The Mystery of the Visible Insured

by Ron Katz

“Wow, what a group!” exclaimed Bernie Silver, as he opened a box containing a framed photograph given to him by his wife and business partner, Barb. The picture memorialized the recent assignment that had taken the two partners in Silver Investigations to the wilds of New Guinea: Bernie, in blue jeans and a checked shirt, standing with a group of five men, in full feathered and pierced regalia, from the remote Asmat tribe.

“An even better shot would have been of you being hoisted by a rope into our rescue helicopter at midnight,” chuckled Barb, “but my hand was shaking too much to get a sharp image.”

“That reminds me,” he joked,” that we should be adding a proviso to the Silver Investigations website: “’No corpse hunting outside the U.S.’”

“No need,” she said. “What are the odds of that ever happening again?”

***

“You wouldn’t be hunting for a corpse,” said Al Jordan over the speakerphone the next day. “We know exactly where this corpse is. That’s the problem.”

Al had been Barb and Bernie’s supervisor at Alpha Insurance Company when they were investigators there. He still gave them assignments from time to time in cases where their age gave them an edge.

“Run this by us again, Al,” said Bernie disbelievingly. “You’re saying this corpse is in someone’s living room?”

“Strange as that may seem, right.”

“I don’t mean to seem thick, Al, ”Bernie continued, “but how is this so?”

“It’s a long, long story, my friend. Why don’t you and Barb stop by my office later today and I can spin it out for you. In the meantime, for context, I’ll email you the insurance policy in question.”

“Normally we’d say ‘thanks for thinking of us’ at this point in the conversation,” interjected Barb, “but I think we’ll put that in the ‘pending’ file for the moment.”

***

“Corpse transportation insurance,” Barb marvelled after looking at Al Jordan’s email. “What will they think of next?”

“It was a little disconcerting at first,” mused Bernie, “but, on reflection, it makes a lot of sense. Have you ever tried to get a corpse through customs?”

“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” responded Barb. “All I know is that, if one of us dies before the other, I’m moving to San Diego.”

“Very funny,” Bernie continued, “but, seriously, we travel a lot, as do many other people. What if one of us died while we were abroad? Aside from everything else going through your mind, would you want to add contacting a local undertaker, getting a death certificate and arranging for transport over international borders?”

“Not to mention paying for all that in a foreign country when you are in a state of shock,” added Barb. “I’m starting to see the point. But it’s hard to look forward to receiving what the policy calls ‘a lifetime guarantee’ from Decedent Air Services Association Transport, or DASAT, as it’s known to its friends.”

“Yeah,” Bernie responded. You’d think that the guarantee would have to last a little bit longer than a lifetime.”

“They make up for that problem with friendliness,” joked Barb. “Get this: ‘On behalf of everyone at DASAT and your local funeral home, we welcome you to our program.’ Also, if you die before you finish paying off the insurance policy, you ‘have no further payment obligations.’”

“That’s a relief,” said Bernie, “but my problem is why is there a problem? Somebody dies while travelling, so scoop the body up and bring it home. There shouldn’t be any difficulties. Dead men tell no tales.” 

“You’re right,” replied Barb. “This could be an easy assignment. Hopefully, the corpse is in Paris…”

***

Later that day in Al Jordan’s office, Bernie animatedly responded to Alpha’s proposal: “Tana Toraja? I got an A in geography in fifth grade, but I’ve never heard of that place.”

“It’s on the island of Sulawesi,” responded Al.

Barb and Bernie exchanged puzzled glances. “Keep going,” she said.

“The island, which is the eleventh largest in the world, was called Celebes when you were in fifth grade,” said Al. 

“Ah,” said Bernie, “that’s in Indonesia, right?”

“Bingo,” said Al.

“Wait,” Barb cut in. “We were just there. You sent us to the remotest part of New Guinea in Indonesia for our last assignment. So, ‘thanks’ but ‘no thanks.’”

“Not so fast,” pleaded Al. Although Sulawesi is not Paris, it’s completely different from New Guinea. Indonesia is made up of 3000 islands, and they’re all different.”

