Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  Joe bowed his head.

  Mike asked, “How did you learn there was a very valuable piece of embroidered Chinese silk for sale, anyhow?”

  “From a man named David Corvis. I’m not sure how he got hold of it—he always played his cards close to his vest, which of course was intelligent of him. Though it didn’t save his life, did it? He’s the one who got me my first illicit artifact, a five-thousand-year-old bronze bowl taken from a tomb in the Halil Rud valley in Kerman Province in Iran. I think it came through England—I know there was a court case about a large group of objects taken from that tomb. Then there was a temple bell from Burma—Myanmar, I beg your pardon. My favorite was a broken pot half filled with Roman coins found in a field in Normandy, broken by a farmer’s plow. That didn’t come from David, but from another source, currently watching the years slip by from inside a French prison. That was the queen of my collection, that pot of coins, though the silk would have dethroned it. Some of the coins in it are brilliant uncirculated—from the reign of Caesar Augustus, isn’t that amazing?”

  “Amazing,” said Mike. “But then came the chance to acquire this piece of embroidered silk, and you wanted it.”

  “More than anything.” Again there was pain and regret in Joe’s voice. “More than anything. I almost had it. But I didn’t even get to see it, much less hold it in my own hands!” He lifted them as if to demonstrate. “I wish I could make you understand how envious I am of Betsy Devonshire!”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  Betsy got up and walked out of the office.

  “Acquisition fit,” she muttered to herself, as she walked toward the lobby. She had experienced them—and she catered to a clientele frequently afflicted with them. “Gotta have it”—that was their motto. They’d see a spectacular canvas or the silk lamé braid from Rainbow Gallery—sixteen colors!—and just have to have it, all of it. Betsy knew it wasn’t the nicest trait to have, but she had appreciated it in her customers. She hadn’t really understood how ugly it could be until Joe Brown. So a few people had to die so he could run his fingers over a really old piece of embroidery, that was fine with him. He wanted it, to gloat over, to possess. In his mind, any price was worth paying to satisfy that desire.

  But he didn’t possess these things. They possessed him. There was a man in town, an infamous miser also named Joe: Joe Mickels. The two were alike in their need to possess things—although Mickels did not, would not, murder to amass more money. Brown would—he had murdered—to acquire an addition to his store of ancient, valuable, and unique things.

  The root of all evil was not money, but the love of money. The love of things, putting that love above all else, had led to a series of horrific crimes. Betsy pushed her fingers through her hair. She had liked Joe. He was charming and amusing, intelligent and successful. But there was a big hole somewhere in his soul. A hole he tried to stuff full of things.

  Was it something that could have been fixed when he was younger? Or was it an innate lack?

  Betsy came into the lobby and saw Phil and Doris sitting side by side on a wooden bench under a window. They saw her come in and smiled at her, so she went over to say hello.

  “This is taking a long time, isn’t it?” she said. “Are they making you wait?”

  “Yes,” said Phil. “Mike’s partner, Sergeant Windemere, is having our statements typed up. Once we sign them, we can go home.”

  “This is so awful, I’m sorry it had to happen.”

  Doris said, “It’s all right, really. We’re fine. And it’s over, we don’t have to stay in hiding anymore.”

  Betsy looked at Doris and realized that in fact she was all right. That flat, distant look she had carried about these past two weeks was almost gone. Betsy smiled, “You do look much better. I would have thought you’d be ready for a hospital room by now, after all that’s happened.”

  “It was the steam,” said Doris. “He was coming toward us, I knew he was going to shoot us—starting with you—and I just had had enough. I wasn’t going to allow that. Lars had shown us the starting up process, naming the valves and gauges, explaining how everything worked. Well, of course it wasn’t exactly like the boilers I’ve tended, but on the other hand, it was steam, and I know steam. I’ve seen what happens when you open a valve at a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure. There was over five hundred pounds of pressure in that Stanley boiler, and I thought it might be at least a distraction if I released it.” She laughed softly. “Well, I should say! The result was even better than I had hoped.” Smiling she added, “And then I pulled the wire that blows the whistle—just to mix things up a little bit more.”

  Phil laughed, too. “Clear the track! The four forty express, comin’ through!” He put his arm around her. “I’m the locomotive engineer, and I’m standing there like a pillar of salt. She’s running the show! I’m going to give her my engineer’s cap! It was my most prized possession—until I met her! Doris Valentine, the finest steam driver in the state of Minnesota!”

  “Well, I should say!” echoed Betsy, rejoicing with the two of them. “Blessings on you, Doris! Blessings on us all!”

  Author’s Note

  There really is a piece of Han Dynasty silk over 2,000 years old. Embroidered with a pattern of birds and other animals, it was found in the well-sealed tomb of a woman whose name was Xiu. (The pattern of a Phoenix at the back of this novel is an excellent representation of the bird.) But the silk made its way to a Chinese museum in Hubei where, as far as I know, it rests to this day. (On the other hand, the theft of priceless artifacts is a real and serious problem around the world.)