The Thai Amulet

Chapter 1

It is possible I am responsible for someone’s death. I don’t mean that the corpse found floating in the Chao Phyra River died by my hand. There were others all too willing and eager to do the deed. But sometimes, at the darkest part of night, when the world is so quiet it’s impossible to still the demons of fear and guilt, I wonder if what happened was justified, even were all evidence of culpability laid out for everyone to see.

Looking back on it, I search for explanations for what I did and what I said, the point at which I lost all objectivity, where survival instincts took a backseat to revenge.

Mai pen rai, in Thai, means “It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter.” It’s an exotic and more cynical version of “Don’t worry, be happy,” a kind of collective shrug at the vagaries of life. Its spirit carries the average Thai through the average day of frustrations, setbacks, irritations, and even pleasures. But when William Beauchamp locked the door of his antique shop on the second floor of a building off Bangkok’s Silom Road for the last time and then quietly disappeared off the face of the planet, I found that mat pen rat could be a thin yet almost impenetrable veneer over a seething mass of corruption, evil, and even murder. Mai pen rat means “It doesn’t matter.” The trouble was, it mattered for Natalie Beau-champ, and for me, perhaps, it mattered too much.

My transformation from antique dealer to murderer’s accomplice, willing or otherwise, began, as I suppose so many things do, in the mundane, if not downright banal, tasks of a perfectly ordinary day.

“Have you ever wondered what happens to some people when they go to the Orient?” Clive Swain said that day, standing back to admire the display of Mexican patio furniture he’d just arranged. “Is it the heat? I mean you’re there at least twice a year, Lara, and you come back more or less the same person. Tired and a little grumpy, maybe, but essentially unchanged.”

“Is this relevant to something we’re doing at this moment, Clive?” I said, sorting through invoices at the counter. “In fact, is it apropos of anything at all?”

“You remember Will Beauchamp, don’t you?” he said.

“Of course I do,” I said.

“Well, he’s disappeared!”

“I see,” I said. “Fellow antique dealer goes to Asia on a buying trip and sends a fax—a fax!—to his wife and child saying he’s never coming back, and we call that disappeared, do we?” I closed the cash drawer with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.

“Ancient history,” Clive said. “Two years at least. Now he’s really disappeared. Poof, gone. You know, mail piling up behind the door, green slime in the refrigerator. That kind of disappeared. He’s vanished.” As he spoke, I caught sight of a streak of orange hurtling toward me and felt a familiar paw swatting my ankle.

“Speaking of vanished,” I said, eyeing a strategically placed mirror in one corner of the shop, “you had better go and see what in the back room has got Diesel agitated. I believe vanished is what is about to happen to one of our little jade Buddhas in the alcove. Young woman in yellow blouse,” I added.

“Well, she didn’t get the Buddha,” Clive said a few minutes later, as Diesel, McClintoch Swain’s Official Guard Cat, stood in the doorway growling at the retreating back of the would-be thief. “Nor anything else, I hope. Really, Lara, sometimes I think we should just move a table out to the street with a sign saying Free Stuff, Please Help Yourself. It would save us a lot of trouble, and we could just retire. Broke, of course. Nice work, by the way, Diesel,” he said, tickling the cat’s chin. “You will have your reward as soon as I get to the deli. Shrimp, I’m thinking. No—Black Forest ham! How about that?” The cat purred.

“I’m sure that’s not good for him, Clive,” I said. Both cat and ex-husband cocked their heads and looked at me. It surprised me that, given how long I’d known both of them, I’d never noticed until that moment how alike their expressions were nor how they both managed to avoid doing what I wanted them to.

“She’s getting to be an old prune in her dotage, isn’t she, Deez?” Clive said, stroking the cat. “We’ll ignore her. But anyway, to get back to Will, apparently he hasn’t been seen or heard from in months.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Didn’t we just get a postcard from him? It was from Thailand, wasn’t it? The one where he was promoting his merchandise, which he seemed positive we would want?

“The postcard you threw in the garbage all the while exclaiming, ”Over my dead body,“ or words to that effect, you mean?”

“It is true,” I said, “that there are few things that irk me as much as deadbeat dads who decamp for foreign parts leaving their families virtually destitute. But yes, that postcard.”

“You never know what happens in other people’s marriages,” he said. “Take ours, for example.”

“Let’s not,” I said.

“Let’s not what?”

“Take our marriage, for example.”

“Oh. Quite right. Water under the bridge and all that. So to get back to Beauchamp—”

“Do we have to? I can’t say I much cared for the guy even before that fax business.”

“Yes, we have to. I have it somewhere,” he said, moving back into the little office behind the counter and rummaging about.

