Molten Mud Murder Page 22

  “Yes, most certainly, and maybe more than one. Also tools, ceremonial objects, sacred food, and war bounty.”

  “What would ceremonial objects and war bounty be?”

  “Masks and shields. Moa or kiwi feather cloaks. Spears. Skulls.”

  “Skulls?”

  “The belief was that it is better to keep an eye on your enemy, even in death, than turn a back. I have examples of these objects.” Wright bowed his head, murmured something in Maori.

  “You have skulls? Here in the museum?” Gruesome images flickered across her mind.

  “We have three recently returned toi moko.” He stared at Alexa.

  Moko was tattoo. Toi must mean skull.

  “They were returned three months ago as part of the government-funded Karanga Aotearoa Repatriation Program. Two from England and one from Ireland. We are testing them to see which tribe they might have belonged to so that they can be properly reunited and buried.”

  “Are you talking about tattooed skulls? Would tattoos be visible?” The idea was fascinating.

  “The Maori tribes sometimes preserved severed heads—either an honored loved one or to offend the enemy. The head is the most sacred part of the body, and the toi moko were preserved by smoking and then drying the heads in the sun.”

  “The skulls aren’t on display, are they?”

  “It’s an insult to even show a photo of one.” Wright narrowed his eyes. “Human remains, or kōiwi tangata, are not objets d’art. Granted, it is a historical fact that some of our peoples participated in the selling and trading of heads taken as battle trophies, but mostly it was Europeans. Greed confuses one’s moral compass.”

  “Would a skull sell in the black market today?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would a person do with a skull and other artifacts he had stolen?”

  “Find a buyer, of course.” Mr. Wright’s face dissolved to a scowl. “If no one was buying, the artifacts would not be stolen.”

  “Who buys?” Maybe Wright was a buyer. Did he have a private collection? Or what about the museum collection? The greenstone club that had captivated Alexa? Had it been procured legally?

  “Buyers are auction houses, antiques dealers, private collectors, museums.”

  “Have you been approached to buy any Maori artifacts?”

  “Āe rā!” he replied.

  Alexa raised her eyebrows.

  “Par for the course. I have been approached many times over the years I have curated for Rotorua Museum.”

  “Have you been approached in the last few months?”

  “No,” Wright answered right away, maybe too quickly. “I haven’t been approached in several years now.” He looked directly into her eyes, and she wanted to trust him.

  Who said love all, trust few? “What did you do when you were approached?”

  “There are many curators who operate with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ philosophy. This only perpetuates the black market.”

  He hadn’t answered her question. Alexa stayed silent.

  “The provenance of an object isn’t always available. If a seller can not provide documentation, I don’t deal. This has not always been the case here. My predecessor believed differently.”

  “How so?” Alexa asked.

  “I don’t like to speak on someone’s behalf. You can talk to him directly. His name is William Dittmer.” Wright fingered through an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. “Here.” He wrote a name and number on a Post-it and handed it to Alexa. “He has an antiques store, Kauri Treasures, on Tarangi Street. He attended that dig.”

  “Thank you.” Alexa sensed Wright was holding something back. “So your predecessor might have been involved in black market activities?” Alexa asked, staring intently at Wright, who merely shrugged. Now she sensed he was ready to terminate the interview. “Why did this man leave the museum?”

  “I was never privy to this information, but it happened abruptly.”

  Worth checking into, Alexa thought. “How does the big picture work? I mean, who is digging up artifacts? Here or elsewhere. Are they the same people who sell them directly to museums or antiques dealers or to someone overseas?”

  “No, no. The looting of antiquities is usually an organized, tiered network. It starts with grave robbers or treasure hunters, whatever you want to call them. These people are often impoverished, destitute. Willing to sell their souls for the dollar.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He appraised her. “The Maori people have a higher rate of poverty than Pākehā. And a Maori might believe the antiquities were left behind by ancestors who would want them to benefit.”

