Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  Betsy groaned. “Mike, this person must be found!”

  “Now, we don’t know that Lena’s murderer is the same person who killed Oscar Fitzwilliam.”

  Betsy would have objected to that but hesitated. After all, assigning guilt in advance could lead to serious miscarriages of justice. “Okay, you’re right. By the way, I have some new information about that burglary in my apartment building. Remember you said it was a search? I know what she was after.”

  “ ‘She’?”

  “Yes, the burglar was the woman who was killed at the March Hare in St. Peter. Wendy Applegate.”

  “You know that for a fact.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m pretty sure, anyway. And listen, you need to call a Dr. Edyth Booker, the textile curator at the Minneapolis Art Institute. She has the piece of silk that Wendy Applegate was after.”

  “Where’d Dr. Booker get it from?”

  “Me. I brought it to her. Doris brought it back from Thailand wrapped around that statue of the Buddha. She thought it was a rag and threw it away. I rescued it because the embroidery on it looked interesting. But it didn’t look like anything I’d seen before, so I didn’t want to mess with it until I knew what it was. I finally got a flying appointment with Dr. Booker, but she was—what’s that cop word for people behaving suspiciously?”

  “You mean ‘hinky’?”

  “Yes, that’s the word. She was astonished when she first saw it, but tried to pretend she wasn’t.”

  “So what the heck is it?”

  “One of the oldest surviving pieces of silk embroidery in the world, an important piece of Chinese history.”

  “Holy cow!” Mike didn’t say cow but one of its products.

  “Back in the eighties, archaeologists excavated a tomb dating to the second century BC. A woman named Xiu was buried there, covered in layers of silk. Because of the way the tomb was sealed, the silk was almost perfectly preserved.”

  There was a pause, probably so Mike could write some of this down. “All right, all right, this is too much detail to get over the phone. I want to talk to you about this. Can you come over to the station?”

  “No, I’m alone in the shop.”

  “Then I’ll come there—and I may bring some people with me, all right?”

  “Yes, of course. Mike, will you do me a favor? Bring me something from Pizza Hut, please. I had to fire my help and I haven’t had lunch.”

  “Who do you think I am, the pizza delivery guy?”

  “All right, then, soup and a bread stick from Antiquity Rose.”

  Mike growled, but when he came by forty-five minutes later, he had a covered foam bowl that gave off wonderful smells and, in a pocket, one of Antiquity Rose’s fat, foot-long bread sticks.

  With him was a woman, tall and slim, with the most penetrating gray-green eyes Betsy had ever seen. The women nodded politely at Betsy when Mike introduced her as a detective on the St. Paul Police Department. She brought a cardboard box a little bigger than a shoebox to the checkout desk. Inside were layers of Bubble Wrap, and under that the carved stone statue of Buddha. She set it on the desk and stepped back.

  “Do you recognize this?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Why, yes,” said Betsy. “It’s the statue Doris Valentine brought back from Thailand. Did Mr. Fitzwilliam find it after all?”

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam?” she said, and Betsy felt again the detective’s eyes on her.

  “Eddie Fitzwilliam, the Fitzwilliam’s Antiques owner’s son. I asked him to call and tell me if he found it.” The look was still there and Betsy found herself confessing, “And if he found out anything when he went over the books. And he did, he said there was money coming in that the books didn’t account for. So I think that means his father was involved in the illegal import of artifacts.”

  The detective merely nodded. “You’re sure about this statue?” she asked.

  “It looks exactly like the one Doris brought from over there.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She wrapped it up again, neither rushing nor lingering in her movements, said good-bye and thank you to Mike, and left.

  “Wow,” said Betsy, looking at the closed door to her shop after she’d gone through it.

  “Yeah,” said Mike, blowing a silent, admiring, envious whistle. “She walks into an interrogation room, gives a perp that look, and suddenly he just can’t stop talking. She was the only one who wanted to come along, and you can see that’s because she had her own agenda.”

  “Where did she get the statue?”

  “It was found in a search of Wendy Applegate’s house.”

  “Why didn’t she say that?”

  “Why should she? She never gives out information unless she has to, and besides, she doesn’t approve of amateur sleuths.” He said it as if he himself had never been guilty of this miscalculation.

  Betsy sat down at the library table to eat her soup, gesturing at him to join her. “Business is slow this time of day,” she said, “so probably we won’t be interrupted.”

  He got out his notebook and clicked out the point on his pen. “What made you decide that piece of silk was important enough that a textile expert at the art institute should have a look at it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think it was important. It was a beautiful piece of embroidery, but it was dirty and frayed, and I wanted to know how to clean and repair it. I couldn’t find anything like it on the Internet, and with Goddy on vacation I’ve been too busy to keep looking. So when this man called—his name is Joe Brown and he’s a member of the board—about increasing my pledge of support to the institute, I parlayed that into a brief interview with the textile curator there. After the money I gave them last year, I figured they owed me five minutes of their time. All I was hoping for was that someone would give me a time period and a country to focus my research on, and a hint on how to clean it without further damaging it. What’s interesting was her reaction.”

