Chapter 9

Grace recovered from Mary Stewart's astonishing statement before I could close my gaping jaw.

"You look tired, Mary," Grace said. "Please come in. We were about to have a hot drink. I drink coffee. Brent prefers green tea. Which would you like?" While Grace talked, she guided the Eurasian through our living room to the kitchen table near the back of the house, the place where most of our serious family discussions were conducted, both before and after our parents' death.

"Tea, please," Mary said.

"Brent, would you fix our drinks?" Grace said. "I'd like to see Mary's baby. A girl or boy?" Grace asked as she settled next to our guest at the table.

Mary smiled, which took all the weariness from her pretty face. "A girl. Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh my, yes!" Grace exclaimed and took the sleeping child into her arms. Grace gazed at the angelic, tiny face with longing.

"Her name is Joy," Mary said. "In an around about way, I named her after my mother whose given name was Jia dan, which means..."

"Joyful or auspicious dawn or morning," I said and chuckled softly when I noticed Mary Stewart's shocked expression. Touché, I thought.

"I speak Cantonese and Mandarin," I said in Cantonese, "but in an old-fashioned manner."

"You speak the language better than I," Mary said in Cantonese. She was being gracious. She spoke Cantonese perfectly.

Grace looked from Mary to me. "What did you say? Brent, do you speak Chinese?"

Mary looked as confused as Grace. "Surely you knew your brother speaks Cantonese and Mandarin fluently," she said in English.

Grace shook her head, and then glared at me. "No, somehow he failed to mention that talent to me."

I laughed. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Grace. I speak Cantonese and Mandarin but as the languages were spoken in the 19^th Century. Languages change dramatically over a hundred plus years, so this talent, as you called it, isn't very useful to me now." I set cups in front of Grace and Mary, and took a seat with my hot tea. I blew air over the rim of the cup and tears stung my eyes. I miss you, Mom, I thought.

I shook the sad memory away, and turning my attention to Mary Stewart, I said, "Have you informed the FBI of your belief that your brother was the target of that despicable act of cowardice?"

"No, and to be accurate, Jules was my half-brother, same father, different mothers. As you've probably gathered, my mother was Chinese. She met my father in Shanghai twenty-five years ago. He married her and brought her to the United States, where I was born a year later. I didn't know that I had a half-brother until shortly after my parents were murdered." She hung her head as if shamed. "That was a little less than two years ago. I was gang raped at the same time, and left for dead. That's when Jules introduced himself. His name was Julian Stewart. Everyone called him Jules."

"We'll be patient," I said in Cantonese when she hesitated, and then switched to English for Grace's benefit. "Tell your story at your own pace and in any order you wish. Grace and I will interrupt with questions, if we may?"

She nodded.

"Were your parents' deaths related to your half-brother's?" I asked.

"I don't know. Maybe, but it's more likely that the two events were unrelated. We lived in Chinatown in San Francisco, a boon for my mother from my father, I believe. My mother tried diligently but couldn't assimilate the culture here in the United States, not completely, and at her death she could speak only broken English, so my father maintained our residence where my mother could spend some of each day with Chinese friends. This irritated me when I was younger. I wanted to be an American, not a Eurasian. Eurasians in China are shunned, considered neither white nor Chinese. The prejudice runs deep. By living in Chinatown, I was subjected to some of this prejudice that, I believed at the time, I wouldn't have experienced if we'd lived elsewhere. That my belief was false I didn't discover until I left home for college. Prejudice is not place oriented. It's in the heart and brain and must be taught from childhood. I'm sorry, I've wandered off subject."

"No problem," Grace said.

"Joy arrived nine months after the fateful day."

Grace gasped. "Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. Are you a single mother?"

"Yes, but I do know the father, not by name, of course. One of the rapists was a light-skinned black man. If you look closely at my daughter, you will see some faint characteristics of the black race."

I reached and caressed the baby's face. "She will become an astonishingly beautiful woman." I looked up at Mary. "You know that, don't you?"

She nodded and tears brimmed in her eyes. She said, "But you are the first person to say so, the first person to see what I see in her."

"Brent and I were carefully taught from childhood not to harbor racial prejudices," Grace said. "Our mother was almost rabid on this subject. 'Judge people by their character, ' she'd say, 'not by the color of their skin.' Brent is right. This baby girl will grow into a beautiful woman." She grinned. "Like her mother," Grace added.

Mary blushed but said, "Thank you."

I noticed her hand trembled when she drank some tea. Was she still frightened? No, we'd put her at ease. What was making her hands shake? I studied her. She looked gaunt. I'd considered her slim at first, but she was too thin. Then it hit me. Mary Stewart was starving. Was she anorexic or was she flat broke, unable to buy food for herself and her baby? I knew how to answer my question without asking it.

