The Thai Amulet

Chapter 5

Peace in Ayutthaya came to an end the year that I reached the age of the ceremonial cutting of the topknot, that is, thirteen years of age, and was forced to move from the inner palace. The king generously saw to it that I had a position as a page in the outer court. Nonetheless, it was a wrenching time for me and for my mother who stayed on to care for Si Sin, only three at the time. I craved the prestige of being a part of the life of the inner palace, hated my life as a servant, and missed Yot Fa greatly. I believe it is fair to say, no matter how self-serving it may sound, that he missed me as well. We found ways to meet outside the palace, using my mother as messenger, and made secret excursions to the elephant kraal, or even more exciting, down to the harbor where ships from faraway lands berth, bringing with them exotic goods from afar. We loved to watch the rice barges ply the three rivers that embrace our good city, and to visit the bustling markets in the port.

While my unhappiness with my personal situation consumed me, there were much more important events taking place that would affect me more deeply, even if I did not appreciate that at the time. It had become apparent that the Burmese regarded their defeat by our King Chairacha as a temporary setback only and were consolidating their power through the amalgamation of Pegu and Toungoo.

If that were not enough, the kingdom of Lan Na to the north was disintegrating, and the king’s advisors told him that it was only a matter of time before Lan Na fell to the evil Shans, or even, perhaps to Lan Sang. Neither alternative was good for the fortunes of Ayutthaya.

Thus, only seven years after he had routed the Burmese, and when Yot Fa was nine years old, King Chairacha was forced once again to go to war. I was old enough for military service, but Yot Fa was not to be separated from me and begged his father to leave me at home, a request the king granted.

At the head of a huge army, the king moved aggressively northward, planning to take Chiang Mai. That city, however, was not to fall, and our king, while he had inflicted heavy losses on our enemy, was forced to retreat back to Ayutthaya.

Other problems plagued our kingdom, the worst being a terrible fire that swept through the city. It took many days to extinguish the flames, and in the end, over a hundred thousand buildings were destroyed.

Even then, the news had only grown worse. Setthathirat, king of Lan Na, whose ambitions for power and land could only be at the expense of Ayutthaya, was mustering his forces with hostile intent, and reinforcements from Lan Sang were moving to join him.

King Chairacha, still exhausted, and perhaps demoralized by his inability to take Chiang Mai, although he certainly gave no such indication to Yot Fa, who I am sure would have told me, once again led an army north. At first the news was good. Our army took Lamphun and then advanced again on Chiang Mai.

In the royal palace, life went on much as before. Lady Si Sudachan continued to live her selfish life as a royal favorite, and Yot Fa and I entertained ourselves while we waited for what we were certain would be news of a great victory.

It was then, I am told, a terrible event occurred. When our armies came to Chiang Mai, blood was seen to fall on the doors of all the buildings, even the monasteries, in the city and the villages beyond. It was the most evil of omens, and the king left Chiang Mai immediately to begin the long march back to Ayutthaya.

As unfortunate as this outcome was, when we heard the news that the king and the army were retreating, we thought that the king would simply make another, surely successful, attempt when the weather permitted. This was, the young prince and I decided, a temporary setback. We were wrong.

Now that I had what I suppose one could call a lead in the search for Will Beauchamp, no matter how bizarre, I found my home base of Ayutthaya rather restricting. It meant at least three hours in the car every day traveling between there and Bangkok, and it didn’t allow me any time in the evening to hang out at Will’s apartment building waiting for the elusive Mrs. Praneet “live beside.”

Still, as much as I felt I would rather stay in Bangkok, I couldn’t think of a polite reason for moving, other than the pressure of work, which was, in a way, true. I wasn’t going to find Will Beauchamp lolling about in the lap of luxury in Ayutthaya.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about excuses. At dinner that evening, Wongvipa took me aside for a moment or two. “I’ve checked into William Beauchamp,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “The only information in the file is his home address, which I have written down here, and the name of his bank. Perhaps they could help in some way. I’m sorry there isn’t anything more.”

“It’s very good of you to do this,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I simply asked Yutai to look into it. And now I have some other news. Unfortunately, there is a rather persistent problem with my husband’s business, and we are all going to Chiang Mai tomorrow so that he can deal with it. We would be delighted if you would accompany us. We have a summer home there, and there is room for both you and Jennifer. I have already spoken to Jennifer—I hope you don’t mind—and she said she would like to come. I hope you will, too. My husband will be working, of course, but Chat and I could show you around Chiang Mai.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said. “I will decline your lovely invitation. I have work to do in Bangkok, for the shop, and I think I really must get to it.”

