Meet Me in Venice (25 page)

“Don’t worry, I’ll send you the bill,” he promised with a smile. “I’ll wait to hear from the police tomorrow, then I’ll call you and discuss what our next moves should be.”

“There,” Grizelda said relieved. “I knew Hugo would take care of everything. There’s no need to worry anymore,
chérie.
You’ll be all right.”

“But what about poor Lily?”

“We’ll face that tomorrow, darling,” Mimi said. “Meanwhile, let’s behave like tourists and order Harry’s hamburgers. I hear they’re divine.”

S
AMS
flight to Paris was half-empty. He asked for a vodka and drank it down as they flew over the Alps and grassy rural France, deliberately emptying his mind of the events of the last few days.

Looking round, he noticed an Asian woman, an exceptionally attractive woman who gave him a fleeting glance from almond-shaped eyes the color of warm amber, and whose short black bob bounced as she walked past. He wondered what
she
had been doing in Venice. Of course it was ridiculous to think she might have known Lily simply because they were both Asian, but he noted the coincidence.

He’d left Rafferty in Venice for two reasons. He could not afford to get involved, and there was nothing more he could do. It was over. Or was it? The question haunted him the entire flight.

He thought of her dealing with the police, taking charge of Lily’s belongings, coping with shipping the body back to Shanghai to be buried.

He had another drink but still couldn’t get Rafferty out of his mind. Even full of liquor as he was, he could hear her voice saying, “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?” Even with his eyes closed he could see her aquamarine eyes widen with suspicion, and remember the smudge of freckles across her nose.

The plane made a bumpy landing in a still storm-tossed Paris and he strode through the terminal to Delta to check in for the New York flight. Halfway there, he changed course and went instead to Cathay Pacific, where he managed to get a seat on a flight departing the following afternoon for Hong Kong and from there to Shanghai.

He canceled New York, then went to the shopping area where he bought T-shirts and boxers, a couple of shirts, a cashmere sweater and a warm coat. At another shop he found a lightweight bag into which he put his new purchases. After that, he checked into the airport Hilton, ordered a room service hamburger which he ate while watching the usual bad news, in French, on TV. Then he showered and fell into bed. And this time he slept.

The next day the Cathay Pacific flight went as far as Hong Kong and took over eleven hours. After a four-hour wait, he took a Dragonair connecting flight to Shanghai.

VENICE

P
RESHY
’S dreams were filled with the image of a woman’s body floating just below the surface of the canal. The water lapped over her face and she could not see who it was, but the arms were outstretched, palms up as though asking for help.

She shot upright, sweating. She glanced at the clock and groaned. Four-thirty. She got out of bed, poured herself a glass of water and sat huddled in a chair, gazing at the blank TV screen. There were hours to be gotten through before Maître Deschamps had the autopsy answer from the police captain. Hours before they would know if the body was really Lily’s. Hours before she might be asked to identify a woman she had never met.

She pictured the cold morgue, imagined the smell of formaldehyde, the covered female shape on the steel slab, a tag tied to her
toe; the attendant lifting the sheet from the dead face . . .
She couldn’t do it.
But she must. There was no one else.

She took a shower and thought about going back to bed. What would she dream of this time? More bodies? Bennett? She shuddered. At least awake, she had some control over her thoughts.

She contemplated a cup of coffee but there was already so much caffeine flowing in her veins she figured it would only bring more bad dreams. She thought about Sam, on his way to New York. So much for that Knight in shining armor.

She glowered into her empty glass for a while, then got up, walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The sky had cleared and the dome of the Salute glimmered white under a silver moon, bringing memories of Bennett and her nonwedding.

Exhausted, she climbed back into bed and turned out the light. It would be a long sleepless wait for morning.

AT TEN O’CLOCK, SHE WAS
in the Aunts’ suite, having breakfast, when Mâitre Deschamps called.

