The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook Read Online Free Page B

having her in the company. For a start, clients often reacted better to a gregarious young woman than a taciturn old man. But he refused to let such dangerous thoughts take root. For on those rare occasions when she appeared to be contributing something useful, she would inevitably say or do something that would irritate him to such a degree that their relationship would be back at square one.
    This week had been particularly hard work, and her impenetrable attempt at conversation the previous morning summed up why. Communication was impossible. It was undeniable: The gulf was too wide to be bridged. A feng shui master’s entire skill was creating zones of harmony—and until he was rid of this noisy and pestilent gwaimooi , he would have to endure the embarrassing fact that his own working life was stuck in a permanently unsettled, inharmonious state.
    So what had happened on that fateful sunny Tuesday to bring such a heartfelt smile to his lips? He had suddenly remembered that Joyce McQuinnie hated fish. She loathed the thought of them. At restaurants, she pushed away seafood dishes with a look of horror. She steered a wide berth around aquariums they encountered during assignments. She held her nose when walking past a fish stall at the market.
    Wong conceived a plan. He was going to make his two crosses cancel each other out.
    As soon as Joyce arrived at the office that morning, he would assign the reading of Mr Tik’s flat to her, to cover entirely by herself. If she had a miserable time of it and resigned, he would be rid of her at last, and Mr Pun could not hold him responsible. If she did all right—well, he might as well give her all of his really difficult or unpleasant clients until she did quit. Either way, he would win.
    He bravely dared to imagine that this could be the beginning of a golden period. At best, he could be entirely free of her within a day. At worst, he could eventually train her to do ten, twenty, thirty per cent of his work for him. His workload would be significantly cut and, as a huge bonus, he would get her out of his office for most of each day. His two biggest problems would be solved at once.
    And Mr Pun would be paying for it all. Now this was how capitalism should work!

    A thud reverberated through the office as the door was kicked open. The insistent shh-chka-shh-chka-shh noise of personal stereo headphones became audible.
    Joyce McQuinnie, a lanky teenager whose streaked hair varied between blonde and dark brown, ambled into the room, her face buried in a magazine. It was 10:10 am: more than two-and-a-half hours after Wong had started work. She gave him a brief, nervous smile. ‘Hey, CF!’
    ‘Come. Job for you today.’ He pointed to the paperwork in front of him.
    The shh-chka-shh-chka sound grew in volume as she took off the headphones and stared at the plans and charts laid out on his table.
    ‘You go see Mr Tik. Very nice man, quite old. Easy job. I give you records from last time. You check to see if any changes. Calendar changes I already calculate. I think no problem.’
    She turned to him, her eyes widening. ‘Cool. You mean I get to do this by myself?’
    He bowed his head.
    ‘Awesome, like totally!’
    ‘Remember to count fish.’
    ‘Fish? Yeeucch.’ She wrinkled her nose.
    ‘He has two fish pond. But no problem. Very easy.’ He tried to recall a suitable phrase from his book of English idioms. ‘This job is really bowl of roses.’ Or was it cherries? Or apple pie?
    She smiled and looked at the floor plan and pile of records from previous visits to the same premises. ‘Neat,’ she said. A cakewalk.’
    ‘No cakewalk. Apartment. Two bedroom.’
    ‘No, I meant it’ll be a piece of cake.’
    ‘You want a piece of cake?’
    ‘I meant—never mind.’
    Wong had the usual grim feeling that he was losing control of the conversation. ‘Here is the address. From now on, I want you to do more job by yourself.’
    ‘Cool.’ Joyce wanted to set off straight away,