“You can stay here, then,” she said. Once again, I said no. “Then you must allow us to make arrangements for you in Bangkok. You are our guest, and I must insist.”

The next morning, after a quick good-bye to Jennifer, who seemed most unhappy about my decamping and leaving her alone with the family, and during which she exacted a promise that I would call her every day, the Chaiwongs’ chauffeur whisked me and my luggage into Bangkok. I regretted leaving them more than I thought I would, not just because I would miss Jennifer, but because I had come to see there was much to admire in Wongvipa, and I had begun to feel more at home in Ayutthaya.

The family had rather generously booked me into the Regent Hotel—the same one I’d found so simpatico the day before—and at their expense, too. I was not entirely comfortable with this, but given I had made no other arrangements, I checked in. The hotel was the public equivalent of the Chaiwong family home. My room was smaller, of course, but tastefully appointed, with a nice view over a beautiful swimming pool.

I still had the sword with me, something I wasn’t too happy about, even if I didn’t believe for a moment the tale Tatiana had told me. It was difficult to carry, I certainly wasn’t going to be allowed to take it onto any aircraft, and frankly, it gave me the creeps. I was certain, from her description of the party, that Will had told Tatiana about the sword as part of an attempted seduction. He’d been drinking quite a bit, according to Tatiana, and Ferguson had said he liked to party. Having heard she was a would-be film producer, the temptation to tell her about his book must have proved too much, even if he had refused to tell casual friends like David Ferguson. A few more drinks, an embellishment or two on the story, and he probably figured she was his.

Still, the Helen Ford angle was an interesting one, if he really was writing a book about it. I suppose people have been killed to stop publication of books, although legal injunctions against publication are so much more civilized than murder. It was worth an hour or two of my time, I decided. I left a message for David Ferguson about my change of address, and another, a voice mail, for Tatiana Tucker at the travel agency, telling her where I could be reached and reminding her that I would be very interested in reading the first chapter of Will’s book—in order to convince my customer to lend the sword to the production, of course. I also, as promised, told her that my companion at the auction was single and interested in meeting her. Then I was off on the trail of Will Beauchamp, and if that helped, and I wasn’t sure it would, Helen Ford.

Will Beauchamp’s agent worked out of a small office near Siam Square shopping plaza. Bent Rowland, Talent Scout, Investment Advisor, and Literary Agent, the sign on the door said. A man of many talents was our Mr. Rowland. Finding him had not been as difficult as I feared, and once I’d mentioned Will’s name, I had no trouble getting an appointment; which is to say, I lied and said Will had suggested I give him a call.

“Yes, I represent William Beauchamp,” Rowland said, patting his hair. He was one of those men who try to cover up baldness by growing their hair long on one side and combing it over the bare patch. “I’m shopping his book around right now, as a matter of fact.” He had stuffed a half-eaten hamburger into his desk when I walked in, and the room smelled of French fries.

“Have you been in regular contact with Will?” I said.

“Of course,” he said, making a feeble attempt to straighten up the chaos that was his desk. “I check from time to time to see how the manuscript is coming along.”

“So have you seen him lately?” I said. “I’ve tried to reach him a couple of times without success. I was hoping to see him while I’m here.”

“I believe the last time we were in direct contact was a party at his place on July fourth. The book was almost finished then, and I had hoped to hear from him by now, but the muse works in strange and wonderful ways. But of course,” he added. “You know that.”

“I do?” I said.

“That is why you are here, is it not? Please, don’t be shy. You don’t have to be embarrassed. Your baby is safe with me.”

“My baby?” I said. There it was, that stepmother business again. But how could he know?

“Your book,” he said, taking out a large handkerchief and mopping his brow. A window air conditioner was chugging away valiantly but was clearly not up to the task. The air in the room was warm and stale. “I am very busy. So many authors, so little time. But I do promise to give it my undivided attention. There is a fee. I’m sure Will told you.”

“I’ve forgotten how much,” I said.