“And Alpha Insurance Company has dozens of investigators, who are also all different,” rejoined Bernie. “So, send one of them.”

“I would love to avoid paying your rates,” Al replied, “but I have to admit you’re perfect for this job precisely because you’ve just been in Indonesia, and, as you now know, elders are venerated by Indonesians. To use your own slogan, age is an edge in this situation.”

“I’m not sure anyone has an edge when the assignment is picking up a corpse from someone’s living room,” said Barb. “What’s that all about?”

“Let me give you some background materials before you make a hasty decision,” replied Al. “Through our insurance networks, we have retained as an advisor a professor who teaches a course on insurance at the University of Hasanuddin in Makassar. His name is Petrus Sulu; he’s also originally from Tana Toraja, so he can be very helpful in several ways. He’s compiled some information for us on that area, so why don’t you study that and then give me a call?”

“Makassar?” queried Bernie.

“It used to be called Ujung Pandung, if that helps,” replied Al. “Lots of names changed in Indonesia after the Dutch returned the country to the Indonesians last century. Makassar, a city of 1.5 million people, is the capital of Sulawesi. If you also missed that in your geography class, I suggest that you request a refund.”

***

The next day Barb and Bernie devoted to the study of the extensive materials Al had given them. After many hours, they compared notes over dinner of chicken satay and gado-gado that they ordered in from a local restaurant specializing in Indonesian food. 

Barb started: “It seems like the most important event in the life of a Tana Torajan is death.”

“Nothing else is even close,” observed Bernie. “They keep the corpse at home until they have enough money to pay for an elaborate funeral. They preserve the corpse with formalin, a combination of formaldehyde and water, so at least there’s no smell.”

“And it may take them years to save up for the funeral,” added Barb. “Apparently, the higher your status in society, the more water buffalos you kill at the funeral, and the more likely those revered animals are to get the deceased to the afterlife.”

“Did you see the cost of those buffalos?” asked Bernie, who then answered his own question: “They’re currently going for $1500 apiece, and some big funerals have 100 of them, and last for weeks.”

“Yes,” said Barb, “families can go deep into debt to get their kin to puya, their version of heaven. Their final, earthly resting place is in caves in the nearby mountainsides, guarded by wooden statues called tau taus. The tau taus are about one-half life size and are carved to resemble the deceased. And Al was right that Tana Toraja is not nearly as dangerous as New Guinea. There are actually guided tours to view these spectacular funerals. Take a look at this National Geographic tour brochure.”

“My question,” continued Bernie, “is how the insured, Quentin Kelso, got stuck in Tana Toraja, marinating in formalin.”

“Let’s call Al tomorrow to find out,” said Barb. Right now my vote is to stay in California, where we can at least feel immortal until it’s too late.”

***

“Al suggested something called a Zoom,” Barb informed Bernie the next day.  

“Sounds like a carnival ride,” responded Bernie. “What is it?”

“If you click on the Zoom link in Al’s latest email, you will be taking one more giant step for mankind into the modern age.”

Bernie clicked and Al magically appeared on the computer screen, greeting “Have you ever Zoomed before?” 

“This is our first,” said Bernie, “but if this COVID virus gets any worse, it probably won’t be our last.”

“I can’t hear you,” said Al, raising his voice, as if that would help the muting problem. “Unmute yourself!”

Bernie clumsily clicked on his screen, which immediately went blank. As his face reddened, Barb, with the wisdom of the marital ages, calmly suggested that they just call Al back the old-fashioned way. 

Bernie then dialed Al’s number as if he was trying to flatten the phone keys. When Al answered, Bernie sputtered, “As I was saying, Al, that was our first Zoom, and it may be our last.”

“Hopefully, COVID will be contained in China,” responded Al. “But the threat of this virus spreading is all the more reason I’d like you to set off for Tana Toraja as soon as possible. If it’s any comfort, you probably won’t need Zoom skills there.”

“Getting to the problem at hand, Al, I still don’t see what the issue is,” interjected Barb. “If Quentin Kelso is dead, isn’t it just a matter of shipping him home?”

