Erased From Memory

Table of Contents

 

 

Erased From Memory

“Diana O’Hehir is a talented poet and novelist.”

 
“The puzzle intrigues and the characters come to life, but the real interest . . . is the tender relationship between the Days—and the dual portraits of a deteriorating mind and a loving heart.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch

 
“Snappy first-person narrative.”
—Kirkus Reviews

 
“A well-crafted plot and an engaging cast of characters. A chilling conclusion will catch many readers by surprise.”

“Suspenseful and heart-breakingly timely.”
—Chicago Tibune

 
“Introduces us to a delightfully unconventional pair of sleuths . . . O’Hehir is at the top of her form here . . . I couldn’t put it down!”—Sandra M. Gilbert, author of

 
“One of the most intellectually delightful murder mysteries ever written.”—Vivian Gornick, author of

“O’Hehir sketches out characters in swift strokes, and the old people in this book are fully realized characters, both quirky and dignified. Best of all, the narrator’s acerbic, funny, insightful voice makes what might have been just another cozy unforgetable.”
—The Boston Globe

 
“Fascinating, genre-bending mix of literary and crime fiction . . . A story that will move and captivate all who read it.”
—Booklist
(starred review)

 
“When memory and fantasy collide, truth is up for grabs . . . O’Hehir scores big with her wry heroine . . . and intriguing snippets of Egyptian poetry.”
—Kirkus Reviews

 
“A quirky outlook . . . Delightful prose will draw readers right in.”
—Library Journal

 
“Combines an intriguing amateur-sleuth tale with some Egyptologist elements inside a deep family drama . . . A fine contemporary thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review

 
“Sparkling prose enlivens every scene and gives the story the heft and luminescence of narrative art at its most energized level. Ms. O’Hehir’s mastery of her subjuect is effortless and engaging . . . A fun and funny book, but one with heart and unfailing insight into matters achingly human.” —James W. Hall, author of

 
“O’Hehir spices up her elegantly plotted novel of . . . skullduggery with keen, sympathetic, and often amusing insights . . . with a gift for spot-on metaphors . . . and with laugh-out-loud wit.”—Aaron Elkins, author of
Little Tiny Teeth

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa

 
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 
ERASED FROM MEMORY

 
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 
Copyright © 2006 by Diana O’Hehir.

 
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-4406-2206-9

 
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks
belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

In writing this book, I have consulted a number of helpful texts on archaeology and Egyptology, including ones by E. Wallis Budge, R. O. Faulkner, Miriam Lichtheim, Bridget McDermott, R. E. Parkinson, and Miriam Stead.

Any mistakes in this text are my own doing, not theirs.

Chapter 1

My father has been accused of murder.

At least, I think he has.

The scene is extremely confused.

It involves a man outstretched on a floor in the attitude of those chalk outlines the traffic police draw at accident scenes—head back, arms extended, legs splayed. This man wears a tan cashmere sweater, blue jeans, a Rolex watch. I think he’s looking at the ceiling, but his face is hidden by my father, who kneels over him. And my father himself is half hidden by a spiky-haired woman wearing a striped T-shirt and blue warm-up pants; she clutches Daddy’s back and screams, “Help! Stop him! Help!”

“Murder!” she screams, turning a streaked, contorted little face at me. I have just arrived in the room, panting, dropping my notebook, pencils, a book about Queen Hatshepshut, a tin museum pass.

Because all of this is happening in a museum. In the Egypt Regained Museum. In a room named after my father, the Edward Day Room. This is the resting place of his great discovery, Coffin Lid #267, the artifact about which he wrote his books. My father has Alzheimer’s now, but he didn’t used to. He used to be mildly famous in archaeology circles.

He is a gentle, sweet man who is not murderous. I know he isn’t murdering anyone now. I try to pile into the scrimmage on the floor.

The final note of confusion is supplied by the museum guard, a hefty lady in a tan uniform.

She drags everybody aside, yelling, “Cudditout!” and bends her face to the prone man’s face; she thrusts a finger in his mouth; after a minute she begins the breath-of-life procedure. I hold on to my dad and watch her bottom move up and down.

“Don’t cry, dear,” I say into his hair. “It’s getting better.”

He subsides enough that I can look around us and try to understand the situation.

I can’t see the collapsed guy’s face, but his body looks completely finished. Boneless and flattened. For the first time I think that maybe he’s really dead. I haven’t been taking this hysterical accuser seriously.

“Okay, honey,” I say into the back of my dad’s head. And I quote a piece of Egyptian poetry, “Don’t be sad; the road is ending.”

Egyptian archaeology is still the most important force in my father’s life.

The spiky-haired accuser is standing up now. She has square glasses in front of brown eyes and a necklace of those blue clay beads they try to sell you in the Valley of the Kings. Her eyes lock into mine. “He was,” she says. “I saw.”

My father lifts his head from my shoulder and stares at her. “Why, hello,” he says, “Rita.”

She tilts her chin; light flashes off her glasses. “You thought you could get away with it.”

Daddy stares at her for a minute more and offers an opinion: “He was trying to eat life.”

 
 
Twenty minutes later, chairs have been lined up against the walls of Egypt Regained’s Great Hall, and a row of people is sitting on them. The spiky-haired accuser camps opposite us, slumped. She is small and her feet don’t quite touch the floor.

Beside me, my father has recovered and is unsuitably cheerful. The museum staff is handing out sodas; he attempts to drink his directly from the bottle; he finds this amusing.

I have tried unsuccessfully to get him out of here. “He’s old,” I’ve said, “very old; he’s sick; he has Alzheimer’s disease; the sheriff knows where we are; he can talk to us later.”

The guard grunts, “No way, ma’am.”

The spiky-haired woman, glasses flashing, offers to perform a citizen’s arrest.

“Nine-one-one is comin’ in,” the guard says. “A rescue squad, a doctor. An’ the sheriff. I sent for them. They’ll all be here. Because that gentleman is dead. I had an aunt that died an’ I know dead when I see it.”