A Charm of Powerful Trouble (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 4) by Robert Bruce Stewart Read Free Book Online

Canal Street concert saloon and his body refrigerated in the Erie Canal?”
    “She does have an inventive imagination.”
    “Yes, and sees little need to draw distinctions between it and reality.”
    “What about that man who was killed in your apartment being the valet to one of her college classmates?”
    “Well, that part was true.”
    “And didn’t you name the parrot Telemachus? And charge him with protecting Emmie’s virtue? That sounds like jealousy.”
    “The parrot’s name was Polly when I brought it home. The rest is all Emmie’s pipe dream.”
    “Aren’t you ever jealous?”
    “My usual state is bewilderment. Besides, what have I to be jealous about?”
    “Well, it’s not just a question of that. Maybe she needs the affirmation. That would explain her inventing the story of your naming the parrot.”
    Her theory seemed rather dubious. Emmie had never evinced concern for anyone’s affirmation. I just muttered some acknowledgement and nodded. Luckily, we’d arrived at Hunter’s Point, where we boarded the Steinway Avenue car. For this, the last leg of the journey, I sat next to Emmie. I thought it might be more fruitful to examine her rather than her psychology.
    “Is Thibaut clear on what’s required of him?” I asked.
    “Well, it was expecting too much to think he’d be able to convey specific questions. But I do think I’ve come up with a way to make good use of his talents.”
    “Care to elaborate?”
    “Um, no, I don’t think I would.”
    She then pretended to take an interest in the passing scenery, which was difficult given that this part of Queens consisted mainly of grimy factories and squalid tenements. I’m sure Long Island City has its partisans, but if there’s an uglier bit of real estate anywhere, I haven’t seen it.
    “How perfectly quaint,” she said, as we passed a dilapidated windmill sitting on a rise above the road.
    That’s when I knew we were headed for trouble. Emmie’s interest in things quaint was incalculably small.
    About a mile or two further we disembarked at the Astoria Silk Works, the landmark Jimmy Yuan had mentioned. As we walked down past the mill toward the river, the street evolved into a rural lane. There was a little farm off to the right and another to the left with what I at first thought was an extended grape arbor. But on closer inspection, I saw that this hanging garden bore narrow green fruits that looked something like cucumbers. A fellow in a broad, mushroom-shaped hat was tending the trellis of simple boughs set in a series of arches. He nodded in a friendly way when we approached. Then just kept nodding, no matter how many times we repeated the name Lou Ling.
    “Perhaps he’s Lou Ling,” I said.
    So I tried a few other names I thought to be Chinese. He just kept nodding. Then another Chinaman joined us and nodded just as politely.
    “I anticipated something of this sort,” Emmie said.
    She gave instructions to Thibaut and he got down on all fours, rubbed his shins together, and chirped with abandon.
    “He’s fantastic,” Aunt Nell pronounced.
    “Lou Ling,” Emmie shouted, while pointing to Thibaut.
    The Chinamen very quickly caught on, and they too started chirping. That drew the German farmer from across the way, soon followed by his wife and their brood of five children. The show was a good one and we were all thoroughly entertained for a good long while. At least until a fellow elsewhere on the plantation began giving an excited alarm in Chinese. Having just noticed that Emmie had slipped away, I had a pretty good idea what it was about.
    The whole lot of us went off in the direction of the commotion. We found Emmie outside what passed for the farmhouse. It looked like the sort of thing young boys build as hideouts—odds and ends of lumber, old boxes, stray bits of tarpaper, etc. A fellow with a hoe was keeping her at bay.
    “What did you get yourself into?” I asked.
    “I simply wanted to see if there was any evidence