Authors: Elizabeth Adler
They had rented a car and driver and now they followed Mary-Lou back to Lily’s home. When they got there she had discarded her shawls and was looking calm and beautiful in her Chinese floor-length white dress.
“I welcome you on Lily’s behalf,” she said in her low throaty voice, and even though she was covered from head to toe, Preshy thought somehow she still sounded sexy. A sideways glance at Sam confirmed that he had noticed too.
She and Sylvie perched on the edge of the low hard sofa, but Sam said he preferred to stand. Mary-Lou served tea with special
round buns filled with a sweet lotus paste, then she took a seat on an elm-wood chair opposite them.
“I was sad to see so few mourners,” Preshy said. “I’d hoped Lily would have had more friends to say goodbye to her.”
Mary-Lou shrugged. “I told you she was a loner. She hated to socialize, she lived for her work.”
“I’m surprised that manufacturing and selling replicas of Xi’an warriors could mean that much to anyone,” Sam said, taking a sip of his tea. He was beginning to like the Chinese tea very much.
Mary-Lou seemed suddenly flustered. “It does seem a little odd. But both Lily and I grew up poor. Making money was her obsession, Mr. Knight, not the Xi’an warriors.”
“And yours also?” His eyes lingered on the five-carat diamond on her finger.
She leveled her gorgeous amber eyes at him. “Of course. I did not find it pleasant to be poor.”
“Then Lily must have left quite a legacy.”
A flicker of irritation crossed her face. “I have not gone through Lily’s things, Mr. Knight. But her world was very small. What you see here is all she had. As far as I know,” she added.
“But she must have a lawyer, someone who took care of her affairs, prepared a will for her.”
“Like all Chinese, Lily kept her personal business close to her own heart. I’ve never heard of her using a lawyer and I’ve worked with her for many years. However, I do know there is a safe in her bedroom. If there were anything private, anything she didn’t want anybody else to know about, it would be there. And I
do
know where she hid the key. Lily kept changing the hiding place,” she
added with a half smile, “but she kept forgetting where it was, so she always told me. I believe currently it’s under the sweaters in her closet.” Getting to her feet, she said, “Why don’t we go and see?”
They followed her into the bedroom and Mary Lou fished the key from under the sweaters and handed it to Sam. “You open it,” she said, pushing aside the hanging clothes to reveal the small gray safe door.
There was very little inside. Some gold jewelry, jade bangles, and a bundle of papers, written in Chinese. Mary-Lou read them.
“These are the title deeds to this house,” she said. “It belonged to her father’s family, and eventually to her father. Her mother inherited it from him, and finally it became Lily’s. Of course now it’s quite valuable.”
“What about bank accounts, safe-deposit boxes?” Sam was looking hard at her but Mary-Lou did not flinch.
“There is, of course, a business account. And you are at liberty, Mr. Knight, to go through this entire house and search for any other papers or valuables. Lily was only forty years old, she had no family, she didn’t expect to die. I don’t think making a will even entered her head.”
“Then what will happen to her property?”
Mary-Lou shrugged, that simple feline shrug that was her habit. “Her property will go to her nearest living relative. Which means Miss Rafferty I suppose.”
Preshy looked at her, surprised. “Oh, but I don’t think . . . I mean you were her best friend, it should go to you.”
“Let’s talk about it later,” Sam interrupted curtly. “Meanwhile, if you can find the time, perhaps you can go through the house
and see if there’s anything else. More papers relating to bank accounts, legal matters, things like that.”
“Of course.” Mary-Lou walked them to the door. “And thank you again for all you did for Lily. It was so tragic, drowning like that, in Venice of all places. I still don’t know what she was doing there.”
When they got back in the car, Sam said, “Of course she knew.”
“Knew what?” Preshy and Sylvie stared at him.
“Knew what Lily was doing in Venice. Mary-Lou knew because she was also there. She was on my flight from Venice to Paris.”
“Oh
. . .
my
. . .
God . . .,”
Preshy whispered. “Do you think she had something to do with Lily’s death?”
“Why else would she have been there? And you know what else? My bet is it has something to do with your grandmother’s fabulous necklace.”
