The Thai Amulet (2 page)

Clive shot me a warning glance before kissing Moira on the cheek. “The Gala. It won’t kill you to talk to her.”

“I suppose this means he’s dead, does it?” Natalie Beau-champ said, pushing a battered bubble envelope across the table at me. Her tone was carefully neutral, but she spoiled the intended effect by chewing her lip and then hiccupping. A few feet away, Clive was extolling the virtues of a particularly lovely eighteenth-century writing desk to a young couple that most likely couldn’t afford it but were desperate to own it anyway. In the aisle outside the McClintoch & Swain booth, the party was gradually winding down.

Opening night of the Canadian Antique Dealers Association Annual Fall Fair is a glittering affair, in a rather subdued Toronto sort of way. For $175 a ticket, the rich and fashionable, along with the wanna-bes, get to swill martinis, slurp oysters on the half shell, munch on various delectables from the city’s finest caterers, and get first dibs on the antiques on display, all in a good cause, in this case the local symphony orchestra’s endowment campaign. McClintoch & Swain was there as an exhibitor for the first time, and we were working hard at making a good impression.

Natalie hiccupped again. “Oh dear, how rude of me. I’ve only had one,” she said, gesturing to the martini glass at her elbow. “Or maybe one and a half. But I don’t get out much anymore. I’m feeling rather giddy. This has been lovely, by the way. Thank you for asking me to help out.”

“Thanks for coming,” I said. And indeed, despite my misgivings, she had been a real asset. She was, as I had suspected, an attractive woman, fortyish, slim with dark hair, very pale skin, and blue eyes, with a hint of a French accent and a French woman’s sense of style. Her plain black suit was made distinctive by an elegantly draped silk-fringed scarf held in place by a diamond pin. She was a little too thin, perhaps, and she looked exhausted, but she was charming and, as it turned out, really quite knowledgeable about antiques.

“Let’s see what we have here,” I said, carefully emptying the contents of the envelope onto the table. “What is all this stuff?” It looked more like a child’s play box than something an antique dealer would have considered special, if indeed that was how Will Beauchamp had regarded it. There were letters, newspaper clippings, a few pieces of terra-cotta wrapped in tissue, some of them broken, and a photograph of a monk.

“You should probably start with the pink one,” she said, pointing to an envelope in a startling shade of rose. Inside was one sheet of similarly pink paper with a typed message.

“Dear Mrs. Natalie,”
it began.

“Regarding your Mr. William. I have been store in Silom Road. I have got informed from Mr. Narong Mr. William not there. I have been apartment, but I couldn’t found him also. Got informed from Mrs. Praneet, live beside, Mr. William wasn’t arriving long time. Mr. William ask me if not coming long time send Mrs. Natalie. I have also send mail from apartment. So sorry.

Best regards, Your friend, Prasit S, Ass’t Manager,

PPKK.“

“It’s a bit obscure,” she said.

“I get the general idea,” I said. “Do you know what PPKK is?”

“No,” she said. “It sounds rather rude, doesn’t it?” She smiled a little. “I suppose the PP could be pink paper, or even purple prose. Have a look at that one next.”

She pointed to a second envelope, this one on creamy vellum, addressed to William Beauchamp, Esq., at a different address but referencing the Silom Road location, which while certainly clearer, was considerably less pleasant in tone.

“Sir,”
the letter opened.

“We regret to inform you that in respect to monies owing our client for the premises currently occupied by Fairfield Antiques, and the contract signed by you, William Beauchamp, the contents of said premises have been seized, and unless restitution in the amount of 500,000 baht is paid to us in trust by November I, these same contents will be placed at auction in the River City Complex at ten A.M. of the clock on November 5 of this year.”

The letterhead was obviously that of a law firm, the signature illegible.

“That one is pretty clear, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know how much five hundred thousand baht is,” Natalie said. “I keep meaning to find out. I’ve been thinking that if it isn’t too much, maybe I could borrow the money somehow, then sell the shop in Bangkok as a going concern.”

“It’s something over $10,000 U.S.,” I said.

“Good grief,” she said. “I guess that’s it, then.”

“We shouldn’t assume anything,” I said. “Maybe he’s just the manager. We don’t know he owns it.”

“I think we do,” she said. “Fairfield—it’s a translation of Beauchamp.
Beau,
in French, is ‘pretty or good or fair,” and
champ
is ’field.“ So, Fairfield Antiques.”