“The problem is that the headman—what they call over there the kepala—of the village where Quentin’s body currently resides is claiming that Quentin is his adopted son and therefore must follow the death rituals and funeral rites of the Torajans.”

“Why would the kepala of a village in Tana Toraja claim that?” asked Barb.

“That’s why I need you to go over there,” answered Al. “Needless to say, there are no formal adoption papers, and Quentin is in no position to question his adoptive dad.” 

“Why was he over there?” inquired Bernie.

“Quentin is an art dealer of some repute who has been going there for years. He was there a full year straight before his death, seemingly having forgotten his U.S. home. His San Francisco gallery specializes in Torajan art, which can be quite pricey.”

“Who is, or was, Quentin’s next of kin making the claim on the corpse transport insurance policy?” asked Barb.

“His wife, Janice, who is also his business partner in the Kelso Primitive Art Gallery. He did the purchasing of the art, and she manages their gallery in San Francisco. She is threatening to sue Alpha Insurance Co. for millions if the body is not here in two weeks. Her claim essentially would be that Alpha’s failure to honor its transportation policy has inflicted severe emotional distress on her.”

“Hmm,” mused Bernie. “She’d have a pretty sympathetic emotional distress case for a jury—instead of promptly bringing her spouse’s corpse home with dignity, Alpha Insurance Company leaves it rotting in a hut on Sulawesi for years, later to be surrounded by 100 slaughtered water buffalos in a lengthy ceremony that is a tourist attraction.”

“That’s why I need you to do this,” pleaded Al. “I was the Alpha executive who suggested starting this line of corpse transportation insurance—bodysnatching my boss calls it—and there will be hell to pay if we lose a multimillion dollar litigation because of it. Up to now, this program has been terrific for Alpha—few claims, mainly from places like London or Hamburg.”

“We love you, Al,” said Bernie, “and, forgive me for mixing my metaphors, but all the tea in China could not get us to Indonesia again this soon, or, possibly, ever.”

“Rather than tea,” responded Al, “I was thinking more of $100,000 per week for the two or so weeks that this would take.”

“Well,” observed Barb, “maybe we do love you enough to take the job. We’ll talk it over and get back to you.”

***

“Don’t you always say that money talks, and something walks,” noted Barb as she and Bernie drove home.

“I’m tempted,” admitted Bernie, “but easy money usually comes wrapped in problems. Speaking of money, if we follow it in this case, as we always do, I bet it leads straight to Kelso Primitive Art Gallery.”

“Agreed,” said Barb. “Since there doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for Quentin to be adopted by a stranger in such odd circumstances, my theory is that Quentin’s remains are being held for ransom of some sort.”

“I think you’re onto something, Barb, which makes me think that one of us needs to stay here to cover that angle. Quentin has been dead only a week, so anything that he shipped from Indonesia shortly before he died has likely not arrived yet. Whatever has been shipped to the Kelso Primitive Art Gallery could be the key to all this.”

“Great!” Barb exclaimed. “I love primitive art galleries.”

***

Hasanuddin University was a collection of buildings combining the worst of Dutch and Indonesian architecture. Bernie approached the building labeled Fakultas Usaha, Business School. He checked the directory of offices and, rolling his suitcase behind him, he headed to the cramped quarters of Professor Petrus Sulu on the second floor. 

There he shook hands with the professor, a short man wearing a peci, an elliptical hat, usually made of black felt or cotton, that is commonly worn by Indonesian men. 

“Selamat datang, Bapak,” greeted Petrus. Bernie remembered enough Indonesian from his recent trip to know that that meant “welcome, father,” a sign of respect for Bernie’s age.

“Terima kasih,” Bernie smoothly responded, which is “thank you” in Indonesian, and then added “That’s all the Indonesian I know, so I hope my contact at Alpha Insurance was right when he said you speak English.”

“Indonesian, English and my local language from Tana Toraja,” Petrus replied. “Also, a little Dutch.”

“Ah, just what I had hoped,” said Bernie. “Jumping right in, is it true that the kepala of your home village adopted Quentin Kelso? And, if so, why do you think he did it?”

