A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley

      11

      “Jenna. Well?” P.P. Bhattacharya stood away from his computer video cam so I could see him.

      He always approximated a bouncing ball, with his round face, his globular upper body, and constant state of motion, even when standing in one place. I couldn’t help but smile. “Hello, P.P. How are you?”

      “Nehru said, ‘Morning of the world.’ About Bali. True?”

      When I met him, it took me months to get used to his abbreviated conversation. Much of what he needed to say was spoken in his extravagant gestures. Now his arms drew a circle, like a child drawing the rising sun. How he injected color into the gesture was beyond me. “I haven’t gotten far outside of Ubud, but aside from all the tourists, it’s lovely. My hotel is charming, the food is good. Nice people.”

      “But?”

      “Was there a ‘but’ in my voice?”

      “Yes, yes.” He began to walk away from the computer, then remembered that the range of the video cam wouldn’t allow him to do his usual march around his office. He stayed put and bounced on the balls of his feet.

      “You know I told you that I was going to meet that Dutchman, Flip? Well, he was dead when I got to his house.”

      “Dead? Heart attack?”

      “No, murder. I found the body.”

      He stilled. “Tell me.”

      “He’d been run through with a spear.” My voice cracked.

      “All, tell me all.”

      I told him. I also told him about reconnecting with my Balinese family. At some point in the telling, I realized that he was getting impatient with the details, so I cut it short.

      “Can’t get involved. No Watson to your Holmes. Could come help. Be your Watson.”

      “No, no need for that,” I said hurriedly.

      “Do your work. See your friends.”

      I knew he was thinking about our trip to Cambodia the previous year. I changed the subject, which was easy enough to do. We could talk about his collecting. “So, tell me about this Indonesian bronze that you’re considering buying. It looks to be ninth century and quite charming.” My call was in response to his e-mail that morning about the bronze. I was happy for the excuse to talk with a friend; hotel rooms are lonely places.

      “Here.” He held the bronze up to the computer camera.

      “Too close.”

      He pulled it away and slowly rotated it so that I could see it clearly.

      “Manjushri, youthful bodhisattva of wisdom. I can’t make out his necklace. Can you turn it that way?” I pointed.

      “Tiger tooth.”

      “Good. Typical Javanese Manjushri, tiger-tooth amulet necklace for protection for a child. Almost pristine, only slight wear. But you know, P.P., I can’t tell you anything without holding it in my hands. I’d have to take a close look at the patina. I’d need to do some comparative research—look to see what images are related. To find any anomalies, if there are any. To make certain that it fits into the Central Javanese ninth-century oeuvre. I don’t see any problems when I look at it from afar, but I need to do some research. We both know that there are fakes in every area of Southeast Asian art.”

      “Yes. But your reaction?”

      “What’s the provenance?”

      “Old Dutch collection. He says.”

      “Who’s the dealer?”

      P.P. ignored the question. He was often secretive about his buying. “I could bring it to you.”

      “I won’t give you my final thoughts until I see it in person. You can wait a few weeks for that, surely? The dealer will let you have that long to make a decision.” I didn’t want P.P., patron of the Searles Museum, coming to Bali to interrupt my week of work and my two-week vacation. He’d become a friend, but a high-maintenance friend, and I didn’t want to see him here. I knew he also wanted to be involved in the murder investigation. “You can’t bring that into Bali, P.P. Customs would confiscate it. Plus it’s a twenty-three-hour flight.”

      He shrugged and held the bronze up to his face, his glasses pushed up over his brow, the black frame filling in where his hair had once been. He brushed one hand over his shiny pate. “Going to Kolkata next week.”

      “Really, P.P., I will look at it when I get home. You’d have to pay the dealer for it if it got confiscated at the Denpasar airport. Pay for it, without having the possibility of enjoying it. Don’t be so impatient.”

      “Right.”

      I breathed a sigh of relief.

      He switched gears. “A miniature on the way. Indian.”

      P.P. epitomized the collector addict. He was always looking, always buying. Sometimes his impatience got the better of him and he bought impulsively. Fortunately for him, he had an excellent eye and the wherewithal to support his taste in South and Southeast Asian art. He’d come to rely on me as another set of eyes in the decision-making, a sounding board, which didn’t necessarily mean he listened to my opinions.

      A knock at my door interrupted me before I could ask about the miniature. “I’ll be out in just a minute,” I called. When I’d run into Randall and Seth at breakfast, they had invited me to join them sightseeing.

      “Who?”

      “Some people I met here at the hotel. We’re going to Besakih, the most important temple here, a spectacular mountain temple. They’re ready to go, so I’ll sign off now. I promise I’ll look at the bronze the second I get back.” Wayan Tyo had left a message early that morning saying he’d arranged for me to visit his museum friend the following day.

      “A man? Good.” Before I could answer, he reached forward and signed off without a good-bye. P.P. and Brian. Making assumptions. I couldn’t get angry. They were right. And of course P.P. thought it was good. He didn’t like Alam—because of business differences, according to Alam.

      I grabbed my backpack, double-checking that I had sunscreen, bug stuff, a bottle of water. When I opened the door, Seth was on the porch watching me, his arms crossed. “Sorry, a work phone call. Let’s go get those motorcycles.”

      “No Harleys here.”

      “Isn’t it too bad.” I slung on my backpack and gave the door a second pull.

      He laughed, turned, and led the way down the few steps from my room. His broad shoulders looked good in that tight T-shirt. At the bottom step, he put his arm around me. Buddies, his arm said, and I in turn began to melt, to sink my shoulder, to shift in his direction, to mold my collarbone to the angle of his elbow. We walked