Chasing Secrets (9 page)

W
hen I get home, Aunt Hortense is in our drawing room making lists of who to call for the children's bazaar. “How was Ocean Beach?”

“Fine.”

“That's all you're going to say?”

“I had a nice time with Gemma. Do you know where Uncle Karl is?”

“In his study, but approach him at your own risk. He's not in the best of moods.”

“Shall I wait until tomorrow?”

“You could, but he's got his big newspaper luncheon tomorrow. Day after tomorrow is my recommendation.”

“That's too late.”

She shrugs. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

I walk over to the big house and upstairs to Uncle Karl's large high-ceilinged office. On one wall he has dowels with newspapers hanging on them. The
Chronicle,
the
Call,
the
Examiner,
and
Chung Sai Yat Po,
the Chinese newspaper. On another wall, he has awards and photos of him with famous people such as Leland Stanford, Governor Gage, and President McKinley. Uncle Karl knows everyone. On the back wall are photos of S&S Sugar and big blocks of movable type with his name, Aunt Hortense's name, my name, and Billy's name.

“Peanut”—he looks up from the paper—“are you coming to visit me, or do you need something?”

If I say I'm here to visit him, I'm a liar. If I say I want something, I'm a louse.

Uncle Karl seems to know my answer before I open my mouth. “Because, you know what, I get tired of being a screwdriver.”

“I can see why, sir,” I offer.

“Can you?” He straightens the ink blotter on his desk.

I nod.

“And you'll remember that in the future, but today you need something. You want to know if I found out anything about Jing….Am I right?”

I stare down at his bearskin rug.

“He's vanished, so far as I can tell,” Uncle Karl says.

“He's not in Chinatown?” My eyelid begins to twitch.

“I've let Mrs. Sweeting know she is to begin interviewing cooks for you.”

“What?”

“Yang Sun can't continue to cook for both households.”

“But Jing is in the quarantine.”

“How exactly do you know this?”

I'd love to tell him how. But of course I don't. “I just think he is, that's all. Anyway, the quarantine is supposed to be over soon, so he'll come home.” I make this up.

“It is, is it?” He smiles. A nice smile? Or a mean one? “You're an authority on the subject?”

“They were waiting on the monkey,” I explain.

He stubs his cigar in the ashtray. “You don't know what you're talking about, Lizzie. And where did you hear about that anyway?”

“I don't know.”

He snorts. “You don't know? Wise to keep your mouth shut, if you know nothing about a subject.”

“Tell me about the monkey.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

I cock my head and look at him. “Why are you so grumpy about it, then?”

“Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, Lizzie,” he booms.

“Yes, sir.”

He hangs up one newspaper and takes down another. His back is to me.

Boy, was Aunt Hortense ever right. No talking to Uncle Karl when he's in a mood. I head downstairs, grinding my teeth.

But why did me asking about the monkey make him so angry? And besides that, they can't hire a new cook.
A new cook would live in Jing's room. Then what would Noah do?

In my room, I look at Jing's presents again. What if Jing is really gone? I'll never get another gift from him, my birthday cakes will have nothing inside, and I will never have another banana pancake.

I find my fountain pen and paper. Noah will help me figure this out.

Egad, our monkey made him mad.

What does Karl know?

Is he friend or foe?

I decide not to mention what Karl said about interviewing for a new cook. I don't want Noah to think all girls are liars, but he might panic if I tell him. I need to talk to Aunt Hortense. She'll be doing the interviewing. She's the one I have to get on my side.

First, find the cat. I head out to the barn and climb up into the loft, where he's curled up in the corner, his usual spot. The thread color on his collar is yellow. A message from Noah!

I unwrap the rice paper and slip it out. It has Chinese characters this time. And the words
“Doh je.”

Doh je?
What does that mean? I pocket his note and attach mine with blue thread. Then I haul the cat down the ladder. He squirms out of my arms, leaps into the haystack, shoots across the barn, and jumps onto the divider between the stalls, which he walks like an acrobat. I lunge
for him; the tips of my fingers graze his fur. He streaks across to the chicken coop. I chase after him; he runs, then stops and watches me. His eyes track my every move.

I stalk him until I get close enough to scoop him up. He allows himself to be caught only when he's good and ready. I run into the kitchen for cheese, then carry him into Papa's library, where I think there is a Chinese-English dictionary. With the cheese, the cat, and the phrasebook, I head back to my room.

The cat stands by the door while I page through the dictionary.
“Doh je”
means “thank you.” I look for a few other words while I'm at it.

Uncle Karl said he didn't like being a screwdriver. I wouldn't like that, either. But when you help a friend, it just feels good.

A
t breakfast, I corner Aunt Hortense. “Are you really going to hire a cook to replace Jing?”