“It’s a long story, Bapak. Why don’t I tell it to you on our way to Kete Kesu, the village where the kepala lives. Mr. Kelso also lives there now, because we Torajans believe that death is a process and, until the funeral, the person is still alive, just sick or sleeping. That’s why we keep him in the house and even prepare meals for him.”

“I’m ready to go,” said Bernie, motioning toward his suitcase. “I thought I was prepared for anything, but I truly hope that the kepala doesn’t invite us to join them for dinner.”

*** 

The 200-mile trip to the village of Kete Kesu took nine hours because of the winding mountain roads and the rattletrap Holden they travelled in, an old car formerly manufactured in Australia. The combination of rain forest and mountains was stunning, but Bernie was focused only on the opportunity to get as much information as he could.

“Please tell me a little bit about where we’re going, Petrus.”

“The village of Kete Kesu is a collection of Tongkanan houses, one of which is mine. It also has granaries, a burial place, a ceremonial ground, rice fields and a water buffalo pasture.”

“What’s a Tongakanan house?”

“It’s the traditional Torajan house with a roof in the shape of an arc. Some say that the shape represents a boat; others say it’s a water buffalo’s horns. The house is on stilts and it has certain rooms reserved for the dead, until they are buried.”

“What about the kepala?”

“Markus Batara is from a very high-status family. He has been the kepala for over 20 years, which means that his word is literally the law in this village.”

“What was his relationship with Quentin Kelso?”

“They had sort of a love-hate relationship. Markus doesn’t really approve of the commercialization of our culture, but he understands that commerce helps to ease the burden of debt that our funerals create. Quentin has gotten around Markus’s objections, to a certain extent, by bringing Markus’s widowed daughter, Odiya, into Quentin’s business. Without Odiya, Quentin could not operate here. Without Quentin, Odiya could not hope to pay off her late husband’s funeral. Odiya has located numerous cultural artifacts that Quentin ships out and sells as primitive art in the U.S.”

“Does Quentin respect your culture?”

“Considering that he’s a Westerner, yes. For example, he has participated in many of our cultural rites, including a ma’nene’ ritual for my late father.”

“What’s that?”

“Like the preparation of corpses for our funerals, ma’nene’ is not something that Westerners relate to very well. Essentially, at various intervals, we exhume the bodies from their resting places in caves, clean them and dress them in new clothes.”

Bernie gulped involuntarily. “And why, might I ask, do you do this?”

“We actually do it at various intervals—in the case of my late father, yearly. That was the one Quentin attended with me last year. In fact, we were heading back there ten days ago when Quentin fell from one of the cliffs in front of a cave burial place. One of the things I will do after we arrive at the village is to complete that ceremony, which I couldn’t do because of Quentin’s medical emergency.”

“How did he fall?”

“Unfortunately, that is not hard to do. The rocky mountainside burial caves are intentionally located in places that are hard to access in order to prevent the theft of tau taus, carved statues that command high prices in the U.S. Combine that with our incessant rainy weather and you have an accident waiting, or, in Quentin’s case, not waiting, to happen. I’m glad to take you to the burial caves if you like.”

“Let me give that some thought. On another subject, is your father related to Markus in some way?”

“My father is, or was, Markus’s brother. Markus is my uncle. I am the eldest son, so I am responsible for my father’s welfare. That is very important, because we believe that the dead protect the living, which is the reason for the ma’nene’ custom. We believe that ma’nene’ helps the dead to protect us. Because my father has passed on, I am also responsible for the resting place of my grandfather, Imanuel. Although he died before I was born, Imanuel has been a dominant influence on my life. I never met him, but I am still paying off his funeral, which, I am told, was one of the most elaborate in the history of Kete Kesu.”

“I take it that many people in your area are related to one another.”

“Between the living and the dead,” Petrus commented, “there are usually no more than three degrees of separation.”

“How do you feel about your duty to pay off the funeral of the grandfather you never knew?”

“It is my duty,” Petrus said glumly, “but sometimes I wonder if it should overshadow my life, as it has done. I also question whether we Torajans—especially those like me, who live elsewhere—should spend so much money and time on death. With so many tourists now, we are exposed to other ways of life and to affluence that we can only imagine.”

