He sat back down and pulled out one of his desk drawers, then lifted out a hefty binder. “As I said, he was organized. There are pictures of everything in there, so you can see what he’d purchased.”
“Thanks. Would you mind if we got back to you with any more questions that we might have?”
“Not at all. Especially if your research helps in finding my father’s killer.”
“That would certainly be a positive outcome,” I said.
P.P. merely smiled as he shook his hand. Sharpen took the binder and led us to an adjacent room. After he’d left, P.P. looked at me and said, “No murders, Jenna. We’re art historians, not detectives.”
The length of his sentence told me he was serious, but he didn’t need to keep making the point that I shouldn’t get involved. The mystery of a stone head was enough for me.
5
“I haven’t come to a conclusion,” Tyler said as he arranged pieces of a ceramic bowl on his worktable. Some pieces were smaller than my little fingernail, one vanishing between his fingers as he picked it up.
“But any thoughts?” I perched on one of the high stools at the tall table.
“Sure.” He moved a small piece from the row where he’d set it and placed it next to one in a different row. Both had bright blue glaze, one of half a dozen colors. It was a complicated 3D jigsaw puzzle.
“What happened?” I asked, motioning to the bowl.
“Mrs. Searles brought it in. Apparently her maid dropped it.”
I looked more closely. “Is it old?”
“No,” he answered grumpily, looking at a photo that he had lying next to him on the table.
“Okay, I won’t go there.”
“Don’t.” He looked up from his task. “The conservator at the Asian told me he didn’t know of any study of Khmer stone. Surprising.”
“Yes, you would think this material was a likely candidate for research. There are so many Khmer fakes being produced.”
“I did check out a small sample from P.P.’s stone head under the microscope. The surface patina looked awfully uniform to me. This isn’t good, as you know. I’m feeling like I should have taken a larger sample. I called P.P. and asked him to come to the lab the next time he’s in the museum, so I can show him how large a sample I want to take. I don’t want to take too much off the neck and then discover that the head is authentic, even if I can easily fill and in-paint the area I removed.”
“Right. He’s due in the building shortly. I’ll send him down to you.” Tyler went back to arranging the pieces of the bowl. Much conservation work looked tedious to me. I wouldn’t want to be the one who actually glued all those pieces together once he got their arrangement figured out. Still, I couldn’t resist moving a green-glazed piece next to another of the same color. “What if she didn’t bring in all the pieces?”
“That would be a blessing. Then I wouldn’t have to complete the restoration. Can’t imagine she’s going to want to use it once it’s repaired.”
“No.” I leaned forward, looking for more green.
He glanced up and sighed as he realized I wasn’t going anywhere until he told me more of his thoughts on the Khmer sculpture. “The wear on the head is minimal. A few tiny chips, no breaks. I’m leaning toward thinking it’s new. But then I look at it again and the carving is so good, I become uncertain. I’m not a specialist, but the Cambodian fakes that I’ve seen were obviously fake. This is not.”
“I feel that way too. When I first looked at it I thought it was the original. Then when I looked more closely for wear, I got worried.”
“If it’s wrong, the sculptor is a master.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t mind having a fake like that one.” I pointed at one piece of the bowl and a larger one with a matching angle. As long as it felt like solving a puzzle I enjoyed this.
He moved the small shard of ceramic next to the larger one, and I noticed for the first time that his hands were bare. “No gloves?” I said, surprised.
“I found a bowl like this selling online. It’s worth about twenty-five dollars.” He picked up the photo and shook it at me.
“And she’s paying your fee to have you fix it?” Conservators do not come cheap. I studied the photo. “On eBay?”
“She isn’t paying anything,” he said with irritation. “Her husband paid for this museum, and his endowment pays our salaries, in case you’ve forgotten. Yes, of course on eBay.”
“Oh.” I stood up. He didn’t appear to have more to say about the head, and this seemed like a good time to leave.
WHEN I arrived in my office, P.P. was firmly planted in my desk chair, riffling through the papers on my desk. I slouched in the visitor’s chair opposite. “Find anything of interest?” I asked ironically.
“No.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Catalogue.”
“What catalogue?”
“Qing porcelains.”
“You’re suddenly interested in seventeenth- to nineteenth-century monochrome ceramics?”
“No.”
“I sent off the galleys last week. The next version will be the finished product. Or so I hope. Haven’t heard a word from them since it went off. A good thing.” I picked at a snag in my sweater, though I knew that would only make it worse. “Is there something in particular in the catalogue that you need to read?”
“Date.”
I frowned. “The dates of the exhibition?”
P.P. nodded as he began to stack papers.
I handed him the museum newsletter, which was sitting atop a pile he’d just gone through. The cover story gave the dates.
“Ah. Have to get the reservations after the opening.”
“What reservations?” I was beginning to want my chair. Usually he would have jumped up after a few moments and begun to pace, giving me a chance to slide back into my spot.
“Cambodia.”
“You’re going to Cambodia?” This was the first I’d heard of it.
“We’re going.”
“P.P., I have far too much on my plate to be flying off to Cambodia. Maybe in six months, when the porcelain exhibition has closed. Though I expect by then I’ll have something else unexpected on my schedule.” Thinking of Philen and his machinations, I said grumpily, “A new project,