  “So maybe a Maori is involved?” Like Herera.

  Wright ignored her. “A grave robber is paid a pittance by a middleman or trafficker who then sells to the higher-ups like auction houses or overseas markets. Most loot is smuggled out of its country of origin. China is a big buyer of antiquities right now, as are Switzerland and the States. Your rich Manhattan hedge fund manager, for example. That sums up the big picture.” Wright stood.

  Alexa stayed seated. “Did you know the Pirongia caretaker? Ray Herera?”

  “Ray? He married a distant cousin. Tragic when she and their daughter were killed. He is finding strength and solace amid sacredness. Don’t go blaming him for this.”

  Wright had not noticed her tense usage. “Please sit down.”

  He continued to stand, looking down at her.

  “Mr. Herera’s body was found washed up at Ponga Point.”

  Wright sank into his chair and bowed his head. When he finally looked at Alexa, his eyes had a misty sheen. “Ray would give his life to defend his ancestors. He is an honorable man.”

  “Was, not is. I’m sorry to have brought you bad news.” Alexa flipped shut her mostly empty notepad and stood. This time, it was she who looked down at Wright. “Please contact me or Detective Inspector Horne if you hear anything about the artifacts or Mr. Herera’s death.”

  There was no pressing of forehead and nose in parting. Once in her car, she wrote down everything she could remember while the conversation was fresh, and then thought of Jenny, back in the lab, busy with evidence from Herera’s autopsy and samples collected from the boat. Alexa was torn between stopping by the antiques store to meet the former curator, William Dittmer, or heading back to help Jenny. Her GPS indicated Tarangi Street was only seven minutes away.

  Decision made.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A jaunty red-and-blue-striped awning shaded the double windows of Kauri Treasures. Alexa peered through the glass but couldn’t see past her disheveled reflection. The sign on the door read: Open Monday-Saturday, 10–5. A bell jangled, but no one appeared as she entered. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, focus. The large room was bulging with china, silver, books, porcelain, framed art, masks, furniture, and jewelry. A jolt of panic stabbed Alexa. What if she knocked something over? She cautiously stepped to some shelves, scanning them for Maori artifacts, and sneezed from old-book mustiness.

  “May I help you?” came a not quite Kiwi voice from across the shop. Australian, Alexa guessed, twirling around. Kiwi and Australian accents were barely different in Alexa’s ears but night and day to a local—something about vowel shifts.

  A diminutive man with a shock of dandelion-fluff hair sidled toward her through a row of Toby mugs. “William Dittmer, proprietor,” he said. “How may I assist you?”

  Panic: she had no plan. Should she act touristy or identify herself?

  He didn’t wait. “I’ve just received an exquisite collection of Royal Albert teacups. Would you like a gander?”

  “Yes, please,” Alexa answered, glad to buy time. She followed the man, who appeared—despite the shock of white hair—to be in his midforties, to a circular display table.

  “Look at this
Albany Blue.” He lifted a delicate cup with both hands and held it up to a chandelier. “So fine you can see light through it.” He set it down and selected another. “Buckingham turquoise. Note the gold scrolls along the edge. Hand-painted. Makes you crave a spot of Darjeeling, doesn’t it?”

  “I prefer coffee,” Alexa replied, noting the man’s fingernails were shiny with clear polish. “I’m looking for Maori art.”

  He studied her. “From the States, are you?”

  Alexa nodded. “Are you Australian?” A chill danced up her spine. The caretaker on Pirongia, the dead man, had pointed to his head and said, “ma, ma, white” when he described Koppel’s companion. Maybe he had been speaking of hair, not skin.

  “Yes. Melbourne. Much better weather here.”

  Alexa felt a tweak of danger. “Do you have authentic Maori artifacts?”

  The man abandoned his teacups and shifted past brass and copper teakettles, pressed tin lanterns, hookahs, frames, and candlesticks to a display case. He took a key chain out of his pants pocket and unlocked the case with his right hand. “Come see,” he said, reaching in and then dangling an object from his palm.