“Does your Uncle Markus share your doubts?”

“You can ask him when you meet.”

***

“It’s another world here,” said Bernie to Barb over his cell phone. 

“How on earth can you get cell service?” asked Barb.

“Well, this is now also a major area for tourism, so I guess good cell service helps attract tour business. Toraja is truly the Disneyland of death. How are things on your end?”

“Well, thanks to what looks like a developing pandemic, I have a plan to penetrate Kelso Primitive Art Gallery.”

“Do tell.”

“I haven’t worked it out completely yet, but it’s very helpful that many people are starting to wear surgical masks. Can you believe that I went to our bank the other day wearing a mask, I asked for money and they gave it to me?”

“A bank robber’s dream,” Bernie replied. 

***

Having researched that shipments coming from Sulawesi were likely to be shipped by DHL, Barb staked out the Kelso gallery in downtown San Francisco. On the very first day, a DHL truck pulled up and a three foot by three foot package, about six inches deep, was delivered. Twenty minutes later, Barb entered the gallery. She was wearing a Burberry trench coat, black slacks and black flats. Just before she entered, she donned a stylish black beret over her hair, which was in a bun, and a nondescript surgical mask.

As she had hoped and expected, a middle-aged woman, wearing a stylish red silk blouse and a white linen skirt, was on the phone behind the counter. On the counter was the opened shipping container and, next to it, a carved effigy, about 30 inches in length, of an Asian man wearing an elliptical black hat, a batik shirt and blue slacks.

While Barb browsed, the woman, who she assumed was Janice Kelso, was concluding her phone call. “Yes, yes Ms. Robertson. We’ll see you here tomorrow at one. It will be all ready for pick-up then.”

After she hung up, the woman yelled to someone in the back. “Phoebe Robertson will be picking up this tau tau tomorrow at one, Jim, so please make sure everything is in order. Odiya was responsible for shipping this one, which she is not used to doing.”

“No problem, Mrs. Kelso,” a male voice responded. “I’ll doublecheck everything, and it will be ready by 11 a.m.”

Barb, pretending to answer her phone, sauntered slowly out of the gallery before Janice could engage her in small talk about primitive art. Janice didn't hear the single click of the camera on Barb's phone, aimed at the tau tau.

***

Shortly before 11 a.m. the next day, Barb continued her stake-out. Again, as she hoped and expected, Janice Kelso walked out of the store at 11:45 a.m., presumably headed for lunch.

Five minutes later, wearing a green raincoat and a Greek fisherman’s hat over her pinned up hair, a surgically-masked Barb entered the gallery. As a young male greeted her, she asked “May I see Janice?”

“She’s out to lunch,” the clerk answered. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Barb replied. “I’m here to pick up my tau tau.”

“Oh, you must be Ms. Robertson. Mrs. Kelso was expecting you at one.”

“I know, but that’s when I have to pick up my dog from the groomer. Fifi gets so upset if she’s there too long.”

“No problem,” Mrs. Robertson. “Let me show you the tau tau, which is a perfect specimen.”

“I’m sure it is. Quentin, rest his soul, had such impeccable taste.”

“I’ve heard that,” said the clerk, “but, with all his travelling, I’ve never had the chance to meet him.”

 “Would you please just wrap this up now so that I can pick up Fifi on time?”

“Yes, ma’am; right away!”

***

Markus Batara was a diminutive man, whose face showed every one of his 50 to 60 years. Bernie shook his hand, bowed slightly and said “I am honored to meet you, Bapak,” which Petrus translated into Indonesian.

With an impassive expression developed over years of receiving respect, Markus extended his hand and softly gripped Bernie’s. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked through Petrus.

“I am here to inquire about Mr. Kelso,” responded Bernie.

“Ah, my prodigal son,” said Markus. “He has been very successful over the years selling our artifacts. He has also been helpful in recovering the most sacred and valuable of those—tau taus—which have been stolen by Westerners. Recently he has been looking for the stolen tau tau that guarded the cave that is the resting place of my father, Imanuel, who is Petrus’s grandfather.” He motioned to a picture of Imanuel on a nearby table.

