Stay well, Mama.

Your Rosalie

17 June 1938

Dearest Mama,

Oh, I am tired! But I could not go to sleep without writing to tell you what a lovely dinner we’ve had!

Dinner, you say? I’m writing about a meal?

Well, first, a meal in Shanghai is not a small thing. Wait, that’s phrased incorrectly: Often it is a small thing: some rice, a carrot boiled with an onion, and there you have it. (Though I have not yet had to resort to kasha.) But after a complicated transaction that began yesterday with a shoemaker’s awl and proceeded through several shop keepers, Paul marched triumphantly up our stairs this afternoon with a chicken! Plucked, cleaned, and ready for the stewpot, the bird became the centerpiece of a Shabbos dinner at which we had our first guest. No, Mama, I am not taking up religion, I assure you. But Kai-rong had expressed a desire to attend a Shabbos dinner, and after his kindnesses, how could I say no? We lit candles, washed, and said the correct prayers, Paul explaining the meaning of the various rituals to Kai-rong. (And he has absorbed much more from his bar mitzvah preparation than I’d have suspected!) We ate chicken, stewed with onions on our charcoal stove in the courtyard, and challah, a great delicacy, purchased from a Viennese bakery. I even managed to sauté some thin Chinese beans into a reasonable side dish. Kai-rong brought linzer torte and a pound of coffee! We sat and ate and talked in our tiny room, at which Kai-rong showed no dismay but also, to my relief, no false cheeriness. We never ran out of conversation, the three of us, and the hour at which Kai-rong finally took his leave would have scandalized our neighbors, had they not been scandalized already by the fact of his unchaperoned presence. Luckily, I and Paul-who in any case considers himself as much of a chaperone as we could ever need-remember your own attitude toward the opinion of neighbors, and are fashioning ours after it.

Mama, it was so lovely, to have a guest for dinner, as we used to at home; it made us feel, nearly, that this could be home, too. All that’s missing is you and Uncle Horst, but the day is fast approaching when your train leaves! Oh, Mama, I cannot wait to see you again!

Your tired but happy! Rosalie

That was it.

That was it?

Apparently so. I’d reached the end of the stack of printouts. Suddenly Rosalie was silent. Her romance, her marriage, the birth of her son-I wanted to follow her through that. I knew her now, and I wanted to stay with her. But I couldn’t. She was gone.

I stared into the dimness of my office, feeling the cloud that had begun to lift rolling back in. In my growing affection for Rosalie, my joy in watching her find, as she said, her sea legs in Shanghai, I’d almost let myself forget that at least part of her story had a tragic ending.

Elke and Horst never made it out of Austria.

That must be why the letters stopped. Rosalie must have learned there was no one to write to.

I don’t know how long I sat there, feeling simultaneously terrible for my eighteen-year-old Rosalie and like an idiot for caring so much. Terrific, Lydia. Here you are, all depressed over a sad story from sixty years ago. What’s wrong with you?

Well, it could be what was wrong with me was the sad story from yesterday.

All right, that was enough. If the moroseness in here got any thicker I’d need a cleaver to cut through it. There had to be something I could do.

Zhang Li, now. Mr. Chen’s cousin. Hadn’t I not pushed him for long enough?

I dug out his card and called. A pleasant woman told me in Cantonese that I’d reached Fast River Imports, but the boss was out and she didn’t know where to reach him or when he’d be back. I gave her my name, which did not make the boss miraculously reappear. Whether that meant he really wasn’t there or he was ducking me, I had no idea. I asked her to have Mr. Zhang call me at his earliest possible convenience and hung up.

All right, that hadn’t worked, but I still had to get out and move. Maybe I’d pop up to Mr. Zhang’s office, just in case he was one of those people-there were a lot of them, actually-who didn’t know how much he wanted to talk to me until he saw me, and saw me, and saw me.

Joel would have laughed, would have said, Chinsky, hold your horses. Have a little patience, he’d have suggested, lots of doors were still open. I just had to wait until David Rosenberg got in, until Zhang Li called me back, until Wong Pan tried to peddle Rosalie’s jewelry up the street here.

Joel would have mentioned something else, too, though. Chinsky? What exactly are you up to? Did you miss it? We’ve been fired.

Yes, well, maybe it was time to take that up with the client.

Alice’s cell rang three times, and then, just as I was starting to grit my teeth, she answered. “Lydia! How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I said. Which was true, if you didn’t count the sudden visions of Joel with blood all over the front of his shirt that flashed into my brain every few hours. “Fine.”

“I’m glad,” Alice said. “I hope you’re calling with good news. Have the police found anything?”

“No, but I have.” I ignored the “good news” part. “Alice, I called you before. Did you get my message?”

“You did? I’m sorry. I have eleven new messages, and the truth is, I was too dispirited to even look at them.”

“We need to talk,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Washington.”

“Washington?”

“I have friends here. I thought it might help to come down and see them.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow or the next day.”

“But you haven’t checked out of the Waldorf?”

“It’s tourist season. I have the room booked for two weeks. If I give it up I’ll never get another. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

“No, wait. This is really important. Have you spoken to your clients in Zurich?”

“Yes, I told them what had happened. They agreed we should suspend the search for the jewelry until Joel’s murder is solved. I’m sorry, I know-”

“Alice, what do you know about them?”

“About the Kleins?”

“That’s the name they gave you?”

“What do you mean?”

“They told you they’re Horst Peretz’s daughter’s sons?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Alice, Horst Peretz didn’t have a daughter. He never had any children.”

A pause. “Lydia, what are you saying?”

“That’s why I asked what you know about them.”

“What do you mean, Horst never had children? How do you know that?”

“Because Rosalie did. She and Chen Kai-rong had a son, and I’ve met him, and he told me.”

A much longer pause. “You’ve met him? He’s still alive? He’s in New York?”

“Yes. He recognized the jewelry photos.”

“Oh, my God. You’re sure? Rosalie’s son?”

“Yes. When you get back I’ll introduce you. But then-”

“Yes, I follow you. Then who are my clients?”

“Right. So you can see-”

“Have you told this to Detective Mulgrew?”

“You can’t believe he’d care. But Alice, there’s more. The police found Wong Pan’s hotel.”

She caught her breath. “They found him?”

“No, just where he’d been staying. But he seems to have tried to call you. At the Waldorf. He didn’t get you, did he?”

“Wong Pan? Of course not. What do you mean, he seems to have tried to call me?”

“A pay phone near his hotel called the Waldorf.”

“Oh. But that could be coincidence.”

“It could. There’s another thing, though, and it’s bad: The police think Wong Pan killed someone. A cop from Shanghai who’d followed him here.”

“The Shangahi police followed him?”

“But the cop was murdered. In Wong Pan’s room.”

“My God. Lydia, this is… But then, you have spoken to the police.”

“Not to Mulgrew. To a detective friend of mine, who’s… involved.”

“Lydia, I want you to listen to me. I need to think about this. About the Kleins. I’ll call them in Zurich as soon as it’s morning there. And I’ll come back to New York tomorrow and we’ll talk. But this is important: If what you’re saying is true, you have got to stop.”