Kill Her Twice - Hardcover

Lee, Stacey

 
9780593532041: Kill Her Twice
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 059353204X ISBN 13: 9780593532041
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Downstairs Girl comes a YA murder mystery noir set in 1930s Los Angeles’s Chinatown.

“A captivating and crackling noir full of suspenseful twists. Readers will fall in love with the Chow sisters and their quest for the truth.” —Kathleen Glasgow, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Girl in Pieces and The Agathas

LOS ANGELES, 1932: Lulu Wong, star of the silver screen and the pride of Chinatown, has a face known to practically everyone, especially the Chow sisters—May, Gemma, and Peony—Lulu’s former classmates and neighbors. So the girls instantly know it’s Lulu when they discover a body one morning in an out-of-the-way stable, far from the Beverly Hills home where she lived after her fame skyrocketed.

The sisters suspect Lulu’s death is the result of foul play, but the police don’t seem motivated to investigate. Even worse, there are signs that point to a cover-up, and powerful forces in the city want to frame the killing as evidence that Chinatown is a den of iniquity and crime, even more reason it should be demolished to make room for the construction of a new railway depot, Union Station.

Worried that neither the police nor the papers will treat Lulu fairly—no matter her fame and wealth—the sisters set out to solve their friend’s murder themselves, and maybe save their neighborhood in the bargain. But with Lulu’s killer still on the loose, the girls’ investigation just might put them square in the crosshairs of a cold-blooded murderer.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Stacey Lee is the New York Times bestselling author of historical and contemporary young adult fiction, including The Downstairs Girl, a Reese’s Book Club YA Pick, Luck of the Titanic, Under a Painted Sky, and Outrun the Moon, the winner of the Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature. A native of southern California and a fourth-generation Chinese American, she is a co-founder of the We Need Diverse Books movement and writes stories for all kids (even the ones who look like adults). You can visit Stacey at StaceyHLee.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @staceyleeauthor

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1

GEMMA

In 1932, Los Angeles was a city of reinvention. It was a place where mountains could be moved and riversre shaped, where even stars could fall from the sky and walk around on Earth. The blood of an Angeleno coursed through the veins like gasoline, primed for the explosion that would drive progress.

“Stop looking like we’re about to rob a bank.” I tied my straw hat tighter. My older sister, May, with her long arms gripping the steering wheel of our father’s flower delivery truck, did not look poised for progress. In fact, she looked like she was waiting for the truck to drive her.

Around us, customers hunted bustling City Market for deals on the last of summer’s bounty—corn, stone fruit, zucchini—though it was already October. “Pretend you’re the lead in one of those Hollywood flickers. We’re stylish women in the latest robin’s-egg-blue Cadillac about to go for a drive.”

The Mule, what we called our old Ford Runabout pickup, was definitely not robin’s-egg blue. More like turtle-egg brown.

May frowned at me, a tiny Y crease forming between her tea-steeped eyes. Even when she was annoyed, she had the kind of beauty that drew eyes and tripped feet. “Are you wearing lipstick?”

I pressed my lips together. “As a matter of fact, yes. Lulu Wong’s Noir Red.” The silver-screen starlet and our hometown celebrity had the dark-red shade made vegetarian for her. “Here, you wear some too. Put it on quick.” I plucked the tube from my clutch.

“They’ll think we’re hussies!” Her serious eyes blinked double time.

“They already think that.” If I’d had enough money, I would’ve gotten the kohl pencil for drawing on Lulu Wong’s tiger-charming beauty mark, a mole round and perfect enough to stop a tiger in its tracks. “Oh, forget it. Work the gears. Let’s get this bucking mule on the road.” I swept my hands toward the exit of City Market, where Ba had carved a niche selling flowers among all the produce vendors. But few bought blooms during a depression. Save for a few big orders placed during the Summer Olympics, it felt as if flowers came to our stall to die. We’d only sold a third of our inventory this morning, mostly the cheaper lilies. But this time, we weren’t going to simply donate them around town like we always did. Ba wouldn’t approve, but he was sixty miles away and might not return for many months.

“You and your big-thinking head,” she muttered, using a Chinese expression for someone with grand ideas. “I have a bad feeling this will get us married off for good.” With grudging movements of her hands on the gears, May eased us forward.