“What?” I said.

“The postcard, of course.”

“You took it out of the trash?” I said incredulously.

“I thought you might reconsider,” he said. “Those buying trips of yours are expensive, and they’re hard work, and frankly, Will really knows, or maybe it’s knew, I suppose— horrible thought, that—his stuff. Here it is!” he exclaimed. He peered at it intently. “The postmark is hard to make out, but I think it’s almost a year ago.”

“Time flies,” I said.

“This may be the last anyone ever heard of him.”

“Oh come on!”

“Three or four months, anyway. He probably got into bad company,” Clive went on. “You know, in that red-light district, the Ping Pong, or whatever it’s called.”

“It’s Pat Pong, Clive, as you very well know,” I said.

“You’re not going to bring up that little episode again, are you, Lara?” he said in an aggrieved tone. “After all, we’ve been divorced for almost five years now; we’re both in nice relationships with other people. At least I am. You and Rob are happy together, aren’t you, even if he’s a policeman? Furthermore, you and I make very good business partners, much better than when we were married. Anyway, it’s hardly the time for recriminations when poor old Will may be lying in a shallow grave, or rotting in an alley far from home, or something equally awful. Maybe he’s a prisoner of some drug lord.”

“Good grief, Clive,” I said. “All I said was ‘Pat Pong, as you very well know.” As for William Beauchamp, he’s probably hiding because Natalie Beauchamp’s lawyers finally tracked him down.“

“I don’t know. You are going to be in Thailand soon,” he said, stroking his mustache and using that wheedling tone I remembered so well from our married years.

“So what?” I said. Neither the tone nor the gesture worked for him anymore, at least not where I was concerned.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to make inquiries. I mean, think of the poor woman. She’s distraught, even if he did rather leave her in the lurch.”

“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

“You could just talk to her,” he said.

“Who?”

“Natalie.”

“Clive!”

“I suppose I did mention to her that you would be in Thailand.”

“Have you forgotten that the Thai portion of this trip is the holiday part? That I plan to spend it with Jennifer and her boyfriend, whom I haven’t seen in two months?”

“Right. Jennifer. I forgot you were doing the wicked stepmother thing. What’s the boyfriend’s name again?”

“Chat. And I’m not her stepmother, wicked or otherwise.”

“Close enough, I’d say. You and Rob really should get a place together. Relationships have to progress, you know, or they stagnate. What kind of a name is Chat, anyway? No wonder I can’t remember it.”

“It’s Thai. And I can’t believe that you’re lecturing me on relationships.” The fact that Rob had asked me several times to get a place with him, and I had so far resisted, was something Clive didn’t need to know.

“Thai, is it? I didn’t know that. Well, I suppose it’s no worse than Clive, when you get right down to it. Does he have a last name?

“Chaiwong,” I said. “We’re staying with his family, actually.”

“Chaiwong,” he said. “What does her father think about his daughter dating a guy named Chat Chaiwong?”

“Clive, you really are too awful. He said he thought Chat was a nice enough young man.”

“Hardly a ringing endorsement, is it?”

“Actually where Rob and his daughter’s boyfriends are concerned, it is. It’s positively glowing, in fact.”

“And what does the wicked stepmother think about him?”

“He seems very pleasant, and Jen likes him. Apparently he comes from a good family, to use that rather old-fashioned expression. He’s a very responsible young man. He’s a graduate student at UCLA, which is where Jen met him. Public administration. He wants to go back to Thailand and work in public service—get into politics maybe.”

“He sounds like a barrel of laughs. At least he’s smart, from the sound of it, just like Jennifer. Now here’s an idea. Maybe they could both help you with your enquiries. It would be good for them. Give them a chance to meet the natives, as it were. Good for him if he wants to get into politics. Get to know his future constituents, that sort of thing.”

“They’ve been backpacking through southeast Asia for two months. I’m sure they’ve met lots of natives, to use your vile and totally inappropriate expression.”

“Whatever. I know how strongly you feel about the way Will just dumped his wife and kid, though. They must be in terrible straits—economically, emotionally. I would have thought you would want to help her track him down.”

“Don’t try to guilt me into this. It won’t work.”

“I don’t understand you, Lara. You’re always flailing about helping people you barely know. Why not lend a hand to someone you do?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know Natalie from Adam.”

“You know all about her, even if you haven’t met her in person, which, incidentally, is a deficiency that will be rectified almost immediately. She’ll be at the Gala tonight.”

“The Gala? You’re talking about the Canadian Antique Dealers Association opening night Gala here, are you? The tickets are almost two hundred dollars each. She can’t be in as bad economic straits as you’re implying.”

