The Impersonator (30 page)

I couldn’t help it. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear. This Chinese man, is his name John Chen?”

“Why, yes, it is. Have you purchased medicines from him?”

“Not directly. I’m Jessie Carr, and John Chen is our gardener. He does know a lot about herbs and traditional Chinese medicines. When I was very sick on bad oysters recently, he gave me a boneset drink that cured me at once.”

“We don’t know much about Chinese medicines,” said the pharmacist. “But they are based on herbs, like most medicines, and have been used for thousands of years, so there must be some value in them. This John Chen may be a quack, or he may know something. I’d try the angelica, Mrs. Phipps, and see if it helps. I can promise you that it won’t hurt. And let me know what you think.”

“I’ll do that.” She thanked him, and left the store.

“I’ve come for Ross Carr’s medicine,” I said when Costello turned to me.

“I’m glad to hear it’s helping him. A real miracle drug, that ephedra. Gives asthma sufferers a new lease on life. How did the young man do with that dosage? It was double the strength of the first batch.”

“No one said anything about dosage, so I assume he wants more of the same.”

Costello pulled out a bottle and began counting white pills into a paper envelope. “It’s a new miracle drug. Saved many a life, I’m sure, even in the short time it’s been on the shelves. Tell him not to take more than one pill at a time, and to cut that in half if he starts feeling his heart race. Hey, come to think of it, ephedra’s from China too.”

I was listening for the first sound of David’s train and scarcely heard the pharmacist. “How nice.” I feigned a polite interest.

“I was reading about it just last week,” he said, warming to the subject. He pulled a medical journal from the stack of papers at the end of the counter and laid it before me. A distant whistle announced the train’s approach. It would make a ten-minute stop before going on. David hadn’t much time, but the station was only a short block from the pharmacy. Costello was rambling again. “The Chinese have used it for centuries. Here, look.” He put his finger on the illustration of the plant. I glanced once, blinked twice, then looked again.

I’d seen that plant, and very recently. It was ma huang. The significance came crashing down around my ears.

Oblivious now to the train, I snatched up the journal. “Look, David!” I exclaimed. “It’s the same plant that Chen grows.”

Our eyes met. There was no need for words. The undissolved white substance in my sherry had been ma huang in pill form, like Chen had said. It was Ross’s asthma medicine. Chen would not have known that Ross took medicine; he was never inside the house. Grandmother had been right. It was Ross who had tried to kill me, not Henry. His recent kindness had been a ploy to lull me into complacency. And it had worked, damn him.

“What happens if you take too much of this?”

Costello drew his finger down the page. “Let’s see … it says here, ‘Prolonged use of the drug, which is not recommended, can be the cause of nervousness and insomnia.’ No worries there, Miss Carr. Your cousin only takes them on occasion. ‘Other side effects include nausea, vomiting, fever, depression, seizures, and headaches. Excessive dose can cause cerebral hemorrhage, cardiac arrest, and death.’ Which is why I warn him not to take more than one at a time, and only when he’s experiencing severe difficulty breathing.”

A man walked into the drugstore with three youngsters in tow. Costello handed me the envelope of Ross’s pills and noted the purchase in his ledger before turning to the next customer. I looked at the package with distaste. How many of these little pills had Ross put in my glass of sherry?

“You’d better catch your train,” I said to David.

“Forget the train, I’ll—”

“No, you go on. I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful. Now that I know who was responsible.” We were outside now. I could see the train pulling into the station. I could see the indecision on David’s face as he struggled between conflicting obligations to be with his dying mother and to watch over his sister.

“Gloreen is a real treasure, one in a million. She takes such good care of Ma … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay her, but—”

“But she’s not family. Your mother needs her son with her now.”

He brushed my cheek with his lips and my heart flipped over. “Take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose you too.” His long legs reached the train just as it pulled out of the station.

41

The telegram arrived while I was in the ballroom with the twins, hanging lights covered with colorful paper lanterns for my birthday party. For Jessie’s birthday party. I was half expecting Jessie to show up. In a perverse way, I was hoping she would.

Of course she would look older now—I always thought of her as she looked in her last photograph, at thirteen—but I’d know her instantly. I’d give her a quick nod, slip out in the confusion, and life would go on the way it was meant to be. Not a bad ending, all in all.

