Meet Me in Venice (27 page)

Mary-Lou poured the tea into small handleless blue-glazed cups. She said, “It’s really a great pity. Lily would have liked to have met you. You are her only relative?” She looked inquiringly at Preshy as she offered her a cup.

“I’m her only
European
relative. I don’t know about her father’s family.”

“Lily hated her father,” Mary-Lou said bluntly. “She and her mother had no contact with the Song family after he died, and that was many years ago. Lily is very much on her own,” she said, sounding regretful. “I’ve tried often—oh so often, more than you will ever know—to get her to socialize, to attend parties and functions with me, but Lily is a loner. She’s dedicated to her work,” she added, smiling candidly at Preshy. “Lily has exquisite taste in antiques, but of course most of her business is with the tourist trade copies.”

“Fakes,” Preshy said.

“If you wish to put it that way, though they are never sold as
authentic, they are always described as replicas.” She lifted a delicate shoulder in a shrug that made Preshy wonder if she was even capable of making an ungraceful move. It was like watching a lithe young panther as she walked across the room and picked up a small plaster figurine.

“This is the kind of thing Lily sells,” Mary-Lou said. “It makes us our living.”

Preshy looked at her. “I have some bad news for you, Miss Chen.”

“Bad news?” She frowned, looking concerned.

“Lily was in Venice. There was an accident. I’m sorry to tell you, but Lily drowned.”

Mary-Lou shrank back in her chair. Her small face puckered and her eyes glittered with tears. She wrapped her arms across her chest, clutching her shoulders as though to protect herself.

“But
why
was Lily in Venice?” she said. “I thought she’d gone to Paris . . . . She even mentioned she hoped to see you . . .”

Preshy wondered why Mary-Lou hadn’t told her that earlier, but she thought perhaps it was just the Chinese way and that she had not wanted to discuss Lily’s personal business with a stranger, even though she was a relative.

“I’m so sorry,” she said gently. “But the fact is I’ve brought Lily home to be buried.” She put the piece of paper with the address and number of the Chinese funeral home on the low table between them and told Mary-Lou they needed instructions. “I was hoping you could help,” she said. “I don’t know the Chinese customs and traditions, I don’t even know about her family, or who her friends are.”

Mary-Lou seemed to pull herself together. She said, of course
she would take care of it. That there was no family, or close friends, only her. And if Miss Rafferty would excuse her now, she was a little upset and needed to be alone. But she needn’t worry, everything would be done for Lily.

Promising to call later, Mary-Lou saw her out. At the gate, Preshy turned to say goodbye but the door was already shut. Poor thing, she thought. It’s been a terrible shock.

Sam was waiting at the teahouse, sipping a brew he said was called
longjing
tea, that he was becoming quite fond of.

“Beats vodka,” Preshy said, tasting it.

“What are you, Rafferty? Some kind of reformer?” He glared at her.

“Sorry, sorry . . . no need to be so huffy.” She grinned at him. “And anyway, it’s true.” He gave her a withering look and she said, “Well, anyway, Mary-Lou Chen is a beauty, and a sweetheart. Oh, Sam, when I gave her the bad news that lovely young woman just seemed to shrivel in front of my eyes. She looked like a frightened child.”

“Why frightened? I would have expected shock.”

She stared at him. Of course he was right. “I don’t really know,” she said. “But she agreed to take care of the funeral arrangements. She’s going to call me later.”

MARY-LOU DID TAKE CARE OF
the funeral arrangements, and very efficiently and quickly, before any more questions could be asked.

“The burial will be tomorrow,” she informed Preshy in a phone call that afternoon. “At the temple where Lily’s mother already rests. If you would like to attend, please be at the temple at noon. And please do not wear black. It is not our custom.”

L
ATER
that evening, Sylvie arrived, jet-lagged and furious. “You don’t deserve me,” she said as Preshy embraced her in the Four Seasons lobby. “I’m a martyr to your emotions,” she added dramatically.

“Good,” Preshy said, “I could use a martyr. It’ll make a change from a boozer.”

“What boozer?”

“Sam Knight. He’s taken to drink.”

“I’m not surprised, being around you.” Sylvie stopped and gave her a sharp look. “What’s Sam Knight doing here? I thought he’d gone back to the States.”

“He changed his mind.” Preshy tried to look modest, then she
laughed. “Either he’s got something to do with it or he’s succumbed to my fatal charm.”

