by Alice Duncan
After scowling and shaking her head, Li requested Lou do something the words for which I’d never heard issue from a woman’s mouth. Or a man’s, either, probably because I grew up in refined and respectable Pasadena, California. Anyhow, I don’t think it’s humanly possible for anyone to do that to himself. Or herself.
I was kind of rattled. Can you tell?
Rattled or not, Li lay on my bed and I didn’t. Therefore, after Sam and Mr. Prophet left my room, silently shutting the door behind them, I pulled my rocker nearer the bed, sat on it, and gestured for Spike to join me. He did, then leaned way over and wanted to give Li a little kiss, but I said, “No, Spike. We’d better wait until we know if Li approves of being kissed by dogs.”
Li uttered a short laugh, then grabbed her ribs and said, “Ow. Damn, that hurts.”
I didn’t know very many women who swore, either, but I decided not to be prissy about Li’s language. She was injured after all, and she also used to…well, be in a profession most people consider disreputable if not downright sinful.
“Your brothers hurt you?” I asked, thinking my own older brother, George, might like to tease his little sister, but he’d never, ever, hurt me on purpose. In fact, one day when I was on the playground at school, he’d knocked a kid down for bullying me. I love my brother.
“Yes.” The way she spoke the word made it sound like a hiss.
“That’s…horrible. Why…? I mean, did they really mean to take you back to China so your father could sell you?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “They were probably just going to throw me into the ocean and redeem the family’s honor.”
“Killing you would redeem the family’s honor?”
“I ran away and humiliated my family. They lost face.”
“Lost face?”
“Honor,” said Li with a shrug, which must have hurt, because she then winced. “Respect. It’s China. What can you do?”
Since I didn’t know, I didn’t speak.
“Say, Daisy, do you have a couple of aspirin tablets or something?”
“Oh, my goodness, yes! I’m so sorry, Li.”
“No need to be sorry.”
“Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll be happy to make a pot of tea.”
“No. Better not. I don’t want to wake up anyone else. I’m sorry Lou and your detective disturbed you. I could have stayed at Angie’s, and she’d have taken care of me.”
“I don’t mind. Probably Angie was busy. Or something. Anyhow, I’ll get you a glass of water so you can take your aspirins.” I thought of something else. “I also have some morphine syrup left over from—”
“No!” Her whisper was emphatic.
“Well, I don’t blame you. The stuff tastes vile.”
“It’s also caused too many women I know too much trouble.”
That was a melancholy thought. Naturally, her words made me think of my late Billy. “I understand completely.”
With a wry grin, she said, “I somehow doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t. My husband was shot and gassed in the war, and he killed himself with morphine syrup.” My whisper was perhaps a teensy bit sharp.
“Oh, my goodness. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“But…I thought you were engaged to the detective.”
“I am. Billy killed himself three years ago.”
“Oh.”
I left Li and Spike, tiptoed to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Then I tiptoed to the bathroom, shook three aspirin tablets from the bottle we kept there and brought them back to Li.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.” She took the glass in one hand, the aspirins in the other, and swallowed the pills with the water, wincing as she did so. “Ow. I should have thought to take some aspirins at Angie’s.”
“Things there were probably a bit complicated when Sam and Mister Prophet brought you here.”
“Complicated is a good word for it,” said Li. “Angie was busy making sure Cyrus didn’t kill Fa, Chen and Jian, and I didn’t want to interrupt her.”
Mercy sakes. The only thing I could think to say was, “Are those your brothers’ names? I mean, the ones who aren’t Cyrus?”
“Yes. Assholes, every one, so I don’t know why I’m glad Angie stopped Cyrus from killing them. Well, I guess Angie and Cyrus would have got into trouble if Cyrus had succeeded, so in that way I’m glad she stopped him. My father is an asshole, too. I ran away thirty years ago. I’m surprised they even remember me.”
Deciding to ignore her language, I said, “Thirty years does seem a long time to hold a grudge.”
“Grudge, my ass. My father wants the money he’d have made off me. He probably sold his last daughter and decided to send the boys after me.”
