drugs, and we think that he deals drugs, though we aren’t certain.”
“He was only a baby, but he was a troubled baby.”
“He was?”
“He made a good deal of noise.”
I laughed. “He still does.”
“We are ready to eat now. You will tell me more later.”
I was happy that we were going to eat together. In the courtyard the men clustered under the tree, while the women chatted and ate around a table set a little apart. I sat with the women. Tyo’s sisters-in-law included me, cheerfully putting up with my attempt at Indonesian until I discovered their English was far better. It shouldn’t have surprised me, as everyone seemed to speak English. My attempts to communicate in Bahasa generally meant I said a word or two, then the conversation reverted to English. Still, I knew that the few words I spoke were appreciated.
10
At some point Tyo joined us, asking me, “How are you?”
The women gave each other a look I couldn’t interpret. “Fine, they are putting up with my Bahasa. My very minimal Bahasa.”
He said something to one of the women in Balinese and they all laughed.
I wanted to ask about his wife, but sensed that this was not a conversation that he wanted to have.
His brothers soon joined us. His friend Esa was the last, moving reluctantly in our direction. Wayan Tyo made a space between where he and I sat. Esa hesitated, then squeezed in, his shoulder against Tyo’s older daughter, who sat to one side of me. He took her hand. She gave him a smile. The younger girl leaned against me on the other side.
“Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“No. I am on the other side of town.”
“Do you work with Wayan Tyo?”
“No,” he said, a master of brevity.
I felt the emotional push he was giving me, the unwillingness to talk with me. He turned to listen to one of Tyo’s brothers, cutting me off, his shoulder a blade between us.
Everyone spoke English, even the children, though forgetting I was there, they began to chat in Balinese. I became aware Wayan Tyo was watching me, a questioning look on his face. I pushed my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit that drove my mother mad.
“How is it possible, in that house with numerous servants, that no one saw the killer?” I asked him. I had tried not to think about the murder, but now that I found him looking at me I could think of nothing else.
“We haven’t found anything about Flip’s killer. The only fingerprints at the scene are yours, those of the girls who do the cleaning and serving, and the gardener who waters the plants in that room. Well, there are also some prints at the table, but we can’t identify those. He had many visitors dining with him, and his servants don’t seem to know any of their names, other than the women that he entertained. That was all that interested them.”
Esa leaned back, our conversation bouncing over him.
“There are no fences, so someone could walk in through the trees and remain invisible. A person who knows the household might well know their routine. Or, if they knew that Flip was having guests for lunch, the killer might have assumed that the women would be in the kitchen cooking. The killer might even have been the third person dining. You saw that the table was set for three?”
I nodded.
“The girls didn’t know who was coming.”
“I suppose. You would think that Flip would have called out, yelled, responded in some way when this person came into his living room with a vicious-looking weapon.” I felt Wayan Tyo’s younger daughter lean harder against my side, so I reached around and gathered her into my arms.
“It all suggests that Flip knew the killer and just didn’t feel threatened.”
“I suppose. So, since you have absolutely no idea who the killer is, you haven’t any clue to a motive?”
Tyo didn’t answer right away. The group had gone quiet, listening to what he had to say about the murder. Finally his youngest brother said, “Plenty of motive. No one liked the man. He pursued women, not just single women, so an angry husband might have killed him.”
“That’s not the only motive,” the middle brother said. “There are plenty of rumors of him dealing in the illegal art trade, so an unhappy collector or dealer might have killed him. Or maybe he was not kind to his servants. One of them—or all of them—might have done it and are now covering up.”
My ears pricked up at the mention of illegal art activity, but I said, “I think you can eliminate the servants. They began crying for him immediately.”
“More likely crying for lost wages,” said Esa.
Everyone nodded. I felt the strength of the community’s dislike for Flip in this very courtyard, and by extension their disregard for the people who worked for him. “What do you think, Wayan Tyo?”
“I must rely on my intuition, though what my brothers say is correct. He was hated. He represented all that was bad in the expat community. Some foreigners who come here to live contribute to life on the island in a positive way. His contributions did include positive things—he gave work to people, he encouraged young artists—but his womanizing, his wild parties, his breaking down of local morals more than outbalanced the good that he did. We could do nothing to stop him, though we tried.”
“Foreigners will destroy our culture,” Esa said bitterly.
Before I could respond to that, one of Tyo’s brothers spoke. “What did the police do?”
“We raided parties, but he always had watchers who saw us coming, and the drugs vanished before we got there, just as the music became quieter at our approach. There were rumors”—he nodded at his brother in acknowledgment—“that he dealt illicitly in art. But how? Theft? Fakes? Both were rumored, but we never caught him, though we tried. We even . . .”
All of us looked at him expectantly.
He set down his plate. “There is nothing. No clues in the room. No fingerprints on the spear. An old spear like that could have come from anywhere. Most of them have been sold to tourists as artifacts or taken by the Dutch as trophies, but some homes still have them. We visited the shopkeepers today who deal in this type of weapon, but none of them recognized it. We cannot find any information about either the weapon or who might have entered the compound, and I am very frustrated.”
“Could it have to do with his painting?” I asked.
“Perhaps it could. But how?”
“Well, the painting that was on the floor by his easel at the time of his death was not his usual work. I only glimpsed a corner of it, but it was obviously in Balinese style. His work referenced that style, though his paintings weren’t copies, as far as I know.” I shrugged. “But, you might know more about that, Tyo.”
“There are