  “What is it?” asked Alexa, joining him. She scanned the velvet-lined case and noted pendants, tiki statues, a small bowl with mortar. And two greenstone war clubs.

  “I can tell you crave adventure, am I right?”

  Alexa tried not to stare at the clubs. She ignored his question and came closer to examine the pendant as it swung back and forth like a snake charmer’s cobra.

  “Bone toki on native flax cord. Symbol of strength and courage over adversity. You’ve faced adversity in your life, yes?”

  The burn scars on Alexa’s back tightened.

  “Would you be interested?” The pendant stopped swinging, waiting for her decision.

  “Talky? What’s a talky?” she asked, mesmerized by the small shape dangling from his fingers and his fortune telling prowess.

  “A toki is an adze, the most important tool the Maori owned. A cutting tool. The pendant is a small adze carved from bone.”

  “Bone? What type of bone?” She squared her shoulders to break the spell and felt the scarred tissue from right shoulder blade down to mid-vertebrae protest.

  “Bird bone. Possibly moa. Feel how light.” He handed her the necklace and smiled. His teeth were yellowed, and the odor of cigarette clung to his clothing. “Bone carving was a sacred craft practiced by some of the more warlike native tribes here in the North Island. Sometimes human bone was carved.”

  “Human bone?” She thought of the fishing hook Rangiora had lifted from Herera’s trunk.

  “Waste not, want not, eh? But human bone was mostly used for larger items than this. Maybe for shark fishing.”

  “Is the necklace old?”

  “Depends on your definition of old. Are you searching for something in particular?” He reached for the necklace, replaced it, and locked the case. The jangle of bells caught his attention. “You’ll excuse me please.”

  “No worries,” Alexa said. “I’ll look around.”

  Dittmer moved soundlessly toward two chatting women who had entered the shop. Alexa could hear a new spiel, something about great bazaars, giving her a chance to study the case. Her attention went to the greenstone clubs. One, labeled twentieth century, had ripples of white washing through it. The second, from the nineteenth century, was larger and darker. An hourglass hole was carved at the handle, and a woven wristband was looped through it. They could have been the same ones she had seen around the waists of the island warriors. Nearby was a flat tiki man, neckless, made of greenstone flecked with brown. Its deep-set sideways eyes leered at her. The card below read “Provenance: Y37667, Bailey & Barre Wellington.” Alexa got out her phone and took pictures. A sound made her pause and look up.

  Dittmer had returned.

  Before he could speak, Alexa said, “I’m interested in the two clubs here.” She tapped on the glass. “Would you show them to me?”

  “War clubs?” he asked. “That surprises me.”

  Alexa didn’t answer.

  “These two are beauts. It took years to polish them to such perfection.”

  “Yep.” She waited as he unlocked the case again.

  His child- sized hand hovered over the clubs. “Which would you like to see?”

  “The older.” In a blink, the weapon was in Dittmer’s hands. Alexa imagined its cool, smooth heft.

  “See how flat and sharp the edge is.” Dittmer ran a finger along its side. “Deadly in battle.” His eyes took a gleam. “Particularly when thrust at the temple or neck or, of course”—he looked Alexa over—“the ribs.”

  The hair on Alexa’s neck rose. “How much does it cost?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Not cheap,” she said. “Where did it come from?”

  “I have my sources.” Dittmer smiled, showing canines.

  “Where did it come from?” she repeated. “I’m part of a murder investigation, and we are looking into possible stolen artifacts that may be connected. Rawiri Wright of the Rotorua Museum suggested you might help us.” She dug out her ID.

  Dittmer’s eyes shape-shifted to smaller, shrewder orbs. “Murder investigation?”

  Alexa stayed silent.

  “I purchased the club legally.” His eyes flitted to the other club in the case and then to her badge. “Is Mr. Wright still with the museum?”

