The Fatal Sin of Love

By G.X. Chen

In Beacon Hill, one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Boston, a wealthy widow dies in her sleep, while in Cambridge, where academia meets high tech, a dog is slaughtered. One death has seemingly no bearing on the other until the death in a remote Chinese village is announced.

Answering the call from a friend, amateur detectives Ann Lee and Fang Chen rush to the ancient village, where the branches of a family tree stretch from China to New Zealand, Australia, and the US, and where—to Ann’s great chagrin—Fang Chen becomes obsessed with a girl being pursued by a ruthless killer who will stop at nothing to sacrifice her in the name of love.

Will Fang Chen’s untimely passion get in the way of his investigation and destroy his partnership with Ann? Can the amateur sleuths outsmart the cunning and crafty killer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.X. Chen
• Release date: Jun 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310889691

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 fatal sin of love

Copy right 2015 by G.X. Chen

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G.X. Chen

Book 2 Back Bay Investigation

The Fatal Sin of Love

Copy right © 2015 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-13: 978-1507526149

ISBN-10: 1507526148

Fiction / Mystery

Fiction / Asian American

To Gordon and Margaret

For the fond memories of Puba Lane

PROLOGUE

Ms. Guo woke up in the middle of a night with a start. She lay flat on her back, listening reflexively to the peculiar reverberation only to fall back asleep when the sound faded away. Mrs. Donavan, her employer for the past two years, had been suffering chronic heartburn from time to time, so the maid was accustomed to the midnight grumbles; even the family dog, Alex, didn’t bother to bark.

When Ms. Guo woke up again hours later, dawn had broken—she could see the dark but somewhat reddened horizon from where she was lying, through a small window in the attic. Her tiny bedroom was on the fourth floor of an impressive grand mansion located in Beacon Hill, an affluent residential neighborhood in the city of Boston.

Ms. Guo stretched and yawned before getting up with a considerable effort. She was getting old. The age-related arthritis started bothering her, making her joints stiff and sore every time she tried to climb in or out of bed.

It should be a cool but sunny spring day, Ms. Guo thought pleasurably while watching the horizon change the colors—the brighter ruby red slowly replaced the darker crimson as the edge above turned orange, lemon, and lime. The sun is going to come out, she reflected, and the day is going to be warmer than yesterday.

Ms. Guo hated the cold and snowy winter with a passion, not only because she was used to the warm climate in her home country, but also because she had to go to De Luca’s Market on Charles Street every morning, rain or shine. Mrs. Donavan, a seventy-five-year-old widow, was bedridden but very fussy and liked her meals made every day with fresh produce and ingredients, starting with freshly squeezed orange juice in the morning. Ms. Guo didn’t mind walking a few blocks from the house to the grocery store if the weather was nice and sunny, but loathed the chore when it was cold and icy outside because the brick sidewalks in Beacon Hill neighborhood tended to be dangerously slippery during the winter months. Sometimes, especially on snowy days, Ms. Guo couldn’t help regretting her decision to move to Boston, which is a beautiful city but unbearable in winter. She stayed on only because the money was good. With free room and board, she could easily wire a thousand a month back home. She smiled every time her eyes landed on the photo sitting on her nightstand—the boys were so adorable.

When the edge of lemon and lime melt into different shades of blue, Ms. Guo got up, washed and bathed, then descended quietly to the kitchen, trying not to wake up her employer, who was a light sleeper but loved to sleep in.

Having gone to the grocery store and picked up what she needed for the day, Ms. Guo came home to make herself a simple breakfast—a cup of strong oolong tea with milk and sugar and two pieces of wheat toast with butter and jam. Ten minutes before nine, she started making a different one for Mrs. Donavan, whose breakfast included a cup of freshly brewed black coffee, two slices of white toast buttered on both sides, and a glass of room-temperature orange juice, freshly squeezed from the four oranges Ms. Guo had brought home less than an hour ago. As she finally put everything on a tray, the clock in the sitting room struck nine, the time to serve Mrs. Donavan breakfast in bed.

