X. Chen

A body was found in the living room of a concert pianist, shot to death. Yi-yun Lin, the deceased, was a foreign student from China. No murder weapon was found on the scene, and no sign of forced entry.

It was seeming a homicide, but who was the killer? All the evidence points to her boyfriend, but Detective Paul Winderman has his doubts. The victim's ex-husband has vowed revenge on several occasions, and someone from her past might also want her dead.

The tale of the Mystery of Revenge is a melting pot of love, desire, jealousy and greed. Proceed with caution; the facts could be deceiving.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.X. Chen
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310890697

G.X. Chen

G.X. Chen, author of the Back Bay Investigation mystery series and others novels, is a freelance writer, world traveler and amateur photographer. She lives in the beautiful city of Boston with her husband, Steve.

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The Mystery of Revenge

Copy right 2014 by G.X. Chen

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G.X. Chen

(Prelude to the Back Bay Investigation Series)

The Mystery of Revenge

Copy right © 2014 by G.X. Chen. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1631735264

Fiction / Mystery

Fiction / Asian American

To my daughter Linda

For telling me it’s not too late to pick up my writing again after twenty years

PROLOGUE

On a beautiful summer day in early 1990’s, Ms. White, the tenant in Apartment number 3, on the second floor of a wood-structured building in Allston, could swear the tenant downstairs had been cooking something exotic and rotten while home alone, because she saw the tenant’s boyfriend leaving with a big suitcase a few days ago. The odd, sweetly decayed smell persisted for the second day, then the day after. Finally, she called the building management to complain.

Ms. White was on the landing when the manager came in with a ring of keys. She had knocked several times in the past two days, but nobody answered the door. Ms. White was a mild-tempered, white-haired, retired kindergarten teacher, but she detested her downstairs neighbors because they played loud music all day long—the boyfriend was a piano player—and made love at all hours. The floors and the walls in the old apartment building were thin, and the young couple’s passionate lovemaking often made Ms. White stop in her tracks, and hairs stand up on her back. She had complained to the manager more than a few times, but he told her the building management could do nothing about the tenants having sex in their own apartments. Loud music, yes, but the man had the right to practice before ten at night and after eight in the morning, according to the building bylaws. Ms. White was a seventy-year-old spinster, and she needed peace and quiet in her own home. She missed the old tenants so! They were the perfect neighbors, who never played loud music, always discreet, except fighting like cats and dogs sometimes. Ms. White sighed resignedly when she was reminded of the good, old days.

The smell was almost unbearable when the manager approaching the door. It is awful, he complained, trying to cover his nose with one of his sleeves.

Didn’t I tell you? Ms. White retorted while walking toward him down the stairs. The building manager didn’t want to be bothered at first because he said the tenant had rights to cook authentic Chinese food in her own apartment. Have you ever heard about the street food in China? They eat rats and turtles, he told Ms. White.

Hopefully, it’s not a dead body inside, the manager, a good-natured old man, said jokingly. He turned the key and the door yielded. The warm air mixed with that peculiar decayed smell—as Ms. White would later tell everyone who cared to listen—hit them fully in the face, making her queasy right on the spot. She gagged, quickly lifted her right hand to cover her nose, and peeked inside. The curtains were half-drawn in the living room, and the afternoon sun shone through partially covered windows, casting yellowish daylight on the brown old carpet near the dining table.

Oh, my— The manager’s cry was muffled behind his sleeve and he turned his face hastily away. Then Ms. White saw. The tenant, Yi-yun Lin, was dead on the floor next to the dining table. Ms. White knew it was a dead body because it lay like a puppet without strings, flopping about, deflated.

She felt dizzy and sick immediately. For the first time in her life, Ms. White lost her appetite for dinner and remained in bed for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER 1

Ann Lee almost jumped when the doorbell rang. She had been watching the evening news about a recent homicide in Allston, a working-class neighborhood in Boston. The name of the victim had just been mentioned, and a passport photo was plastered on the screen.

It couldn’t be! Ann’s eyes opened wider and wider. She saw her friend less than a week ago, and Yi-yun looked almost radiant. She had told Ann she might have some great news to share in a few days. Yes, that was exactly what Yi-yun had said.

To back up the news story, the reporter had been standing in front of an old apartment building where the body was found, talking thrillingly. The details were scarce, but the fact that Yi-yun had been dead for days with a gunshot wound floored Ann. She was so stunned that she didn’t know what to think when she heard the doorbell. Through the keyhole, she saw a grim-faced policeman stand in the hallway. Reluctantly, she opened the door and looked up at him wearily.

