The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man (14 page)

Chair Brattle lost little time in making her own view known regarding my legal status. She had scarcely gaveled the meeting to order when she said, “I mean this in no way personally, Mr. de Ratour, but I wonder, under the circumstances, just how appropriate your presence here is at this time.”

I asked, “Are you suggesting I leave?”

“I think that may be best for all concerned.”

Izzy Landes, the dear man, stood up, his face flushed with anger. “If Norman is made to leave, I will leave as well. And I won’t come back. Indeed, I will start a committee to investigate this committee. And put it out of business.”

Father O’Gould also rose to signify his agreement. Then the Reverend Lopes and Corny Chard. Then Bertha Schanke, who said in an aside, “Let’s face it, half of Wainscott’s big benefactors are under indictment. Or should be.”

The chair withdrew her suggestion.

But I was utterly unprepared for an attack from an entirely different quarter. The new member, Laluna Jackson, chair of the Victim Studies Department, presented a report, as she called it, about the Museum of Man. Her voice emphatic in the style of African Americans, her cornrows tied with things that clacked as she gestured with her head, she read, “Not long ago, I conducted a lengthy examination of the Museum of Man and its exhibits with one of our visiting professors. And I must say that the scales fell from my eyes.

“As my colleague pointed out to me, that institution could just as well be called the Museum of White Male Victimization. Everywhere you look you see the detritus of the white male scourge that has made the planet such a living hell for all other peoples. That museum is a catalog of victimization. Everywhere you look there is nothing but the loot of imperialism. In the most brazen manner, it unapologetically documents how the world peoples had their cultures stolen from them lock, stock, and barrel.”

In listening to this poisonous nonsense, it occurred to me that I remain a member of the committee to remind myself, if reminders were necessary, why I do not want the museum to become an integral part of the university.

I let the woman spew on in this vein until she appeared to have exhausted her venom. Into an uncomfortable silence, I said, “I’m assuming that, even though a white male, I might be allowed to respond.”

Amazingly, Chair Brattle appeared to consider my request
as though on its merits. Until, coming to her senses, she said, “Of course. You’re still a member of the committee in good standing.”

“
Ex officio
, to be exact,” I said. “As you have all heard me say before, this is a Wainscott body and I attend its meetings in order to continue the mutually enriching relations that exist between the two institutions. Among other reasons.”

I turned directly to the dean. “Tell me, Professor Jackson, how long have you been at Wainscott?”

She feigned puzzlement at the question. “Nearly seven years in one capacity or another. What relevance has this?”

“And was this the first time you visited the Museum of Man?”

“Well, yes. What does this …?”

“Let us say that I find your lack of curiosity of a piece with your narrow, ignorant, and mean-spirited view of my museum …”

“Mr. Ratour …,” she began.

“Please. Allow me to respond to the pile of rubbish you have dumped on the table.”

“Here, here,” said the Reverend Lopes, voicing what I hoped to be the general sentiment of the committee members.

I took a breath and calmed down. “I won’t try to rebut the statements of Professor Jackson as they are too absurd to be taken seriously. But I would like to say, as I have on other occasions, that the Museum of Man has and will continue to show the public that human beings everywhere and at all times, through their art and artifacts, are not mere creatures, but creators and as such partake of the godliness that is our common legacy. The exhibits you label as trophies are nothing less than solid testimony that beauty is innate to our species whatever level of formal technology or material culture we happen to occupy.”

“Amen,” said Izzy Landes. “I couldn’t have put it better myself, Norman.”

The chair rapped her gavel. “We need to move on to some pressing matters …”

I subsided into my seat, but continued to fume inwardly. This was what civilized discourse had descended to — cultural correctness gone amok and certified fools elevated to positions of authority. Of course there’s been victimization. The Romans overran the Gauls who became French, who helped overrun the Chinese who stayed Chinese and overran the Tibetans who, given half a chance … Man hands on misery to man …

At the same time, her remarks struck a nerve. Conquest always involves inventory, be it appreciative or dismissive. Papuans do not collect Rembrandts, not yet, anyway. We judge and select because we are, for the nonce, more powerful whether we want to admit it or not.