“Yes, I see,” I said. “I suppose that’s right. Is there anything on the keys that would indicate what they’re for?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “But have a look at the newspaper clippings, why don’t you?”

I unfolded them carefully. They were yellow, almost brown with age, and rather fragile, not surprising, given that they were dated January 1952. The headlines, however, were clear enough. “Mrs. Ford Found Guilty!”
The Bangkok Herald
trumpeted. Then, in smaller letters: “Execution Date to Be Set Next Week.” A second, from the same paper, but a week later, was even more lurid: “The Murderous Mrs. Ford to Meet Her Maker March 1,” it said. Apparently they liked alliteration at the
Bangkok Herald
in those days.

“I’ll spare you the effort of reading them right now,” Natalie said. “The short version is that a long time ago, someone by the name of Helen Ford killed her husband and then hacked him in pieces and buried him in various locations around her neighborhood. She may also have killed one of her children, the body has never been found. All rather gothic, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t have thought Will would have been interested in such garbage, but apparently he was.”

“Does the name Helen Ford mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. This is the first I’ve ever heard of it. Do you have any idea what that pottery stuff is?” she said, pointing to the heap on the table.

I looked at the terra-cotta pieces carefully. There were two unbroken. They were both a little under four inches high, maybe three inches wide, flat along the bottom, but curving up like an arch to a peak at the top, and only about a third of an inch thick, sort of like a thick wafer. A Buddha figure, seated on a throne, appeared in relief on the surface of one. On the other was a Buddha in another classic position, this one with one hand held palm out in front of him. I picked up the broken pieces and fitted them together to form a third, about the same size, with a standing Buddha image on it.

“I think these are amulets,” I said.

“Amulets!” she said. “Are they worth anything? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. I’m not entirely mercenary. I just can’t image what Will would be doing with amulets, and why he would ask the assistant manager of PPKK, whatever that is, to send them to me, especially broken ones.”

“They could have been broken in the mail,” I said.

“No,” she said. “The pieces were individually wrapped.”

“Oh,” I said. It was the best I could do at the moment. “Still, if you look at the postcard Will sent soliciting our business,” I said, showing it to her, “you can see he had some amulets on offer, along with the carvings and Buddha images. Amulets are only worth something, though, to those who believe in their powers. I’m told people pay a lot for amulets they consider particularly potent, or rather, I should say, people make large donations for them. You’re actually not supposed to buy and sell amulets. People merely rent them permanently or make a donation for which they receive them in return. Most of them go for very small donations, however. Frankly, the only way you’d make money from this amulet would be if you knew who had blessed it, which monk, I mean, and he’d have to be an important one, and also what the amulet was for.”

“I see. Maybe this is the monk who blessed them,” she said, pointing to the photograph.

“Maybe,” I said, turning it over. “Unfortunately it doesn’t say who it is.”

“It’s all rather baffling, isn’t it? Why would Will ask someone to mail me fifty-year-old newspaper clippings and some broken bits of amulet if he went missing for a long time? That’s what the pink letter means, doesn’t it? That Will asked this Prasit person—is Prasit a man or a woman, by the way?”

“Man, I think,” I said. “There’s a Thai wood-carver I deal with whose name is Prasit.”

“Well, why would Will ask this fellow Prasit to send me junk like this if he didn’t show up for awhile?”

“I don’t know, Natalie,” I said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I just can’t think what I can do for you here.”

We both sat there for a minute, saying nothing. She was a little teary-eyed, and stared at a point somewhere over my head before speaking. “It’s sort of sweet, isn’t it, the way Prasit addresses me? Mrs. Natalie. It reminds me of my childhood. My French relatives called me Mademoiselle Natalie. Is that the polite term of address in Thailand?”

“Yes,” I replied. “The use of surnames is relatively new in Thailand. Everyone uses first names. I had a hard time getting used to Ms. Lara at first, and calling people by their first names all the time.”

“And Mr. William,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It seems rather familiar but also respectful at the same time. It’s rather sweet,” she repeated. “You know, I keep wondering if there was something I could have done. If I’d got on a plane and gone to see him the minute that horrible fax arrived, maybe everything would be different. But I was so devastated by it, paralyzed really, I didn’t seem to be able to do anything except show everybody the fax, as if perhaps they’d tell me I’d read it all wrong or something, or that it was really a ransom note for kidnapped William. I don’t think I was being very rational. All I did was cause myself deep personal humiliation. Everybody knew he’d left me in such a horrible way. You knew, I’m sure, even if we hadn’t met before this evening. Didn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “It is a rather tight little community, antiques I mean.”