“Quentin doesn’t sound like a prodigal son,” observed Bernie, “based on what you just described.”

Markus’s eyes narrowed. “Quentin prided himself on buying low and selling high. A tau tau he purchased, for example, for $500, he could sell for $20,000 in the U.S. We Torajans, on the other hand, are not at all certain that such items should be bought and sold. But I will not speak ill of Quentin now. In fact, my daughter, Odiya, and I were about to join him for dinner. Can you stay?” He nodded toward an attractive, thirty-something woman, who had been standing unobtrusively near the door. She had shoulder-length black hair, brushed to a high sheen, and wore a batik sarong in subdued shades of black and grey.

Keeping, with great effort, a straight face, Bernie said, “I would love to, but I have to call my wife in the U.S. With the time difference, she will be asleep unless I do that now. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Odiya,” he added. I understand that you worked with Quentin.”

“Yes,” she said shyly. “He taught me a lot about his business. By any chance...do you know whether our last shipment reached Mrs. Kelso?”

“I’ll ask my wife to check into that,” Bernie responded cryptically.

***

“I’ve got the latest shipment,” Barb blurted out as she answered the phone, which indicated that Bernie was calling. “It’s a tau tau.”

“Great,” he said. “Can you text me a picture of it while we’re talking.”

She did that, and he exclaimed “That’s it! The tau tau is a dead ringer—pardon the pun—for Imanuel, whose tau tau has supposedly been stolen. I just saw the late Imanuel’s picture at Markus’s home.”

“Imanuel?”

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a convoluted tale. Imanuel is the father of Markus, the kepala who supposedly adopted Quentin. He’s also the grandfather of our Torajan insurance consultant, Petrus. Imanuel’s historically expensive funeral, which occurred many years ago, seems to have broken the bank here, or maybe several banks. Because of what I learned about that, I think you’ve cracked the case.”

“How is that?”

“My theory is that Markus knows or strongly suspects that Quentin was behind the disappearance of Imanuel’s tau tau. Markus, who’s a clever fellow, probably figures that, if he holds on to Quentin long enough, the tau tau will somehow magically re-appear. And he’s right. Please ship the tau tau to me by the fastest means possible.”

“Bernie, doesn’t it bother you that some people might think I’ve stolen this tau tau?”

“Usually thieves don’t report thefts to the police,” he responded. “And it looks like Quentin and Janice Kelso—and possibly Odiya--are the worst kind of thieves, graverobbers.”

***

Three days later Imanuel’s tau tau arrived in Kete Kesu. Bernie smiled to himself when it arrived, thinking about Al Jordan’s reaction to how much this super-fast shipping cost. 

He walked into the living room of Petrus’s home and pumped his fist. “Why so happy?” Petrus asked.

Bernie took the tau tau out of its container and held it up triumphantly.

Petrus looked shocked. “How…how did you get that?” 

“That, my friend, is a trade secret. But I think Markus will be thrilled to see it, and I hope that it convinces him that Quentin should be buried in Quentin’s homeland, not in Toraja.”

“I was actually just heading out to the ma’nene’ ceremony for my father,” said Petrus. “I was hoping you could join me.”

“This is more important for my job,” responded Bernie. “Is there someone you can send with me to translate?”

“Odiya will be there. She knows English, which is what she and Quentin spoke to one another.”

***

An hour later, Odiya greeted Bernie at the door of Markus’s house with a puzzled look. Her eyes widened when she noted the package Bernie was carrying. “Let me get my father,” she said.

“I hope you can stay with us and translate,” said Bernie, who then spotted Markus in the next room and proceeded there.

“I have good news, Bapak,” Bernie greeted Markus, with Odiya translating.

“I am glad to hear that,” replied Markus. “What is in that big box?”

Bernie pulled out the tau tau with a flourish. To Bernie’s consternation, Markus looked far from happy. Markus grabbed the tau tau and threw it across the room. “This is a fake,” he said. “Look at the peci, for example. It’s cheap cotton that Imanuel would never wear. He always wore black felt.”

