Unknown Victim by Kay Hadashi (classic books for 11 year olds .TXT) 📕

push for an answer. “If it’s cheap, it seems like a lot of people would drink it. Anyway, that man had a bottle cap for it in his pocket. Somebody had to have drunk one.”

Clara slammed the edge of the butcher knife into the cutting board, wedging it in place. “Okay, one loser drank one. So what?”

“Is it something served in bars, or sold in grocery stores?”

“All kinds of beer in stores around here,” Clara said, while prying the butcher knife from the cutting board. “There’s Budweiser, Coors, Pabst, all kinds. Just buy one of those if you want to drink beer.”

“I’m not looking for beer. I want to know about that particular brand of beer. Can you tell me where I can find it?”

Clara turned around. Her eyes were wet. “Does it matter? That guy is dead. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“Yeah, sure, I’m sorry,” Gina said, backing away. What should’ve been a simple conversation had turned into an angry pregnant woman holding a knife. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset!”

***

Even if her crew worked only eight hours a day, Gina worked through to dinner. Her original idea for the estate upon first seeing it was to cut everything down to the ground and start over. When she and her crew found useful ornamental plants that had been in the old garden, and they were still healthy, she decided to do a more thorough search of the estate. That meant she needed to run a project that was almost an archeological dig, looking for things left over from the past. She was also able to put her investigative minds and abilities to work.

She’d learned not to do manual labor in the heat of the afternoon, instead spending her time searching through grass and weeds for plants in the Japanese garden that needed preservation. That afternoon had been spent finding and tagging plants with bright pink surveyor’s tape. Her back tired and her arms sunburnt all over again, she gave up with her project for the day and retreated to the kitchen to make dinner.

To say Gina’s mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen was an understatement. If her father taught her about investigative police work, her mother spent just as much time teaching Gina how to cook. She’d never developed the same skill in the kitchen as her mother, but there was one dish she was proud of, and that was minestrone.

Whenever a family gathering or potluck rolled around, Gina was expected to bring her style of minestrone. When she arrived in Hawaii, she knew that her usual recipe wouldn’t be right for the climate, that a summer style was more appropriate.

Searching her refrigerator, she had almost none of the ingredients she needed to make a pot of the famous Italian soup. After taking a shower, she coated her sunburnt arms and face with aloe, dressed in loose clothes, grabbed her wallet, and set off in the pickup truck in search of a grocery store.

She needed to drive out of the university area to find a real supermarket. It felt good to perform the simple task of pushing a shopping cart through a store, finally doing something familiar. Going to the produce section was another matter. Everything seemed upside-down with prices. The most common foods, tomatoes, onions, celery, beans and carrots, were some of the most expensive produce, while citrus, bananas, and unusual fruits were cheap. The only things she found that seemed ordinary to her and that was affordable were cucumbers. Picking through the best produce, she got what she needed for her evening pot of soup before taking a lap through the rest of the store.

Along with finding the usual American and European brands she was accustomed to finding at home, she found Asian and Philippine brands. Taking a risk on a couple of them, she continued on until she found pasta noodles.

“At least they have Barilla pasta,” she muttered, taking two packages off the shelf. “Look at those prices, though.”

It wasn’t Friday yet, the one evening of the week when her parents drank wine. She’d developed the same habit, having a glass or two at the end of a workweek. Knowing she’d need some to celebrate the end of her first week of working a new job, she went to the wine and beer section.

“Okay, so, Italian wines are priced for millionaires, and California wines aren’t much cheaper.” She set a bottle of her favorite wine back on the shelf. “I wonder what the local wines are like?”

Scanning the names on the shelves, there weren’t many offerings that were made in Hawaii, and those had unpronounceable names. Wondering how far she wanted to stretch her weekly food budget just for a bottle of wine, she grabbed the closest bottle of red.

“Looking for anything in particular?” a man asked. He’d been stocking shelves.

“Something I don’t need to get a loan to buy.”

He came over, bringing something of a limp with him. Like every other employee in the store, he was dark-skinned and black haired. Maybe because he worked in customer service, he had an easy smile. Not bad looking, he had a job, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Red or white?”

“Red. Italian, if there’s something ordinary people can afford.”

“Italy’s a long way from here.” He handed her a bottle of a brand she was familiar with, and turned her nose up to at home. “This is our cheapest red Italian.”

“Why is it so expensive? This is wine, not jewelry.”

“You’re not from around here?” he asked.

“Cleveland.”

“Everything is cheaper on the mainland. The last time I looked at a map, Cleveland’s closer to Italy than Hawaii. Anything that has to be shipped here costs a lot more, just because of that. We don’t get so many brands here as on the mainland, either.”

Gina put the bottle back where it belonged. “What else do you have?”

“Local people like to buy local. It’s cheaper, and helps local businesses. We do whatever we can to keep