Murder on the Silk Road

by Stefanie Matteson

  “Danowski was carrying a lute,” Reynolds explained. “But it was Chee’s lute. Chee had bought it at the bazaar that morning. Danowski and Chee had ridden into town together on the minibus. Chee was going to stay behind with his girlfriend, the young Chinese guide.”

  “Emily Lin?”

  Reynolds nodded. “She had the morning off. After Chee bought the lute, they were going to go to the District Revolutionary Committee office to apply for a marriage license. Chee asked Victor to take the lute back for him.”

  Charlotte nodded. That’s why Ned wasn’t carrying the lute when he got off the minibus, she thought. Click. Another piece had fallen into place. “Emily confided in Marsha about her troubles getting Chu’s approval.”

  “He was finally forced to give it. Chee wrote directly to the Central Committee of the Party, and requested permission to marry from Deng Xiaoping himself. Deng sent down instructions that their request should be approved.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Ned and Emily made an odd pair—he in’ his tie-dyed T-shirt, she in her white anklets. She was reminded of a line from Emily’s favorite poem: “Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They’d banish us, you know.”

  “Emily is going to make an application to study English literature at Berkeley,” Reynolds continued. “Chee told me about it yesterday. He was talking with me about how to go about getting a visa for her.”

  The mother goose and her goslings had appeared from under the zinnias again. Charlotte and Reynolds watched them for a moment as they finished eating their slices of the delicious melon.

  “What about the other stuff that was missing—the calculator and the wristwatch?” asked Charlotte after a while.

  “Stolen by a servant. One of his neighbors turned him in.”

  Click. Another piece in place. It was a little one, but Charlotte was a fanatic when it came to details. Maybe she should spend her retirement working with Lisa in Bert’s paleontology lab, piecing dinosaur bones together.

  “He’s in jail now. Speaking of jails, I have some good news for you. I spoke yesterday with Kong. The Chinese Academy of Dramatic Arts has approved your participation in the production of The Crucible.”

  “That’s great news!” said Charlotte.

  “Of course, it’s all very iffy. The Ministry of Culture still has to give the project its stamp of approval. But it’s a good start.”

  She was surprised at how relieved she felt. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off her chest. She hadn’t realized until now how much she had wanted to do this; or conversely, how little she had wanted to do any of the other projects that had recently come her way. “Goodbye to the glamorous grandmother, goodbye to the wife of the man with Alzheimer’s disease, goodbye to the dowager who founds a shelter for bag ladies.”

  “And let a hundred flowers bloom,” added Reynolds.

  Flinging her arms around him, she gave him a big hug. “May I?” she asked, drawing back and looking him in the eye.

  “It would be the fulfillment of a lifelong fantasy,” he replied.

  Then she gave him a big kiss on the cheek.

  Two days later, Charlotte and Marsha left for the Dunhuang airport, half an hour from Dunhuang town. They would be taking the four-hour flight back to Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu Province. From there, they would fly to Beijing, and then home. Despite the early hour—the plane left at seven-thirty in the morning—Bert and Dogie came to see them off. They would be staying behind to work on the dig. The sandstorm had set their work back several weeks. The part of the dinosaur skeleton that hadn’t already been removed, which was most of it, had been buried by the sandstorm under six feet of sand, all of which would have to be carefully removed, trowelful by trowelful.

  As they waited in the terminal, Bert was talking about the element of luck involved in fossil hunting. A skeleton like that of the Tyrannosaurus had probably been exposed for only a short time before being buried again by the same desert gales that had brought it to the light of day. “If Larry hadn’t gone to that particular spot during that brief moment in time when it was exposed, it might never have been found,” he said. He paused, and they waited for the clouds of thought to roll across the big sky. “In fact,” he continued after a while, “when you think about it, it’s a wonder any dinosaur fossils are found, she thought at all.”

  “Not here, it ain’t,” said Dogie, whose thoughts only took a fraction of a second to find expression. “This here is fossil wonderland.” He explained: “It looks like our friend Larry has discovered the world’s richest lode of post-Cretaceous dinosaur fossils.”

