The Mao Case

fancy clothes were in Shang’s style and whether Jiao, when at home, turned into a reflection of
     Shang. But then why should she have bought so many clothes without wearing them?
    Possibly, somebody else bought them for her, whether she liked
them or not.
    He was startled by the blaring of his cell phone, echoing loudly in the closet. The number indicated it was Yong in Beijing.
     He turned it off, not knowing what to say at the moment. Nor could he afford the time.
    He then shifted his attention to the smaller closet, which was used to store her painting supplies. Posted on the back of
     the door was a small note: “Leave things in the closet alone.” For the benefit of the maid, presumably. There were tubes of
     paint, brushes, canvas stretchers, palettes, easels, dippers, and other painting materials he couldn’t exactly name. Also
     there was a paint-smeared robe that had once been white. Several unfinished pieces were stacked against the wall. Apparently,
     when Jiao woke up at night, she would sometimes start painting in the bedroom. So the small closet served that purpose.
    He had no idea how painters worked at home. As a poet, he occasionally woke at night, feeling excited about the possibilities
     of a fantastic poem, but usually he was too lazy to get up. So he fell asleep again, letting the nocturnal fantasies fade
     back into the darkness of night. Only on rare occasions did he try to scribble a few words on a scrap of paper he happened
     to find nearby. He was hardly able to make out the meaning in the morning.
    Inspiration might come to Jiao at night, and being more diligent, she may have attempted to capture the fleeting idea there
     and then. Painting was different from writing. She had to get out of bed, spread out her material, work for hours, and then
     clean up. It was “unusual,” as Peiqin had put it, but it wasn’t his business. An eccentric artist, Jiao could live and work
     the way she pleased.
    He was beginning to have second thoughts about his decision to come here, while remaining and rummaging in the closet.
    Then his glance fell on a scroll box, which seemed to have been carelessly thrown in there. It caught his attention because
     he had never seen Jiao scroll-painting in the traditional Chinese style. She studied oil painting and water colors with Xie.
     He opened the box and pulled out a piece of paper on top. It turned out to be a valuation certificate
that declared the scroll to be authentic — and worth a staggering price of more than two million yuan. The valuation was performed
     three days ago. How could she have left such a valuable possession in the closet like that after the recent burglary? He pulled
     out the scroll, which was one of Mao’s poems done in his brush calligraphy: “Ode to the Plum Blossom.” There was also a dedication
     on the upper right corner: “For Phoenix, in response to hers.”
    Chen supposed it was possible Jiao had purchased the scroll because of its association with Shang — to be more exact, because
     of its association with Shang’s affair with Mao: Shang was nicknamed “Phoenix.” Alternatively, Jiao might have inherited the
     scroll, but he wasn’t sure how.
    Could that be the very Mao material the Beijing government was so concerned about?
    The dedication on a scroll didn’t necessarily mean anything, however. It was conventional for a calligrapher to copy out his
     work and add a line of a dedication for someone. As it was, the scroll might lead to unbridled speculation, but not to such
     a disaster as to throw the Beijing government into a panic. After all, someone’s nickname was not a conclusive piece of evidence.
    Placing the box back into the corner, he saw a broom lying beside it. The broom had a coir head, soft, suitable for the hardwood
     floor. After Jiao finished painting, she probably had to clean up the mess with the broom.
    As he closed the closet door, his mind was in a turmoil. But it was about the time for him to leave. He headed for the front
     door. On the way, the sight of the surrealistic painting in the living room reminded him of another possibility. She could
     have used the broom for the painting —
    His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, which came to a stop in front of the
     door. He froze at the sound of a key ring clinking.

TWENTY-EIGHT
    AND AT THE SOUND of a key in the lock, he backed up several steps.
    When the front door started creaking open,