THE CAMBODIAN CURSE AND OTHER STORIES Page 3

  “But now you don’t think they will.”

  “I know the crime can’t actually be impossible,” North said, “but what if nobody can figure out how it was done? Without probable cause, the police won’t be able to arrest anyone and seize their possessions.”

  “Meaning you need to find out how it was done. There are ways to mess with locks—”

  “You don’t think I know that?” North slammed his mug onto the table. Nobody around us seemed to mind. It wasn’t a serene type of cafe. “That didn’t happen in this case. I examined the scene myself. But we’re getting off track and you’re missing the point. I’m not asking you to find the killer. The police are working on that. But compared to murder, the sculpture is a lesser concern to them. That’s why I need you to find it.”

  I should have left right then, but I felt myself frozen in place. The thought of the sculpture being lost forever stopped me from walking away and never looking back. That bas-relief held unsolved mysteries.

  “I’m a desperate man, Jaya,” North continued. “I can see it on your face, you know you’re the only one who can save this piece of history.”

  I snorted. “You mean save your reputation.”

  “Tomato, tomato. Your ears are turning purple, Jaya. Let me get you another coffee.” North sprang up before I could answer.

  Though I hated to admit it, North was right. I didn’t want to spend all my time confined inside a classroom and office. I looked for missing pieces of history far beyond musty archives for the same reason I’d become a historian in the first place. There’s so much about our world we’ve lost. When people in the past elevated a piece of their history beyond the mundane, there was a story there about what a culture valued. I found those stories and brought them back.

  North snapped me out of my reverie by setting an espresso and a croissant sandwich in front of me. The unusual combination of egg, peanut butter, and honey wasn’t on the menu, but it was my favorite. I breathed in the heavenly nutty-sweet scent wafting up from the hot sandwich and groaned. I was a creature of habit—and so was North.

  “I’m not the first person you asked to help you.”

  He grinned. “I knew you were so highly intelligent that you’d see through me.”

  “You can stop the flattery, North.”

  “But I’m so good at it. And I much prefer it to the heavy-handed measures I used to employ.”

  I nearly choked on my coffee.

  “What?” North said in an innocent voice as he handed me a napkin for the coffee I hadn’t yet spilled. “That wasn’t a veiled threat. Truly. You don’t believe I’m a reformed man?”

  “I don’t actually care. Your actions are the important thing here. Let me guess who you turned to in the first place to find the sculpture. Contacts in the illicit art world looking for it to pop up there? I don’t know how to track down provenance, so I’m sure you also have art historians looking into this.”

  North laughed. “Of course. You see, it’s not that you were an afterthought, you must understand. Simply a different angle.”

  “You want me to find the treasure by looking into the curse.”

  “That would be lovely, thanks.”

  “I didn’t say I’d do it.”

  “There will be a finder’s fee, of course.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You do, even if it’s only a little. But let’s get beyond crass enticements. You have an impeccable track record for seeing nuggets of truth in legends.”

  I studied North and ignored the croissant sandwich. I was good at parsing out the facts to be found in mythology, but I thought he was missing the most important piece of the mystery: the method of the impossible crime itself.

  Even though I had a sense that was key, I didn’t argue. Because it wasn’t something I could help with. I’d learned from experience that the best way for me to solve a mystery was to approach it from the angle I knew the most about: history. In this case, that meant the curse from the 1920s.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to look into the history of this supposed curse,” I said. “It would be a shame if the piece disappeared into the private viewing lair of a supervillain.”

  “That’s my girl.” North held up his hands. “I mean, that’s the brilliant historian I’ve come to respect immensely for her insights—”

  “That’s a little much.”

  “It was, wasn’t it? I’ll leave you to it then. Time’s a wasting. I hope to have this sorted by the end of the weekend.”

  “It’s Friday afternoon. It’s awfully presumptuous for you to assume I’m free this weekend.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “See what you can dig up over the next couple of days. That’s all I ask.”

  iv.

  Legend says that the land of Cambodia sprang from the magical union of a local princess and an Indian prince. A majestic prince from a foreign land was sailing through a floating kingdom of water. Intrigued by the newcomer, a brave and beautiful princess rode her boat across the water to greet him. The Indian prince shot an arrow into her boat, pulling her closer. With this show of strength, she agreed to marry him. As a dowry, the princess’s father, the king of the water, drank up the water and created the land that became the kingdom of Kambuja.

  I always remembered that story, because what kind of fairy tale has a princess frightened into marrying a guy who shot an arrow at her? A dark one, much like the sinister legend that brought me to Margery Lexington’s home on Saturday afternoon to talk with her widower, William Edmonton.

  It began to rain as I maneuvered into a minuscule parking spot along the side of a jarringly steep street on Russian Hill. The Edwardian-style house Margery and William had shared was within view across the street, and even from my car I could see ornate molding and two small hedges that had been shaped into what looked to be fat guardian lions flanking the entry steps. All of it befitting a couple who ran a museum.