  “Too bad he didn’t realize it,” said Marsha.

  Charlotte remembered Larry’s shining eyes on the evening she had met him, and the tableau she had come across the following morning: the cigar, the espresso, the decanter of brandy. He was well aware of the significance of what he had found, she thought; he had been celebrating just that.

  Bert agreed. “How could he not have realized it? His discovery of the Dragon’s Tomb Site is going to change the face of paleontology. Even Orecchio is changing his tune: he’s still singing the impact song, but not as loudly. He’s talking now about the impact being an element in the great dying.”

  “You mean you’re not right-wing warmongers anymore for thinking the dinosaurs could survive a nuclear winter?” asked Marsha.

  “I guess we’ve been rehabilitated,” said Bert.

  “Tell them about the name,” prompted Dogie.

  Bert adjusted his big, heavy frame in his plastic chair. “We’re not sure yet—we have to talk some more with Peng about it—but we’d like to name the new Tyrannosaurus after Larry. If Peng approves, our knobby-nosed Tyrannosaurus will be Tyrannosaurus fiski. Like Andrews’ Protoceratops andrewsi.”

  “Tyrannosaurus fiski,” said Charlotte. “He would have liked that.”

  “I talked with his family to see if they approved, and they were delighted. They’re also talking about donating a new wing to our museum that would be named after him. It would be dedicated to the late dinosaurs.”

  “Very, very late,” added Dogie with a wide grin.

  The plane had arrived.

  “Before we leave, I have a question to ask you, Bert,” Charlotte said as they rose to head out to the tarmac. “The last little piece in the skeleton that I’ve been piecing together,” she added. “Where were you early in the morning on the day that Larry was murdered?”

  Bert looked at her quizzically.

  “Dogie said you weren’t with him; Marsha said you weren’t with her. It’s not important now, but I’ve been wondering.”

  “You mean I was a suspect?”

  “Only for a brief moment in time,” she said with a smile. “Before the desert gales exposed the identity of the real villain.”

  Bert smiled. “I was out in the desert.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh, looking at the stars, sniffing the air, feeling the wind on my cheek.” He looked away with a little smile. He obviously didn’t want to tell her what he had really been up to.

  “Nature called you into her embrace for three hours?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow and waited again for the clouds of thoughts to roll past.

  “I was writing a poem,” he admitted at last. “I guess I’m what you’d call a closet poet.” He looked over at Marsha, who grinned. Then he smiled sheepishly. “I was inspired, you see.”

  “Did you tell Ho that’s what you were doing?” she asked, remembering Reynolds telling her that everyone except Dogie had claimed to be asleep.

  “No,” said Bert. “He didn’t ask.”

  So much for Ho’s thoroughness.

  As the access ramp was maneuvered into place, they all said goodbye. Then Bert and Marsha embraced, and that was that. Bert and Dogie left, and Charlotte and Marsha headed out to the plane.

  “There’s Bouchard,” said Marsha, pointing at a broad khaki-clad torso mounted on skinny legs in the throng of passengers ahead. Under his ar
m, he clutched a wooden box with shiny brass fittings. “Do you suppose that box is full of dried spiders and scorpions?”

  “I’d say it’s a pretty good bet.”

  “Ugh,” Marsha said with a shiver.

  Just then, Bouchard turned around to look back. At what, Charlotte didn’t know. But she was struck by his expression. The frown was gone from his forehead and his lips no longer curved downward at the corners. He was a happy man; his face glowed with fulfillment.

  She’d been thinking of it as something of a tragedy that he had been barred from the expedition, but instead it was probably the happiest day of his life. Now he could devote himself entirely to his scorpions.

  On the plane, a People’s Aviation stewardess showed them to their seats, which weren’t built to accommodate American physiques. Charlotte’s knees were crammed up against the seat in front of her.