Still flush with success from their stage debut, the girls were putting their newfound skills to use, painting a canvas backdrop with a large Eiffel Tower and a Leaning Tower of Pisa. The words “Bon Voyage” and “Happy Birthday” arced in large letters across the top. Invitations had gone out yesterday, and I expected a near hundred percent turnout. The Carrs had lived in Dexter for ten years, and Aunt Victoria had become a pillar of the community, but I was sure acceptances would be driven more by curiosity over Jessie’s reappearance than anything else.

I ripped open the telegram and gave a cry of dismay.

“What is it, Jessie?” asked Caro.

“David’s mother died yesterday. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“Poor David! How sad.”

“He regrets that under the circumstances he will not be able to attend the party.”

“What a shame.”

Later that day I made up my mind. I told Aunt Victoria and Grandmother, “I’m going to Portland to attend Mrs. Murray’s funeral. David doesn’t expect it, I know, but I think he will appreciate the sentiment.”

“I think it’s very sweet of you, Jessie,” said my aunt. “A bit unconventional perhaps, but surely no one could criticize such a generous gesture on the part of his closest relation.”

And so it was that I found myself on the train to Portland once again, a reluctant passenger this morning, trying to think of some words of consolation to lessen David’s pain when I knew from experience such words did not exist.

Mount Hood towered in the distance as I made my way to the brick Methodist church a couple of blocks from the Murray home. It was a simple service. The church was full. Mrs. Murray had been a fixture in the working-class neighborhood for twenty-five years. She had given store credit when people hit hard times, kept an eye on neighborhood children, and even taken in an unwed mother whose family had thrown her out on the street. Loved by many, respected by all, Mrs. Murray would be missed.

David’s eyes lit up when he saw me in the back, and nothing would do but that I would sit in the family pew with Gloreen and her father and brothers. I was glad I didn’t have to say much. Something about Gloreen rubbed me wrong, like petting a cat’s fur against the growth. She was far friendlier to me than I was to her, but she wasn’t good enough for David. He seemed to think otherwise.

The sexton had found room in the crowded churchyard for one more grave, and Mrs. Murray’s mortal remains were laid to rest beside the low brick wall that circled the cemetery. The cloud cover brought a wintry chill to the late afternoon air, and I shivered in my new fall coat as the expensive-looking casket was laid in the ground. Whatever David’s meager finances, he would not skimp on his mother.

David invited the mourners into the parish hall for refreshments. Little sandwiches and several pies and cakes had been laid on a long table, and Gloreen was busy ladling ginger ale punch into cut-glass cups like she owned the place.

“Everything is delicious,” I said to David, who kept me close by his side.

“Isn’t it? Gloreen is an amazing cook.” I felt the unintended criticism—I’d never cooked anything in my life more elaborate than a cheese sandwich. “You don’t know what it means to me to have you come to Ma’s funeral,” he said for the fourth time.

“I’m glad I had the chance to meet her, if only that once.” I would always have that connection with David, knowing his mother.

“She really took pleasure in seeing you that day. She spoke of it right up until the end.”

It was only then that I noticed what he was wearing. “Oh, you have on her locket!”

“It was her most prized possession. You don’t think I did wrong in not burying it with her?”

“Of course not! I’m sure she wanted you to have it, and it will mean as much to you as it did to her. You can remember her that way, young and pretty and happy.” He nodded and slipped it inside his shirt against his skin.

I wanted to ask what he intended to do. Sell the store, sure, but then what? It was not the time to talk of future plans. And to be honest, I didn’t want to hear anything about his marrying Gloreen. Wasn’t it just my miserable luck to find the ideal man, only to have him disqualified by my own lies?

“With all the arrangements for Ma, I haven’t had time to run down my friend in the police department.”

“Why, of course not. Don’t give it another thought.”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and the more I think, the more I worry about you with Ross around. He put that poison in your glass, and he’s bound to try something again.”

“Grandmother watches him like a hawk. She’s been suspicious of him since the day she arrived. And I’m being careful. I’ll be leaving in a few days.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to come to your party.”

“It isn’t important.”