There was certainly a whole lot I didn’t know about Chinese culture. “How did they know where you were living?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Wasn’t it expensive for him to send his sons here to get you?”
“I doubt it. They probably worked their way over on the ship that brought them.”
“Oh.” I guess that made sense. “Um…Do Chinese people often sell their children?”
“People the world over sell their children, Daisy. Only folks in some countries are more subtle about it than we Chinese are. Do you think all those young women in England who marry old men want to do it?”
“Um…I’ve never thought about it. Do young women in England marry old men? Why do they?”
“Because the old men have already gone through a wife or two and need a young woman to give them an heir. A son. Not a daughter, of course.”
“Why not a daughter?”
“Because women can’t inherit. Only boys can. So old men who don’t have sons will take young wives to give them a son or, preferably, two. I think they call it an heir and a spare.”
“But why do the women stand for it? I wouldn’t marry an old man just for the sake of giving him male children.”
“That’s because you were born here, and your parents aren’t rich,” said Li as if I should have known as much already. “You don’t have to secure your family’s living.”
“I do, too.”
Li lifted her head and peered at me. “You do?”
“Well…Yes. I do. My father has a heart condition that prevents him from being a chauffeur to rich people. That’s what he used to do, but he can’t anymore. We all live in mortal terror that he’ll have another heart attack. I don’t think I could stand it if my father died. He carries nitroglycerin tablets around with him, but you never know.” I shook my head and told myself to stop babbling. “Anyway, both my mother and my aunt also work, but I make more money than either of them.”
“As a spiritualist-medium?”
“Yes.” A fake one. I didn’t speak the last phrase aloud, not knowing precisely how the information would be received.
Musingly, Li said, “Angie said you’re a really good spiritualist-medium.”
“That was kind of her. Especially since the reading I gave her wasn’t…um…rosy, I guess is a good word for it.”
Li laughed, cringed, and pressed her arms over her ribcage again. Her hurt ribs worried me.
“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor? You keep clutching your ribs. Do you think any of your ribs are broken? Broken ribs can be terribly dangerous. A broken rib might puncture one of your lungs.”
“No, none of them are broken. Hattie already checked.”
“Is Hattie a physician?” I asked, astonished.
“Not a physician with a degree in medicine, or whatever you call it, but she’s the best doctor I’ve ever known. She gave me a thorough once-over, and she’ll keep an eye on me for the next several days.”
“So you’re going to stay here and not go back to Orange Acres?”
“For a few days, yes.”
“Doesn’t Angie need you to look after Sally at Orange Acres?”
“There are other people at Orange Acres to look after things when I’m not there. I really didn’t want to leave Sally after today’s shooting, but…” Her words faded away.
“But you wanted to stay with Mister Prophet a little longer?”
Eying me with an expression I couldn’t decipher, Li said after a few seconds, “I suppose I did. I’m such a fool about that damned man.”
Aha! I’d been right about the two of them.
I’m not sure where Louisa What’s Her Name fitted into this picture, but— Wait! I finally remembered Louisa’s last name! Bonaventure. Louisa Bonaventure. According to Mr. Prophet, she was probably six feet under by 1925, but he hadn’t seemed absolutely sure about the status of her health. Anyway, if she were still alive, she’d probably be in her seventies. As was Mr. Prophet.
Therefore, if one used Li’s logic, Louisa Bonaventure, the purported love of Mr. Prophet’s life, would be too old for him by this time.
I believe I’ve mentioned that I’ll never understand men for as long as I live.
Seventeen
Sam and Mr. Prophet came back to my parents’ house about fifteen minutes after they’d left. Spike was ecstatic. Sam appeared slightly disgruntled. Mr. Prophet looked mad as heck.
“There. Dammit, they’re on their way to the Port of Los Angeles,” said the latter. “Do you need me to carry you back to Angie’s place?”
“Daisy gave me some aspirins,” said Li. “I think I can walk.”