  Once they were seated, Marsha started rummaging around in her carry-on bag, which she had stashed underneath the seat in front of her. As she did so, Charlotte noticed a new ring on her finger, a beautiful paste jewel.

  “You have a new ring!” she said.

  Marsha held out her hand to display the stone, a large imitation rose quartz in a simple setting. “Bert gave it to me last night. He bought it from that pretty girl in town who was selling the paste jewelry. He went back yesterday to track her down.”

  How thoughtful of him to buy a ring that symbolized the Tang era that Marsha loved, Charlotte thought. Not only that, but their first night together had inspired him to poetry. No wonder Marsha had to travel halfway around the world to find him. He was the kind of man who was a rare commodity.

  “It’s an engagement ring,” Marsha added. “We’re planning on getting married sometime around Christmas.”

  “That’s what I really wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to pry,” Charlotte said. Turning in her seat, she gave Marsha a big hug. “Congratulations! I think you’ll be very happy together. But I’ll miss my faithful and trustworthy friend,” she added plaintively. “Who will I go to museums with?”

  “I’m not moving to Bozeman.”

  “You’re not! Is Bert moving to New York, then?”

  “He’s not moving to New York either. We’re going to have a long-distance marriage—go back and forth.”

  Charlotte raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “We’ve both been married twice before,” Marsha explained. “Maybe we’ve learned a little something. I certainly hope we have. His marriages didn’t work because he didn’t want to be a traditional husband. Mine didn’t work because I didn’t want to be a traditional wife. Besides, he doesn’t want to live in New York and I don’t want to live in Bozeman.”

  “That’s the difference between the women of your generation and those of mine,” Charlotte said. “Even the most liberated women of my generation, me among them—at least in my youth—would have dropped everything to live with their husbands. Maybe I should have come to a similar agreement with your father.” One reason for the failure of their marriage had been his insistence that she move to Minneapolis.

  “I know,” said Marsha. “Minneapolis is a nice city, but …”

  “But, is right.” If ever there was a fish out of water, it was Charlotte Graham among the skiers and snowmobilers of that northern city. In effect, she and Jack had a similar arrangement now. Although she avoided Minneapolis if at all possible, he often visited her in New York, and she sometimes accompanied him on his business trips.

  “Maybe it’s not too late. Daddy is educable, you know. It’s just that after forty years of being married to Mother, it’s hard being married to Charlotte Graham. By the way, did he ever call you back about that trip to the Virgin Islands?”

  “Yes. Yesterday morning. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

  “And?”

  “And … I’m going.”

  Marsha leaned back with a happy smile.

  Marsha was right. Instead of thinking of their marriage as a failure, maybe she and Jack should simply redefine it. They were both satisfied with the arrangement; it was only their peers who said there was something wrong with it. Maybe they should look to the younger generation for their models. She turned to Marsha. “So how are you going to arrange it?” she asked.

  “Well, Bert’s on the East Coast a lot for conferences and so on, and I can get out to Bozeman several times a year. Then we’ll spend our summers here.”

  “Here?”

  “In Dunhuang. The fossil grounds are so rich that Bert figures he’ll be spending his summers here for years to come. Which is fine with me. I can do my work here as easily as I could do it in London. If Chu will let me, that is. In addition to the manuscripts I came to look at this time, the library here has microfilm copies of all the manuscripts in the Stein Collection.”

  “Plus there’s Wang’s nest egg to look at now,” said Charlotte.

  “That’s right! Hundreds of new manuscripts. Including the world’s oldest printed book. In fact, I’ve been thinking about an entirely new project.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A new translation of the I Ching. Based on the oldest extant text.”

  As the pilot taxied the plane into position, Marsha started rummaging around again in her carry-on bag. “Found it,” she said, pulling out a bottle of wine and the same two wineglasses she had produced on the train ride out. “I brought one bottle for the trip out, and one for the trip back. And,” she said, reaching back into her bag, “our indispensable corkscrew.”