“Thirty thousand baht, or, if you prefer to pay in U.S. dollars, $500 will do it, a discount for fellow countrymen. A bit steep, I know, but for that you get an expert opinion on the viability of your manuscript. I have to tell you I have a knack for this, just born with it. Nothing I can claim credit for, really, but I have made it my business to have my fingers on the pulse of the publishing industry both here in Thailand and abroad. Will’s book, for example, I will be taking to Singapore, given the subject matter. Publishers here won’t want to touch it. Their fingers might get burned. Positively incendiary! Of course I can’t tell you what it’s about.”

“Helen Ford,” I said. “Will told me all about it.”

“I told him not to talk about this to anyone,” he said, frowning. “It’s the kind of book that will arouse a fair amount of resentment in certain circles. However, what’s done is done. To get back to your book and my fees: If I accept the manuscript, I will move aggressively to find a publisher. I get thirty percent of all earnings.”

“Isn’t that a bit higher than average?” I said.

“It is,” he agreed. “But my services are worth more than average.”

“So how would this work?” I said. “I mean what did Will give you? Did he send you chapters as he went along, or—?

“Before we get to that, tell me about your book. Fiction? Nonfiction?”

Inwardly I sighed. I just wanted to get out of there, it was all so depressing. There was the odor of failure in the room, or worse, deceit, and I could not figure out why Will had signed up with this man, nor why he would ever invite him to a party. “It’s fiction, but based on a true story,” I said. “It’s about an antique dealer who comes to Bangkok and loses his moral compass, enticed by the exotic lifestyle here. He abandons his wife and disabled child, lives the good life for awhile, and then disappears,” I said, trying to watch closely for any reaction from Rowland.

“Hmmm,” he said, swiveling in his seat to look out the window. It had a rather dreary view of an alley, but he seemed transfixed by it. His face was hidden from my view. “I like it. I really do. But let’s work with your concept for a minute. I have one word for you: Fantasy. It’s hot right now. You’ll have to trust me on this. Could you set it in a more, I don’t know, mythical spot—that’s the word I’m looking for—an island, perhaps, that doesn’t appear on any map. It has to be fantasy but relevant in the broader context, if you see what I mean. Just a minute,” he said, tapping his head. “An idea is coming to me. Your man is shipwrecked on this island nobody knows about—you’d have to create this whole world, you know. He falls under the spell of the gorgeous women who inhabit the place, blah blah blah, forgets his wife and child. I don’t like the idea of the disabled child, by the way. Too sad. It distracts from the plot, unless…” He tapped his head again. “I’ve got it! The child has some special ability, a sixth sense of some kind, about where his father is, and then… I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Love it,” I said. I could see his face now only in profile, and could not tell if the man was merely an idiot or if he was lying through his teeth, as I was. I felt as if my usual instincts for such things had been dulled by the heat, that I was a stranger in a strange land without the usual moral reference points to guide me. At last he turned and smiled. “I’ll get working on it right away,” I said. “But what will you need to decide? I can’t quite recall what Will said he had to give you.”

“A few chapters and an outline will be all I require to make my decision,” he said. “That’s what I got from Will. He’d been to a few other agents, of course, but only I could see the potential. Given you haven’t been published before— you haven’t been published before, have you?”

“No.”

“Then give me whatever you have, along with a check for my fee, and I’ll have a look at it. In the meantime, think about that fantasy idea of mine.”

“I don’t suppose you could give me an idea of what an outline might look like,” I said. “Will’s maybe. I intended to ask him for a copy of it, but unfortunately, I can’t seem to reach him.”

“That would not be appropriate,” Rowland said. For a second I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes, suspicion surely, but also perhaps guile.

“Would you happen to know any of Will’s friends?” I asked. “I really would like to get in touch with him.”

“I can’t say as I do,” he said. “Now, your manuscript?

Perhaps you would let me have a quick peek at it?“

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t bring it. Too embarrassed, I’m afraid.”

“That is something you will have to overcome, with my help,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him and attempting to look sincere. He had the expression of someone trying to sell salvation on television. “I know how it is for authors, working away in solitude on their manuscripts with no one to confide in, but—”

“Speaking of solitude,” I said. “I’m finding it really hard to find the space I need to write. There are always interruptions. Will told me he had a place he went to for peace and quiet so he could write. I don’t suppose you know where that is. I could really use a little solitude.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe he mentioned it.” Well, it had been worth a try. “Now to get back to your work—”

“You’ve given me a great idea about that island and everything,” I said, interrupting him. “I’ll get right back to work and send it in to you. Could I have your mailing address?”