“You probably should bind those ribs first,” said Mr. Prophet, eyeing her and frowning hideously.
“Hattie will do it,” said Li.
“But you shouldn’t walk until you get ‘em bound.”
“Damnation, will you two stop arguing? I’ll carry Miss Li back to Missus Mainwaring’s house,” said Sam in his nobody-had-better-argue-with-me-or-I’ll-shoot-you-dead-and-you’ll-end-up-being-eaten-by-bears-in-the-foothills voice. Whisper, I mean.
Mr. Prophet, startled, stood up straight.
Li, startled, stared at Sam, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes almost round.
I, on the other hand, smiled at my darling fiancé. “You sure your leg can handle the weight, Sam?”
“Yes.” He squinted at me with an expression that quite nicely matched the tone of his voice, which wasn’t lover-like.
“Very well,” I said meekly. “But you will tell me more about this tomorrow, won’t you?”
“You already know everything I know.”
“But…”
Glaring at me and shaking his head, Sam said, “All right, confound it. I’ll tell you everything.” Walking to the head of my bed, he said, “Put your arms around my shoulder, Miss Li. Lou, can you open the door?”
“But—”
In a low, measured tone, Sam told Mr. Prophet, “That wasn’t a request. Open the damned door. Now.”
So Mr. Prophet opened the (expletive deleted) door, Li lifted her arms, grimacing eloquently, and put them around Sam’s neck. Sam carried Li outside, Mr. Prophet following. I followed, too, after I’d given them a big head start and telling my adorable hound to wait for me. I just wanted to see if the excitement at Angie’s house had disturbed any of our neighbors.
By golly, not a creature was stirring! And it wasn’t even Christmas Eve. That made me happy, because Sam was right about creating a commotion in the neighborhood, not to mention the governments of at least two countries getting involved if anyone else found out what had happened. Since I wore my good old floppy slippers, I didn’t even have to tiptoe in order to get to the back of our house, climb the stairs and join my dog in bed after our interrupted night’s rest.
Eventually, I got back to sleep, but not until at least an hour had passed. My mind whirled, and I wanted to go down to Angie’s right that very minute and find out precisely what had happened at her house, and what was being done about it, other than the little bit Sam and Mr. Prophet and Li had told me. Ah, well, I’d just have wait. I hate waiting. Patience isn’t one of my few virtues.
How the heck had Li’s brothers, not to mention Mr. Tucker, figured out where Angie lived? I’d received the impression she’d tried to hide her early life from everyone and had endeavored mightily to leave no trace of it behind her. Dang. Curiosity is said to have killed the cat, but I doubt it. I think lack of a good and speedy answer had probably done in the feline.
Even though the night hadn’t passed particularly peacefully, Spike and I got up at our usual time, which was around seven a.m.
To my surprise, Sam and Mr. Prophet were already seated at the kitchen table, yakking with Pa. Although I hadn’t brushed my hair and probably looked like a wicked witch, since I’d already donned my bathrobe and slipped on my slippers—Oh. I think I just realized where the word “slipper” comes from—I joined the three men anyway.
“Morning, all,” I said, trying to sound chipper.
“Morning, sweetheart,” said Pa, giving me a big smile.
“Mornin’,” said Prophet, who gazed gloomily down at a cup full of coffee.
“Morning, Daisy. Did you sleep well?” asked Sam. He didn’t sound sarcastic, which surprised me.
I squinted at him for a second before replying, “Yes, thank you.”
“Good.” His nod was emphatic.
“Oh, wonderful,” said Ma, coming into the kitchen dressed for work. “Everyone’s already up and about. Let’s eat. Vi made us something lovely as usual, I’m sure.”
“Go along with you, Peggy,” said my wonderful aunt. She used that expression on me a lot, too, and I’m still not sure exactly what it means. “Just eggs and toast this morning.”
“Eggs and toast sound lovely to me,” I told her. I wished she and Ma and Pa would vanish for a few minutes, which was unkind of me but true.