  Actually, Charlotte thought, someone like Marsha would be an invaluable addition to a paleontological expedition. If ever there was someone who could plan an expedition down to the last teabag, it was Marsha. Bert and his crew would never be stranded without a corkscrew or any other vital necessity.

  As the engines roared in preparation for takeoff, Marsha poured the wine. “To our safe return from our journey to the west,” she said, referring to the Tang poem about the willow tokens. “Which came very close to not being a safe return.”

  Charlotte thought of the meaning of the name Taklimakan: “Once you get in, you can never get out.” They had gotten out, but barely. “And to our return to the Celestial Kingdom,” she said.

  “Our return?” said Marsha, “Did you hear from Bill Reynolds?”

  “This morning. It looks like this deal with the Ministry of Culture is going to go through. Which would mean that I’d be here from May to July—roughly the same time as you. Of course, I’d be in Beijing, and you’d be in Dunhuang, but …”

  Marsha laid a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “But you could visit us in Dunhuang. And Daddy could come along too. He would love it.” She gazed eagerly into Charlotte’s eyes. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Why not?” Charlotte agreed.

  The plane was finally taking off. As it rose into the air, Charlotte saw below her an ocean of sand waves edged by a wilderness of badlands—deep ravines and towering buttes, canyons and ridges, chasms and cliffs—all tinged flamingo-pink by the light of the rising sun.

  She thought of the sandstorm that Victor said had once buried three hundred cities in twenty-four hours, and wondered how many ancient sculptures and manuscripts lay buried beneath the sands, how many not-as-ancient-as-you-might-think dinosaur skeletons were still entombed in the eroding hillsides.

  Reaching down for the bottle, Charlotte refilled their glasses. “To the sand-buried ruins of ancient Cathay,” she said, raising her glass to the desert-scape below.

  “Gan bei,” said Marsha.

  16

  “It arrived last week, all patched up and as good as new,” Bunny Oglethorpe was saying. She and Charlotte were walking down the pine-needle-carpeted path that led through the forest to the moon gate in the section of old Chinese wall that enclosed the Oglethorpe Gardens.

  Charlotte wrapped her sweater more tightly around her. It was blessedly cool: a damp fog was rolling in off the ocean, wreathing the garden in the tendrils of mist that gave it its myst
erious aura. At the end of the path, they came to the moon gate. As they entered, Charlotte noticed the round iron door pull—exactly like the one on the door of the stupa. She would never be able to enter the garden again without thinking of that distant monument on the Mountain of the Three Dangers.

  The sculpture of Hsuan-tsang was the centerpiece of the north end of the garden. He sat cross-legged under his shelter as he always had, looking out over the fish pond to the brightness of the flower garden beyond. Charlotte had come here to see him dozens of times before. But where he had once been merely a pleasant objet d’art, he now carried a multitude of associations, some of which she would just as soon put behind her.

  “It must look very different to you now,” said Bunny.

  In fact, it did. The mysterious little smile that had seemed only vaguely archaic before now seemed to look past her gaze with an ineffable compassion for the human weaknesses that prompted men to covet, to steal, and to kill.

  Leaning to one side, Bunny pointed to the back of the statue, which faced the rear wall of the shelter. “We had a conservator from the Asian Department at the Met fix the hole in the back for us.”

  Charlotte stepped over to look. She could just make out the edge of the patched spot on the sculpture’s lower back.

  “If the sculpture were free-standing, the patch would be noticeable, but in this position, you have to crane your neck to see it,” Bunny said. “I’m just glad to have it back, patch or no. With Chief Tracey’s help, we’re installing a new alarm system to prevent this from happening again.”

  “Speak of the devil,” said Charlotte, who had caught sight of Tracey approaching out of the corner of her eye.

  Joining them at the end of the garden, he tipped his Red Sox cap in greeting, and extended his hand to Charlotte. Though she had talked with him at great length on the telephone, this was the first time she had seen him in person since her return.

  “Nice to see you again, Miss Graham,” he said, the boyish round face under the visor of his baseball cap gleaming.