A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley
“That’s not the only motive,” the middle brother said. “There are plenty of rumors of him dealing in the illegal art trade, so an unhappy collector or dealer might have killed him. Or maybe he was not kind to his servants. One of them—or all of them—might have done it and are now covering up.”
My ears pricked up at the mention of illegal art activity, but I said, “I think you can eliminate the servants. They began crying for him immediately.”
“More likely crying for lost wages,” said Esa.
Everyone nodded. I felt the strength of the community’s dislike for Flip in this very courtyard, and by extension their disregard for the people who worked for him. “What do you think, Wayan Tyo?”
“I must rely on my intuition, though what my brothers say is correct. He was hated. He represented all that was bad in the expat community. Some foreigners who come here to live contribute to life on the island in a positive way. His contributions did include positive things—he gave work to people, he encouraged young artists—but his womanizing, his wild parties, his breaking down of local morals more than outbalanced the good that he did. We could do nothing to stop him, though we tried.”
“Foreigners will destroy our culture,” Esa said bitterly.
Before I could respond to that, one of Tyo’s brothers spoke. “What did the police do?”
“We raided parties, but he always had watchers who saw us coming, and the drugs vanished before we got there, just as the music became quieter at our approach. There were rumors”—he nodded at his brother in acknowledgment—“that he dealt illicitly in art. But how? Theft? Fakes? Both were rumored, but we never caught him, though we tried. We even . . .”
All of us looked at him expectantly.
He set down his plate. “There is nothing. No clues in the room. No fingerprints on the spear. An old spear like that could have come from anywhere. Most of them have been sold to tourists as artifacts or taken by the Dutch as trophies, but some homes still have them. We visited the shopkeepers today who deal in this type of weapon, but none of them recognized it. We cannot find any information about either the weapon or who might have entered the compound, and I am very frustrated.”
“Could it have to do with his painting?” I asked.
“Perhaps it could. But how?”
“Well, the painting that was on the floor by his easel at the time of his death was not his usual work. I only glimpsed a corner of it, but it was obviously in Balinese style. His work referenced that style, though his paintings weren’t copies, as far as I know.” I shrugged. “But, you might know more about that, Tyo.”
“There are rumors that he did paint in the style of one Balinese artist, but I have never been able to get from the dealers any information as to who that artist is. So yes, you are right that it could have something to do with the paintings that he was creating. But I have never been able to discover any certain information about his forgery work. At this point that motive is no more likely than any other.”
“But you assume that he forged?”
“I’m pretty certain. No proof.” He shook his head, then clammed up. His girls, switching allegiance, went over to sit on their father. They snuggled up to him, sensing his unhappiness, and he asked about their day, pushed their hair away from their eyes, redid the younger one’s hairclip, and hugged them.
His love for them was obvious. I, on the other hand, now felt a distance from him. At Flip’s house he’d been attentive and greeted me warmly, then dismissed me as if we’d never met. Turned me over to a stranger for questioning. When I arrived at Ani’s he was friendly, but now I felt him pulling away, and I heard restraint in his words.
He confused me. Of course, maybe he simply didn’t like to talk about work at home, or murder in front of his daughters. I changed the subject. “With Flip gone, I don’t know that I have much I can do here in regard to Balinese art.”
Suddenly a little boy raced up to me, slapped my knee, shouted something, and dashed off again. The girls squealed and leapt after him. “What did he say?” I asked.
“You are to chase them,” Ani laughed.
“You mean I’m it?” I stood, casually wiping off imaginary crumbs from my leg, pointedly ignoring the kids. I stretched, took a few steps, then yelled, “You better watch out!”
The girls squealed, the boys shouted in delight, and I had an opportunity to work off the enormous quantity of food I’d eaten.
“OH, my gosh. They’ve worn me out.”
“I think you have worn them out.” Tyo looked toward the kids, who lounged beneath the tree. “They will sleep well tonight.”
“No wonder you are tired,” Ani said. “You’ve run for half an hour, much of that time with the little one in your arms. You haven’t changed.”
I laughed.
“You were an energetic child, and now we see that you are an energetic adult.”
“I remember you wanting to keep going when the rest of us wanted to stop,” said Tyo’s brother.
“Stop what?”
“Stop anything.” They all laughed.
“Before you were distracted by the children,” Tyo began, “you were saying that you don’t know what work you can do now that Flip is dead. There are many others who know about Balinese painting. I will introduce you to one museum employee at a private museum here in town. You can meet him tomorrow.”
“There are many Balinese who know more than Flip,” Esa said. “You should not think a foreigner could know as much about Balinese painting as a Balinese.”
Before I could answer that, Ani said, “Now she must go to her hotel to her bed.” She must have seen my struggle to hold up my head, as well as to find the words to respond to Esa.
“You’re right. It’s still early, but I’m exhausted.”
“You will come back later in the week to have dinner with us,” she said with finality. “And you should feel that you can come here at any time. This is your home in Bali.”
I nodded as I stood. “Thank you. Dinner was delicious, and it was wonderful to see everyone again.” I looked down on Wayan Tyo’s girls. “And to meet the new members of the family. Thank you so much.”
“Come, I will walk you home.” Tyo said something to his daughters and, nodding to his mother, led the way out of the courtyard. I followed, stopping by the gate to unlock my bike.
He waited for me. “A bicycle?” he asked.
“Yes. I ride a lot at home.”
“I thought Americans always drove cars. Or jogged. You do not jog?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I will walk with you,” Esa called from behind us.
I felt Wayan Tyo tense beside me. He nodded to his friend, but said nothing.
“Do you live near my hotel?” I asked Esa.
“No.”
I waited for more, but it didn’t come.
“He grew up in this neighborhood, but now lives on the other side of town,” Tyo said.
“Closer to where I’m staying?”
“A different neighborhood, but that general direction. He has his smithy over there.”
“You’re a blacksmith?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“May I come by some day to see you at work?”
He didn’t answer, but I thought I saw him nod in the