The Thai Amulet (12 page)

I went back to the cool and the calm of the Regent and called Jennifer.

After describing the family home in Chiang Mai in glowing terms, she lowered her voice. “I’m not sure exactly what is going on here,” she whispered. “But I really wish I’d stayed in Bangkok with you. Chat won’t tell me anything, but I know it has something to do with the business, Ayutthaya Trading, I mean. Khun Thaksin, Wongvipa, and Yu-tai have been locked in Chat’s dad’s study for hours with Khun Wichai. You remember him from dinner, right? I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they do raise their voices from time to time. They’re in a snit about something. I’m thinking maybe I could just buy an airline ticket for Bangkok and come and stay with you. Is there room?”

“There’s room for a small army in my junior suite at the Regent,” I said. “It’s gorgeous, and I’d be delighted to have your company. Do you want me to arrange for the ticket?”

“No,” she replied. “I’ll see how the rest of the day goes and let you know tomorrow.”

No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again. “Hi,” David Ferguson said. “I have what may be bad news. I don’t know. At our insistence, the police had a more thorough look at Beauchamp’s apartment. They found blood, I’m afraid, in the grout in the bathtub. Whose blood, we don’t know.”

“Surely one could make some assumptions about whose blood it is: the most recent tenant in the apartment, for starters,” I said.

“Assumptions, yes. Hard evidence, no.”

“Can’t they test for DNA or something?”

“And compare it to what?”

“Oh,” I said slowly. “I see. You’d want to have some DNA from Will directly for a positive identification, and you can’t because he isn’t to be found.”

“Exactly.”

“Surely they could find a trace of it in his home—in Toronto, I mean. Mind you, now that I say that, he’s been away a long time, and it sounded to me as if Natalie, his wife, practically had the place fumigated when he left.”

“Even if we could, what would it prove?” Ferguson said. “That he bled? You know what they’re always telling us, that more accidents happen at home than anywhere else. How often does a guy cut himself shaving, after all? I seem to make a habit of it.”

“I just wish I knew whether I was looking for a live man or a dead one,” I said.

“I’d say dead,” Ferguson said. “Although I have no idea why, other than that he’s been gone so long, without anyone seeing him. If I could have found evidence that he’d left the country, then I’d say he disappeared on purpose, but we’ve heard from almost all the airlines now, and there’s no indication of that.”

“But what could have happened to him?”

“Many things, obviously. We know he went to Chiang Mai regularly. Maybe he went walking in the hills, got lost, and wandered around till he dropped. Or he had an accident, got trampled by an elephant—”

“Surely this is getting a little farfetched,” I said.

“This is not your average small town in America,” Ferguson said. “There is wildlife in the jungles, and the border with Burma isn’t always the safest place. There are drug smugglers, bandits, you name it, and the occasional skirmish between the two countries to top it off. I’m not saying this is what happened. I’m just saying that things do happen here, and not just in the jungle. Thailand has a crime rate, including violent crime, that is rather higher than one would like.”

“This all sounds so awful,” I said. “Here I’ve been cursing him as a runaway parent, and he may have been lying in pain in the jungle for days before he died.”

“I shouldn’t be scaring you like this, but I think we have to come to terms with the fact that he may well be dead. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I guess,” I said. “I’m still saying someone has to know where he went. If he went hiking in the hills, then where did he stay? He must have had a base of some kind, although, now that I say that, I realize he could have been backpacking, and just left the hotel or hostel or whatever, and never come back. No one would have been expecting him to. What a disheartening thought, that you could disappear and no one would know or care.”

“Perhaps I could change the subject to something rather happier,” Ferguson said.

“Please do,” I replied.

“I want you to come to a special party. Now that you’re staying in Bangkok, I won’t take no for an answer. I’m having a housewarming party of sorts. I suppose I should say it’s a moving in party. I’ve got myself a house—that’s a big step for me—and I have to move in the day after tomorrow. The place is still a mess, but the priest says tomorrow is the day. You may not know that there are lucky and unlucky days to move into a house. In fact, there are lucky and unlucky days for everything here. Very complex calculations are called for to determine the most auspicious day for this, even more complicated than the calculations about where to put the spirit house. You missed that particular event. It took place before you got here.”

