Dear Mal:
I want to follow up on our conversation at lunch on Friday re the utilization of the MOM as headquarters for Victim Studies. A lot of the displays are not only offensive, but superfluidous [sic] in any event and could be dismantled to make room for offices. I’m going over there tomorrow with a therapeutic architect who designs work spaces for people working in charged atmospheres.
Also, I want to tell you that I am seriously considering backing your candidacy as numero uno at Wainscott. I am not one of those people who consider white maleness as an automatic disqualification.
Keep chugging,
Lal
“Should I read on?” Felix asked.
“By all means,” said Harvey. “This is fascinating.”
Robert Remick nodded. “I agree.”
Felix gave me a nod. He went on,
Dear Mal:
I appreciate very much your support for my proposal re the Museum of Man. (A ridiculous, sexist name to begin with!) I was over earlier today with Rex Rawler, the workplace therapist architect I mentioned earlier. He pointed out the enormous amount of waste space. The whole central part of the main building is nothing but air! Why they have kept that sky light and the five floors of emptiness is beyond me. I’m sure we could raise the funds to gut the whole exhibition space and modernize it like they did the Longworth Library.
I think F. de Buitliér is a good choice to take over temporarily from Ratour. We’ll need a transitional figurehead. I’m sure he would be amenable to a job in your administration.
Keep plugging,
Lal
“And one more.”
Dear Mal:
I know we’ll have to go slowly on the museum do-over once Ratour is out of there. My think group here at the department came up with a wonderful idea. Once we take over, we change the name to the Museum of Victimization. Or the Museum of Victims. We’ll keep some of the exhibits, but give them a whole new spin with new labels. We’d include all appropriate groups, of course. Fund-raising would be a cinch. And Rex thinks it would add greatly to the environment in which the department would be operating.
Keep slugging,
Lal
“And finally …”
Dear Mal:
I would agree upfront that income from the gen lab would accrue to the central administration. You must understand that my object in all this is to take a monument to the victimizers and turn it into a monument to the victims. I have already sounded out some contacts in the relevant foundations and I’m hearing a lot of agreement. And, of course, we’ll commit all this to paper when the time comes.
Keep hugging,
Lal
“None of this would stand up in court,” Ms. Rossini asserted.
“We’re not in court,” Felix said with a smile.
“These e-mails could have been faked,” Elgin Warwick said. “I frankly think they have been.”
Felix kept his smile in place. “Perhaps. But the next document in your folder could not have been faked. I refer to the requisition form signed by Professor Laluna Jackson for an initial assessment of the museum space by the university’s facilities. It would be a preliminary step in its reduction from the wonderful space it is now to another warren of offices for academic drones.”
He paused, taking them all in, one by one. Then he said, “I am not a disinterested party in this proceeding. But I believe it is clear from what I have shown you that firing Norman de Ratour at this juncture would be tantamount to destroying the museum and what it stands for.”
It was Remick, a gentleman of the old school, who cleared his throat and said, “There is a motion before the committee that I for one, given these facts, move be withdrawn.”
Elgin Warwick, another gentleman of the old school, did not demur. “I have changed my mind,” he said with dignity. “As much as I have reason to disagree with Norman on some things, his continued service to the museum is essential. The motion should be withdrawn.”
Someone began, “I move …”
Carmilla Golden pointed out that the motion under consideration had to be voted on before another motion could be considered.
I put up my hand at this point and said, “I actually would like to say a few words before any motion is voted on.”
The room grew very quiet. I sipped some coffee and actually tasted it. I said, “For those interested in accuracy, Heinie, Heinrich von Grümh, was not murdered on museum property but on a right-of-way between the parking lots of the museum and the Center for Criminal Justice.”
“Close enough,” Ms. Rossini murmured.
“Also,” I continued, “whether or not Martin Sterl’s murder was or was not plotted in the Diorama of Paleolithic Life is immaterial. Is Ms. Rossini suggesting that we put up notices to the effect that the fomenting of conspiracies is prohibited on museum property?
“As for the pornography ring in the museum, Ms. Rossini is misconstruing the minutes of an Oversight Committee meeting in which facetiousness abounded.
“And, finally, the generous gift she refers to involved the display of the mummified remains of the donor in a special temple that would have seriously undermined the overall purpose of the museum.”
“What about the coins?” Ms. Golden asked.
“I admit I should have had them tested. But in the scale of things, I believe that dereliction is scarcely grounds for a vote of no-confidence.”
I carried the day. Only Golden, Rossini, and old Farquar, who didn’t seem all that sentient, voted yes on the motion to ask for my resignation. The others voted no. Moments after that, I was alone in my office with Felix.
“You are a miracle worker,” I began. “You pulled it right out of your hat.”
“I’ve been flat-out on this for three days. I should have called, but I didn’t get the affidavit from Duff until this morning.”
“Why did he change his mind?”
“He didn’t have a case after I showed him the new evidence I had gathered.”
“New evidence?”
