The Thai Amulet by Lyn Hamilton Page A

kidding!”
    “I know him. He’s gone missing, I’m afraid.”
    “Oh dear,” she said. “What do you mean by missing?”
    “No one seems to have seen him since the July fourth party.”
    “No kidding? I’m really not having much luck here, am I? He had a portrait of her, Ford, I mean. It was really eerie, kind of scary even. It was going to be a real feature of the film. I was going to get someone to scan the image and then computer age her, to see what she might look like now. I don’t suppose you know where that picture might be.”
    “I have no idea,” I said.
    “I remembered the artist’s name: Robert Fitzgerald. Will told me that he was the painter of choice in those days when the rich and famous wanted their portrait done. I phoned Fitzgerald, asked if he happened to have another, or a photograph of it, but he didn’t. I was hoping it would be part of the auction, but no such luck.”
    “The artist is still alive after all this time?”
    “Sure, although now that you mention it, he didn’t sound all that old. He knew which portrait I was talking about. I told him I’d seen it at Will Beauchamp’s place, and he didn’t argue with me or anything. But he said it was an original and there were no photos and no copies. I didn’t tell him who I thought it was, though.”
    “So you haven’t seen Beauchamp since July fourth either?” I asked.
    “No. I’ve tried. We exchanged phone numbers. He gave me two, one for his store and one for his home, but I haven’t been able to reach him at either. I thought he was kind of interested in me, if you get what I’m saying. As a potential lady friend, I mean. I was surprised not to hear from him. I wasn’t really interested in him that way, though, although I’ll admit I flirted a bit. He was kind of old. Oops, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
    “I’m sure he was too old for you. He was also married, with a child.”
    “Eew,” she said. “He didn’t tell me that.”
    “He was trying to forget it,” I said. “Is this it?” I said, pointing to the street as the car pulled over and the driver turned to look at us. “Give me your work number, too. We’ll talk again soon. You might like to join my sort of stepdaughter and her boyfriend and me for dinner one evening.”
    “Wow,” she said. “That would be great. Thanks. I really hope I’ll hear from you.”
    “You will,” I said. “Is there any chance you might let me read the first chapter of Will’s book? I would like to find him, and maybe that would help. I realize this is grasping at straws.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “He gave it to me in confidence. Let me think about that, okay? You aren’t with a rival studio or anything, are you?”
    “No, I promise, and I also promise to try and get you the sword once you’re ready to film. By the way, why would you need a sixteenth-century sword in a film about Helen Ford?”
    She looked at me as if I was really dim-witted. “Will was almost certain he had the sword that she used to chop up her husband,” she said. “I’m assuming this is the one.”
    “Sorry to bother you, David. I know we just parted company a few hours ago, but I really have to show you something,” I said. “Can I meet you somewhere just for a few minutes before I head back to Ayutthaya?”
    “Is it in connection with the Beauchamp business?”
    “It is.”
    “Then, sure,” Ferguson said. “Why don’t we start the cocktail hour a little early?”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “Have you ordered yet?” he said a few minutes later.
    “No. I just got here.” Here was the lobby lounge of Bangkok’s Regent Hotel, a most cool and beautiful spot filled with flowers and graced with a wonderful mural depicting scenes from the life of Prince Rama and ceilings hand painted in gold and cream, green, blue, and coral. A young woman in a
phasin
hovered nearby.
    “For the lady?” Ferguson said, looking at me.
    “A glass of Chardonnay,” I said.
    “And a