"I'm getting hungry. Will you join us for breakfast, Mary, while you continue your story?"

She nodded eagerly. "I am a little hungry," she said.

I rose and checked the refrigerator. While Mary talked, I started to cook, setting a glass of orange juice in front of her right away.

Mary told us that she'd seen Julian Stewart for the first time when he walked into her room at the hospital where she was recovering from the beating the rapists had given her. Mary's father had divorced Jules mother before the trip to the Orient where he met Mary's mother. Jules was his son from that marriage. Julian's mother detested his father, and although the boy would have been better cared for and loved with his father, his mother gained custody in the divorce, and in subsequent hearings, his father had lost visitation rights. Still, his father had maintained secret contact with the boy over the years, and when Mary's parents were murdered, Jules traveled from Phoenix to California for the funeral and to finally meet his half-sister. He stayed with her for two weeks but had to return to his job in Phoenix. The trip cost Jules dearly. His mother disowned him, told him that she never wanted to see him again.

Mary's father had owned and operated an import/export business with a partner. While Mary was in the hospital, her father's partner had visited her and told her the business was in shambles and would soon go into bankruptcy. With Mary penniless, pregnant, without a place to live, and without a job, she called the only person she knew who could help her: her half-brother. He drove to San Francisco and brought her back to Phoenix to live with him.

Jules was a bartender, a good one, Mary told us, and shortly after Joy was born, Jules went to work for the hotel where my parents were killed, first as a shift bartender, then as bar manager, and at the time of his death, he was the manager of the lounge.

"My brother was a good man," Mary said with tears in her eyes. "When I had no one, he took me in and took care of my baby and me." She sniffed. "I loved him a lot, and now he's gone."

Grace pushed a box of facial tissues toward her. "We understand," Grace said.

As Mary was dabbing her eyes, I set the food on the table — bad timing. The baby woke up and was obviously hungry.

"Are you breast feeding your daughter?" I asked.

"Yes, may I feed her in the other room?" Mary said.

"Feed her here while you eat, or your breakfast will get cold. I'll turn away until you get Joy settled and you cover yourself."

I rose and walked to the patio doors, my back to the table. Why would her brother be the target of such a heinous act? So far, I could see no reason for Mary's initial shocking statement. A couple of other statements she made didn't make sense, either. Were we being conned?

"Okay," Mary said.

I returned to the table, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I watched Mary eat. She wasn't anorexic. She was starving, and at first gulped at the food, but then seemed to realize she was telegraphing how hungry she truly was. Also, she couldn't eat all the food she'd placed on her plate, and she hadn't heaped her plate, just dished up normal amounts. Her stomach had shrunk. Joy fussed through the meal. The baby wasn't getting enough milk.

"Thank you," Mary said. "That was excellent. I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was."

I stood, walked to the living room and looked outside. No vehicle except ours. How had Mary arrived at our house?

I returned to the kitchen, bent and rummaged through the small bag Mary had carried inside with her.

"What are you doing, Brent?" Grace asked, obviously irritated with my brazen, snoopy behavior.

"Grace, Mary's milk is drying up. The baby is still hungry, and if I were to guess, I'd say that Mary has been missing a lot of meals. The baby needs food, and she's old enough for those small jars of smashed food. There's none in the bag, and the diapers in the bag won't last the day. Unless someone drove Mary here this morning, she walked. There's no vehicle out front." I turned to Mary. "Make a list of what you need, and Grace will go to the store for you. Meanwhile, will Joy eat mush? You know, cream of wheat. We have cream of wheat, and I could scramble her an egg."

Mary burst into tears. A few seconds later, she jumped to her feet. Her breast flopped out when she reached for her bag. Joy started to cry.

"I'm sorry," Mary said. "I shouldn't have come here. It's just that I heard you on television last night, and I thought I could help."

"Sit down, Mary, please," I said. "Let's get Joy fed. Then if you still want to leave, one of us will drive you wherever you want to go. Okay."

"I don't want to impose. That's not why I came here this morning."

That's when Grace took charge. "Sit down, you ninny!" Grace said, not a shout, but close to one. "Brent's right. Think of Joy, not how embarrassed you are. Here." She held out her arms. "Give me that pretty little girl, fix your dress, and sit down. Scramble an egg, Brent, and mash it up real fine. Can she eat an egg, Mary?"

Mary nodded as she buttoned her blouse.