  Before I got out of the car, I read my notes again. I didn’t want to take up more of the bereaved man’s time than I had to. But with the dearth of written information on legends surrounding the curse, I needed him. I’d assumed the museum’s materials would mention the curse, as it was much like famous Egyptian curses that capture the imagination of visitors at museums across the world. Unfortunately, the Lexington Museum’s writer went for scholarly over sensational.

  As the rain pelted down on the windshield, I reviewed the obituaries of Margery that had been published in local papers since the original news report had come out. In San Francisco she had been known more as a philanthropist than as the owner of the small museum she had inherited from her father. A small, sprightly woman, she appeared in the most recent photos sporting stylishly short dark brown hair, pictured both in ball gowns at local charity galas and in overalls at Earth Day volunteer events in Golden Gate Park. Margery’s own family was only modestly wealthy, so she’d initially gotten to know wealthy donors interested in art and Southeast Asian history in hopes of expanding the museum. But she quickly took on a different role, as an advocate and fundraiser herself, raising money in particular for historical preservation and environmental causes.

  Though the obituaries briefly mentioned Margery’s family history, only one of them went into any depth about her grandfather Harold and the founding of the Lexington Museum. Harold had come to America in 1925 with his young San Franciscan wife Sarah, who was praised for her resourcefulness in weathering the Great Depression, which began shortly after her husband opened his museum and died. Though the text didn’t explicitly say he had died because of a curse, it mentioned a history of tragically young deaths in the family.

  I looked up from my notes and nearly had a heart attack. A dark figure hovered in front of the car. My phone slipped from my fingers and crashed onto my bare foot. The twinge of pain brought m
e back to reality, diverting my thoughts from the curse. Which was a good thing, since the figure came closer to the car and rapped on the passenger side window. I briefly considered leaving him out in the rain, before reaching across the seat and unlocking the car door.

  “What brings you to my little car?” I asked North as he closed his umbrella and climbed inside.

  “I didn’t expect you to visit the house of the main suspect alone. I thought you’d be off in a library archive somewhere.”

  “Libraries don’t have information unless that information is written down. This is family history. I needed to talk to someone who knew more about it.”

  “He could be a murderer.”

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I need you to find my sculpture.”

  I swallowed hard, an unpleasant thought forming in my mind. Could North himself have taken the sculpture and killed Margery? But then why would he have involved me? It was a ridiculous idea. Ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

  “The rain is subsiding,” I said, slipping my heels back on. “Let’s go.”

  We ran across the street. Ever the English gentleman, North held his umbrella over my head.

  “We’re sorry to trouble you,” I said when William greeted me at the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye. William Edmonton stood a solid six-and-a-half feet tall, with broad shoulders and without a hair on his head. Inquisitive blue-gray eyes observed me as he ushered me inside. In his 60s, he looked more like a retired Olympic athlete than a museum curator. But I doubted I looked like most people expected a professor to look.

  “If this will help us figure out what happened to Margery,” he said in a strong yet sad voice, “take all the time you need. My sister arrived yesterday, and she’s taking care of everything related to the services. She was always much better at that sort of thing.”

  He took our coats and North’s umbrella and led us to a pair of high-backed bar stools next to the high table between the kitchen and living room. The house smelled of cleaning materials and clay. The living room was straight out of a museum, with artfully placed rosewood shelves featuring Southeast Asian sculptures, pottery, and books. The kitchen was more modern family than museum, with well-used, chipped plates and mugs. A bread mixer with flecks of dough on the handle sat on the counter next to a bag of almond flour. Across from us, a large window overlooked the few city blocks before land met the northern part of the Bay. If the fog and rain hadn’t obscured the view, we could have seen Alcatraz Island.

  “I’ve already told the police all I know,” William said, “and they’ve gone over the crime scene thoroughly. But Mr. North seemed to think you could help. I didn’t realize he’d be joining you today…” He gave North a look that made me wonder if he suspected the man’s true character, then turned his attention back to me. “I’m not sure how you can help, but what can I tell you?”

  I hesitated and looked out the window at the rain and fog. North had interrupted my thoughts in the car, and I hadn’t decided my best approach with William. I needed to know more about the curse, but it wasn’t the most rational-sounding thing to bring up.

  “I’m sorry,” William said. “Where are my manners? Would you two like something to drink?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” North said.

  I shook my head. “That’s not why I paused. I was trying to think how best to describe what I need. It’s…about the curse.”

  William’s lips tightened.

  “Not that I think the curse is real,” I added hastily. “That’s what’s difficult to describe. I’m a historian, and I’ve seen legends—far-fetched lore involving fairies and ghost stories—that have their basis in fact. By figuring out which parts of a legend are truths that created the myth in the first place, it’s possible to uncover real history. In a case like this, it might help us figure out the present.”