He handed me a greasy card and smiled at me in the most unpleasant way.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ll be hearing from me as soon as I get a few chapters done.”

I hurled myself down the stairs and out into the street as fast as I could. Even gas fumes and heat like a furnace were an improvement over the office and person of Bent Rowland. The worst of it was that I’d suffered needlessly. I now knew nothing more than I did when I went in, other than, of course, that fantasy was really hot.

I went back to the cool and the calm of the Regent and called Jennifer.

After describing the family home in Chiang Mai in glowing terms, she lowered her voice. “I’m not sure exactly what is going on here,” she whispered. “But I really wish I’d stayed in Bangkok with you. Chat won’t tell me anything, but I know it has something to do with the business, Ayutthaya Trading, I mean. Khun Thaksin, Wongvipa, and Yu-tai have been locked in Chat’s dad’s study for hours with Khun Wichai. You remember him from dinner, right? I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they do raise their voices from time to time. They’re in a snit about something. I’m thinking maybe I could just buy an airline ticket for Bangkok and come and stay with you. Is there room?”

“There’s room for a small army in my junior suite at the Regent,” I said. “It’s gorgeous, and I’d be delighted to have your company. Do you want me to arrange for the ticket?”

“No,” she replied. “I’ll see how the rest of the day goes and let you know tomorrow.”

No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again. “Hi,” David Ferguson said. “I have what may be bad news. I don’t know. At our insistence, the police had a more thorough look at Beauchamp’s apartment. They found blood, I’m afraid, in the grout in the bathtub. Whose blood, we don’t know.”

“Surely one could make some assumptions about whose blood it is: the most recent tenant in the apartment, for starters,” I said.

“Assumptions, yes. Hard evidence, no.”

“Can’t they test for DNA or something?”

“And compare it to what?”

“Oh,” I said slowly. “I see. You’d want to have some DNA from Will directly for a positive identification, and you can’t because he isn’t to be found.”

“Exactly.”

“Surely they could find a trace of it in his home—in Toronto, I mean. Mind you, now that I say that, he’s been away a long time, and it sounded to me as if Natalie, his wife, practically had the place fumigated when he left.”

“Even if we could, what would it prove?” Ferguson said. “That he bled? You know what they’re always telling us, that more accidents happen at home than anywhere else. How often does a guy cut himself shaving, after all? I seem to make a habit of it.”

“I just wish I knew whether I was looking for a live man or a dead one,” I said.

“I’d say dead,” Ferguson said. “Although I have no idea why, other than that he’s been gone so long, without anyone seeing him. If I could have found evidence that he’d left the country, then I’d say he disappeared on purpose, but we’ve heard from almost all the airlines now, and there’s no indication of that.”

“But what could have happened to him?”

“Many things, obviously. We know he went to Chiang Mai regularly. Maybe he went walking in the hills, got lost, and wandered around till he dropped. Or he had an accident, got trampled by an elephant—”

“Surely this is getting a little farfetched,” I said.

“This is not your average small town in America,” Ferguson said. “There is wildlife in the jungles, and the border with Burma isn’t always the safest place. There are drug smugglers, bandits, you name it, and the occasional skirmish between the two countries to top it off. I’m not saying this is what happened. I’m just saying that things do happen here, and not just in the jungle. Thailand has a crime rate, including violent crime, that is rather higher than one would like.”

“This all sounds so awful,” I said. “Here I’ve been cursing him as a runaway parent, and he may have been lying in pain in the jungle for days before he died.”

“I shouldn’t be scaring you like this, but I think we have to come to terms with the fact that he may well be dead. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I guess,” I said. “I’m still saying someone has to know where he went. If he went hiking in the hills, then where did he stay? He must have had a base of some kind, although, now that I say that, I realize he could have been backpacking, and just left the hotel or hostel or whatever, and never come back. No one would have been expecting him to. What a disheartening thought, that you could disappear and no one would know or care.”

“Perhaps I could change the subject to something rather happier,” Ferguson said.

“Please do,” I replied.

“I want you to come to a special party. Now that you’re staying in Bangkok, I won’t take no for an answer. I’m having a housewarming party of sorts. I suppose I should say it’s a moving in party. I’ve got myself a house—that’s a big step for me—and I have to move in the day after tomorrow. The place is still a mess, but the priest says tomorrow is the day. You may not know that there are lucky and unlucky days to move into a house. In fact, there are lucky and unlucky days for everything here. Very complex calculations are called for to determine the most auspicious day for this, even more complicated than the calculations about where to put the spirit house. You missed that particular event. It took place before you got here.”

