A Head in Cambodia. Nancy Tingley
to someone who hasn’t experienced it.”
“I’m sure. The suddenness, the violence, the helplessness. I think all I would want would be revenge.”
“Exactly. Someone to find the killer. For them to pay.”
We looked at each other.
“Very difficult,” P.P. mumbled.
She nodded, then seemed to fall back into her trance. “I just really couldn’t understand why he was here and he was there. I asked him, What are you doing? He didn’t know what he was doing. I knew that. But it was a question he used to ask me often. A critical question. Like, Why did you spray blood all over the room? Why did you leave your head where someone would trip over it?” She laughed a brittle laugh.
P.P. and I looked at each other. “The furniture,” he said, trying to get her thinking of something other than her father’s head on the floor.
“Yes,” she said, the tangible pulling her back to us again. “They’re coming to pick it up today. Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. We sold most of the furniture at the yard sale, but nothing from this room. We dragged a few pieces outside, but they didn’t sell. So we’re giving what’s left to Goodwill. No one will know.” She saw our confusion. “No one will know that we had to clean the blood off these. That they were in the room with him.”
“And his papers about his collection? They’re here, in his study?” I asked.
“They were. My brother went through all his papers.” She pointed at the old oak file cabinet. “It’s empty. At least he told me it was. Why are you interested in those? Did you buy something at auction?” It seemed to suddenly have dawned on her that we were there for a reason and that the reason might not be to see the scene of his death.
“Here,” said P.P.
She looked at him, uncomprehending.
“P.P. bought a life-size head from you at the garage sale.”
“Oh, you’re the one who bought it. I thought it was the young couple. They came by early, but I guess . . . Oh, that’s right. They came back in the afternoon and asked to see it again. But you had already bought it. I couldn’t remember then who had bought it. He made me go through the checks, the young man did, to see if I could find the buyer’s name.”
“Cash,” said P.P.
“That’s what I told them. The man was rather belligerent. Said he had told me to hold it for him, that he’d be back, but had an appointment first. Or he had to get cash from the ATM. I don’t remember.” She was thoughtful.
“And the papers, the invoices and notes. Your brother kept them?” I asked.
“Yes, for the auction. He had to. They worry about where things have come from.”
“The provenance,” I said, looking around the room, then back at that spot on the floor. Her description had been so vivid, so touching, that I could picture it, the blood, the head, this woman standing in the midst of it. My voice caught when I went on. “Yes, they do worry about that.”
P.P. stopped trying to move us out of the room and looked at me with concern. I shook my head.
His eyes still on me, he asked, “And the books?” Shelving covered one wall from floor to ceiling. Books filled a good half of the wall, empty niches the other.
“A book dealer over in Berkeley bought the art books. My son is going to pack up the rest for the library.”
“Which dealer?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Is that where he kept his collection?” I asked, nodding at the shelves.
“Yes, some of it. He had the larger sculptures in the living room. Most of them. Some were in the dining room. He even had a space in the kitchen where he put a sculpture. Every time I came over to visit, their placement had changed. As if all those stone and bronze figures could walk around. I warned him he was going to throw his back out if he kept moving those big stones around. Or get a hernia. But he didn’t pay much attention. He never did care about others’ opinions.”
“Stubborn,” P.P. said as he finally herded her out the door.
She released the doorframe with a glance back at the room. “Stubborn and obsessive. He’d gotten it in his head that he’d bought a fake, and he was doing everything to find out for sure and to see how he could get the person who sold it to him.”
“Get the person?” P.P. had managed to lead us to the front door.
“Yes. ‘Nail him’ was what he said.”
“He wanted his money back?” I asked.
“No, the dealer offered him the money back, but he was determined to get this person in trouble. Or ruin his reputation.”
“How did the dealer react to that?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? With my father you only heard one side of a conversation. He could be unpleasant.”
“I’m sorry . . .” But if she was searching for kind words about her father, they escaped her.
She said, “He was coming here.”
“Who?”
“The dealer. From Bangkok. My father was practically gleeful at the prospect. That was when he was talking about nailing him. He seemed to think he could get the man arrested or something. It made him crazy that he’d bought a fake.”
I looked at P.P., who didn’t look back. We were both thinking about Grey. If P.P. hadn’t dragged me off the other night, we’d know now if he’d sold Sharpen the head. “Does your brother live locally?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s in the city.”
“And he has all the papers related to the art?”
“Yes. But as I told you, I don’t think there was an invoice for that head you bought. That’s why we were selling it at the yard sale. We figured it wasn’t important enough to show to the auction house. And we came across it after we’d given them everything else. He was meticulous in his record keeping, so there was an invoice for everything, as well as his notes. There were even some notes about what different people had to say about the art he owned.”
“Different people?”
“Yes, like local collectors. Or some specialists who came here to see his collection. People he met when he went to New York for the big art fair. It’s in March, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “He bought there?”
“Sometimes. He bought at auction, and he had a few dealers he liked who attended that fair. He said it was crazy, because they all seemed to save their very best pieces for March, and why didn’t they want to sell them other times of the year. My brother said they did that because they could get more for them if there were competing offers. Is that right?”
“It’s not a bad observation.”
She waited expectantly.
“Brother’s phone number?” P.P. held out the small notebook that he carried everywhere. She wrote the number in it.
“Could you also put his name?” I asked. “No, never mind that. I remember from the obituary. Tom Sharpen Jr.” The obituary was what had led us to her.
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t been myself.”
“No one would be, after your experience.” I felt the need to fill the ensuing silence. “Do you think your brother would be available today?”
“He works. He’s a lawyer, but he’s pretty easygoing. If you catch him in a free moment, I’m sure he’d see you.” She looked at her watch. “You might even catch him during his lunch. He doesn’t like working