  Mike looked up from his notebook. “You mean her not telling you what she thought it was?”

  Betsy stopped sipping soup to say, “And talking me into leaving it behind. I think she thought I’d brought it in to get confirmation that it was what it was and that my next goal was to sell it for big bucks.” She put on a hard expression. “I wish now I’d asked for it back.”

  “I thought you said she had a guard outside her office ready to stop you.”

  Betsy released her scowl with a sigh and resumed her meal. “Yeah, she did.”

  “So did that article you found tell you how it got from an archaeological excavation in China to a needlework store in Minnesota?”

  “It was stolen—twice. First, it was supposed to go to a museum in Hubei, China, but it was stolen en route. It wasn’t seen again until last year, when it turned up at an unadvertised auction in Hong Kong. It was stolen again when the buyer shipped it to Bangkok. There’s an American doing business in Bangkok, David Corvis—”

  Mike lifted his pen, and Betsy paused, while he wrote the name down. She spelled it for him. Then he nodded at her to continue.

  “I don’t know if he was the thief, but somehow he got hold of it and was trying to sneak it into the United States. He disguised it by making it look like an old rag he was using as packing material. Doris wasn’t supposed to open the box it was in, but it never occurred to Corvis that if she did, she’d throw the ‘rag’ away.”

  “What do you know about this Corvis fellow?”

  “According to Doris, he’s an ex-marine who manages a silk factory called Bright Works outside of Bangkok and owns a small export business in the city.”

  Mike made another note. “This silk, for all that it’s rare and historic, does it have much value? I mean if you had managed to get it back, how much could you have sold it for?”

  “It was sold in Hong Kong for twenty-five thousand, but the article said that was a low price because it didn’t have any provenance—you know, a record of ownership going back to the first owner. God knows what the
real value is. That auction wasn’t a proper sale; I mean, whoever heard of an auction that isn’t advertised? But someone must’ve heard of it, if it got stolen again on arrival at the airport in Bangkok.”

  “Unless whoever stole it just picked up a box or two at random,” said Mike, the voice of experience.

  “Well, yes. I’m sure you know how to check robbery reports, even overseas, right?”

  “Yes—and I will, too.”

  “Good. I wonder who was supposed to buy it here, at this end?”

  “Does it have provenance now?”

  “I don’t know. The description on the Web site that lists stolen art has a photograph of it and says it’s one of a kind. I don’t think that gives it provenance, though. But I don’t think they’d need to know the name of the original thief or of the person who won the auction. Anyway, I’m not the person to answer your question. Would you like a cup of bad coffee? My newly fired employees were supposed to brew a fresh batch but didn’t.”

  “Yes, thanks. Black.”

  Mike, reviewing his notes, said, “So the art institute won’t confirm it’s what you say it is, but on the other hand, they won’t let us take it for evidence.”

  Betsy, heading for the back of the shop where the coffee urn waited, said over her shoulder, “I don’t doubt that, Mike. It’s more than two thousand years old and it will give people new ways to think about the history of silk in China.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure some people will find that useful,” he muttered, as one whose job is not the study of Chinese silk but the capture of criminals. Betsy heard him and laughed.

  When she came back with a delicate porcelain cup of coffee, she found him shuffling through a thin stack of papers.

  “Oh, that’s the printout of what I found on the institute’s computer.” She put his coffee down near his left elbow and pointed to a fuzzy, black-and-white photograph on the top sheet. “That’s the silk,” she said. “They don’t have a color printer for visitors, so it’s not very useful. But on the next page is a detail photo that’s pretty good. The two pages after that are the article that will tell you about the silk and the tomb and all. Everything beneath that is the rest of the stolen art listing—I didn’t know how to prevent the printer from spitting out the entire thing.”

  Mike said, “May I have these?”

  “Sure.”

  He set them aside and took a sip of coffee, nodding his approval, which told Betsy something about police department coffee. He asked, “Do you think those smugglers knew what they had a hold of?”

  “I think so—at least they knew they had something very rare and valuable. Look at all the trouble they took to disguise it when they tried to sneak it into the country.”

  “There’s a difference between ‘rare and valuable’ and something as wildly rare and historic as the silk you pulled out of the wastepaper basket. I’m wondering who knew what it was. Did Wendy Applegate? Did Oscar Fitzwilliam? Maybe only the person who arranged for it to come over and the ultimate buyer knew, everyone else was satisfied to get a few thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t know about that, Mike. Look how desperate Wendy was to get it back. Driving to St. Peter in a blizzard, bringing a gun with her—she doesn’t seem the type when you look at her background.”

  “That’s true. She must have been fantastically anxious to get hold of it. I wonder who set this up.”

  “You don’t think she did, in conjunction with Mr. Corvis?”