Miss Lee, the man addressed her solemnly while showing his ID, which revealed he was Paul Winderman, a detective sergeant from Boston Police Department. Can I come in?

She stepped aside to let him pass. Paul Winderman, a big, tall and sturdy man, was in his early fifties. When she stood facing him, Ann—who was five-foot-two—didn’t quite reach his shoulder.

Based on the search of the victim’s apartment, we’re under the impression that you’re one of Yi-yun Lin’s best friends. Paul looked at the girl in front of him, a petite little thing in a white T-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. The haunted expression in her almond-shaped eyes had confirmed his educated guess. The address book they found in victim’s living room had only indicated Ann and the victim knew each other.

Ann simply nodded. Tears swelled up, and she had to bite her lips to prevent them running down.

Paul noted the TV that sat on a dresser and said gravely: Guess you already know what happened to your friend. Paul Winderman was one of the first policemen to arrive on the crime scene. It was obviously a homicide as the victim was shot on the chest, and the murder weapon was nowhere to be found. In addition, there were bruises on both of her arms as if the victim had had a fight with the killer before she died. Would you please tell me what you know about the victim? he asked. Did Ms. Lin have any enemies?

Ann shook her head slowly. How could Yi-yun have enemies? She was the nicest girl; everyone liked her, even Shao Mei, who was highly opinionated and rough on the edges, adored her.

Do you know if she owned a gun? The lab confirmed that the victim was killed by a bullet from a .22 revolver, a regular handgun.

She shook her head again. She had been so shocked and confused that her brain had stopped functioning. But she remembered faintly about a gun. Yi-yun had mentioned some time ago that Tom Meyers, her boyfriend, owned a gun. She frowned, trying to recall when and where she had heard about it.

Paul looked at her probingly. Ann was apparently in severe pain, a bad time to ask her detailed questions, but he had to continue because if the police couldn’t solve the case in the first ten days, time could run out and the trail could become cold quickly. As a detective, Paul hated to see any murder case go unsolved. We’re trying to piece together Ms. Lin’s life so we can find the killer. I don’t mind telling you, there was no sign of forced entry, and nothing valuable in her apartment was taken. In fact, there was nothing valuable in the apartment at all except the grand piano. Everything the victim owned was purchased from discount stores and flea markets. Paul found himself shaking his head sympathetically when he went through her drawers. From what he had learned, Yi-yun Lin was a Chinese immigrant living with an upstart concert pianist. It seemed until recently she had been working as a waitress to support the man.

Your friend was probably murdered by someone she knew, he continued. If you can help us by providing the information we need, we’ll bring the killer to justice. It is what you want for your friend, is it not?

Ann nodded. I remember her telling me about a gun, she said hesitantly after a few moments. She found it in Tom’s drawer after she’d moved in with him. It’s a small handgun.

This was a breakthrough Paul had been looking for. Did she mention why her boyfriend owned a gun? he asked eagerly.

Tom told her it’s his father’s gun, Ann replied. Tom’s father is a gun collector. Tom hated the gun, but his father insisted that he should bring it to Boston. She remembered Yi-yun was laughing when she mentioned it. As if he’d need a gun to protect himself in the city, she had said.

I’ll leave you my card, Paul said while standing up, taking a business card from his wallet. We’ll talk again in a few days. In the meantime, if you remember anything, please give me a call.

Ann watched the detective walk through the living room, closing the door behind him—watching with eyes unseen. It had been almost two years since she first met Yi-yun at China Dragon, the Chinese restaurant she had been working as a waitress ever since.

***

Before she could steady her feet on the sidewalk, the bus Ann had taken to the town more than ten miles west of the city had pulled away. She looked around her miserably. It was deadly quiet around the bus stop. In fact, it was deadly quiet as far as her eyes could see. There was nothing but a few small shops dotted along Main Street, the commercial center of a bedroom community.

At the end of Main Street however, she saw what she was looking for, a disproportionately gigantic Chinese restaurant sitting atop a hill, overlooking the traditional Pop & Mom antique shop, convenient store, drug store, and barber shop on both sides of the street. The sun in late September was lukewarm, but Ann felt rather hot and sweaty when she arrived at the monstrous China Dragon.

The door was ajar—she soon stepped into a huge dining hall filled with