The Monkey's Secret Read online

  When Astral Dog reaches Spencer, the dog sits, cocks his head, and waits for Spencer to take the ticket.

  Aha! Gemma’s secret looks in the direction of Spencer have not gone unnoticed.

  The velvet man plays his harmonica, but Spencer doesn’t take Gemma’s hand.

  “He don’t know what to do,” someone shouts.

  “Dance around her,” the balloon man suggests.

  “Take her hand.”

  “Go on, now. Just dance!” The calls come from all around.

  But Spencer stands, as stupid as a hitching post.

  The crowd begins to murmur. Nobody likes this. Finally the velvet man signals the dog, who does a dance around Gemma. When the harmonica stops, Spencer can’t get off the stage fast enough.

  Gemma’s eyes fill up. She bites her lip and stares at her boots.

  I leap onto the stage to give Gemma her crutches, but just as I do, Astral Dog turns to me, his tail wagging so hard, it drags his bottom with it.

  “Astral Dog has found his next happy couple.” The velvet man is eager to move on. No one will pay for more tickets after a match like Gemma and Spencer’s.

  “Lizzie.” Gemma blinks back her tears and grabs my hand. “That’s you.”

  My face flushes. I’m too tall for the boys. My feet are larger than theirs are.

  “But, Gemma,” I whisper. “I can’t dance.”

  Gus glances at me. Gemma frowns. “Don’t be silly.” She snatches my ticket and offers it to Astral Dog—who chomps it happily, then works his way through the paying customers and stops in front of Gus. Gus steals a look in my direction and then motions to the velvet man.

  The two confer in whispers, and then the velvet man’s head pops up. “Sadly,” he says, “the dance cannot occur due to unforeseen circumstances.” The crowd begins to boo, but the velvet man cries, “And yet the match remains strong.” Gus bows to me, saluting with his hat. I try to curtsy as Gemma claps.

  Gus’s manner is polite and kind, and the crowd’s boos turn to whistles and claps. Astral Dog does his dance, and the velvet man moves on to the next match.

  Gemma points her crutch at her brother. “What was that about?”

  Gus’s eyes find mine, then dart away. “I didn’t feel like dancing, and neither did she,” he mutters, pink all the way down his long neck.

  We walk back to the Cliff House, where men in straw boater hats are drinking and laughing. While we’re waiting for Mr. Trotter, a lady dressed in pink bursts out the door of the restaurant, followed by a small sour man. Her face is flushed. She fans herself wildly. “Air. A little fresh air and I’ll be fine.” She tries to smile. Then suddenly she rushes over to a potted palm and throws up.

  Stomach flu? Food poisoning? An allergic reaction? If only Papa were here. He’d know what to do. I’m trying to think how to help, when Mr. Trotter comes out. He takes in the scene with his quick eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” he barks.

  Chapter 15

  Doh Je

  When 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.

  Chapter 16

  Monkey in the Garden

  At 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.”

  Chapter 17

  A Hundred and One Rules

  Do they know what happened to that monkey? I heard that man say it. I heard it with my own ears. What did he mean?

  I’m so upset, it’s hard to think straight. My pencil helps me clear my head.

  The men tried to hide it.

  Uncle Karl denied it.

  But I heard the big man

  Ask about a monkey plan.

  I find the orange cat and attach the message, then wait, hoping the cord will come down. I need to talk to Noah, not just send him messages. Besides, he must be tired of peaches and salami. He needs something warm to eat.

  Aunt Hortense is on the telephone in the drawing room, talking about parlor meetings and women getting the right to vote. Why is she on our phone? She spends most of the day at her house.

  When she gets off, I stare at her. She sees the question in my eyes and turns away.

  “I trust you’ll keep my business to yourself,” she says.

  In his column, Uncle Karl has been poking fun at ladies who are trying to get the vote. Could Aunt Hortense be helping them?

  Impossible.

  Aunt Hortense rings for Maggy to carry her papers to the Sweeting house. I watch as Maggy follows her across the way. Aunt Hortense has been depending on Maggy more and more. Nettie doesn’t like this. Yesterday, Nettie tracked dirt onto Maggy’s clean floor and then scolded Maggy for it in front of Aunt Hortense.

  With Aunt Hortense gone, Noah’s cord comes down, and I head straight upstairs with my basket. In it are pancakes, a roast beef sandwich, jars of water, caramels from Ocean Beach, and the poem I wrote for him. I can’t wait to show him his poem.

  Noah’s eyes light up when he sees me. “Tell me everything,” he says as I settle into my usual chair.

  I tell him about the monkey and Uncle Karl’s party first. I hope he won’t ask too many questions, because I don’t have any answers. Do I tell him Uncle Karl said Jing wasn’t in the quarantine? Should I say I had to convince Aunt
Hortense not to interview for another cook? I dig in the basket for the candy.

  When I hand it to him, he looks hard at me. How does he know I’m not telling him everything?

  “Uncle Karl couldn’t find him,” I whisper.

  His eyebrows rise like Jing’s. “That doesn’t mean he’s not there. He’s hiding something, Lizzie.”

  “What is he hiding?”

  “He knows more than he’s saying.”

  I think about Uncle Karl watching me in the yard as I unwrap a caramel. “What makes you say that?”

  “Baba said Uncle Karl meets with the Six Companies sometimes. Baba translates.”

  “What are the meetings about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The monkey is important. If we figure out about the monkey, we’ll know a lot more,” I say.

  I tell Noah about the Trotters’ motorcar and Astral Dog and how I thought I was going to have to dance in front of everyone.

  He chews his caramel thoughtfully. “You don’t like dancing?”

  “I’m not good at it.”

  “Do you practice?”

  “Of course not. What a horrible thought.”

  “Do you have instructions on how to do these dances?” Noah asks. He unpacks the basket and places it on the shelf with the dishes.

  “In my notebook.”

  “Bring them. We’ll learn together.” There comes that crazy, mischievous smile.

  “You and me?” I ask.

  My mind flashes on Aunt Hortense and what she’d do if she saw me dancing with a Chinese boy alone in our attic.

  “Sure.” He grins. “I’ve done the lion dance. And that’s a lot harder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wear a lion costume, and my friend Pu is behind me—he’s the back end of the lion, and I’m the front.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be the back end.”

  “Neither does Pu. He says he only got that position because of his name.”

  “Poo!” I laugh. “Hey, I wrote you a poem.” I unfold the page for him.