“I’d love to come,” I said.

“You would? Really? That’s great.” He sounded surprised by my quick acceptance. “The day after tomorrow is move in day, and ready or not, that’s what I’m doing. The party will be a very casual affair, given the state of the place. If your niece—Jennifer, isn’t it?—wants to come, she’s welcome, too. My aunt and her best friend are coming all the way from Nebraska for the occasion. They’re sweet old dears. My aunt brought me up when my mother died. I think you’ll like them, although they both, my aunt especially, get a little muddled from time to time. I’m really happy they were able to get here.”

“What can I bring?” I said. “In fact, what does one bring to a moving in party in Thailand?”

“Just bring yourself. The ceremony—I’m having a priest bless the place—will be late in the afternoon, and the party will go until everyone gives up and goes home. I don’t suppose you’d consider being my date for the occasion, would you?” I must have hesitated for a second too long. “No, I guess not,” he said. “Especially if Jennifer comes, that wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? You’ll still come, won’t you, even if I’ve just committed a faux pas?”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “In the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away,” he said.

“I need an address for an artist by the name of Robert Fitzgerald.”

“You never give up, do you?” he said.

Robert Fitzgerald, artiste, lived in a tree. Literally. A tree house, of course, but still. I almost missed it, looking, as I was, for something a little closer to the ground. I’d have missed it completely had it not been for David Ferguson, who did whatever consular officials do and tracked Fitzgerald down. I suppose the tree, a huge banyan, had once been on a fancy piece of property. Now it overlooked a garage.

I found the soi, and then the house, by cutting through the grounds of a wat, or temple. It was amazingly peaceful in the temple grounds. Saffron monks’ robes were drying on a line outside a row of houses, and a young woman persuaded me to buy a tiny sparrow in a bamboo cage from her, so that I could let it go and earn merit. The departing bird pooped on my shirt. Apparently this meant even more merit for me.

A gate in a hedge led to the house. The first thing I saw as I entered the grounds was a beautiful little spirit house. Most Thai houses have one, protection against the chai, or the spirits, who inhabit a place. They are ostensibly home to Phra Phum, or literally, the lord of the place. This one was a perfect Thai house in miniature. Incense sticks were burning, and the most beautiful little figures surrounded it: tiny horses, elephants, a carriage, baskets of fruit, sprays of flowers, all hand carved in wood down to the last detail. The workmanship practically took my breath away, so perfect was every last detail.

The rest of the place was not so enchanting. There were several signs posted about, in both Thai and English. I can’t speak for the Thai, but the others were rather pointed. Beware of Dog, one said. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted, went another. Private Property. Keep Out, the next one said.

The house, too, was equally unwelcoming, once I looked up and found it. Essentially, it was a large platform that wrapped around a huge banyan tree. It was supported by stilts, but I could see no easy way to get up there, only a long rope that reached almost to the ground. It didn’t look strong enough to pull a person up, even if I were so inclined, which I wasn’t, so I just tugged at it. Above me I heard a bell.

There was no sign of the dog, but I heard someone above me say something in Thai.

“Hello,” I said. “Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“What do you want?” the voice in the leaves growled.

“It’s Lara McClintoch,” I said.

“So?” he said.

“So I phoned,” I said. “It is Mr. Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”

“I suppose you want to come up,” the voice said.

“You can come down if you like,” I said. Indeed, from my standpoint it would have been preferable, my tree climbing days long gone.

“I don’t like,” he said. There was a grinding of gears, and a set of stairs, much like a ship’s gangway, which maybe they were, swung down toward me, stopping just high enough above the ground to be truly inhospitable.

“Well?” the voice said. “Haul yourself up.” I hauled.

I found myself in a sala, a room open on all sides to the air, the ceiling the canopy of leaves above. The floor was beautifully burnished teak. I noticed a pair of shoes at the top of the stairs, and remembering the Thai custom, slipped out of mine. The floor felt smooth and wonderful under my bare feet. There was a dining room table and four chairs in teak and rattan, a sofa of bamboo, covered with cotton cushions in orange and pink, a coffee table in solid teak. The view, so prosaic from the ground, was at this height a pleasant vista over a klong. As I watched, a longtail boat swept by, causing the water to rock up and down either side of the narrow waterway. The place even smelled wonderful, the scent of flowers and freshly cut wood.