“You’re starting to contradict yourself, Lara. Which side are you on? I mean, did he leave her destitute, or didn’t he? Anyway, she’s going as staff.”

“You’ve contradicted yourself a few times during this conversation, Clive,” I said. “You know, the stuff about you never know what happens in a marriage, etc. Whose staff?”

“Ours.”

“Clive!” I exclaimed again. “I suppose she’s attractive, is she?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” he said.

“For you it always has something to do with it.” I sighed.

“She is rather a looker,” he said. “But that—”

“Hello, darlings,” Moira Meller said, coming through the door and putting her arms around our shoulders. Moira is my best friend and Clive’s life partner.

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.”

“Then how do you know he’s been missing for months?”

“I suppose I don’t exactly. My lawyer told me he sent off a document to Will for signature at least three months ago, and didn’t get the papers back. So he tried again, this time by courier. The courier tried for several days to deliver it and eventually sent it back as undeliverable. Steven—that’s my lawyer—thought Will was just avoiding us; we were asking for a reasonably substantial settlement, and so he didn’t think anything much of it.

“He remembered he had an old chum from law school living in Bangkok, so he asked him to send someone over to see what they could find. The friend reported back that the shop was dark, there was mail piled up behind the glass door, and according to the shopkeepers in the vicinity, it had been for many weeks. None could remember having seen Will for some time, at least that’s what they told Steven’s friend. They could be covering for William, I suppose, but why would they? The chum tried the home address, too, and didn’t get an answer there either. The woman next door—maybe she was Ms. Praneet—said she couldn’t recall when she had last seen William, but it had been some time.

“Then this package arrived. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I did call the office that’s listed in that lawyer’s letter about the auction to see if it was for real. I couldn’t make out the signature, but eventually I got to talk to someone. All he did was repeat what was in the letter—at least I think that’s what he said. It’s hard to do these things over the telephone when you don’t speak the language. I mean, when you’re there, in person, you can kind of wave your arms around and get yourself understood eventually. I didn’t find him at all helpful, but maybe it was just a misunderstanding. I was able to ascertain, though, that the rent hadn’t been paid in three months before they sent the letter, and as you can see, it’s dated almost a month ago.”

“Was the letter still sealed when you got it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s what made me realize something might have happened to Will, that this wasn’t just some horrible prank.”

“Have you made official enquiries?” I said. “The police? The Canadian Embassy?”

“I called the U.S. Consulate here in Toronto. Will’s an American, and although he lived here for twenty years, he never took out citizenship. One of the consular officers said they would send something off to Bangkok, but I haven’t heard anything since.”

We both sat looking at the pathetic pile of Will’s stuff for a minute or two. “This really is all that came in the bubble envelope?” I asked.

“There was a letter from my lawyer about the divorce postdated over three months ago. I didn’t think I needed to bring that. It was unopened, too, by the way. Will never saw it. I don’t think you answered my original question,” she said. “Do you think Will is dead?”

“I don’t know,” I said vaguely. What I wanted to say was that I thought that Will had simply chosen to disappear again. After all, the package might contain some strange things, but it was what wasn’t in it that struck me. Things like a passport, a driver’s license, credit cards, the kinds of items that would make you think he was dead if they were there, but the absence of which just made you think he’d made a run for it. I kept these thoughts to myself. To voice them seemed unkind.

“There is life insurance,” she said. “He never changed the beneficiary, so I’m it. And he seems to have kept up the payments, at least until four months ago. It isn’t a huge amount, but it would certainly help a great deal. The point is, for me to get it, he has to be dead. Really dead, with some kind of certificate that says so. I know in cases where people disappear, the death certificate is eventually issued, but it’s something like seven years, and I can’t wait that long. So either I find him alive and see what we can work out, or I prove him dead and collect the insurance. I’m sure that sounds callous, but I’m not in a position to be anything else.

“You asked me if this is all that was in the package. I suppose I should tell you there was one more letter.” She hesitated. “It’s for me. I don’t really want to show it to anyone. It seems so personal. But it’s the one that really made me think something awful has happened, although it doesn’t actually say so, not in so many words.”

The letter was well handled, the fold almost transparent, and some of the ink was smudged.

“Dear Natalie,” it said.

“I’m sorry. I know how inadequate this is, but if you get this, then probably it is all I will ever be able to say. Tell Caitlin I love her. I have always loved both my girls, no matter what it looked like.”

It was signed simply W.

I handed it back to her and watched as she carefully tucked it back in her purse. “I know this is an imposition,” she said. “But would you consider making a couple of phone calls or something when you’re there?”