“I’d love to come,” I said.

“You would? Really? That’s great.” He sounded surprised by my quick acceptance. “The day after tomorrow is move in day, and ready or not, that’s what I’m doing. The party will be a very casual affair, given the state of the place. If your niece—Jennifer, isn’t it?—wants to come, she’s welcome, too. My aunt and her best friend are coming all the way from Nebraska for the occasion. They’re sweet old dears. My aunt brought me up when my mother died. I think you’ll like them, although they both, my aunt especially, get a little muddled from time to time. I’m really happy they were able to
get
here.”

“What can I bring?” I said. “In fact, what does one bring to a moving in party in Thailand?”

“Just bring yourself. The ceremony—I’m having a priest bless the place—will be late in the afternoon, and the party will go until everyone gives up and goes home. I don’t suppose you’d consider being my date for the occasion, would you?” I must have hesitated for a second too long. “No, I guess not,” he said. “Especially if Jennifer comes, that wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? You’ll still come, won’t you, even if I’ve just committed a faux pas?”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “In the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away,” he said.

“I need an address for an artist by the name of Robert Fitzgerald.”

“You never give up, do you?” he said.

Robert Fitzgerald, artiste, lived in a tree. Literally. A tree
house,
of course, but still. I almost missed it, looking, as I was, for something a little closer to the ground. I’d have missed it completely had it not been for David Ferguson, who did whatever consular officials do and tracked Fitzgerald down. I suppose the tree, a huge banyan, had once been on a fancy piece of property. Now it overlooked a garage.

I found the
soi,
and then the house, by cutting through the grounds of a wat, or temple. It was amazingly peaceful in the temple grounds. Saffron monks’ robes were drying on a line outside a row of houses, and a young woman persuaded me to buy a tiny sparrow in a bamboo cage from her, so that I could let it go and earn merit. The departing bird pooped on my shirt. Apparently this meant even more merit for me.

A gate in a hedge led to the house. The first thing I saw as I entered the grounds was a beautiful little spirit house. Most Thai houses have one, protection against the
chai,
or the spirits, who inhabit a place. They are ostensibly home to
Phra Phum,
or literally, the lord of the place. This one was a perfect Thai house in miniature. Incense sticks were burning, and the most beautiful little figures surrounded it: tiny horses, elephants, a carriage, baskets of fruit, sprays of flowers, all hand carved in wood down to the last detail. The workmanship practically took my breath away, so perfect was every last detail.

The rest of the place was not so enchanting. There were several signs posted about, in both Thai and English. I can’t speak for the Thai, but the others were rather pointed.
Beware of Dog,
one said.
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted,
went another.
Private Property. Keep Out,
the next one said.

The house, too, was equally unwelcoming, once I looked up and found it. Essentially, it was a large platform that wrapped around a huge banyan tree. It was supported by stilts, but I could see no easy way to get up there, only a long rope that reached almost to the ground. It didn’t look strong enough to pull a person up, even if I were so inclined, which I wasn’t, so I just tugged at it. Above me I heard a bell.

There was no sign of the dog, but I heard someone above me say something in Thai.

“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“What do you want?” the voice in the leaves growled.

“It’s Lara McClintoch,” I said.

“So?” he said.

“So I phoned,” I said. “It is Mr. Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you want to come up,” the voice said.

“You can come down if you like,” I said. Indeed, from my standpoint it would have been preferable, my tree climbing days long gone.

“I don’t like,” he said. There was a grinding of gears, and a set of stairs, much like a ship’s gangway, which maybe they were, swung down toward me, stopping just high enough above the ground to be truly inhospitable.

“Well?” the voice said. “Haul yourself up.” I hauled.

