A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley

      8

      “A good breakfast?” Seth asked as we passed, me on my way to my room and him toward the breakfast pavilion.

      “Very. Quite a spread.”

      “We’ll just grab a quick bite and be ready in about half an hour. Does that suit you?”

      “Fine. See you in the lobby.” I walked off the path toward the mango tree so that I could look at the offerings, then remembered I needed to call the Searles Museum as my deputy director had asked. Arthur Philen wanted to keep tabs on me. He wouldn’t be happy that I’d stumbled onto a dead body. He seemed to think I looked for trouble.

      “Report in,” he’d said. A ridiculous notion, but I’d agreed. Even my mother didn’t ask me to check in. I didn’t want to have to communicate with Arthur about the murder. I wanted to speak with a friend. I’d call Brian, the curator of Western art and my closest friend, and have him tell Arthur that he’d heard from me.

      I PULLED up Skype, clicked on Brian’s direct line, and went into the bathroom to finish brushing my teeth. “Hello, hello,” said Brian “Are you there? Jenna?”

      “Just a minute,” I said, putting away my toothbrush.

      “Did you call me while you were in the bathroom? That’s crude.”

      I held up my hands, palms forward. “I was only brushing my teeth.”

      “Sure you were. So did you meet the long-haired womanizer?” He was tearing open a letter as he spoke.

      “Sort of.”

      “Sort of? What? He passed by in a car and waved? I thought you were having lunch with him. Or is that today?” He thought for a moment. “What time is it there, anyway?”

      “No, it was yesterday. I went there and found him dead.”

      There was a pause, as if the connection delayed. “Dead? You’re serious?”

      I told him all that had happened.

      “What will you do?”

      “Try to find his killer. I have my doubts about the police department here. You should have seen them at the crime scene.”

      “No, I mean, what will you do about your research?” He put down the letter and leaned forward. “And really, it isn’t a good idea for you to try to find his killer. Once a year is enough.”

      “My research will go fine. I’ll try to get introductions to other people. I do know a family here.”

      “The detective you just mentioned?”

      “Yes. I’m hoping that he can help.”

      “Jenna, seriously, I know you. You’re curious to the point of recklessness. You should let this detective do his job and you can do yours, which is researching art. And you can take your vacation, do the things you want to do—the snorkeling, the bike riding, the sightseeing. All the pleasures you’ve been imagining.”

      “Right. Could you do me a favor?”

      “Seriously, Jenna. Don’t get involved.”

      “I am involved. I was the one who found the body. I feel . . .”

      “What? You feel what?”

      “I feel responsible in some strange way. As if finding him means I need to find his killer.”

      “You don’t. Promise me. This could end up worse than the last trip to Southeast Asia. Didn’t you learn anything from that experience? Stop meddling.”

      “I didn’t meddle.” I changed the subject. “The favor I have to ask?”

      “Tell Philen you called?”

      “Yes. I don’t think I can bear talking with him today.” I looked at the clock next to the bed. “Some people are waiting for me to go sightseeing. I better go.”

      “Sightseeing?”

      “Yeh Puluh, Klungkung, Goa Gajah, some nearby sights. They’re staying here at the hotel.”

      “A man, right? Really, Jenna. There is a perfectly agreeable man right here in Marin who wants you. A terrific man. Why can’t you be satisfied with him?” Exasperation flooded his face.

      “I’ve told you why.”

      “One man you couldn’t trust does not make the rest of us lying, cheating womanizers.”

      “I was vulnerable.”

      “I know.”

      “I was young and it made an impression.”

      “I’ll say. Jenna, you’ve got to move on. That was a dozen years ago.”

      “I’ll talk with you soon,” I said as I closed the connection, knowing he was right, but unable to do as he said.

      As I entered the lobby, I heard Randall say, “Why don’t we get a car? There are three of us and it won’t cost much more than the motorbikes. Then we can leave our stuff in the car while we walk through the sights.”

      “Are we renting motorbikes?” I asked. We hadn’t decided the night before what mode of transportation we might take. Though I prefer bicycling, the speed of a motorcycle almost makes up for the lack of sweat and muscle crunching. “Sounds good to me.”

      “But there are three of us,” Randall repeated.

      “The receptionist recommends getting motorbikes from the guy down the road.”

      “I’m in.”

      Randall groaned but stopped objecting, and we headed off.

      “We need two,” said Seth to the man lounging in front of a lean-to with a sign that said “Bykes Rental.”

      “Are you and Randall sharing a bike?” I asked innocently. I didn’t like being appropriated. If I wanted to sit behind him, my boobs pressed against his back, my arms around his waist, my hand in his lap, I would say so.

      Looking flustered, Seth said, “No, I thought that you could ride with me.”

      “Three motorbikes,” I said to the man.

      He pointed at two of the larger bikes and one slightly lower horsepower.

      “I’ll take that one.” I pointed at one of the more powerful ones. At least it would propel me uphill at something greater than a snail’s pace.

      I gave the man my deposit and grabbed a red helmet. A girl had to think of fashion at all times. Seth headed for the other fast bike, and Randall stood hesitantly to one side. “I haven’t driven a motorcycle before.”

      Ah, the reason for his objections. He should have said that in the lobby. There, we might have relented. Now, with the promise of speed, Seth and I weren’t going to change our minds.

      Seth said, “It’s easy. You’ll learn quickly. These are so small that it won’t be much different from riding a bike.”

      Randall still looked uncertain and I added, “But you could always ride on the back of Seth’s.”

      “Or . . .” he said, looking longingly at my motorbike. But before he could say more, I climbed on and started it.

      Pleased to be renting three motorbikes, the man shoved a helmet at Randall, taking the decision out of his hands. He backed the motorbike out of the small stall and proceeded to give Randall unintelligible instructions in poor English. “Easy,” he said.

      Uh-oh, I thought, and called out over the sound of the bikes, “Seth, do you know the way?”

      “I looked at a map, and