  “Now it’s your turn to misunderstand,” William said, following my glance to look forlornly out the window at the falling rain. “I didn’t make a face because I’m skeptical. I’m afraid the curse is real. It’s coming to claim me next.”

  v.

  North had a fit of coughing.

  “You think the curse is real?” I squeaked.

  William forced a laugh. “I didn’t use to. Neither did Margery. Until the letters started coming.” He shivered. It was jarring to see such a show of vulnerability in the hulking figure.

  “I haven’t been able to find much about it,” I said as North recovered.

  “In spite of our museum and Margery’s charity work,” William said, “I’m afraid we’re not famous enough for our little curse to have its own Wikipedia page. Not until two days ago, at least. You really think this might help?”

  “I do.”

  He nodded. “Margery tried to keep her fears hidden, even from me, but I do know some things beyond what’s been reported. First, let me get it out in the open, right out front. Because I don’t want you to worry that you’re in the house with a murderer. I can only imagine what Mr. North has told you, but I loved my wife.”

  “William, I don’t know what you mean—” North began.

  “I’m not a stupid man,” William said. “You think I don’t know what people are saying? Miss Jones, I want you to understand the truth about me so you’ll take seriously what I tell you about the curse. Mr. North, you can feel free to play chaperone from the covered deck behind the house.”

  North cleared his throat. “Right-o. I can take a hint.”

  “Nicely done,” I said once North had grabbed his coat and stepped into the chilly, damp air.

  “I have no patience for that man. I know Margery respected his skills, but look where that got her.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. After a deep breath, he looked out the window again, speaking to the fog as he continued. “Margery and I had grown apart in recent years. She’d become more interested in philanthropy than scholarship. A worthy cause, certainly, but she enjoyed spending her free time at galas, and I didn’t. Our schedules became so different that we moved into different bedrooms. But in spite of what people think, I wasn’t having an affair with Emily. Margery knew that. It’s true I’d been finding friendly companionship with my co-worker more than with Margery the last couple of years. Emily enjoys going to lectures, she’s not so much interested in galas. Not that Margery was superficial. She wanted to do good through her charity work. She even shaved her head earlier this year for a charity fundraiser.” He broke off as a boom of thunder sounded.

  I took the distraction as an opportunity to steer the conversation back on course. “About the curse…”

  “Margery’s grandparents were explorers. The grandest of explorers. Her grandmother, Sarah Mann, was from San Francisco, and her grandfather, Harold Lexington, was from a small village in England. They met in Phnom Penh in the early 1920s, both enticed by stories of the French adventurers who’d found ancient Angkorian temples deep in the jungles of Cambodia.” The enthusiastic words spilled out of William. As he spoke of the past, his face transformed from one of mourning to that of a little boy recounting an adventure story.

  “Sarah’s travel companion had fallen ill,” he continued, “but unconventional Sarah didn’t let that stop her. She went alone to the bar where a group of men had returned from an expedition. She was enthralled by their stories, and even more by Harold himself. They were soon wed and went on several expeditions elsewhere in Indochina before being lured back to Cambodia, in search of a temple that Harold felt he’d been ‘so close’ to finding on that earlier expedition.”

  I leaned forward, finding myself caught up in William’s excitement. “He found a lost temple?”

  William smiled and shook his head. “He never found it. What he found was the previously buried sculptures from a temple in the Banteay Chhmar complex that a Frenchman had ‘discovere
d.’ That’s where he found the bas-reliefs that enabled him to open the Lexington Museum.”

  “Oh.” I found myself strangely disappointed.

  “Harold did his part surveying the massive temple complex, and there were so many stone carvings that he was able to claim the sculptures he removed for himself, including The Churning Woman. This was 1924, right before the law that forbade taking items of historical significance out of the country. Yet a local Khmer guide warned Harold not to take the sculptures. The man had no power…”

  “So they ignored him.”

  William nodded. “Harold wasn’t formally trained. He had offers from museums in the U.S. and Europe to purchase the sculptures, but no offers of a curatorship, which is what he coveted. He and Sarah were both shrewd collectors as well as self-taught archaeologists. When they realized they had acquired enough objects and knowledge to open their own small museum, they returned to San Francisco. They opened the Lexington Museum, with The Churning Woman bas-relief as the centerpiece. When you got in touch you mentioned you’re a historian. Have you seen it?”

  “It’s phenomenal. I saw the sculpture at your museum, and I saw many like it when traveling in Cambodia.” In ancient Cambodian temples, long sections of sandstone panels had been carved in bas-relief to tell epic stories of bravery and battles. After the kingdoms of Angkor fell and their temples were abandoned to the rich jungles that overtook them, trees grew through the formerly glorious stone carvings, causing the stones to break apart until they were often covered by vegetation. Four centuries after being abandoned, the temples—already known to the locals—were ‘discovered’ by French explorers. And it was the French who wrote romantic accounts of the ruins and began digging them up, rather than the Cambodians who had known about their existence all along.