"Feed her the egg yolk in the fried egg that's left," I said to Grace. "Mary, I don't know if you are who you say you are, but I suspect you are an honest person." I smiled. "You still haven't tied your brother to the person or persons who planted that bomb in the hotel lounge. You can't leave before you tell us that much, at the very least."

Mary took Joy back from Grace and started to feed the baby from her plate.

"If her little belly is as shrunken as yours, don't feed her too much, too fast," I said.

"I won't," Mary said.

Grace consulted with Mary and left to make the purchases needed to take care of the child, and I asked Mary to go over why she was suddenly penniless, one of the inconsistencies I'd noticed. "Your parents were not without resources, Mary. You said you were going to college. They lived somewhere. Did they own their home?"

She shook her head. "I thought they did. They didn't. The company my father owned and operated owned the house, and the company was going bankrupt. My parents also died without doing a Will, and I wasn't listed as a signer on their checking and saving accounts, if indeed they had a saving account. I owed the hospital a lot of money. Jules helped me sell all my parents' things, which wasn't much, just some used furniture, those sorts of things, to pay the doctors and hospital, so I still owe the hospital a lot of money. They dun me every month, and last month they turned the debt over to a collection agency. I'd quit school in mid-year that year. There wasn't money to pay the tuition for the second semester. That's why I was living back at the house in Chinatown in March when..." She swallowed a sob.

"Jules, saved my life, Brent, and someone took his. Goddammit! I want his killer brought to justice! That's why I came here this morning, why I walked five miles in the dark to be here first thing. Before he was killed, Jules was nervous, which wasn't normal for him. He was an easy-going man, happy, not nervous or frightened, looking over his shoulder all the time. I asked him if there was something wrong, and he said he'd learned something he wasn't supposed to know. He said he couldn't tell me what it was, or I'd be in danger, too. And he made me promise that if anything happened to him, that I'd just disappear. 'Don't stay at our apartment, ' he said, 'and don't go to the police. Just disappear.' That's what I did, but it's hard to disappear without money or a place to stay, and my money ran out a while back. I've been staying in a homeless shelter, and while at a mission last night, I saw you on television. So I begged for money, went to a Laundromat, washed my clothes, and Joy's, and I bundled her up, begged some more money for bus fare, and took the bus as close as I could to your house. Your father's name and address were listed in the phone book, or I would've never found you, and still I worried this might not be the house where you lived. I feel so... Brent, I've never begged for money, not before last night. Never!"

"Okay," I said as I finished scrambling an egg. "I'm a prudent man, so I'll check out your story, but I'll tell you right now that I believe you. I also promise that you that you'll never have to beg for money again, Mary."

She started to cry quietly, more from relief than pain. I took the baby out of her arms and fed the child the scrambled egg. The little bundle of joy chomped that egg right down, too, and gave me a couple of happy smiles in the process.

As the sun peeked up over the horizon flashing pink and orange spires across a pewter sky, Grace and I flowed like oil from a two separate cans, smooth and synchronized, not just with our postures but also with our breathing.

Mary Stewart stepped out of the house and, without saying a word, flowed into our exercise in mid-form, and the three of us moved as one.

The day before, after Grace bought out the baby store with enough food and baby paraphernalia for six babies, I made some calls. As I'd anticipated, I couldn't punch any holes in Mary's story. She'd told us the truth. I did hire a private investigator in San Francisco to check out her father's business, including his partner. That situation carried too much potential for fraud to ignore. I also retained a San Francisco attorney to look into the status of the probate of Mary's parents' estate, as well as the hospital bills that had been turned over for collection.

Then Grace and I convinced Mary to stay with us in our guest room until we could determine when she could come out of hiding. We fed Mary and her baby a number of small meals throughout the day, and made Mary swallow a bunch of vitamins that we had on hand.

The three of us finished one tai chi form and slipped into another one. Mary knew the new form and, without a word or a bobble, we completed the exercise.

"You guys are something!" Mary exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you knew tai chi. My mother and I did tai chi together when I was younger."

That reminded me of my mother, and my eyes misted.

"Brent will practice his kuen now, Mary. Will you help me fix breakfast?"

"Sure," she said and looked at me. "Kuen, huh? Kung Fu?"

"Yes."

"Is that your cudgel?" she asked, nodding toward my staff leaning against the wall.

"Yes."

She shook her head, as if amazed. "Are you sure you're not Chinese?" she said in Cantonese.

"Not in this life," I replied in the same language.

"Are you a Buddhist?"

"No, but some tenets of the faith appeal to me. The Tao, as well."

"My mother would have adored you," she said and walked inside.

A little later, I noticed her by the patio doors watching my cudgel play. Grace joined her. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but my ears were burning.

