If you didn’t count purity or immortality. I wondered if the brothers had ever once, over the years, actually talked about the deeper meaning of anything.
“It seems to me,” Bill said, “that a lot of people have gotten caught up in your game over the last sixty years.”
“Please believe me, it was never a game. Yet what you say is true, and a source of regret. Many collectors, not just ourselves, have expended time and money in this search. I’ve comforted myself that to collectors the joy is in the chase, not the capture. Some other gem would have kept them running, if not the Shanghai Moon.”
“It wasn’t the thrill of the chase that drove Alice Fairchild,” I said.
Heavily, Mr. Zhang stood. He walked to the window and looked out over Chinatown. “No. And now two men are dead. My brother is hurt and my cousin very ill. Lives have been disrupted, and more heartbreak lies ahead. Because of me. Because instead of reality, I fostered illusion. Instead of truth, I encouraged dreams.” He turned to us. “Do you see? This is what was spoken by Uncle Kai-rong and Uncle Paul. This is the curse of the Shanghai Moon.”
43
A weary Mr. Zhang busied himself with kettle, tea canister, and little cups. Bill lit a cigarette and went to the window. I watched the Shanghai Moon sparkle against my fingertips.
It didn’t look cursed. On the contrary: The tiny diamonds’ sparkle and the green marbling of the jade made me hopeful, comforted me. As though, through everything, Rosalie and Kai-rong’s love still glowed.
But Mr. Zhang must be right. Look at all that had happened because of it. It must, in fact, be cursed.
Ah, what do you know, Chinsky? What was the last cursed thing you saw? I jumped at the voice in my head.
What, Pilarsky, you think this is funny? I silently demanded.
Hey, I’m one of the guys the thing took out, why would I laugh? I must’ve been losing it anyway, falling for Alice like that. But listen: That’s not the problem anymore.
What’s not?
In the first place, you can’t be serious, blaming that chatchke for all this tsuris. People made the mess, like always. Second, the bad guys are in jail. We’re square, you and me. Thanks, by the way.
Thanks? But I-
I said thanks, that’s it, no more, the end. Stick to business: You’ve got a bunch of old Chinese men here who still have troubles.
And? What am I supposed to do about it?
I should know? But you always said the old Chinese men, they were your problem.
“Ms. Chin? Are you all right?”
I looked up to see Mr. Zhang holding out a cup of tea. How long he’d been standing there, I couldn’t tell, but he seemed concerned. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”
Bill had a teacup by his side at the windowsill. He was looking at me, too, quizzically but without worry. As though, whatever was going on, he knew I could handle it.
And of course, I could.
After all, I was Lydia Chinsky.
Mr. Zhang sat down and leaned toward me. “Do you understand, now, why this investigation must stop? If my cousin were to learn I never intended to buy the Shanghai Moon, and why… He’s just had a heart attack. Another might end his life.”
I sipped my tea. An idea began to glow in my mind, just a tiny pinprick at first, then brighter. Go, Chinsky! I had some more tea, to stall. Was I really about to do this? “Your brother,” I heard myself say to Mr. Zhang. “You know he would do anything you ask?”
“Yes,” Mr. Zhang said sadly. “And the one thing he’s asked, a brother’s love, I’ve been unable to give.”
“Maybe now,” I told him, “you can.”
Of course, I wasn’t there to see it. Bill and I had to content ourselves with Mary’s report. She was there because C. D. Zhang had requested “that Chinese detective,” just as his brother had instructed. For all Mary knew, we had no idea what was even going on.
Right.
“You made this happen.” She hadn’t sat down at our Taiwanese tea place before the words were out of her mouth.
“I got ginger black with condensed milk.” I lifted the teapot.
“Never mind that.” She held out a cup anyway because ginger’s her favorite. I poured for her and for Inspector Wei, who gave the tea a skeptical sniff. “C. D. Zhang’s confession,” Mary said. “You guys’ pawprints are all over it.”
Bill held up innocent hands.
I shrugged. “I owed you, girlfriend.”
“So, what, you manufactured a confession and found someone to deliver it?”
“I just suggested to C. D. Zhang that he admit he did his brother dirt.” And if the crime he confessed to wasn’t the one he committed, was that so terrible?
“Of those three, C. D. was my least likely suspect.”
“Sometimes that’s who did it.”
“And sometimes”-Mary put her cup down-“a guy admits to stealing his brother’s million dollars, his brother declines to press charges, and we have no one to prosecute.”
“For that. But Alice rolled on the White Eagles. You have your conspiracy.”
“True. So it just so happens we no longer need Wong Pan. So when he slips Midtown’s clutches and gets shipped back to Shanghai with the DA’s blessing, everyone will be happy.”
At that, Inspector Wei lifted her cup. We all clinked. “This tea,” she said. “Well made. But condensed milk, so sweet, terrible.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh!” Mary said, as though something had just hit her. “Except there’s one guy who’ll be left with nothing, so he won’t be happy. And just by coincidence, it’s Mulgrew.”
“Well,” I said, “some days the bear gets you.”
“You know Mr. Chen will never forgive C. D. for endangering his chance at the Shanghai Moon, even though it wasn’t a real chance.”
“I’m afraid that’s true. But Mr. Zhang will. He already has. That’s why he’s not pressing charges.”
“In fact, he turns out to be quite a humanitarian. I hear he’s offered to help pay for home health care for Alice’s sister. Oh, didn’t you know she has a sister? In Boston.”
“Yes, Alice mentioned her when she was, you know, holding up the jewelry store. That’s very kind of Mr. Zhang.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “Lydia. Something else is going on here, isn’t it?”
“Probably. Families are complicated things.”
That was the truest thing I’d said since Mary sat down.
What C. D. Zhang was getting in return for his “confession” wasn’t his brother’s forgiveness, since what he’d done sixty years ago he wasn’t admitting, and what he was admitting he hadn’t done. What he was getting was much more. Gratitude. Appreciation. A secret shared with his brother. A bond between them.
What Zhang Li was getting was a solution to the million-dollar mystery that Mr. Chen would buy.
What Joan Conrad was getting was the ability to go on living in her own house.
What I was getting was a dubious look from my best and oldest friend.
But rumor had it what she was getting was a commendation. So I didn’t think she’d be upset for long.
I poured more tea, and as I turned the lid upside down so they’d know to bring us another pot, my phone rang. It was my brother Ted’s number in Flushing, but when I answered it, it was my mother. I excused myself and skipped outside. “Hi, Ma.”
“Ling Wan-ju! Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Now you surely will be. Kwan Shan tells me the gang boys are all in jail.”
“Did she tell you what a hero Clifford was?”
“Oh, so much big talk from her! She said Clifford saved your life. I told her that was ridiculous.”