I snorted, though my leg began to jitter with annoyance. With fewer eligible maidens in Chinatown than bachelors, Bahad always told us that his three fierce clouds—Mei Wun, or “beautiful cloud,” for May; Gam Wun, or “fresh cloud,” for me; and Pan Wun, or “wishful cloud,” for our youngest sister, Peony—would blow favorable winds to our family. But with the city’s plans to bulldoze the heart of our community for a train station, May and I worried the winds would scatter us to new households sooner than we were ready to go.

“They won’t like us selling at Westlake Park,” May groused, crawling us along. The Mule bucked, tossing us like rice in the wok and clattering the buckets in our truck bed. One of the City Market sweepers shook his broom at us. May gave him an apologetic wave. She had always been the nicer one. Reaching San Pedro Street, she gunned us out of the lot, her face growing dark again. “Remember how Guitar Man tried to visit the park?”

“Of course I remember,” I grumbled. Our friendly Chinatown bum, who always carried a guitar case, had been so distressed at being ordered to leave the park, he’d gotten on the wrong streetcar and ended up near Pasadena. The city preferred the Chinese keep to Chinatown, except when we were selling here at City Market, located two miles south. Los Angeles relied on our produce. Of course, if they swept us out of Chinatown, their dinner plates would suffer, but by the time they figured that out, it would be too late for us. “Guitar Man spits a lot and scares people. We are not going to scare people. We are a delightful vision. Aren’t you always telling me people judge with their eyes first?”

May shifted gears and the Mule bucked again. “I was talking about show business.”

A truck rumbled by, sweeping dust through the Mule’s doorless entries.

“Well, this is a kind of show. Our feminine wiles will go a long way.” I eyed her pale-green dress, wishing it was more à la mode, which was French for “fashionable.” May sewed our dresses from castoffs like old curtains and tablecloths. Though her creations were clever—she had split a doily to make the collar on my own dress—they always had a washed look to them.

Her tongue clicked in annoyance. “Feminine wiles? Sorry, Gemma, I left mine at home next to my girdle.”

“And along with your sense of adventure,” I said breezily.

“Along with my sense, you mean. How much did that lipstickcost?”

I made kissy lips at her, and she groaned. If we were going to sell our flowers to the beau monde, which was French for “the upper crust,” we had to look as presentable as possible. Lipstick was a minor investment for a bigger payoff.

Traffic wasn’t heavy on a Saturday afternoon. The white tower of the new city hall saluted us several blocks northeast, toward Chinatown. Buildings passed in streaks of concrete and brick, each day bringing more everything must go! signs and longer soup kitchen lines. I imagined all the business we’d find in Westlake Park: couples strolling the lake, families walking their dogs. Westlake residents could still afford luxuries, unlike those in most neighborhoods, who could barely buy the necessities.

“I bet we could make twenty dollars today,” I said. That would more than cover our flower costs for the month.

“How do you figure we’ll do that, short of clubbing people over the head and taking their wallets?” Her nose started to twitch, as it always did when something bothered her.

“It’s very simple, May. We quadruple our prices.”

Her posture slouched as the wind blew out of her. “That’s it. I’m turning around. It’s clear your noodles have gone mushy.”

“Keep your hair on. Westlake people are used to paying certain prices for things. If we didn’t quadruple the prices, they might worry over the quality.”

“I see. So we’re doing them a favor.”

“Absolutely.” A little risk-taking was what was needed to keep our heads above water a little longer. Despite my airy demeanor, my stomach clenched like the grinding of the clutch. Wewouldn’t have had to take such risks if we weren’t being kicked out of our houses in the middle of an economy that had belly flopped. It was bad enough that Ba had gotten sick. Now it was up to us to save ourselves.

She cut her gaze to me. “I suppose you also have a cage to sell to a lion.”

The wealthier neighborhoods of Westlake folded around us,with its elegant mansions moderne, fussy Victorians, and Spanish haciendas, fronted by spacious lawns. The stately brick buildings of a fancy girls’ school stretched half a block, where girls played basketball on a court so pristine it would make...

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
059353204X
ISBN 13 
9780593532041
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
400
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Friedensallee 273
Hamburg
22763
Deutschland

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