“And not above some juicy gossip, I’ll bet,” she said.

“I think there were lots of people on your side,” I replied. “Even though we’d never met, I was one of them.”

“That’s just it,” she said. “Maybe it was a cry for help on Will’s part. After all, he’d hardly be the first man to have a midlife crisis, and maybe my telling everybody what he’d done just made it impossible for him to change his mind and come back after he’d had a bit of a break. I can understand he couldn’t take it any longer, that it was just too hard. God knows I’ve felt that way.”

“What was it he couldn’t take anymore?” I said. I wasn’t inclined to have any generous feelings toward the man, but I supposed letting her talk was the least I could do under the circumstances.

“You don’t know?” she said, reaching for her drink. “Caitlin, our little girl, is developmentally challenged—that’s politically correct speak for brain damaged,” she added, pausing to drain the glass. “She was just perfect when she was born, but a few days later she started to have convulsions. Nobody has ever given me a really satisfactory explanation for what went wrong. Not that it would change anything, but I’d just like to know. And it’s hard to think about having another child when you don’t know what happened the first time; although maybe if we had… but we didn’t.

“Caitlin’s six now, and about as bright as she’s going to get. She can’t even dress herself, and I pretty much put all my energy into looking after her. I see now that I neglected our marriage. But he adored her, you know, despite everything, and I thought he loved me, too. He called us his girls. I keep thinking that maybe if I’d gone to see him right away, he would have come back. We could have worked something out.” She paused for a minute and then gave me a rueful smile. “I wonder how many times I’ve said maybe in the last few minutes. Ten? Twenty? There are an awful lot of maybes in all of this, aren’t there?”

“Too many,” I said. “You make it sound as if it’s all your fault, that if you had just done something or other, it wouldn’t have happened. I think you should stop doing that to yourself. As you said, he would hardly be the first man to have a midlife crisis, and it would have nothing to do with you.”

“I just wish I could convince myself of that. You know what bugged me most about the fax? That it came from Thailand. We went to Thailand on our honeymoon ten years ago, and the fact that he chose the same place to end our marriage may have seemed like symmetry to him, but it looked just plain cruel to me.

“Afterward, I tried to keep the store here going, you know,” she said. “I took Caitlin with me every day. But you can’t do both, and I couldn’t afford any help. What with all Caitlin’s expenses, we only just managed it when there were two of us. I finally sold the business to the first person that came along. We’ve been living off what we got for it, but it will be gone soon. I’ve sold all the jewelry, except this pin: fifth anniversary present from Will. Silly of me to keep it, but I haven’t been able to part with it for some reason. The time has come I’ll have to, though, and then I just don’t know what I’ll do. Sell the house, I guess. I shouldn’t drink, should I.” It was a statement, not a question. “These martinis are making me maudlin. Or maybe I’m just plain tired. I haven’t had a holiday since Will left really, except for a week this past summer. Friends lent me their cabin in the woods and took Caitlin for a few days. There was no electricity, no water, nobody around, and it was absolutely heaven. But Caitlin was just miserable while I was away. So I guess that’s it for holidays.”

I opened my mouth to utter something appropriate but realized there was nothing I could possibly say that would fix anything. “But you did speak to him at some point, I presume,” I said finally.

She started chewing on her lip again. “I intended to,” she said.

“But…” I said.

“I know you’re going to think I’m awful. I decided that if he didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face he was leaving, then I wasn’t going to speak to him either. When I finally pulled myself together, in a manner of speaking, I did what most spurned women do, I guess. I cut up .his ties, wrecked his golf clubs, then cleared every last piece of his stuff out and sent it to a charity. Then I got a lawyer and filed for divorce. The lawyer has been dealing with it ever since. I always meant to talk to him eventually. I kept thinking he would phone. I was damned if I was going to do it first. I practiced what I would say when we spoke. I planned to call him, but only when I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t break down and embarrass myself when he said hello. The longer you put off speaking to someone, though, the harder it is to do it. After two years, you don’t just phone up and say, ”Hey, how are you doing?“ At least I couldn’t.”