“Well, I got a sworn and notarized statement from Diantha stating that she loaned von Grümh the revolver. They could get her on some kind of firearms violation, but that would be peanuts.”
“I should have thought about doing it earlier.”
“It might not have signified if Diantha hadn’t come up with copies of e-mails from von Grümh telling her he needed a weapon to defend stuff he had on the boat.”
“How did that happen?”
“Diantha called me a couple of days ago. She told me she was dropping everything and conferring with a data-recovery honcho and working on it.”
“She initiated it?”
“She sure did.”
“And the e-mails from Jackson.”
“That req form was the smoke. I hired a PI. It wasn’t difficult. Laluna Jackson’s office is a collection of self-righteous fools. And the righteous are seldom discreet.”
“Felix, I love you.”
He stood up to go. “Wait till you see my bill.”
“It will be worth every penny.”
I was alone, finally, in my office. I was still Director of the Museum of Man. And while a great relief, it was as a trifle next to what Felix had told me of Diantha’s involvement in getting the charge of accessory to murder dropped. I left a message on my answering machine to the effect I was not there. I flew out of the building and, despite the warmth of the day and my leather shoes, all but ran home.
I found Alphus at the kitchen table picking at the keyboard of his laptop. I told him my good news. And that I was leaving him alone for the afternoon and possibly overnight as I had to go to the cottage.
“If you leave here, Alphus, and the police detain you, there will be nothing I can do. It will either be the zoo or the cages in the museum. Or worse.”
He nodded and signed, “Ridley’s coming over. We’ll be working on my memoir.”
“Okay. But the same applies if you burn the place down or make a lot of noise.”
&
nbsp; “Trust me, Norman, I will be responsible.”
I did trust him. Since the meeting with Esther Homard, Alphus had undergone another transformation. He had become a writer, which is to say, careless of his appearance, careful about what he said, and altogether much less verbal, as though saving his words for the page. He wasn’t nearly as interesting to be around as he had been.
I drove as fast as my rattling old Renault would go, wishing I had one of those sleek little things that can do 130 standing still. Where had all the traffic suddenly come from? And what would I find when I arrived?
Diantha’s hulking SUV was parked as usual in the gravel space in front of the cottage. But there was no sign of her or Elsie. I went out the back and down into the garden. There they were, working on my espaliered apple trees.
Elsie turned without a sign and ran toward me. I swept her up into my arms and held her to me. She leaned back, all smiles, her little hands moving with words. “We missed you, Daddy. Where have you been?”
With her in my arms, I approached my young wife. I said, as I had in my heart on the way there, “I want to thank you for helping Felix.”
“The board didn’t fire you?”
“No. I am still Director of the Museum of Man.” I hesitated a moment. “But that is not important next to the fact that you helped me.”
She drew closer. I could see her eyes under the brim of the sunhat she wore. “It was the least I could do.”
“I love you,” I said.
She came into my laden arms, tears on her cheeks and lips as she kissed me.
Hand in hand, Elsie toddling behind us, we walked through the warm summer garden to the coolness of the cottage.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” I asked without animosity as we sat at the kitchen table still holding hands.
She shrugged as though to minimize it. “I was ashamed of myself. I thought you only wanted to rag on me.”
“Dear girl, I only wanted to beg your forgiveness.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I’m not hungry. Not for food.”
She made me a thick toasted cheese and ham sandwich, anyway, chatting, as she worked, about keeping up the cottage and the garden.
Bella came in after being dropped off by a neighbor with whom she had been earning some extra pay. A large, dignified woman, she greeted me with much evident joy. Then she took Elsie out to help her pick flowers.
I cracked open the two beers Di put on the table. I found I was ravenous. I ate the entire sandwich and an early apple from a neighbor’s orchard. At length, I asked, “So what brought about your change of heart?”
She blushed and covered it by pouring beer into a glass and sipping it.
“Sixpack didn’t work out?” I prompted gently.
She met my eyes. “That was never a real possibility. I knew it even before I got there.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well … his concert.” She made quotation marks with her fingers. “After five minutes I wanted to leave. You’ve spoiled me, Norman dear. I don’t know how anyone with an IQ over forty can listen to that stuff. They barely speak an intelligible language. They celebrate their stupidity.”
“It’s only an act.”
“I know, but it’s stupid to pretend to be stupid.”
She came and sat on my lap. I stroked her back as she talked. “I saw an old movie with Leslie Howard in it and all I could think of was you. You are civilization. And I need civilization.”
“I’ve missed you horribly as well.”
“Really?” Diantha, spoke with an edge to her voice I recognized with a touch of alarm. “Merissa let it slip that you and she … hooked up.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I admitted, surprised to find myself scarcely embarrassed. I wondered if my afternoon with Merissa had helped in Diantha’s change of heart.
“How was … it?”
I smiled. “I’m afraid she was a Joe DiMaggio.”
She mock-frowned. “But we’re even.”
“We’re even.”
“Can you stay?”
I was afraid she would ask that. I grimaced. “I should go back soon.”
She grimaced back. “Because of your friend?”