B
ACK
at the hotel, it was decided that Preshy should call Mary-Lou and invite her for drinks so Sam could question her, and they arranged to meet at the Cloud 9 bar.
Mary-Lou arrived in a haze of expensive perfume, looking ravishing, and over drinks, she assured them she would search the house for any legal papers, though she doubted sincerely that there were any.
“I shall, of course, carry on the business,” she added, sipping her usual vodka martini with the three olives.
Preshy thought she looked stunning in her simple black suit, with dangling jet earrings glittering beneath her shiny black hair. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, “take your time. And I wish you luck with the business.”
“Thank you.” Mary-Lou smiled modestly while taking a cautious glance around the large room. You never knew; Bennett might just decide to come back to Shanghai and show up here.
“What about the necklace?” Sam asked, noticing Mary-Lou’s face tighten fractionally.
She took a sip of her drink, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a necklace. Lily never wore much jewelry, you know.”
“I’m talking about her grandmother’s necklace,” Sam said, aiming in the dark and hoping for a hit. He didn’t get one.
“I’m afraid I shall have to leave that up to Miss Rafferty,” Mary-Lou said. “It has nothing to do with me.”
A short while later, Mary-Lou said she must go, and they said goodbye, watching as she strode confidently through the now-crowded bar.
“Miss Chen,” Sam called after her. She turned. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Were you ever in Venice?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I’ve never been to Europe.” And she turned again and continued on her way.
“She’s lying again,” Sam said. “And I wonder why.”
Preshy wondered too. And she wondered again about Sam. He was being so helpful. The mystery writer in search of a story perhaps? She was beginning to feel better about him; in fact she might even have fancied him. Under other circumstances, of course.
• • •
THAT NIGHT, NOT KNOWING WHAT
else to do and to cheer themselves up and experience the Shanghai culture, they dined at the Whampoa Club at Three on the Bund, the chic dining and shopping address. Sylvie chose it because of its modern Chinese cuisine, and still discussing Mary-Lou, they feasted on crispy eel strips and drunken chicken and tea-smoked eggs, as well as Su Dongpo braised pork. Then they had double-boiled Chinese pears with almonds, silver fungus and lotus seeds, while tasting some of the forty infusions offered by the tea sommelier.
Sylvie pronounced it spectacular and went off to congratulate the chef, Jereme Leung, and to say she would be trying out some of his ideas at Verlaine.
“Well?” Sam asked, looking across the table at Preshy.
“Well . . . what?” She glanced back from under her eyelashes.
“So do you still think I’m a killer?”
The fiery blush heated her cheeks. “Oh, I never . . . I mean . . . I didn’t . . .” She stammered to a halt.
“Don’t lie to me, Rafferty. You’ve suspected me of having something to do with this all along. And I guess I’ve given you no reason to change your mind. Right?”
“Right.” She nodded. Then blurted in her usual fashion, straight from the heart, “But I still like you.”
Sam was still laughing when Sylvie came back.
But what Preshy had said was the truth. Despite everything against him, she really “liked” him.
AND THEN SHANGHAI WAS OVER
. Mary- Lou was still a mystery; Lily had been buried next to her mother, and the next morning they were flying back to Paris. And Preshy hoped that her cousin would rest in peace. Though she knew
she
would not. Not until she had found out the truth.
PARIS
B
ACK
in Paris, Sam checked into the Hôtel d’Angleterre, just down the street from Preshy’s store. He dropped his bag there and then they went back to her apartment.
She had called Aunt G to tell her she was on her way home, and knowing how much she missed the cat, her aunt had shipped Maow back, by special courier. The grumpy concierge had let the cat in and fed her and now she came running with a welcoming yowl. Preshy kissed and hugged her and spoke softly to her, and gave her some of her special cat treats. Then she fixed coffee and went and sat on the sofa opposite Sam, staring gloomily at the empty fire grate.
“We have no proof Mary-Lou was in Venice,” she said.
“No, but the police could check the airlines and also immigration. We also have no proof that Bennett James, or Bennett Yuan, or whoever he is killed his wife, but I’d still bet my shirt on it. And one of them killed Lily.”