After I showered, I joined Grace and Mary for breakfast. Little Joy, too. She sat bright-eyed in a highchair. With the haul Grace had made to shop for the baby yesterday it'd been a good thing that she'd driven my pickup truck. Besides the high chair, she returned to the house with a crib, a stroller, a car seat, and a playpen, not to mention the food, diapers and other stuff babies need.

While we were eating, I said, "Decision time, Grace. Should Mary and Joy travel to San Francisco with us, or should they stay here and housesit until we get back Sunday night?"

"Ah, guys," Mary said, "I can't go to San Francisco with you. I don't have any money."

"Brent's in the same dire straights," Grace said and laughed.

Having Mary and Joy with us was the best medicine a doctor could have prescribed for Grace's melancholy, and Grace laughing was the best medicine for me.

Grace added, "Our jerk uncle, trying to get his mitts on Brent's money, froze all the bank accounts." Mary looked confused, so Grace explained my situation.

"I'm a kept man," I said when Grace finished outlining our dysfunctional family fiasco.

"Considering your age," Grace said, "the appropriate label would be boy toy."

After Mary laughed with Grace, she frowned. "I've gotta ask, Brent. How old are you?"

"Sixteen, but I'm mature for my age."

"Hah, that's an understatement," Grace said. "He says he prefers older women, and they seem to agree with him. His youngest girlfriend was eighteen, but women your age and older have tripped him so he fell between their nubile legs, and none of them have complained, I'm here to tell you."

I blushed. Grace laughed.

Mary raised an eyebrow. I ignored her silent query. Then she asked, "Why are you going to San Francisco?"

"My brother is a prodigy, an artist. His one-man show opens at Eleanor's Gallery on Market Street Friday evening. We'd planned to fly to San Francisco tomorrow morning, a day early, and explore your city, Mary." Grace looked at me. "Brent, I think Mary and her baby should go with us for two reasons. Number one, she's in jeopardy here. I don't think we should leave her alone, and number two, she can be our San Francisco guide."

Mary shook her head. "I won't let you spend that much money on me. I'll stay here and housesit."

"Uh-uh," I said. "Grace is right. I want you with us in San Francisco where I can protect you and your baby."

"But..."

"Is your only concern the money?" I asked.

"Yes. I..."

"Stop it!" I said forcefully, and then I softened my voice. "Just stop it. Listen to me, Mary. Grace and I have money. That's good because it lets us do what we want without worrying about financial burdens that we can't handle, and what we want is you and little Joy with us in San Francisco. I also want you on one arm and Grace on the other at my show, which means..." I looked at Grace. Would she figure it out?

"Shopping!" Grace exclaimed, her eyes taking on the immanent-shopping-spree look.

I laughed. Was there any doubt? Nope.

"Yes, shopping," I said. "Mary has one outfit, the one she's wearing. She needs a wardrobe. That's your mission today, Grace. I'll tend this little bundle of joy. She seems to like that formula you bought, and I want to introduce her to Agnes."

"Agnes?" Mary said.

"Yeah, she's teaching me how to be a welder."

Grace cracked up. "Agnes is a sculptor, Brent's best friend."

"Go on," I said to Mary. "Load up that new diaper bag with anything I'll need today and scoot. What I don't know about babies, Agnes will teach me." I looked at little Joy. "Wanna learn welding, sweet thing? Or how to forge hot iron? I'll be your sifu."

Joy grinned and cooed at me.

"See. It's settled. Joy wants to spend the day with me."

Because we'd considered the extra day before the show, and the day after, as well as Sunday morning, as a mini-vacation, Grace and I had gone all out and booked rooms at the Four Seasons Hotel. The hotel was happy to oblige when I asked for an additional room for Mary and her daughter.

My sister and I had also talked about the potentially harrowing experiences while driving a rental car in a strange city, so for our trip to San Francisco, we hired a limo and driver for ground transportation.

Mary had oohed and ahed when she slipped across the leather seats of the limo. She'd never been in one, and I admired the good bit of leg she showed while doing the slipping. The new wardrobe had performed wonders with her appearance. She'd been beautiful before, but the new packaging made her drop-dead gorgeous. Every man at my opening would be insanely envious when they saw me with Grace on one arm and Mary on the other.

On the drive into the city from the airport, I asked Mary if there was anyone she wished to contact while in San Francisco. "Consider the peril you're in before you answer," I added. "If you believe the incident that took your parents' lives was even remotely connected to the act of cowardice that took your brother's life, then you should avoid anyone you know in this city. On the other hand, as an example, I would trust Agnes with my life. Perhaps there is someone here you can trust like I trust Agnes."