“Oh, Elizabeth…”

“Mama hired Jing. He's a part of our family. She wouldn't like it.”

Aunt Hortense's hand freezes on her teacup. “When Mr. Sweeting asks me to do something, I do it. Your mama of all people would understand that. One day, you'll get married, and this will all make sense to you.”

“I'm never getting married.”

Aunt Hortense laughs. “Talk to me in five years. Your mama and I were never getting married, either. You can see how that worked out.”

“How do you know Jing isn't coming back?”

“It's a quarantine. People inside have been exposed.”

“Not if there is no disease. Besides, what kind of a quarantine is it, if there are no doctors, no gloves, no masks?”

Aunt Hortense dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “How would you know what a quarantine is supposed to look like?”

“Papa wears protective clothing when he treats an infectious patient. I've seen it.”

“Precisely why I don't want you going on calls with your father.”

“But I love going with him.”

“I know.” Aunt Hortense sighs. Her face softens. “Very well. I'll put this off until your papa gets home. But do me a favor and keep this between you and me, all right? As far as Mr. Sweeting is concerned, I am interviewing.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaping up from the table. I'm about to hug Aunt Hortense.

“Elizabeth, did you ask to be excused?” she barks. I come to my senses in the nick of time.

When I get home from Miss Barstow's that afternoon, the coaches, buggies, carriages, motorcars, and bicycles begin to arrive at the mansion, bringing the guests for the newspaper luncheon. Only men work in Uncle Karl's newsroom. If there were a woman reporter, I could ask her why Uncle Karl got so mad when I brought up the monkey. Was he trying to pick a fight, or did the monkey really matter? I bet it has something to do with the newspaper wars.
When Uncle Karl's
Call
doesn't sell as well as Mr. Hearst's
Chronicle,
it puts Uncle Karl in a foul mood. Could “the monkey” be a code name for a man who gives them tips about stories? Maybe one of his reporters will tell me.

I need to go to that luncheon. But how?

I could borrow one of Maggy's uniforms and pretend to be a maid. But Uncle Karl or Nettie would recognize me. Even if they didn't, would any man answer a serious question posed by a serving girl?

I could hide behind a potted plant and hope to hear what I need. But what are the chances that the monkey will be discussed?

There is only one way I can think of: to go as myself.

I peer through a hole in the shrubbery and see the men in small groups, drinking glasses in hand. Nettie and her maids are serving canapés on silver trays. Uncle Karl is deep in conversation, an unlit cigar in one hand and a whisky glass in the other.

I walk boldly up the path. This is the Sweetings' garden. I'm not afraid.

“What do we have here?” A man with a huge mustache smiles.

“Karl has a daughter he never told us about?” asks a jolly man with a big red nose.

I smile, then give my best curtsy. “I'm Mr. Sweeting's niece, and I have a question for you.”

Uncle Karl's voice rises above the din. “Why, Peanut, say hello to the boys. Boys, this is my niece, Elizabeth Kennedy.”

“Hello.” I wave, then curtsy again.

Uncle Karl is headed my way, his watch chain jangling. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“I was just wondering”—I look around at the men watching me now—“if anybody knew about a monkey or a man named Monkey.”

Several sets of eyes turn to Uncle Karl, who takes a bite out of the end of his cigar.

“Monkey Warren's dead,” a thin man with a square head says.

“She's saying we're monkeys,” a man with a big belly, striped trousers, and shoes half off his feet shouts. I know him. I met him when I went to Uncle Karl's office. His name is Peter.

All the men laugh. Uncle Karl's arm shoots around my shoulders as he tries to usher me into the house. “Lizzie, now, don't worry your pretty little head about this.”

I duck out from under his arm and plant my feet. “I don't have a pretty little head.”

The men roar at this.

“She doesn't have a pretty little head.” Peter winks at Uncle Karl.

“I'd like to know what's happening,” I demand.

Uncle Karl laughs. “Help me out here, boys.”

“The monkeys are in the jungle,” somebody offers.

Now a skinny man in a moleskin waistcoat hops around with his hands in his armpits. Everyone claps and hoots.

Behind me I hear a quiet voice. “Do they know what happened to that monkey?”

I turn to see a big man—about three hundred pounds, with thick spectacles set into his cheeks. He's talking to the man with the big mustache.

I'm about to corner him, but Uncle Karl is too fast. He slips his arm around me again. “They're just playing with you, Peanut. Come on now. No more foolishness. Your aunt will have my head if she finds you here.”

“It's just one question,” I plead.

“Elizabeth.” Uncle Karl leans in. His voice is low and hard. “That's enough. Do not stick your nose where it doesn't belong.”