“You can relax,” he told her. “There’s no need for you to identify the body. They were able to do it from her passport, and from fingerprints. It is Lily Song, I’m afraid. Apparently she must have slipped—the cobblestones were slick from the damp. They deduced that she fell, hit her head and rolled unconscious into the canal. Death was from drowning. It
was
an accident after all. And my advice to you is to forget what Lily said to you on the phone. Simply take her home and bury her and leave it at that.”

“Well,” Preshy said to the Aunts, putting down the phone, “they are releasing the body to me. Now all I have to do is arrange for Lily to be shipped home to Shanghai for burial.”

“But
who
will bury her?”

“Her family, her friends . . . surely there must be someone. Lily couldn’t have been all alone in the world. We should look in her address book, find out who her friends were.”

Mimi was put in charge of arranging for a mortuary to pick up Lily’s body and provide a coffin suitable for transportation, while Preshy called the airlines about shipping it to Shanghai. Then she went with her aunt to Lily’s room.

Lily had not unpacked and all her things were still in her suitcase. Looking at the small pile of underwear, the black suede pumps, the sweater, Preshy thought how pathetic they were; the leftover belongings of a dead woman. Tears pricked at her eyelids.

“I can’t let her go home alone,” she said. “I have at least to go to her funeral.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Aunt G said quickly.

But Preshy knew that no matter how much she denied being “old,” the journey would be too arduous for her aunt. “No need,” she said. “I’ll represent us. I’ll take care of everything.”

Grizelda found Lily’s small black leather address book on the nightstand. “It’s from Smythson, the good shop on Bond Street in London,” she said approvingly. “Cousin Lily had good taste.”

“Expensive taste, you mean,” Preshy said, examining it. A few business cards were tucked into the flap behind the front cover. Most were Lily’s own. The others were all in Chinese, except for
one with the name Mary-Lou Chen, which had the same address as Lily’s but with a different phone number.

Figuring Mary-Lou must work for Lily, she called the number. There was no answer. She couldn’t just leave a message saying Lily was dead, so she hung up. She would try again later.

Meanwhile, Mimi had arranged for the body to be collected from the morgue and prepared for shipping the following day. Preshy couldn’t bear to fly on the same plane so she got a seat on a flight via Singapore that would get her into Shanghai at around the same time. Grizelda booked her into the Shanghai Four Seasons, and then the Aunts departed, on their private plane, for Monte Carlo.

Preshy left Venice later that day for what she hoped would be the last time, on a flight to Frankfurt and from there to Singapore, then a connecting flight to Hong Kong and on to Shanghai. Bennett’s city.

SHANGHAI

S
AM
guessed that Aunt Grizelda was not going to allow her “daughter” to stay in any old fleabag, and when he arrived at Shanghai’s Pudong Airport, he called around the hotels, starting with the five-stars. He’d guessed right. At the Four Seasons he was told Miss Rafferty was expected tomorrow. And yes there was also a room available. He took a taxi there right away.

Once installed, he ordered flowers to be delivered to her room. “Something exotic,” he told the florist. “Orchids and peonies, that sort of thing.” He wrote a card saying, “Welcome to Rafferty,” then he went to the steam room for half an hour to clear his head. After that, he got dressed, put on his warm new coat, and had the concierge look up the address and phone number of
Song Antiquities, whose name he remembered from the parcel Lily had sent to Paris. Then he took a taxi there.

The area of the French Concession was an odd mixture of old-fashioned charm, high-level noise, speed and urban blight. But the broad leafy avenues had retained some of their glamour, and the narrow lanes, the
longtang,
were crowded with small businesses and stores, clubs, bars and teahouses where to his astonishment, birds in little bamboo cages hung in the trees and were fed live crickets by their doting owners. Tile-roofed houses were hidden behind arched stone gateways called
shikumen,
set in rows along the alleys, with wooden doors that opened inward onto small courtyards.

The rain started as he walked down the lane where Song Antiquities was located. When he came to it he stepped back to take a look. Over the tall gate he could see a red-tiled roof, the tops of some columns and a fretwork art deco verandah. The house seemed larger than most, and he guessed Lily lived and worked out of it. There was a small seedy-looking nightclub on one side and a busy noodle shop on the other. He rang Lily’s bell and waited. No one came, but then he had expected that.