However, my impatience didn’t make anyone eat faster and, in fact, Aunt Vi’s omelets deserved to be savored. I almost wrote severed. I think my mind was still jumbled from the preceding night’s adventure.
Finally everyone finished eating, and I carried the dirty dishes to the sink, where I aimed to wash them, dry them, and put them away.
Pa said, “Want to go for a walk with Spike and me, Daisy?”
“Sure do, Pa.”
Blast. Pa and I always walked Spike in the morning, and I’d managed to forget this salient fact. How in the world was I supposed to get rid of my father? That doesn’t sound right, does it? But, darn it, I wanted to find out precisely what had happened last night!
“I have to get going,” said Sam. “Supposed to be at work at eight.”
Stopping dead-still whilst lifting a plate from the sink of soapy water, I darned near dropped it into the rinse water. I’d be cursed if I’d allow Sam get away from me this easily!
“Hold on a sec, Sam,” I said, wiping my drippy hands on my apron. “I need to ask you something before you go.”
“Daisy—”
“I’ll join you, if that’s all right with you, Miss Daisy and Sam,” said Lou Prophet.
At least someone seemed to be on my side that morning.
“Very well.” Sam spoke through clenched teeth; I could hear it in the way he ground out those two little words.
As he, Mr. Prophet and I walked from the kitchen to the dining room and on into the living room, I felt my father’s gaze upon us. He knew something was up but, bless the man, he didn’t pry.
“So tell me everything,” I demanded the instant we were all three on the front porch. I whispered my demand so as not to alarm any neighbors.
“You already know everything,” said Sam, sounding growly. “When Lou and Miss Li came back to Missus Mainwaring’s house, three Chinamen were there. They claimed to be Miss Li’s brothers, and they said they aimed to take her back to China. They claimed she ran away from China thirty years ago and thereby ruined her family’s reputation in the village. Or wherever the hell they lived.”
“Yes, Li told me that last night.”
“Then what the hell did you want to talk to me about?”
asked a cranky Sam. “I don’t know anything except what you learned last night from Miss Li.”
“Them Chinese have peculiar ideas,” said Mr. Prophet.
“I guess,” said I. “When I asked Li if thirty years wasn’t a long time to hold a grudge, she said they probably only wanted to kill her, and that doing so would make her desertion thirty years ago all right again. I still don’t understand why.”
Squinting down at me, Sam said, “Then why ask me? I’m not Chinese. It’s difficult enough being the only Italian in Pasadena, what with all you redheads and blondes running around loose.”
“What?” I bellowed, forgetting about nosy neighbors in my indignation.
“You heard me,” he said. He slapped his brown felt fedora on his head and turned, ready to walk across the street, get into his Hudson and drive himself to work.
I grabbed one of his jacket sleeves, and he turned around with a sigh, frowning down at me.
“What do you mean, it’s hard being the only Italian in Pasadena? Just what precisely do you mean by that, Sam Rotondo?”
“Cripes,” said my darling, disengaging my hand from his sleeve and rubbing at the wrinkles I’d made. “You tell her, Lou. I’ve got to get to work.”
And off he went. He looked exceptionally fine that morning, if anyone aside from me cares. The warm April air had prompted him to don his light-weight brown-and-tan-plaid three-piece suit. He looked good, but I was mad at him, so I didn’t tell him so. Therefore, I turned to Mr. Prophet. “Well? What did he mean by his last crack?”
“Miss Daisy, you’re a good woman. Sam’s lucky to have found you. But you’ve gotta admit there ain’t a whole lot of Italian folks livin’ here in Pasadena. It’s got to be tough on Sam, especially since, because of what’s going on back east, people think all Italians are gangsters and bootleggers. Hell, that stupid nephew of his is a gangster, if a dumb one, poor guy. Sam, not his nephew. I expect folks look at Sam and think, ‘Al Capone,’ or that other twerp. What’s his name? Luciano?”
“But that’s silly! Sam’s a good man, not a gangster.”
“You didn’t answer my first question. How many Italian folks you know livin’ in this town, Miss Daisy?”