Stunned, Bernie gathered up the tau tau and backed out of the room, repeating several times another Indonesian word he had learned: “Maaf, Bapak. Maaf. I am sorry.”

***

Bernie stumbled back to Petrus’s house, foggily re-processing the investigation. His certainty that he and Barb had solved it had sunk into a funky doubt. Worse, he was thousands of miles from home in a very foreign environment where his popularity seemed to be slipping badly.

He returned to an empty house. Petrus had said he’d be gone several hours for the ma’nene’ ritual. He sat at a table in the living room, gathering his thoughts. At the other end of the table was Petrus’s laptop computer.

On a hunch, Bernie opened it up and stared at the space where the password had to be typed in. He reflected for a couple of minutes and then typed in “Imanuel.” Nothing.

Then he typed in “IMANUEL.” Nothing, plus a notice that he had one more try before the computer locked itself for security reasons.

Bernie took a deep breath and typed in ‘IMANUEL!”

***

“Janice Kelso dropped her claim,” Al said disbelievingly to Barb and Bernie over a Zoom call one week later. The call had been engineered by Barb, who had set up a Zoom account in Bernie’s absence. “How in blazes did you do it?”

“It all came down to an email string that I found on Petrus’s computer and printed out for Janice Kelso to see when I returned to the States,” replied Bernie. “The key email says ‘Best way for everyone to get paid is for Markus to keep Quentin in Kete Kesu. Figure out a way to do that, and I will handle the insurance company from this end.’”

“When Bernie read that email to me over the phone while he was still in Petrus’s living room,” added Barb, “it all clicked. Janice definitely was not wearing widow’s weeds when I saw her at the gallery, nor did she appear to be mourning her spouse in any way.”

“What’s the backstory to all this?” asked Al. 

“We can’t be sure of everything,” responded Bernie, “because I had to get out of Kete Kesu and out of Sulawesi as soon as possible. “It’s clear that Janice and Quentin did not have much of a marriage left because he was never home, and he may or may not have had a romantic relationship with Odiya. All that matters is that Markus, Petrus and Odiya were weighed down by debt and envious of wealthy tourists. Quentin’s death provided an opportunity for them to lessen that debt by much more than their tau tau smuggling was producing”

“Do you think they murdered Quentin?”

“They probably got him in that dangerous spot in front of the burial cave by saying he could take a tau tau from there, and they purported to give him Imanuel’s tau tau. After that, whether he fell or was pushed doesn’t really matter for our purposes. Once Janice was informed of his death, she hatched this emotional distress lawsuit plot with Markus, Petrus and Odiya to get money out of Alpha Insurance Company. They sent her the tau tau to provide Janice with an explanation for why Quentin was at the burial cave if anyone asked. Also, the $20,000 from the sale of the tau tau would tide them over until the insurance money came in.”

“Do you think the tau tau that was sent to the gallery was fake, as Markus claimed?”

“Absolutely,” said Bernie. Once Quentin fell, he was not a very discriminating customer.”

“And Janice didn’t care if it was fake,” added Barb, “because she knew she’d still get the $20,000 from her undiscriminating customer, Phoebe Robertson, who got rich by being divorced by a technology billionaire.”

“But the fake tau tau faked us out,” Bernie continued. “We thought Markus was keeping Quentin’s corpse to get Imanuel’s tau tau back. As it turned out, he was keeping the body so that Janice could sue Alpha for emotional distress.”

“Changing the subject a bit,” said Al, “at the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I do think we have to deal with the major problem that Quentin might have been murdered.”

“Of course,” said Barb. “We have reported what we know to Interpol. And, as we know, the corpus delecti is there for them to investigate to their heart’s content.”

Al continued: “Why do you think Markus reacted so violently when you showed him what you thought was Imanuel’s tau tau?”

“Based on Janice’s scheme,” responded Bernie, “Markus was expecting at least hundreds of thousands of dollars from Alpha settling the emotional distress case to avoid bad publicity, and all he got was this fake wooden statue. I don’t know the Indonesian words for it, but he must have been thinking ‘the jig is up.’”