“But I want to see you before you go to Sacramento. Before you leave for Europe.”

He sounded as if he really cared for me. Well, of course he does, I told myself harshly. He thinks you’re his half sister, for crying out loud. At that moment, one of the older couples, who was waiting for a break in our conversation to offer their condolences, stepped forward and held out their hands to David. I moved tactfully aside. Gloreen sailed by, busy as a hostess at a social gathering. Next she’d be cooking David his dinner every night. All right, I admit it, I was jealous!

Sticking around watching Gloreen play Lady of the Manor was giving me a headache. I curved my lips into my best stage smile and asked her to tell David I had left. I didn’t trust myself to carry off a fond farewell when I knew I’d never see him again. “If I say good-bye directly,” I told her, “he’ll insist on escorting me to the streetcar, and that isn’t necessary. I know where it stops, and besides, his place is here. Thank you so much for the spread. Everything was delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Carr. I’d do anything for David … David’s mother.”

I wanted to slap her.

Returning to the Benson, I paused at reception only long enough to order a bottle of champagne and a light supper sent to my room. Before it could arrive, I walked directly into the dark bathroom and stripped off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap, turned on the water taps and watched the tub fill around me. My body soaked up the steaming water like a sponge. I lay back, my head on a folded towel, closed my eyes, and tried to let go of my headache. I tried not to think about David. There was no point. He belonged to Gloreen. Instead I concentrated on my next move.

The curtain would soon fall on
She Stoops to Con.
Closing night was so close I could almost smell the roses. The birthday party was two days away. The meeting in Sacramento came three days after that. With any luck Smith and Wade could book passage on an ocean liner out of San Francisco the next day. I had performed to perfection. Applause, applause. Where was the euphoria?

I had to continue as planned. Sure, I wanted to solve Jessie’s disappearance and avenge her death, if she were truly dead. Sure, I’d like to finger Henry for bootlegging, and I would do it too, but I could see no way to make anyone believe me. Although he hadn’t been anywhere nearby when the cut-hair killings had taken place, I still wondered whether he or Ross had had something to do with Jessie’s disappearance. But wondering isn’t evidence.

I toyed with the possibilities like final scenes of a play.

I’d walk into the Dexter police station. “Hello, I’m not really Jessie Carr, I’m impersonating her to get her money. The real Jessie Carr was murdered seven years ago and I know who did it. Her cousin Henry.”

“Is that so, miss? And what proof do you have? A body?”

“A strong hunch. Henry had a lot to gain from her death, and he once considered pushing me over a cliff.”

“Did he now, miss? Step into this cell here while we look into the matter. Mr. Carr, did you murder your cousin seven years ago?”

“Certainly not, Officer, and I want this impostor locked up for the rest of her life.”

Try again. I’d walk into Dexter police station. “Hello, my cousin Henry Carr is a notorious bootlegger.”

“Is that so, miss? And what proof do you have?”

“Our liquor boxes have green chalk on them and so do boxes in Portland speakeasies.”

“Very interesting, miss.” Big yawn from the cop. “And how does he acquire his liquor?”

“He probably loads his yacht in Canada, but I can’t figure out how he smuggles it in.”

“Very well, miss, we’ll send a report to our captain, who is on the bootlegger’s payroll, and let him handle it.”

One more try. I’d walk into the Dexter police station. “Officer, my cousin Ross tried to poison me with his asthma medicine.”

“Very interesting, miss. You don’t look dead. What did the doctor say to all this?”

“Bad oysters. But our Chinese gardener thinks it was poison.”

“There, there, miss. Sit down and relax while we call Doc Milner to see if you’re off your rocker.”

It was hopeless. Fact of the matter was, I was the only one who would suffer if I tried to rat on Henry or Ross.

It was a Mexican standoff. If only I could talk to David, alone. Even if he didn’t know the truth about me, he was the one man in Oregon I could trust. If nothing else, he could fill me in on the distribution part of the smuggling story. If he would talk, that is, which I doubted given his strong sense of loyalty. In any case, I cared about him too much to drag him further into this mess. A bootlegging charge against Henry—if the authorities bothered to pursue it—would immediately expand to his cronies, sweeping up David with the rest of the crooks, and I didn’t want that.