iv.

Legend says that the land of Cambodia sprang from the magical union of a local princess and an Indian prince. A majestic prince from a foreign land was sailing through a floating kingdom of water. Intrigued by the newcomer, a brave and beautiful princess rode her boat across the water to greet him. The Indian prince shot an arrow into her boat, pulling her closer. With this show of strength, she agreed to marry him. As a dowry, the princess’s father, the king of the water, drank up the water and created the land that became the kingdom of Kambuja.

I always remembered that story, because what kind of fairy tale has a princess frightened into marrying a guy who shot an arrow at her? A dark one, much like the sinister legend that brought me to Margery Lexington’s home on Saturday afternoon to talk with her widower, William Edmonton.

It began to rain as I maneuvered into a minuscule parking spot along the side of a jarringly steep street on Russian Hill. The Edwardian-style house Margery and William had shared was within view across the street, and even from my car I could see ornate molding and two small hedges that had been shaped into what looked to be fat guardian lions flanking the entry steps. All of it befitting a couple who ran a museum.

Before I got out of the car, I read my notes again. I didn’t want to take up more of the bereaved man’s time than I had to. But with the dearth of written information on legends surrounding the curse, I needed him. I’d assumed the museum’s materials would mention the curse, as it was much like famous Egyptian curses that capture the imagination of visitors at museums across the world. Unfortunately, the Lexington Museum’s writer went for scholarly over sensational.

As the rain pelted down on the windshield, I reviewed the obituaries of Margery that had been published in local papers since the original news report had come out. In San Francisco she had been known more as a philanthropist than as the owner of the small museum she had inherited from her father. A small, sprightly woman, she appeared in the most recent photos sporting stylishly short dark brown hair, pictured both in ball gowns at local charity galas and in overalls at Earth Day volunteer events in Golden Gate Park. Margery’s own family was only modestly wealthy, so she’d initially gotten to know wealthy donors interested in art and Southeast Asian history in hopes of expanding the museum. But she quickly took on a different role, as an advocate and fundraiser herself, raising money in particular for historical preservation and environmental causes.

Though the obituaries briefly mentioned Margery’s family history, only one of them went into any depth about her grandfather Harold and the founding of the Lexington Museum. Harold had come to America in 1925 with his young San Franciscan wife Sarah, who was praised for her resourcefulness in weathering the Great Depression, which began shortly after her husband opened his museum and died. Though the text didn’t explicitly say he had died because of a curse, it mentioned a history of tragically young deaths in the family.

I looked up from my notes and nearly had a heart attack. A dark figure hovered in front of the car. My phone slipped from my fingers and crashed onto my bare foot. The twinge of pain brought me back to reality, diverting my thoughts from the curse. Which was a good thing, since the figure came closer to the car and rapped on the passenger side window. I briefly considered leaving him out in the rain, before reaching across the seat and unlocking the car door.

“What brings you to my little car?” I asked North as he closed his umbrella and climbed inside.

“I didn’t expect you to visit the house of the main suspect alone. I thought you’d be off in a library archive somewhere.”

“Libraries don’t have information unless that information is written down. This is family history. I needed to talk to someone who knew more about it.”

“He could be a murderer.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I need you to find my sculpture.”

I swallowed hard, an unpleasant thought forming in my mind. Could North himself have taken the sculpture and killed Margery? But then why would he have involved me? It was a ridiculous idea. Ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

“The rain is subsiding,” I said, slipping my heels back on. “Let’s go.”

We ran across the street. Ever the English gentleman, North held his umbrella over my head.

“We’re sorry to trouble you,” I said when William greeted me at the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”

I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye. William Edmonton stood a solid six-and-a-half feet tall, with broad shoulders and without a hair on his head. Inquisitive blue-gray eyes observed me as he ushered me inside. In his 60s, he looked more like a retired Olympic athlete than a museum curator. But I doubted I looked like most people expected a professor to look.

“If this will help us figure out what happened to Margery,” he said in a strong yet sad voice, “take all the time you need. My sister arrived yesterday, and she’s taking care of everything related to the services. She was always much better at that sort of thing.”

He took our coats and North’s umbrella and led us to a pair of high-backed bar stools next to the high table between the kitchen and living room. The house smelled of cleaning materials and clay. The living room was straight out of a museum, with artfully placed rosewood shelves featuring Southeast Asian sculptures, pottery, and books. The kitchen was more modern family than museum, with well-used, chipped plates and mugs. A bread mixer with flecks of dough on the handle sat on the counter next to a bag of almond flour. Across from us, a large window overlooked the few city blocks before land met the northern part of the Bay. If the fog and rain hadn’t obscured the view, we could have seen Alcatraz Island.

“I’ve already told the police all I know,” William said, “and they’ve gone over the crime scene thoroughly. But Mr. North seemed to think you could help. I didn’t realize he’d be joining you today…” He gave North a look that made me wonder if he suspected the man’s true character, then turned his attention back to me. “I’m not sure how you can help, but what can I tell you?”

I hesitated and looked out the window at the rain and fog. North had interrupted my thoughts in the car, and I hadn’t decided my best approach with William. I needed to know more about the curse, but it wasn’t the most rational-sounding thing to bring up.

“I’m sorry,” William said. “Where are my manners? Would you two like something to drink?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” North said.

I shook my head. “That’s not why I paused. I was trying to think how best to describe what I need. It’s…about the curse.”

William’s lips tightened.

“Not that I think the curse is real,” I added hastily. “That’s what’s difficult to describe. I’m a historian, and I’ve seen legends—far-fetched lore involving fairies and ghost stories—that have their basis in fact. By figuring out which parts of a legend are truths that created the myth in the first place, it’s possible to uncover real history. In a case like this, it might help us figure out the present.”

“Now it’s your turn to misunderstand,” William said, following my glance to look forlornly out the window at the falling rain. “I didn’t make a face because I’m skeptical. I’m afraid the curse is real. It’s coming to claim me next.”