“Well, it certainly turned out fatal for Lily,” Sylvie said. “And hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why women keep disappearing when Sam Knight is around, and maybe turning up dead?”

“Actually, yes it has.”

“And did you not stop to wonder whether
you
might not be next in line?”

They rode in silence in the elevator to Preshy’s floor, then walked, in silence, down the lushly carpeted corridor to her room, which Sylvie was going to share.

Preshy said, “Sylvie, I’m in Shanghai for two reasons. One was to bring home poor Cousin Lily. The other is because this is where Bennett lived. And Lily said this whole thing had to do with Bennett.”

“So?”

“I want to find him, but I’ve never had an address, or a phone number, only his cell phone. But now I have Lily’s address book. I haven’t had time to look through it yet but I’m hoping to find something in there.”

While Sylvie showered away the travel blues, Preshy went through the book page by page, but found no Bennett James.

“There’s nothing,” she said, disappointed, when Sylvie emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a robe, with her hair in a towel.

Sylvie sighed as she picked up the phone, called room service and asked for tea and toast. “Sourdough toast,” she instructed, “and make sure it arrives hot. And a little smoked salmon too, please. A salad? No, I don’t think so . . . . Fifteen minutes? Thank you.”

She sank wearily into a chair and looked through the address book. “It might not be under Bennett’s name,” she said. “For instance, here’s a Ben Jackson. And then there’s a Yuan Bennett. They might be worth a try.”

While Sylvie ate her toast, Preshy called the two numbers. The first was an antiques dealer who said he did business with Lily and was sorry to hear that she had met with an accident. Mary-Lou Chen had told him about it and he would be at the funeral the next day.

The second number no longer existed. “But there’s an address,” Preshy said, deciphering Lily’s untidy scrawl. “Maybe I should go there and find out.”

Sylvie threw her a warning look. “Oh no,” she said. “Not without me you don’t, and I’m going to sleep.” She yawned. “Just don’t do anything foolish until I wake up, okay?”

But when Sylvie was snoring, in about two minutes flat, Preshy put on her coat and went downstairs. As she’d expected Sam was in the bar.

“Not you again,” he said, swinging round as she tapped him on the shoulder. “Can’t a man drink in peace?”

“Not when he’s with me, he can’t. My friend Sylvie just arrived from Paris. I showed her Lily’s address book. I might be on Bennett’s trail.”

She gave him the address and he looked at the page with the name Yuan Bennett. “You think this might be him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? But obviously Lily knew him and this is the closest I can come to any Bennett. Anyhow the phone’s disconnected. Maybe nobody’s living there.”

“Okay. So we’ll find out tomorrow.” Sam turned back to his drink.

Preshy hung around for a few minutes, hoping he would say Okay let’s go now, but he did not, and he didn’t ask her to stay and keep him company either. Finally she stalked off and went outside.

Shanghai glowed like a new planet under halogen arc lights, with illuminated skyscrapers shimmering like stars in the heavens. Hundreds of people crowded the streets and the cold night air was full of spicy aromas from the roadside barbecue stands. Signaling a taxi, Preshy climbed in and gave the driver Yuan Bennett’s address.

It was a tall expensive condo building, built of shiny pink granite with a pair of rugged bronze lions placed at odd
feng shui
angles outside, to protect the good
chi.
A spotlit fountain played in the courtyard and a uniformed doorman opened the taxi door for her.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Yuan Bennett,” she told him hopefully.

“So sorry, but Mr. Yuan no longer here.”

So it was Bennett
Yuan
she was looking for, not Yuan Bennett, and therefore probably not
her
Bennett. Still, she needed to be sure. “I’ve come all the way from Paris to see him. Could you tell me where I can find him?”

“So sorry, miss, but Mr. Yuan left after his wife died.”

“His
wife?”

“Yes, miss. Ana Yuan was the daughter of a very distinguished Shanghai family. Mrs. Yuan was in Suzhou, a pretty place with many canals, like the Venice of China, people say.”

“Venice?”
Preshy repeated, stunned.

“Yes, miss. Unfortunately, Mrs. Yuan tripped. She banged her head and slipped into the canal. She was drowned, miss, and you never saw a sadder man than Mr. Bennett. He tried to find witnesses to her accident but there were none, and nobody knew why she went alone to Suzhou that day. They said Mr. Bennett was sobbing at the funeral, but he did not inherit his wife’s money and could no longer afford this magnificent apartment. He moved out soon after, miss, and we have not seen him here since.”