  “Yes. He thought perhaps you might have some information.”

  A bark of a laugh. “He did? How preposterous.” The shop bell jangled as the women left. They were alone.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Dittmer had not asked who had been murdered or what artifacts had been stolen. Alexa continued. “Many of the items in the case state the provenance, but that one does not.”

  “I do not have verifiable provenance for this club,” Dittmer said, looking down at the mere in his hand. “That is not uncommon.” He ran his finger along the tapered edge again.

  “Why not? And how can you ask so much money for it?”

  “If I had the provenance, the price would double.”

  “You’re dodging my question. Where did you get the club?” She held her hand out for it.

  Dittmer hesitated and then placed it in her hands. A shock from opposing electrons almost caused her to drop it.

  What the hell?

  “An estate sale. It belonged to a widow from Auckland who passed on.”

  Alexa thrust it back to Dittmer and looked at her fingers to check if they had been singed.

  What the double hell?

  Dittmer replaced the club on the green velvet, whisked a cloth from his breast pocket, and rubbed its glossy surface. “The family was selling her estate, and I came across it. Lucky. This one too.” He pointed to the other club and rubbed it with the cloth as well.

  “So you have no idea of the clubs’ origins?”

  “No.” He locked the case.

  “Do you have a bill of sale for the clubs?”

  “I really don’t see how that is any of your business. I have a reputable business here.”

  “Detective Inspector Bruce Horne is running the case and sent me here. Would you like me to give him a ring?”

  Dittmer huffed. “That’s not necessary. I can check and see if I can locate the receipt. But quickly. I have an appointment. Come.”

  He deftly wove through the shop and disappeared through a door at the rear. In her haste to follow, Alexa bumped a tin lantern, knocking it into a copper kettle that she grabbed before it crashed to the ground. She steadied the swinging lantern, noting the tag: Souk, $180.

  She proceeded cautiously to a small room where Dittmer was standing behind a desk.

  “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair. “A Bergère, covered in Fortuny s
ilk.”

  It took Alexa a moment to figure out what he was on about.

  She perched on the edge of the dainty chair, aware of her throbbing knee.

  Dittmer stared at the desk computer. “It’s slow.”

  “I’ll ask a few questions as we wait.”

  Dittmer frowned. “I really don’t have anything else to say.”

  “I could come back with the DI,” Alexa said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Dittmer replied. “Perhaps I should close the shop so we won’t be interrupted.”

  “Perhaps,” Alexa replied. The hair on her neck stood again as Dittmer brushed by. She quickly looked around. There were two framed Mau Rākau certificates—Level 1 and Level 2—hanging on the wall. Maybe some type of judo, she concluded and stood to look closer, but Dittmer returned. Alexa sat back down and plunged on. “Mr. Wright indicated that…excavators…know not to approach him to sell their goods, but that you were not so choosy. Is that true?”

  Dittmer stayed standing behind his desk. He leaned on it, looking down at her, his steel gray orbs unblinking. “In the four years Wright has been curator at Rotorua Museum, only two objects have been added to the Maori collection. Two! One fell into his lap—a door lintel.”

  Alexa thought of the carved work of art above the entrance to the Maori collection room.

  “The other, a cloak of harakeke and feather, is merely on loan. In my tenure, we increased the collection by twenty percent. Wright has wasted many opportunities to expand. This is an injustice to the peoples of Rotorua,” he said.

  “An injustice? How?”

  “When objects of limited or missing provenance are offered to a museum, a curator must weigh the benefits with the drawbacks, do you see?” He finally sat.

  “No.”

  “Let me ask, would you rather an antiquity of exquisite beauty be on display for many to see and learn from—say the three- thousand-year-old bust of Queen Nefertiti that draws more than one million people to the Neues Museum every year—or buried in a cave? A museum knows how to care for and protect such objects.” Dittmer slapped his palm on his desk.