There was another spirit house, this one under construction, pieces of it scattered about the place. Dozens of tiny animals stood in neat rows on the coffee table. I leaned over to admire the workmanship, which was exquisite.

Mr. Fitzgerald, if that’s who it was, was nowhere to be seen. I could tell right away, though, that this was not the Robert Fitzgerald of the portraits. Several paintings were on display. To my way of thinking, they were the kind of art that would be interesting to study in a gallery, but not the kind of art to have in your home. There was an underlying violence to it that I found quite upsetting. Some showed angry gashes of red across what would normally have been lovely scenes of rural Thailand. Another showed a Thai house that looked as if it was dripping with blood. A particularly disturbing one showed a pair of eyes looking out of a tree. One of the eyes had a knife stuck in it. I was clearly in the wrong place.

The sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of a man of about fifty, with reddish hair and mustache. He was way too thin, and furthermore, too young to have painted the portrait of Helen Ford. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me.

“I’m afraid I may have come to the wrong Robert Fitzgerald,” I said hesitantly. “I was looking for a portrait painter, someone much older than you.”

“Then you are correct. You have come to the wrong place.”

“Would you have any idea where I could find such a per-

“No,” he said.

“Then I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time,” I said.

“I am, too.” What a nice person Mr. Fitzgerald was.

“I guess I should be on my way then.”

“I guess you should.”

I turned to go, and as I did so, I had a feeling that the one good eye in the painting with the knife was looking at me. I decided I was going to have to persevere.

“Who painted that?” I said, pointing to the canvas.

“My father,” he said.

“And could I speak to him?”

“That would require a medium,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“He’s dead,” he replied. “Two years ago.”

“Did he paint portraits?”

“A long time ago.”

“Do you have any of them left?”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose the name William Beauchamp means anything?” I said.

“Not particularly.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“Look, William Beauchamp is a former colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago, and I am trying to find him. He has a wife and a disabled child, and they need to know where he is.”

“I can’t help you,” he said.

“Can’t or won’t?” I said.

He said nothing.

“Okay then, I’ll be on my way.”

He remained silent. I walked toward the stairs once again, but as I did so, a shaft of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees and made these lovely patterns on the floor of the house. I just paused for a moment and admired it, thinking how I’d take this tree house over the Chaiwong residence any day. I decided then and there that the person who lived there, and who had carved these wonderful houses and animals, couldn’t be as bad as he sounded. “You have a wonderful place here,” I said. “I’m glad that I got the chance to see it. And your carving is extraordinary. Now, about the dog. Is there one?”

“Dog?” he said.

“Dog. As in Beware of the,” I said.

A faint hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Oh yes,” he said. “But like most dogs, his bark is worse than his bite.

“In that case,” I said. “How about some tea?”

“Tea?” He looked perplexed.

“Tea. You know, dried leaves you pour boiling water over to get a brownish-colored drink.”

He paused for a moment, apparently baffled by my approach. “Would scotch do, as brownish liquids go?” he said at last.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Then come along.” He led me down what I suppose one might call a hallway, with the tree trunk on the inside and wooden walls to the outside. This part of the house, unlike the sala, was enclosed in a manner of speaking with wooden walls and screened windows. It was still open to the air above, although I could see it was possible to pull canvas awnings across for protection. There was a tiny little kitchen, with a very small propane refrigerator and stove, and open shelves for dishes. Farther along there was a bathroom—I wasn’t sure how it worked—and a room that looked as if it functioned as both bedroom and study. There was some electricity, strung from a pole out on the soi, and a cell phone rested on the kitchen counter.

“Do you live here or work here?” I said.

“Both,” he said, taking down the bottle and a couple of glasses.

“How did you find it? Or did you build it yourself?”

“It was my father’s studio,” he said. I waited in vain for a detail or two. There weren’t any. We took our drinks back to the sala and sat sipping them silently. I wondered which one of us would break down and say something. I was determined it wouldn’t be me.

“Do you like my father’s paintings?” he said finally.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I said slowly. “He was an immensely talented artist, but I suppose I would have to say that I find them too disturbing to enjoy. What happened to him?”

“He died. I told you.”

“No, I mean what changed him from a portrait painter to the person who saw such violent images?”