Ms. Guo took the tray up to the second floor, where Mrs. Donavan kept her private quarters—a spacious living room and a master bedroom with en suite bathroom. As usual, the door to her apartment was closed but not locked. Ms. Guo pressed one side of the tray against the wall to free her right hand, turning the doorknob while using her elbow to push the door open. It was dark inside, as heavy velvet curtains blocked any morning sunlight that could peek though. Ms. Guo put the tray on the dresser that sat across from the bed, a king-size four-poster with silk draperies, and walked toward the windows to draw the curtains. Alex, a Pekingese, left his owner’s bedside as soon as Ms. Guo walked in. He had a beautiful white coat and a pair of big, sorrowful eyes half-covered by his long, curly hairs. He had been following the maid at a leisurely pace, waiting patiently for his chance to eat and go out. After serving Mrs. Donavan breakfast, it was the time for the maid to feed and walk the dog.

Another fine day, Mrs. Donavan, Ms. Guo said brightly while pulling the curtains aside and opening the French doors to the balcony, paying absolutely no attention to Alex, who had been following closely behind her. Instead of usual mumbling, however, there was no response from the old lady. Ms. Guo whirled around in alarm. Mrs. Donavan? she called out uncertainly, looking at the bundle in the bed. No answer, no movement, and nothing stirred. Alex stopped in his tracks, looking up at the maid, who tiptoed to the four-poster bed. Having taken just one look, she started screaming.

Oh my God; oh my God, she screeched and shrieked while fleeing the apartment like a chicken with its head cut off, followed by the dog, who ran after her at an equally fast speed. Ms. Guo flew down two sets of stairs and crashed into the family room on the first floor. When the 911 operator picked up the phone, Ms. Guo was sobbing into the receiver, telling anyone who cared to listen that her employer was dead.

CHAPTER 1

Coco, darling. Jane Tian, a twenty-five-year-old with a ready smile, bent down to kiss the dog—a mix between a bulldog and a hound—as soon as she opened the door. Coco the dog had jumped down from the couch where she had been sitting the second she heard the door open, rushing toward Jane with the speed of a hound on the hunt.

Coco definitely knows who her mother is, Ann Lee, Jane’s roommate, remarked. She never jumps off the couch when I come home.

Or she knows her dinner’s ready, Jane replied with a laugh, walking into the kitchen while holding a grocery bag with Coco hot on her heels. Having placed the bag on the kitchen counter, she took out a big can of dog food, opened it, and spooned up half of its contents. Here you go, she said to the dog as she put the dinner—mixed canned and dry food in an aluminum dish—on the floor.

When Coco was eating, Jane sorted out the rest of groceries and put the items into either the refrigerator or the kitchen cabinet. Any news? she asked while walking toward the living room, where Ann had been watching the evening news.

Not really, just the usual bits, Ann replied, looking up from the couch. Jane was a beautiful girl, slim and tall, with a straight nose and two big, expressive eyes on a heart-shaped face. Her chin was a bit weak, but her lips were full. When she smiled, it was like a spring flower, sweet and radiant.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Ann was just home from a morning jog along the riverbank. She had been thoroughly enjoying her newfound freedom since receiving her master’s degree in biology and finding a job as a researcher at a pharmaceutical company in Cambridge, which afforded her carefree and relaxing weekends at home or with friends, rather than rushing around like the old days. Jane Tian, who also worked in Cambridge, used to be Ann’s schoolmate at BU; she and Ann had gotten together and rented a spacious two-bedroom apartment near Davis Square. Even though Ann missed her old roommate, Joan, she liked her new roommate and her new home equally well.

My mom always says no news is good news, Jane said, pushing herself deeply into the folds of the couch. Life had been good after college. She liked her job and her roommate; her dog was finally growing up. As a puppy, Coco was wild—she got into anything and everything, chewing up shoes and furniture if left home alone. More than once, Jane almost regretted having rescued her from a local shelter. A young adult in dog years, Coco finally settled down—she was still excitable but had learned to be quiet when told. She continued getting into things—mostly food, of course, because she loved to eat—but Coco was no longer destructive like in her puppy years.

Always wanting to be the center of attention, Coco had quickly wolfed down her supper and jumped back to the couch, spreading out between the two girls.

***

When Paul Winderman, the detective sergeant of the Boston police department, walked through the door of a handsome brownstone in Beacon Hill, where the cheapest town houses sold for more than a million apiece, it was a hysterical maid he met, along with a small, long haired white dog. When the 911 call came in, Paul was in the neighborhood, so he decided to stop by and take a look. If there was nothing unusual about the case, he would let the first responders take control. From what he had heard on the radio, the owner of the house, a seventy-five-year-old widow, had died in her sleep.

Paul was more than six feet tall, with a broad chest and shoulders. He looked down at the maid, who had prominent high cheekbones. Paul Winderman, he said while showing his ID.