“No. I need to find out who murdered Heinie.”
“Oh, Norman, let the police figure that out. It’s their job. You’ve done enough for them.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what else?”
“As I told you before, I’m afraid that I may have murdered Heinie.”
“But, Norman, if you shot him, you would remember doing it.”
“I know. But I need to make absolutely sure. I not only want to clear my name, I need to clear my conscience. If I don’t, I’ll be haunted by this thing the rest of my life.”
22
I might not have learned about Shetland Falls had the weather not turned unseasonably chilly a few days after the meeting of the Governing Board. In dressing that morning, I put on the jacket I had worn the day I discovered Heinie’s body and accompanied Lieutenant Tracy to Kestrel Meadows to tell Merissa the news. In the side pocket I came across the piece of notepaper I had lifted from the telephone pad in their kitchen.
I doubted it signified much as I lay it on a flat surface and shadowed it lightly with a soft pencil. What looked like a telephone number emerged. I noticed a crossed seven, which had been one of Heinie’s smaller affectations. The area code was 413, which I quickly learned was in western Massachusetts.
I called Di at the cottage and asked her to do a reverse lookup for me. She’s a whiz at that sort of thing. We chatted as she keystroked in real time. Nice phrase, that, real time.
“It’s in Shetland Falls. It’s registered to one Alain LeBlanc. Hold on, there’s a business listing. Antique Valuables, Jewelry, Coins, Objects, Assessed, Repaired, Reproduced …”
“Would you fancy a drive to the Berkshires?” I asked.
“It’s more like the northern Berkshires.”
“Better still. I can’t stand all that artsy stuff around Lenox. We’ll have to take an overnight.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. When?”
“Wednesday. We leave in the morning and return Thursday afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll get Bella to stay with Elsie and you’ll find someone to stay with your … friend.”
The prospect filled me with a zeal and an energy I had not felt in months. I yearned for action, for resolution. Still, I did not try the number I had lifted from the pad. I wanted an excuse to get away with Diantha. I also wanted to show up unannounced. I had a broken brooch of amber and pearl set in silver and gold that my mother wore for years. I knew the pearls were worth stealing and faking, and I wanted to test this Mr. LeBlanc.
I thought of calling Lieutenant Tracy and telling him what I had found. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But I felt that this was my case. It involved personal demons that I and I alone could vanquish.
We planned originally to drive via Boston, mostly for the roads, but decided instead on a cross-country route in Diantha’s APC — armored personnel carrier. I suggested she call it Bigfoot given how few miles it got to the gallon. Still, it is comfortable. Di drove and I relaxed, taking in the scenery. It was reassuring to see that much of New England appears to have escaped the sprawl of malls that have disfigured so much of America the Beautiful.
We stopped for lunch at a country inn run by a couple who had left the rat race of New York’s financial world. A more harried-looking pair I have seldom seen. Karl and Nance skittered hither and yon, scarcely stopping to say hi to Diantha, who knew them when. Apparently, they have to do much of the work themselves to make ends meet.
We arrived in Shetland Falls by midafternoon. It is a prepossessing small town, with a main street of good buildings in brick, stone, and wood. We slant-parked right and began an apparently aimless stroll. There was method in th
e approach. I wanted us to appear as absentminded, average tourists. We wouldn’t act dotty or anything like that as I showed the damaged brooch to Mr. LeBlanc, just a bit distracted.
With Di as my accomplice, we walked along in search of number 47, third floor. We found 21, then 33, then 43, and then a large gap where a building had obviously been until recently. A chain-link fence surrounded the cellar hole where bits of charred debris were still in evidence. On the other side the numbers continued with 73.
There we entered a gift shop calling itself The Wretched Stalk. It proved to be an emporium specializing in local artisanal items with dazzling price tags. The keeper, a woman in a painter’s smock, told us she had known Mr. LeBlanc only casually, but that Jed and Glad in the Donut Hole next door knew him well.
“Well, not well,” Jed explained, as we ordered coffees to go. “He was a nice enough guy. Very polite. He was French …”
“French Swiss,” Glad corrected him.
“I guess. He came in here every morning for espresso and orange juice to go.”
“He really liked our maple cakes.”
“But then the building burned. Just like that. We’re lucky we’re stone. Hard to burn granite.”
“How long was he here?” I asked. “In Shetland Falls.”
“Couple of years. Not long after we started.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“Not with us. You could check the post office. Or the chief of police. He knows everything about that sort of thing.”
“How did the fire start?”
“No one knows.”
We thanked them and, sipping our brews of coffee, walked a few doors down to the Shetland Falls Police Department. Chief Russell Ballard remained seated in a comfortable, worn swivel chair but seemed relieved to see us, to have something to do.
“Yeah, Mr. LeBlanc. He was a real foreigner. But a regular gentleman. He could make just about anything new again. Earl Mason took him an old samurai sword, the real thing. It was about two hundred years old but a bit tarnished. He got it back good as new.”
“Tell me about the fire,” I asked. “How did it happen?”
The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Page 26