“I have wondered that myself,” he said. “I don’t know. He was certainly successful. His work is in many galleries. I, on the other hand, am a failure. I tried to be a painter—for years in fact—but never measured up. I have all his brushes and materials. I cannot part with them, but they are a daily reminder of my own inadequacy.”

“Did you carve the spirit house?”

“I did. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, going back out to the sala and peering over the side. “Just checking,” he said, turning back. “You have to place them where the shadow of the house never falls on them. I studied everything very carefully before I placed it the other day, but you will understand with a tree house, there are certain challenges. I wouldn’t want to offend the chai. Very bad luck indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like one, a spirit house, I mean. Didn’t you tell me when you phoned you have a shop?”

“It is very beautiful. I don’t think there’s a huge market for spirit houses where I come from, but your carving is exceptional. I might—”

“You don’t have to say that,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Sit down. Finish your scotch.”

“I keep thinking chess sets,” I said. “When I look at your work. All those rows of little animals and carts and everything. My partner Rob—he’s a policeman—he loves to play chess. Do you think you could make a chess set, a distinctively Thai one?”

“I could do, I suppose,” he said. He sat there for a minute. “Elephants,” he said, finally. “I could use elephants for the knights. I would use two different colored woods, a red wood, and then black. Yes, I could do that. Are you saying you’d like one?”

“Yes,” I said. “I might like more than one. I have a couple of customers who play chess, and others who would just appreciate the beauty of it, even if they don’t play. You think about it.”

“You asked a lot of questions before, but I’m not sure how I can help you,” he said.

“I’m looking for William Beauchamp. He owned at least two portraits that were painted by your father.”

“Three,” he said.

“Three what?”

“Beauchamp bought three of my father’s portraits. He bought all I had. All of the portraits, at least. What’s left of his other work is here. There’s a lot of it in galleries and such, as I believe I mentioned.”

“So you did know Will Beauchamp,” I said.

“Not really,” he said. “He just came, bought some paintings, and left.”

“And you have no idea where he might be at this moment?”

“Not this or any other moment,” he said. “He paid cash. I didn’t need to know anything more about him. He did give me his card. I suppose I could look for that. He owned an antique store, I believe.”

“Fairfield Antiques off Silom Road.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Did you know who the portraits were of?”

“Two of them, I did. My father kept meticulous records. One was a Scot by the name of Cameron MacPherson. The other was his brother Duncan. Two well-to-do merchants who lived in Thailand after the war. I looked it up.”

“And the third? Do you know who the woman in the third painting is?” I asked.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?” he said.

I was tempted to be as reticent as he was, but relented. “Helen Ford.”

“Hmmm,” he said.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

I debated about telling him his father had painted an axe murderer, but decided against it.

“I should,” he said.

“You should what?”

“I should have known who it was. Baffling, really.”

I had to agree with him.

“You see,” he said, “it would appear that my father was an extremely well organized man. I didn’t know him that well. He and my mother divorced when I was quite young, and she and I moved to England. I didn’t come back here until he died. But the evidence is there. That’s what made him so good at the portraits. He worked and worked at them until he had captured the essence of the person, not just their external appearance. I wish I had the talent. The artist gene seems to have passed me by.”

“But your carving is wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Fitzgerald Junior obviously had a serious inferiority complex. I don’t know why I felt I had to keep reminding him about his talent, though. He just seemed terribly vulnerable, I suppose, and I couldn’t resist mothering him.

“That’s nice of you. The point I’m making, and I’ll grant you I’m taking some time getting to it, is that my father kept the most careful records. I couldn’t find anything that would indicate who that woman was. Come, I’ll show you.” Fitzgerald led me along to the other pavilion and to the room that looked both bedroom and office.

“My father, mother, and I lived in a big old house apparently. I can’t recall it at all. I was just a baby when my mother took me to England. But he spent most of his days, and some of his nights, here,” Fitzgerald said. “This is where he worked. He had his easel set up in the sala and painted there. My mother has told me that in the early days, many of his subjects came here to pose for him. Now, here is where he kept all his records. You see what I mean when I say he was a meticulous man.”

He gestured toward a rather primitive teak desk with wooden drawers, one of which he pulled open. There were rows and rows of ruled cards, all sorted alphabetically by name, but also, I realized after I’d had a look, color-coded by date.