I’m the maid, she said. She was a petite, middle-aged Asian woman; her small and delicately shaped eyes beamed with tears and her thin nose twitched unconsciously. She was wearing a red cotton sweater and a pair of green corduroy pants. When Paul asked her where the body was, she started sobbing again, blowing her nose into a Kleenex tissue. From what he could comprehend through her loud sobs, the body was still upstairs in the master bedroom.

Were Mrs. Donavan’s children notified? Paul asked. As Mrs. Donavan’s personal maid, he expected she would know the relations of her employer, and probably have all the contact information needed.

Oh, no, the maid replied. Mrs. Donavan had no children. She spoke fluent English with a distinct drawl—different from most of the Chinese immigrants Paul had encountered in his two-decade career as a street cop and then a homicide detective in Boston.

Did she have any relatives? he asked.

Ms. Guo hesitated for just a moment. No one in the US that I know of, she said timidly, looking up at the detective, who was more than a head taller. Nobody ever visited her while I was here.

Where did Mrs. Donavan come from, do you know? Having no relatives in the United States didn’t mean she had no family members outside the country; in any case, someone, if not a lawyer, would have to get in touch with them.

Mrs. Donavan was from China, Ms. Guo answered, a bit uncertainly. But I don’t know which part of China she came from. Paul interpreted it as the maid wasn’t sure if her employer was from mainland, Hong Kong, or Taiwan. It could be very confusing for someone who wasn’t familiar with the political inclinations and the separations of the country since 1949. Even though Taiwan had been a part of China, people from the island would never say they were from China; the same for Chinese who came from Hong Kong.

How long have you been working for Mrs. Donavan?

Almost two years, she replied. Paul looked at her encouragingly. I came when the maid before me left for health issues, she added.

Paul told her to remain where she was before heading upstairs. Ms. Guo sat down on a stool in the kitchen, but Alex followed the detective as he walked up the wide, carpeted wooden stairs.

The master bedroom on the second floor was big and airy. It faced the south, so the sun had come in through the French doors, which opened to a decorative wrought-iron balcony. The morning breeze had filled the room with fresh and cool air. Paul lifted his nose to sniff when he was near the bed as he had detected a faint smell of food. He swirled around and saw a tray of breakfast sitting on the dresser. It contained a cup of black coffee, a small plate of toast, and a glass of orange juice. The coffee was cold when he touched the cup.

In the middle of the room against one side of the walls was a huge four-poster bed, which was in total disarray—the comforter had been thrown overboard, partially touching one side of the floor, while a pillow landed on the other side. The body of Mrs. Donavan was lying sideways, half above the comforter, with one hand on her chest, while the other raised over her head. From the position she was in and the agonizing expression frozen on her face, Paul suspected the old lady had suffered a seizure before she died. He made a mental note to ask the maid for the name of her primary care physician, who should be able to tell him if Mrs. Donavan had had any chronic conditions that could cause seizures.

He walked around the room twice in order to take everything in, followed closely by Alex, who was very quiet. The dog hadn’t barked once since Paul walked in.

Across from the four-poster bed, there was a flat-screen TV atop an antique French cabinet not far from a matched dresser and a nineteenth-century secretary with its writing surface folded down on its hinges. It should have some small drawers in the internal storage slot, Paul thought knowledgeably while looking at the large central drawers; each had a beautifully crafted bronze handle. Sitting on the nightstand were a box of Godiva chocolates and a crystal clock. He touched the hand of the deceased—the coldness and the rigidity told him she had died last night instead of this morning.

Was it a habit of Mrs. Donavan that the French doors to the balcony in her bedroom should be open every morning? Paul asked when he came down to the kitchen along with the dog. It was mid-spring, but the mornings could still be cold in New England.

Oh my! The maid jumped up from the stool while putting her hand on her forehead in visible distress. I should’ve closed the doors after ten minutes, she stammered and turned red. Mrs. Donavan loved the fresh air, so I open the doors every morning for ten minutes before helping her get up. I totally forgot about it when I saw her lying on her bed . . . dead, she explained with a choking voice.

Paul nodded. Who is Mrs. Donavan’s primary doctor, do you know? he asked.

Dr. Wang, Ms. Guo answered promptly. I have his name and phone number here. She opened a drawer in one of the kitchen cabinets, taking out a business card and giving it to the detective.

Paul was putting the card in his pocket when sirens announced the arrival of an ambulance and a fire