  “No, I don’t.” He sat back and took another sip of his coffee. “Let me tell you something. Smuggling on this level isn’t like bringing back some marijuana from Mexico or a little cocaine from the Bahamas. It takes high-level organization and some serious connections. Doris Valentine seems to be innocent, from her behavior since this mess started. I think she was deliberately aimed at this Corvis fellow, possibly by a tour guide or maybe someone at her hotel, and she stupidly agreed to do him a favor. Who set that up, I don’t know. But those three ladies who went to Thailand a few years back—that’s different. I think it’s significant that Wendy Applegate had been to Asia before. And that she had some connections with Asian people in the silk business. I think she’s the one who is the link between Corvis and Fitzwilliam’s Antiques. Maybe even between Corvis and the ultimate buyer, as you call him. So I don’t think we’re talking about a nice St. Paul socialite here. Not at all. What we need to know is the rest of the organization. Wendy is dead, so who killed Lena Olson?”

  “Could it be the ultimate buyer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What kind of person would he be?”

  “What am I, a profiler?” Nevertheless he thought a few moments and said, “Okay, he’ll be someone sane on the outside but crazy on the inside. He’s got the same kind of glitch in his brain as those people who are found with two hundred cats in their homes. They call them ‘collectors.’ But the kind we’re talking about will take some dangerous chances to get hold of whatever it is they’re obsessed about. They can be secretive about their collection; they’d buy the Mona Lisa and hide it in a storage locker or safe deposit box and visit it at night, and never tell anyone they had it. They aren’t usually organized enough to run a smuggling operation, so I think our murderer is more likely to be a smuggler than a collector.”

  “Could they be the same person?”

  “Well . . . there are some slick collectors, I guess.”

  Betsy said, “Okay, who? Who do you think we’re talking about?”

  “I have no idea,” Mike said.

  Twenty

  BETSY was in the process of closing shop. Sophie was already at the back door, calling in her high-pitched voice for Betsy to hurry. It was time to go upstairs and give the cat her dinner.

  The phone rang. Betsy sighed, but answered it cordially, “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?”

  “Betsy, it’s Carmen Diamond.” Her voice was frightened.

  “Oh God.” Betsy closed her eyes for a second. “Is it Doris? Is she all right?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s fine, but she’s packing up to leave. Phil is going to take her away, and he’s making a big secret about where they’re going. I tried to talk them out of leaving, but they won’t listen.”

  “May I speak with her?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. Hold on.”

  After about a minute Doris’s voice said, “Hello, Betsy.” Her tone didn’t seem quite as flat as usual.

  “How are you? Are you feeling better? You sound better.”

  “Yes. I look like a combat veteran, but I feel all right.”

  “What a terrible experience that must have been for you!”

  “You know something? I think I’m getting used to it. Getting shot at seems to be my newest sport, and so far I’m not too bad at it.”

  It was a black jest, but Betsy rejoiced at this evidence of resilience. She forced a little laugh and said, “Doris, you are about the bravest person I know!”

  “I don’t feel brave, but thank you.”

  “So where is Phil taking you?”

  “I don’t know, he won’t say.”

  “Not even to you?”

  “He says he doesn’t want me to hint where it is to anyone, even accidentally.”

  “You must know I think this is a very bad idea. Can I talk to him?”

  “When he heard it was you calling, he said to say he’s sorry, but talking to him won’t do any good. He said I could talk all I wanted because this is why he won’t tell me where we’re going. And you know, since nobody seems to know who’s doing this, I think it’s not that bad an idea to just disappear.”

  “Well, if he won’t talk to me, I guess I have to lean hard on you. Doris, I think this is a terrible idea. I really, really, really think so. Please, tell Phil you won’t go with him!”

  “No.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “P
ositive.”

  Betsy sighed. One-word answers meant a mind made up.

  “All right, but once this is cleared up, you will find a bright new place to move into—at your old address.”

  “You mean my old apartment?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “No, I’m not ever coming back there. I’m going to get another apartment.”

  “Oh please, don’t move out on me, Doris!”

  “I already have. My rent’s paid to the end of the month and I’ll give you another month’s rent in lieu of thirty days’ notice. Betsy, that apartment gives me nightmares.”

  “But I’m going to hollow it out—both apartments—and make them like totally different places, everything new. I’m calling the contractor tomorrow, and I’ll get him started as soon as possible.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line.

  “Doris?”

  She burst out, “Why are you doing this? It costs money to remodel!”

  “Well, I can afford it. Plus they’re due. Those two apartments haven’t been seriously done over since Coolidge was president. You can only push ‘retro’ so far.”

  That didn’t bring the laugh Betsy was hoping for. Instead, Doris said, “I’m sorry, I can’t see how it will make any difference. I’ll still know what happened there. And what it led to.”

  “All right, all right, I can understand that. But will you agree to not sign a lease anywhere else until you see what I’ve had done here? You’ve been a great tenant, and I’d hate to lose you.”

  “I think it’s good of you to do this, I really do. And all right, I’ll come and look at the result. But I can’t promise to stay.”

  “And I don’t want you to make a promise you may find you can’t keep. The apartments need remodeling in any case, and you’ve provided the push I needed to get started. Now, may I ask you some questions before you go?”

  Doris breathed a why-should-you-be-any-different sigh. “Sure, ask away.”

  “Did either Lena or Wendy suggest you go to that silk factory outside of Bangkok?”

  “No, how could they? I’ve never talked to either one of them, all I know about them is what Carmen told me.”