She shrugged. “He went to Southeast Asia at least once a year.”
“And that’s where I find his notes confusing.”
“Why?”
“Because he starts abbreviating things and writing rather obscure comments. That’s what I thought you might be able to decipher, since he’d talked with you about the head. Just here, you see?” I pointed to the third and last page of the notes, where he’d written “Radha,” then “Sr,” then “Cambodian,” “Radha,” and “Krishna!!!” and a few other comments that didn’t seem particularly revealing, but that I assumed held the key to what he’d thought.
She took some time looking at the paper, picking it up, studying it. “No, sorry. Doesn’t make any sense to me either. What do you think ‘Sr’ might mean?”
“Probably Siem Reap. That’s where the museum is that has the original. Assuming his was a copy.”
“Well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it, if they have the original in the museum.”
“Oh, I guess I didn’t say that the head of the sculpture in the museum had been stolen.” I didn’t think I had to explain that the original sculpture included two figures and that only one head was stolen. “We’re trying to figure out if this is the stolen head or a copy of the stolen head—a fake, like your father suspected.”
She shrugged again. “I have to admit that after the first couple of times he ranted about the head, I tuned out what he was saying. I think I told you that he wasn’t easy.”
“Yes, you did.” I lifted my mug, then put it back down before I made the mistake of drinking.
“You know how fathers are. But maybe yours isn’t like that.” She watched me expectantly.
I took a breath, thinking about my parents and how I’d left them last night. Had I endangered them? Had Grey, or whoever it had been, gone back after I lost him on the drive down the hillside? Had he gone back and waited? I shook off the foolish thought. Whoever had broken into my car wasn’t interested in my parents. At least that’s what I wanted to think.
“You look like you’ve had challenges with your father, too.” she said, interpreting my pause.
“My father has a drinking problem. But he doesn’t get angry or violent, so I’ve never had to deal with that. He doesn’t rant. Well, not in the same way your father did. He gets—” I searched for the words. “Morose. Emotional. Not pleasant, but not threatening. I suppose my fear as a child was that he would disappear.”
“Disappear?”
“Yes, leave us—or kill himself.”
“How disturbing. Well, when my father got into his rants, I just wanted to leave, and usually I did.” She poked her finger at the page. “So I have no idea what he intended here.”
“Would your brother know, do you think?”
She laughed. “My brother was worse than me. He stopped listening to him the first time that he started up about the head. Told him if he was going to waste his money on art, he should expect to get burned. Who did he think he was, to be able to invest in something he knew so little about? Russian roulette, my brother said. Sooner or later you’re going to get shot. So my father didn’t bring it up with him anymore. Just with me.”
“Oh, dear. I guess the more he talked with you about it, the more riled up he became.” I understood. I understood her father, possibly too well.
“Yes, I don’t think my brother was so happy he’d said that when my father was murdered.”
“I expect not.”
“At least he wasn’t shot. If he’d been shot, my brother would have felt very guilty.”
I didn’t respond to that. I didn’t want her thinking about the head that had lain at her feet. Though she did seem in better shape than when we’d met at her father’s house. “Well, thank you for looking at the notes. Do you want to keep them?”
“Not really.” She had a faraway look in her eyes. I had the sense that she was seeing that head again.
“I thought that you might want to give them to the police. Just in case the sculpture had anything to do with his murder.”
“The sculpture?” Her voice had become shriller. “I don’t know what that could have to do with his murder. It was just a fluke, a burglar, and my father happened to interrupt him.”
“You’re probably right.” I tried to imagine a burglar carrying a sword or a machete, something sharp enough to cut off someone’s head in a single swipe. Of course, that was an assumption on my part, that it took a single swipe. It wasn’t a question that I could ask her. And it was also an assumption that the killer had brought the murder weapon with him. There was so much I didn’t know.
“If it did have anything to do with it, which I doubt, I would suggest you let it lie.” She sounded like my mother. Looking at me, she gathered the papers up and held them against her chest, as if I might try to wrest them from her. “I’ll keep them.”
“Of course.” To reassure her, I lied, “I’m just trying to figure out whether this sculpture of Radha is the original or a fake, not who murdered your father. How could I possibly do that?”
She didn’t look convinced, and it made me realize that I couldn’t tell anyone about the car that followed me when I left my parents’ house. I could tell about the broken window, the stolen books, but not their connection to the head. If Peggy, who didn’t know me, wasn’t convinced about my intentions, how would my friends react, knowing my impulses as they did?
As we walked toward the door, she was still clinging to her father’s notes. I was glad I’d made a copy before coming to see her. She watched me walk down the rose-lined path and didn’t go in when I climbed into my car and waved. I waited a moment before I turned the key in the ignition, thinking about finding the murderer. He’d invaded my space by breaking into my car, and I’d catch the bastard.
9
The last few days before the opening of the porcelain exhibition, I scurried from one task to another. No need to ride my bike to get exercise. And no desire to ride my bike, as the fall rains had arrived with a vengeance. At least here in the gallery, installing the bowls, plates, and ewers, I was able to stand still for a few moments.
“Relax,” Rag, the head preparator, said.
“Can’t, not even at the best of times.” But I tried. I uncrossed my arms and allowed my hands to dangle, my fingers like drooping leaves rather than knotted rope. But I couldn’t stop my eyes from swiveling around the room, making sure all was okay.
I spotted some masking tape where wall met ceiling and grabbed a ladder.
“What are you doing?” Rag asked.
“Masking tape.”
“We’ll get that.”