Preshy thanked the doorman and asked him to call a cab for her. Back at the hotel, she found Sam still in the bar. She slid onto the stool next to him.

He glanced at her. “I thought I was going to see you tomorrow. Don’t tell me you’ve come back to preach.”

“No, though I should. But Sam, you’re not going to believe this,” she said. And then she told him the Bennett Yuan story and how his wife had drowned in the Suzhou canal.

“I still can’t believe it’s
my
Bennett though,” she said finally.

“Hah! What do you need, Rafferty? A signed confession? Of course it’s him.” Sam turned back to his drink. “And anyway, why did you go there alone? Anything might have happened.”

“No, oh no,” she said softly. “Bennett would never harm me. And I still don’t believe it’s him, it’s just a trail of circumstantial evidence. We don’t even know if it’s the same man.”

Groaning, Sam drained his glass. “Rafferty,” he said, “you need your head examined.”

“Maybe I do.” She slid off the stool. “And I should have known better than to expect sympathy from you.”

“You don’t need
sympathy,”
he said, as she walked away. “You need a brain!”

Back in the room, Sylvie was snoring gently. Turning the TV on low, Preshy sat and watched Chinese programs until the early hours, her mind full of Bennett Yuan. Could the two drownings really be just a coincidence?

T
HERE
were only a half dozen mourners at Lily’s funeral and three of them were Preshy, Sylvie and Sam. Preshy wore Aunt G’s white Valentino coat, and Sylvie her old beige Burberry, while Sam wore black because he had nothing else. The other mourners were Mary-Lou Chen, gorgeous in a long white brocade Chinese dress, wrapped against the cold in layers of pash-mina shawls; Ben, the business friend Preshy had spoken to on the phone; and a frail old man with a stiff goatee beard and flowing hair, in worn gray robes.

At the temple they lit bundles of fragrant incense and thin bamboo sticks, watching the smoke spiral upward. They were told this would assist Lily’s spirit on her journey to heaven. A small group of paid mourners walked behind the coffin on the way to the burial
ground, banging on drums and cymbals and wailing a kind of song for the dead, followed by a troop of scruffy, laughing urchins and a stray dog. It was, Preshy thought sadly, the most lonely funeral anyone could ever have.

Tears streamed down Mary-Lou’s beautiful face and she bowed her head sorrowfully. After the burial, the businessman went over to shake her hand and express his regrets, then left quickly. She stood by the grave with the old man beside her, but they did not speak. After a few minutes he turned away. He went over to where Preshy and the others were standing, bowing as he shook each of their hands.

“I came across Lily again only a short time ago,” he said. His beard wagged as he spoke and his rheumy old eyes were soft with sorrow. “I was a friend of her mother, and before she died, she entrusted me with something for Lily, to be given to her on her fortieth birthday. This birthday, as you might know, took place only a few months ago, and so I went to see Lily. I gave her the necklace in its beautiful red leather box. I told her its exquisite story and explained its value.”

They stared at him, surprised. “A necklace?”

He nodded. “Not any ordinary necklace, but a necklace with a history that is almost as valuable as the jewels themselves.” Shivering in the cold he said, “But this is no time to be talking of jewels. I am sure you will find your grandmother’s necklace amongst her possessions and then it will become yours.”

He pressed a card into Preshy’s hand. “I am at your disposal, Miss Rafferty,” he said with dignity. And he bowed and walked away through the dripping misty trees, down the path to the gate.

“What can he mean ‘grandmother’s necklace’?” Preshy said. “Does he mean the one in the photograph?”

“The photograph that went missing,” Sam said.

“Ohh . . .,” she said, realizing what he meant, and remembering that Bennett was the only other person who had been in her apartment.

“Here comes Mary-Lou,” Sam muttered. “Just act natural.”

Natural! Preshy hardly knew what “natural” was anymore.

Mary-Lou came toward them with that particular panther like stride, smiling sadly as Preshy introduced the others.

Dabbing at her eyes, in a low quiet voice she thanked them for coming. “We were childhood friends, Lily and I,” she said, “two little half-Chinese outcasts in our all-Chinese school, so of course we bonded immediately. Now things are very different, it hardly matters who you are or who your parents were. Time moves on, you know,” she added with a faltering smile. “But I would be pleased if you would do me the honor of returning to Lily’s house to take some tea.”