Walking briskly, he went back to the main avenue, ducking out of the rain into a teahouse where he ordered what he was told was the specialty,
longjing
tea, and some of the sweet crescent-shaped dim sum stuffed with pork, known as
shenjian bao.
He bit into one, wincing as he burned his mouth on the scalding-hot broth inside. It was good though.

He looked round at his neighbors, all of them talking Mandarin Chinese, a language he had no hope of ever understanding.
Occasionally one would glance his way, unsmiling. He realized he was the only foreigner and feeling like an intruder, presently he got up and left. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the market.

It was evening and the streets were jammed with noisy people. The scent of incense from the nearby temple mingled with the aromas from the roadside stands, where all kinds of snacks were being barbecued or fried or boiled.

Sam pushed his way through the throng, dazzled by the thousands of flashing neon signs and the harsh rattle of the language, by the music, the gongs and drums, by the children carrying balloons, yelling and darting, and by the crowds streaming in and out of the ornate red-columned temple, where fortunes were told in separate little booths.

He walked over to where the wise men of fortune-telling plied their trade and read the PR written in English for tourists like himself, and the faded newspaper clippings tacked on the walls that proclaimed their excellent ability to foretell a man’s future.

One newspaper clipping boasted that this was the son of the most illustrious fortune-teller in China, and that he now carried on the tradition of his famous father. “Tycoons and billionaires and society ladies consult him on a daily basis,” the newspaper clipping said, “so they will know how to plan their day and which will be the most auspicious time for that important business move, or for catching the man they want.”

On an impulse, Sam pulled aside the bead curtain and stepped inside.

The fortune-teller was a small, middle-aged man with narrowed eyes and smooth skin. He was sitting behind an empty table and he waved Sam to a chair opposite.

Sam expected him to take out a pack of cards, or at least a crystal ball, but instead the fortune-teller studied his face intently. Sam offered his palm to be read but the man said, “Not yet,” and continued to search his face. Uncomfortable, Sam looked away.

“I am reading your cranium,” the fortune-teller said finally. “Your face tells me your story. I see that when you were a child you suffered a life-threatening sickness.”

Sam glanced at him, startled. He had indeed been very sick when he was only five years old.

“Your mind is quick, facile. You are a creator,” the fortuneteller told him, accurately again. “Success comes easily to you. Money sticks to your fingers.” His eyes narrowed to mere slits as he looked into Sam’s face. “But tragedy stalks you,” he added, softly. “Images of violence and death have kept you in their thrall. And there is more even now, far from your home.”

Startled, Sam said nothing; watching; waiting.

“Mystery surrounds you,” the fortune-teller continued. “You are always looking for answers.”

Finally, he took Sam’s hand, gazing intently at the palm. “The life line is long, but there are breaks in it.” He pointed to the wisps of conflicting lines. “Here, when you were very young, and here again.” He looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
“Now, “he
said.

Sam didn’t like the sound of that, but he thought the fortuneteller had come close to the truth with the childhood illness and
the mysteries. He said, “I’m searching for two people. I want to know if I’ll find them.”

The man’s narrow eyes met his. “The first person you seek is a woman. And the answer lies in your own soul,” he said quietly. “For the second, the answer lies with another woman.”

Sam paid his money and pushed his way out from behind the bead curtain. Sweat beaded his forehead as he stood, thinking about what the fortune-teller had said. Incense wafted from the temple; the spicy food smells were overwhelming, and the noise of the crowd swelled. He couldn’t take it any longer. He hailed a cab and went back to the hotel, where he went to his room and fell into a deep sleep, only to dream of Rafferty, who would be here tomorrow. With Lily’s body.

A
LMOST
twenty-four hours later, Preshy emerged groggily from the elevator that took her up to the Four Seasons hotel, where she checked in.

“Madame, a gentleman is waiting at the bar for you,” the desk clerk told her. “He wished me to tell you as soon as you arrived.”