“He remembered he had an old chum from law school living in Bangkok, so he asked him to send someone over to see what they could find. The friend reported back that the shop was dark, there was mail piled up behind the glass door, and according to the shopkeepers in the vicinity, it had been for many weeks. None could remember having seen Will for some time, at least that’s what they told Steven’s friend. They could be covering for William, I suppose, but why would they? The chum tried the home address, too, and didn’t get an answer there either. The woman next door—maybe she was Ms. Praneet—said she couldn’t recall when she had last seen William, but it had been some time.
“Then this package arrived. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I did call the office that’s listed in that lawyer’s letter about the auction to see if it was for real. I couldn’t make out the signature, but eventually I got to talk to someone. All he did was repeat what was in the letter—at least I think that’s what he said. It’s hard to do these things over the telephone when you don’t speak the language. I mean, when you’re there, in person, you can kind of wave your arms around and get yourself understood eventually. I didn’t find him at all helpful, but maybe it was just a misunderstanding. I was able to ascertain, though, that the rent hadn’t been paid in three months before they sent the letter, and as you can see, it’s dated almost a month ago.”
“Was the letter still sealed when you got it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s what made me realize something might have happened to Will, that this wasn’t just some horrible prank.”
“Have you made official enquiries?” I said. “The police? The Canadian Embassy?”
“I called the U.S. Consulate here in Toronto. Will’s an American, and although he lived here for twenty years, he never took out citizenship. One of the consular officers said they would send something off to Bangkok, but I haven’t heard anything since.”
We both sat looking at the pathetic pile of Will’s stuff for a minute or two. “This really is all that came in the bubble envelope?” I asked.
“There was a letter from my lawyer about the divorce postdated over three months ago. I didn’t think I needed to bring that. It was unopened, too, by the way. Will never saw it. I don’t think you answered my original question,” she said. “Do you think Will is dead?”
“I don’t know,” I said vaguely. What I wanted to say was that I thought that Will had simply chosen to disappear again. After all, the package might contain some strange things, but it was what wasn’t in it that struck me. Things like a passport, a driver’s license, credit cards, the kinds of items that would make you think he was dead if they were there, but the absence of which just made you think he’d made a run for it. I kept these thoughts to myself. To voice them seemed unkind.
“There is life insurance,” she said. “He never changed the beneficiary, so I’m it. And he seems to have kept up the payments, at least until four months ago. It isn’t a huge amount, but it would certainly help a great deal. The point is, for me to get it, he has to be dead. Really dead, with some kind of certificate that says so. I know in cases where people disappear, the death certificate is eventually issued, but it’s something like seven years, and I can’t wait that long. So either I find him alive and see what we can work out, or I prove him dead and collect the insurance. I’m sure that sounds callous, but I’m not in a position to be anything else.
“You asked me if this is all that was in the package. I suppose I should tell you there was one more letter.” She hesitated. “It’s for me. I don’t really want to show it to anyone. It seems so personal. But it’s the one that really made me think something awful has happened, although it doesn’t actually say so, not in so many words.”
The letter was well handled, the fold almost transparent, and some of the ink was smudged.
“Dear Natalie,” it said.
“I’m sorry. I know how inadequate this is, but if you get this, then probably it is all I will ever be able to say. Tell Caitlin I love her. I have always loved both my girls, no matter what it looked like.”
It was signed simply W.
I handed it back to her and watched as she carefully tucked it back in her purse. “I know this is an imposition,” she said. “But would you consider making a couple of phone calls or something when you’re there?”
Chapter 2
I remember vividly the first time I saw The Royal Palace of Ayutthaya. My dear mother told me often how I stood, transfixed by the sight of the soaring buildings, the gold, the exquisite carving, the splendor of it all. It was the most beautiful and astonishing sight of my young life, and I confess I have never lost the feeling of awe that I felt at that moment. The city has the power to overwhelm me still.
Now that I have been forced to some introspection, I see that my enchantment blinded me to the raw ambition, the poisonous intrigue that rested so close to the heart of the palace. The signs were there, even then, and certainly later, but as a boy in a place so very different from anything he had known until that moment, I lacked the ability to read them.
It is a fact of life that being in the antique business puts you in touch with wealth, and those who possess it. While scouring the world to find the perfect objets d’art to grace the showroom of McClintoch Swain, I’ve been in homes that are palaces, yachts the size of the average house. I have met people with more money than most of us can even imagine. By and large, with the exception of a few pangs of envy from time to time, I like to think I keep my feet firmly planted in reality, and I am always glad to get home to my little house in Cabbagetown with its tiny garden, and my store, even if, at 3,000 square feet, it would fit into the living room of some of the mansions I’ve visited. I have never, however, seen anything like the residence of the Chaiwong family. Nor am I likely to forget it, or them.
I was met at the airport by a car and driver and quickly whisked away from the masses of humanity that one finds in international airports: the travelers; their friends; the totes selling transportation, hotels, visits to “special” shopping places with the best of prices. In the car was an English-language newspaper, the Bangkok Herald, a damp towel, neatly packaged in plastic, for my hands and face, and a bottle of ice-cold water.
“I hope you will enjoy the journey to Ayutthaya,” the driver said. “Please rest, and if there is anything you need, you will tell me.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, sinking back into the leather seat. I would have liked to enjoy the sights, but there wasn’t much to see. We took a major highway, heading north from Bangkok, and as it was ten o’clock at night, all was in darkness. After thirty-some hours of traveling, it wasn’t long before I dozed off in the cool comfort of the backseat.
I awakened to the sound of the driver’s voice speaking quietly into his car phone. He saw me in the mirror and said, “Only five minutes more. I have alerted the household of your arrival.”
We pulled up in front of what looked to be an office tower or perhaps a hotel, ten stories of attractive enough white stucco at the summit of a slight incline on a circular driveway. Two stone elephants about three feet high marked the entranceway, which was also lined with orchids. In my jet-lagged state, I couldn’t figure out why I would be at such a place, but I didn’t have time to wonder for long, because within seconds of my stepping out of the car under the portico, I caught sight of a familiar blond head hurtling toward me.