“The date on the back of the painting was January 1949-I have looked all through 1949, 1950, and several years before,” he said. “Now that you’ve given me a name, I’ll check that, too. See,” he said after a minute. “No Helen Ford.”

“Try Chaiwong,” I said. “Just as a test.”

“Chaiwong,” he said, rifling through. “Yes, here they are. Two portraits, one of Chaiwong, comma, Thaksin and Virat. This one was done in 1948. The other is Chaiwong, comma, Saratwadee and Sompom, age five. The date is 1949 for that one.” He handed them to me.

“I’ve seen these two portraits. They’re hanging in the Chaiwong family’s living room. So your father’s system works. I notice your father kept the dimensions of his paintings on the cards, too. Can you recall how big the portrait of Helen Ford was?”

“Maybe twenty inches wide by thirty,” he said.

“So how do you think Will Beauchamp found you in the first place?”

“Not hard to do. I advertised in the Bangkok Post classifieds. Beauchamp seemed a pleasant fellow. It was a couple of years ago, right after I got here. He came to look at the portraits, because he said he was opening an antique store, and wondered what I might have. He took the three of them. I was able to tell him who the others were, but not this one. He said he really liked it, and he might keep it for himself and try to find out who it was. I shouldn’t have let it go, really. It was one of the best paintings my father ever did. But I barely knew the man, remember him only vaguely. There were a few holiday visits with him, but that’s about all. I found him to be a difficult man, on those few occasions I was sent out to spend time with him. I had no sentimental attachment to his work, is what I’m saying. However, it now seems to me that I didn’t charge enough. You and Beauchamp are not the only people interested in that painting.”

“Who else is interested?”

“I’m not sure I should say,” he replied.

“I know Tatiana Tucker was interested in it. She’s making a documentary.”

“Tatiana? Right. Rather fetching young woman.”

“Others are interested, too?”

“Yes. I’ve had a couple of calls about it, not mentioning the name the way you have, but describing it pretty clearly. And another person, an attractive Thai woman, also came looking for the painting and Beauchamp. Can’t remember her name, though.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” I said.

“I don’t know how I could have been,” he said. “I don’t have much to tell you. However, I haven’t had a chance to look at my father’s diaries yet. They’re all those lovely leather volumes on the shelf there: one per year, pages and pages of very neat, tiny print. He did one every year from 1945 to 1949, then stopped, but took it up again in about I960. I thought there might be something in them about who the woman was, but you know, once I’d sold it, there didn’t seem to be much point. I did wonder, though, whether she was someone he was in love with. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about that, given she wasn’t my mother, but the portrait was so beautiful. It touched me in some way. Now that I have a name, I’ll look and see if there’s anything that would give a clue. Tell me where I can reach you.”

“You’ve been very generous with your time,” I said, writing down the hotel number. “I’m quite envious of your home, and I loved seeing it. Thanks for the scotch and for showing it to me.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You can come again, if you like. I’ll help you down.”

“One more question,” I said. “You said your father captured the essence of a person in his portraits. What was your impression of the essence of Helen Ford?”

“Interesting question,” he said. “What would I say?” He hesitated for a moment. “Defiant,” he said. “That’s the best word I can think of for her.”

I climbed down out of the tree rather depressed by my visit. Once again I hadn’t learned much except that Robert Fitzgerald Junior was a man who lived in the shadow of a talented father he barely knew. I had to wonder why he’d come back to Bangkok in the first place, and even more why he’d choose to live in the studio of the man he envied so profoundly. I didn’t think that there was anything I or anyone else could say that would make him feel the equal of his father.

Did Chat, I wondered, feel that way about his father, the hugely successful businessman? I knew Chat as a pleasant young man to meet and talk to, respectful of Jennifer, Rob, and me. From Jennifer I knew him to be solid, quiet, with a touch of gravitas, yet determined, with a very firm sense of what was right. Did he envy his father’s success? Would Fatty, for that matter, grow up feeling inadequate because her mother was so extraordinarily accomplished?

And how, when it came right down to it, would Natalie cope with her daughter, Caitlin, never growing up at all? It was a thought that brought me to the most depressing fact of all. Despite all the buzzing around I was doing, I was nowhere nearer to finding Caitlin’s dad.

When I got back to the hotel, there was another voice mail from Jennifer. “We’re on our way back to Bangkok, apparently,” she said. “I gather it’s been a rather unsuccessful trip, although nobody is saying much. See you tomorrow.”