“How can you say that?” She glared at him. “There’s no proof of any of this. And anyway the autopsy showed Lily drowned. Her death was an accident.”
“And so was Ana Yuan’s. You have to go after Mary-Lou,” Sam persisted. “Somebody killed Lily for your grandmother’s necklace. And I
know
she was in Venice.”
“But I
cant”
Preshy said, feeling the tears coming. The past months had been grueling; she just couldn’t take any more.
Sam ran his hands exasperatedly through his hair, groaning. “
Why not?
Are you afraid to know the truth?”
Her temper flared. “What do you mean?”
“Aw come on, Rafferty, admit it, you don’t want to know if perfect Bennett—or sweet, beautiful and oh so sad Mary-Lou—had anything to do with Lily’s death.”
“Oh, stop it!” She turned away. “Just leave me alone, why don’t you?”
Sam got to his feet. “The trouble with you, Rafferty, is that you always think the best of everybody.”
“And the trouble with you, Sam Knight, is that you
never
think the best of anybody. And anyway, you were not exactly helpful to the police in finding out what happened to your wife.”
They stared at each other across a chasm of animosity that had opened a space between them, like the shifting tectonic plates in an earthquake.
Sam nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “But you know the old saying ‘two rights don’t make a wrong.’ Well, this time those old soothsayers were correct.”
Preshy watched as he collected his coat from the back of a chair.
At the door, he turned to look at her. He was remembering the temple fortune-teller telling him, “The answer to your second question also lies with a woman,” and he knew that woman was Rafferty. Only she could unravel this mystery.
“Call me—if you change your mind,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Tears stung Preshy’s eyes. She was exhausted from the long plane journey, battered by the events of the past few days. Sam had no right to treat her like that. She didn’t even
like
him anymore. She would
never
call him. And if he called her, she would not even speak to him. Ever again.
Weeping, she called Boston.
“What’s up?” Daria asked.
Preshy could hear the sound of dishes rattling, Daria was obviously in the kitchen, no doubt cooking something good. She wished she were there, where everybody was normal, comfortable, with no secrets and no murders. She told Daria the whole story, and exactly what Sam had said to her.
When she’d finished there was no more sound of pots and pans rattling. Instead there was silence. Finally Daria said, “And don’t you think Sam has a point, Presh? After all, a woman is dead. I know they said it was an accident, but Lily’s so-called friend
was
there, Sam saw her. And she’s lying about it. And what about
Bennett’s wife? If he is the same man, and Sam obviously believes he is even if you don’t, Bennett never told you about
her,
did he? And
she
died the same way Lily did. Something’s wrong, Presh. One of them killed her and it’s time you faced up to it. And maybe did something about it.”
Like what? Preshy asked herself miserably, later as she prepared for bed. Lying awake in the dark with Maow’s warm comforting body curled on the pillow, her purrs in her ear, she thought at least the cat couldn’t ask questions, and demand answers. And action.
S
HE
was in the shower when the phone rang the next morning. Ignoring it, she let the hot water soothe her bones, wondering why the message center wasn’t picking up. It had been acting up for the past few weeks though.
But the ringing went on and on, and suddenly every bad thing that might have happened jumped into her head. Something must be wrong . . . . Had something happened to Super-Kid? Why else would anyone keep on ringing like this? Frantic, she stepped out of the shower, almost tripping over Maow, who was sitting right outside the glass door looking aggrieved. The cat didn’t like the ringing either . . . and it was
still
ringing . . . .
Grabbing a towel, Preshy ran into the bedroom and reached for the phone, just as it stopped. She sank onto the bed, mopping at her
wet hair. She waited a few minutes, but when it didn’t ring again, she went back to the bathroom and began to rub lotion into her legs. She wondered whether to call Daria, but if it had been Daria, she was certain to call again. And anyhow it might have been her aunts, or Sylvie. Or Sam, though since she and Sam were no longer speaking that seemed unlikely. Unless, she thought hopefully, he’d been calling to apologize.
Looking in the mirror, she began smoothing on the face cream that was guaranteed to prevent the ravages of time. Maybe time, but what about stress? She could
count
those fine lines around her eyes now, and she had crow’s-feet!