I found myself in a sala, a room open on all sides to the air, the ceiling the canopy of leaves above. The floor was beautifully burnished teak. I noticed a pair of shoes at the top of the stairs, and remembering the Thai custom, slipped out of mine. The floor felt smooth and wonderful under my bare feet. There was a dining room table and four chairs in teak and rattan, a sofa of bamboo, covered with cotton cushions in orange and pink, a coffee table in solid teak. The view, so prosaic from the ground, was at this height a pleasant vista over a
klong.
As I watched, a longtail boat swept by, causing the water to rock up and down either side of the narrow waterway. The place even smelled wonderful, the scent of flowers and freshly cut wood.

There was another spirit house, this one under construction, pieces of it scattered about the place. Dozens of tiny animals stood in neat rows on the coffee table. I leaned over to admire the workmanship, which was exquisite.

Mr. Fitzgerald, if that’s who it was, was nowhere to be seen. I could tell right away, though, that this was not the Robert Fitzgerald of the portraits. Several paintings were on display. To my way of thinking, they were the kind of art that would be interesting to study in a gallery, but not the kind of art to have in your home. There was an underlying violence to it that I found quite upsetting. Some showed angry gashes of red across what would normally have been lovely scenes of rural Thailand. Another showed a Thai house that looked as if it was dripping with blood. A particularly disturbing one showed a pair of eyes looking out of a tree. One of the eyes had a knife stuck in it. I was clearly in the wrong place.

The sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of a man of about fifty, with reddish hair and mustache. He was way too thin, and furthermore, too young to have painted the portrait of Helen Ford. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me.

“I’m afraid I may have come to the wrong Robert Fitzgerald,” I said hesitantly. “I was looking for a portrait painter, someone much older than you.”

“Then you are correct. You have come to the wrong place.”

“Would you have any idea where I could find such a per-

“No,” he said.

“Then I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time,” I said.

“I am, too.” What a nice person Mr. Fitzgerald was.

“I guess I should be on my way then.”

“I guess you should.”

I turned to go, and as I did so, I had a feeling that the one good eye in the painting with the knife was looking at me. I decided I was going to have to persevere.

“Who painted that?” I said, pointing to the canvas.

“My father,” he said.

“And could I speak to him?”

“That would require a medium,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“He’s dead,” he replied. “Two years ago.”

“Did he paint portraits?”

“A long time ago.”

“Do you have any of them left?”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose the name William Beauchamp means anything?” I said.

“Not particularly.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“Look, William Beauchamp is a former colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago, and I am trying to find him. He has a wife and a disabled child, and they need to know where he is.”

“I can’t help you,” he said.

“Can’t or won’t?” I said.

He said nothing.

“Okay then, I’ll be on my way.”

He remained silent. I walked toward the stairs once again, but as I did so, a shaft of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees and made these lovely patterns on the floor of the house. I just paused for a moment and admired it, thinking how I’d take this tree house over the Chaiwong residence any day. I decided then and there that the person who lived there, and who had carved these wonderful houses and animals, couldn’t be as bad as he sounded. “You have a wonderful place here,” I said. “I’m glad that I got the chance to see it. And your carving is extraordinary. Now, about the dog. Is there one?”

“Dog?” he said.

“Dog. As in Beware of the,” I said.

A faint hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Oh yes,” he said. “But like most dogs, his bark is worse than his bite.

“In that case,” I said. “How about some tea?”

“Tea?” He looked perplexed.

“Tea. You know, dried leaves you pour boiling water over to
get
a brownish-colored drink.”

He paused for a moment, apparently baffled by my approach. “Would scotch do, as brownish liquids go?” he said at last.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Then come along.” He led me down what I suppose one might call a hallway, with the tree trunk on the inside and wooden walls to the outside. This part of the house, unlike the sala, was enclosed in a manner of speaking with wooden walls and screened windows. It was still open to the air above, although I could see it was possible to pull canvas awnings across for protection. There was a tiny little kitchen, with a very small propane refrigerator and stove, and open shelves for dishes. Farther along there was a bathroom—I wasn’t sure how it worked—and a room that looked as if it functioned as both bedroom and study. There was some electricity, strung from a pole out on the
soi,
and a cell phone rested on the kitchen counter.