But assuming he wasn’t my kind of dealer, if he recognized the sword as the one in the portrait, then he would offer to sell it. If you were the Chaiwongs, given money was no object, surely you’d buy it for sentimental reasons, or just for the novelty of it.
Or, then again, perhaps Will purchased it from the Chaiwongs. It had been in the family at some point in the last half century or so. But why would they sell in the first place? They didn’t need the money. Which brought me back to the possibility that maybe they’d disposed of it because it had been used to hack up a body.
Still, that was just so implausible. It was much more likely that Will had just made up the story on the spur of the moment to impress Tatiana. If Praneet was right, though, he didn’t need to do that. Tatiana was the one on the prowl, not him. Was it possible that it was not Will but Tatiana herself, with an eye to a career in film, who had invented this story as a way to help sell her idea?
I decided the only thing to do was to pay her a visit. In fact, I was going to pay all of them—Fitzgerald, Rowland, and Tatiana—a surprise visit to see if their memories had improved since last we’d talked. But first I had to have a chat with the people at Keene Lyon Press, the company I was betting was also known, in Will Beauchamp’s world, as Key Lime Pie.
The distinguishing feature of the office, the defining motif, was fish. There were photos of fish, drawings of fish. There were fish with teeth, pretty ones with gorgeous coloring, scary ones that peeked out from behind rocks under the sea. A rather large aquarium built into the wall featured the live version, in contrast with the stuffed ones mounted on the side table. In a corner, a video ran on a loop. It showed, what else? Fish. There were magazines about fish, a fisherman’s newsletter, and even a fish cookbook—at least that is what it looked like—on the coffee table. The fish in the aquarium were very soothing to watch, but why, I had to ask myself, so many fish? I was not to wonder for long.
I was greeted within a few minutes by a pleasant young man called Mr. Nimit, who told me he was the senior editor. He ushered me into the back office where he sat at a desk piled high with papers. Two other workers, both women, were working at their desks, one of them with slides on a light table, which she used a magnifying glass to look at from time to time, the other with what looked to be galley proofs. There were a lot of fish photographs on the walls in here, too.
“I see you are admiring our photographs,” he said, after the formalities had been taken care of. “We take great pride in them. These are from our books,” he said. “Given you are here, you no doubt know all about our books.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
“We are the largest publisher offish books in Bangkok,” he said proudly. “It is a very big business now. Our founder, Mr. Lyon,” Mr. Nimit said, indicating a framed photo above his desk, “was very smart. He knew this would be a very good selling item for us. Mr. Lyon died a few years ago, and unfortunately did not know how successful his company would become. It is now Thai-owned, of course. By my family,” he added just a little smugly.
“What other kind of books do you do?” I said, on the assumption that Will didn’t know any more than I did on the subject offish.
“No other books,” he said. “We work all year on fish books. We do a newsletter, we have a web site, all about fish. Now, how can I be of service?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with one of your authors,” I said. I was starting to have a bad feeling about this. “William Beauchamp.”
Mr. Nimit looked startled, then wary. “We do not have an author by that name.”
“But I think you know the name,” I said with just a touch of irritation in my voice. I was getting really tired of people not telling me things, despite my therapy session with the monk in Chiang Mai. But in Thailand, showing your irritation is a bad idea that gets you nowhere fast. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I do apologize. Mr. Beauchamp is a colleague of mine from Toronto. He has not been seen for several weeks, if not months. His wife is worried about him. I was told you were his publisher.”
“Mr. William was here,” Mr. Nimit said, somewhat mollified. “He came to introduce himself. He said he was one of our authors. We were all very surprised. I showed him the books we publish. You are also most welcome to look. I believe Mr. William was very upset. We were sorry we could not help him. He said his agent had given him an advance for this book. He showed me a photocopy of the check, but it was from an agent, not from us. Perhaps a colleague was making a joke of some kind, but if so, it was not in good taste, was it? Not very funny.”
“No, it was not very funny at all,” I agreed. “Now when was this that Mr. William came in?”
The man thought about it for a moment, and then spoke in Thai to the two women, who were pretending to work while they listened to our conversation. One of them replied.
“We believe it was exactly July two,” Mr. Nimit said. “It is the birthday of Miss Peroontip,” he said, gesturing to the woman who had spoken. “She remembers the day exactly therefore.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“No,” he said. “There was no reason. Mr. William said his book was not about fish.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said.
“Please,” he said. “A copy of our newsletter, and a catalog of our books. We also offer videotapes.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. It had been a discouraging conversation for me, but not nearly as bad as it would have been for Will. Bent Rowland was apparently even more of a sleaze than I thought. He and I would be having a chat shortly, but on the way, there was Tatiana Tucker to be seen.
“It’s too late,” she said, as I walked through the agency door.
“Too late for what?” I said.
“To return my call,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “I am so sorry. I completely forgot!”
“Well,” she said. “At least you didn’t say you didn’t receive my message.”
“Thaksin Chaiwong died,” I said, trying to explain.
“Who’s Thaksin Chaiwong?” she said. “And what has this got to do with returning phone calls?”
“A very wealthy man,” I said. “Jennifer and I found him. Dead, I mean. It rather put other things out of my mind.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess finding a corpse will do that for you. But it’s still too late. I’ve unfortunately lost the papers you were looking for.”
“The m—?” I said. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. I stopped midword. The two other women in the office tried to look as if they weren’t listening.
“I’m going home, by the way,” she said.
“Home?” I said.
“The States,” she said.
“For good, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m just here to clear out my desk.”
“Isn’t this rather sudden?”
“I’m like that,” she said. “I make decisions, and I act on them.” She hadn’t looked at me once during this conversation. The other women in the office were assiduously pretending to work.
“Please let me buy you lunch, a drink, a coffee, whatever you have time for,” I said. “As a send-off. And as an apology for not returning your phone call.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said.
“Please,” I said. “I feel terrible.”
I could see she was thinking about it, and in the end her better nature gained the upper hand. “Okay,” she said. “I could use a drink.”