ix.

“Now that we’re in the room where the crime took place, show me what happened,” I said.

North toyed with his collar as he glanced nervously around the room. “Since Margery and William had grown apart lately, they didn’t travel to the museum together. Margery was working alone in her office in the evening after the museum had closed. She knew my security was good, and she wasn’t counting on one of the three other people who could get inside—William, Emily, and Clay—killing her.”

“She was working here in this second-floor office?”

North pointed to the corner. “That’s where they found her. She’d been hit with a heavy bronze statue she kept on her desk.”

“You said William heard it happen?”

“Yes. Margery was here working late when William arrived to do some work on his own. The security cameras confirm this timeline.”

“Why were they both working so late?”

“With The Churning Woman out of sight, they were trying to come up with what to feature instead, so everyone was working overtime. William says he saw the light on in her office, through the open doorway, but that he didn’t go inside to say hello. Again, the cameras confirm this. A few seconds later, the cameras also show Margery’s door closing. The office doors swing inward, so the cameras didn’t show if it was Margery or her killer who closed the door shortly after William’s arrival.”

“But later,” I said, “there was nobody aside from Margery in the room.”

North nodded. “By the time the police arrived, yes. William says he heard Margery cry out, so he rushed from his office. But keep in mind, the cameras don’t record sound. William tried to get in, but the door was bolted from the inside. When Margery didn’t respond, he called 911. They broke down the door and found her inside. Alone. Dead. With the safe wide open, and the sculpture gone.”

“There aren’t any windows in here.”

“No. The only windows are in the museum section of the building. So what do you think?”

“I think I need some lunch. Alone.”

  

As it happened, I didn’t end up eating lunch by myself. My best friend Sanjay was in town between performances and agreed to meet me for lunch at a Cambodian restaurant in the Mission district. A successful stage magician who performed as The Hindi Houdini, Sanjay had a big ego but an even bigger heart. There was a time when I’d briefly wondered if we might become more than friends, but it wasn’t in the cards. I was in love with another man, and as someone I saw several times a week and argued with just as often, Sanjay felt even more like a brother to me than my brother Mahilan.

Since he was a magician, Sanjay had an insightful way of analyzing seemingly impossible situations. He thought about misdirection for most of his waking hours. But in this case, after I told him everything I knew over our lunch of shredded mango salad and fish amok stew, he sat back and shook his head.

“I don’t see how it’s possible,” he said.

“That’s not what you were supposed to say. I hoped you were wearing your bowler hat through our whole meal because you were going to pull a miniature sculpture out from under it, or something that would shed light on the problem at hand.”

“Sadly, no.” He raised the hat and grimaced before quickly putting it back in place. His thick head of black hair was marred by a distressingly large strip of gauze.

I gasped. The bandage began above his left ear and stretched more than three inches.

“Bad timing on a new illusion,” he said. “Eight stitches.”

“Are you okay? When did it happen? Why didn’t you call me?”

He grinned at me. “It was down in LA. And I’m OK. I’m mostly concerned with my hair.”

My tension eased and I laughed. Of course. Would his fan club, the Hindi Houdini Heartbreakers, still love him without his gorgeous hair? I expected they’d love the chance to give him some TLC.

“What?” he said. “This is my livelihood here. I have to look my best. I’m going to have to perform in my turban until this heals, which rules out any of the illusions that need my magic bowler hat.”

“Are you on pain medication? Maybe that’s why you can’t see any way out of this impossible setup.”

“Nope. If there are truly no secret exits from Margery Lexington’s office and the videotapes haven’t been tampered with, this Cambodian curse looks a lot like it’s the only explanation. Which of course I don’t believe. Which leaves…”

I leaned across the table. “You have an idea?”

The waitress chose that moment to bring us coffees and pumpkin coconut pudding for dessert—which we hadn’t requested.

“On the house,” she said, smiling shyly at Sanjay. She was cute. I wondered if he’d slip her one of his cards before we left.

“Your idea?” I prompted again. My eyes didn’t leave Sanjay’s as I spooned sugar into my coffee. Which was a problem, since it turned out to be a spicy bird-chili salt. I took a sip and shuddered. That flavor combination was too strange even for me.

“The videotapes might have recorded a true situation, but what if the timing is off? What if that happened another night? That must be it.”

I shook my head. “I thought of that. The security expert confirmed the videotapes weren’t tampered with. Plus it shows everything that happened.”

“The security expert? Why are you working with a security expert? This puzzle was so interesting that I didn’t even ask you why you’re working on it.”

“Because of the missing piece of history.”

“You read about it and offered your services?”

“Not exactly,” I mumbled.

Sanjay sniffed the pudding. He was a notoriously unadventurous eater. “What aren’t you telling me, Jaya?”

“You should leave the waitress your number.”

“How do you know I didn’t already?” He grinned and deftly flipped his playing card size business card between each of his fingers. “But you’re the one using misdirection now. Changing the subject. I don’t know why, but don’t you have a real job with lectures or something to prepare for?”

He was right. Sanjay was annoying that way.

I left Sanjay to flirt with the waitress and went to my campus office to prepare for the following week’s lectures. Since Lane was traveling abroad for work, I should have been making better use of my time than solving a problem for Henry North. But I needed to be at peace with the fate of the unique Cambodian sculpture. I expected that William, if he was indeed guilty, would strike a deal with the prosecutors to get a reduced sentence if he revealed where he’d hidden it.

Yet try as I might, I couldn’t focus. The curse hoax and William’s guilt didn’t fit together. I was missing something.

The next day, I learned my suspicions were right. William was released on bail—and as soon as he arrived at home, someone tried to kill him.