I slowly calmed down and retreated into my own thoughts as the committee pondered with gravity one absurdity or another. I had much to think about. Mostly, I realized, I was anxious to help the investigation into the murder of von Grümh. To this end, sitting there, feigning attendance, I let my mind run through a maze of conjectures with all of their dead ends. I am desperate to find who killed the man in large part to eliminate the possibility that I am the one who did it.

On the notepad of my mind, I wrote: All of the suspects had motives. All of us had the opportunity. And Heinie, it would seem, had provided them with the means. What I couldn’t shake was the notion that someone had shot him with his consent. And that could have been any number of people. Merissa. Col Saunders. Max Shofar. Myself. Even a bad Samaritan in the guise of a passing pedestrian. Because murder is, after all, murder.

Someone on the committee was about to make a motion. I
glanced at my watch, stood up, and said, “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement. With my PO.”

There were puzzled glances. “His probation officer,” Bertha said, and laughed to let the frowning ones in on the joke.

Back in my office I put in a call to Lieutenant Tracy and left a message regarding my suspicions about von Grümh’s boat and the possible location of the real collection. No response. I suppose I should accept it. I have been charged with accessory to murder, after all. I am out on bail. I could go to prison. I am not someone the lieutenant can relate to except as a suspect.

I was at a very low point when I came home to find a message from Diantha asking me to call her at the cottage. Her voice sounded friendly and enticing, which surprised and elated me as we hadn’t spoken since I told her that Alphus was staying at the house.

“How are you, Norman,” she asked when I returned the call. “Elsie misses you.”

“I miss her very much.” We both knew that we were using Elsie as a kind of proxy for our own feelings, our love for her being unconditional.

“What I want to tell you, Norman, has to do with Heinie’s murder and may be of some help.”

“Okay.”

“But I don’t want to talk on the telephone.”

“I see.”

“Can we meet?”

“We can. Do you have a sitter?”

“Bella’s here.”

As Ridley was already at the house to keep an eye on Alphus, though, frankly, I’m not sure who keeps an eye on whom with
those two, I said yes and mentioned a roadhouse with dinky little cabins about halfway between the cottage on the lake and Seaboard. We agreed to have dinner there together.

I showered and shaved my already smooth face. I fussed with what to wear, making myself sporty in a short-sleeved button-down oxford, a pair of Levi’s she had given me, a chino safari jacket with shoulder tabs, and loafers with no socks. I wanted to look the part.

Diantha was there when I arrived, sitting at the bar with a glass of pale wine. She wore one of those thin summery dresses that cling just a little, along with a light green sweater that she draped on her shoulders like a cape.

Our greeting kiss lingered. She put a hand on my thigh as I sat on the barstool next to hers and ordered a Jack Daniel’s and soda, no ice, and easy on the soda. Though a decent if ramshackle kind of restaurant, I didn’t trust them to make an acceptable martini.

So we cooed
tête-à-tête
over our drinks until a waitress with a knowing eye,
real lovers these two
, led us to a table off by ourselves. We ordered a bottle of
vin
not entirely
ordinaire
and two of the steaks being grilled on the barbecue outside.

Diantha leaned toward me and turned serious. “Okay, here’s what Merissa told me a couple of nights ago. She drove out to the cottage and we had a few drinks. And when Merissa has a few drinks, well, she likes to talk.”

Diantha hesitated. I reached across the table and took her hand, as though that might steady and encourage her. She took in a breath. “Merissa told me that Max talked about getting rid of Heinie. I mean she didn’t actually use the word
murder
, but that’s what she meant. With Heinie gone, she would not only be free, but very wealthy.”

“When did she say all this?”

“A couple of weeks before he was found dead.”

“Are you sure it was Max who initiated the idea?”

She lifted the glass of wine to her lips and paused. “That’s a good question. It could have been her. She was the one who brought it up in our conversation. At first, I thought she was joking, but now I’m not sure.”

I remembered the strange look of excitement and surprise, the double take, when the lieutenant and I had driven out to tell her about Heinie’s murder. How she had said, “He wouldn’t.”

“How was it supposed to happen?”

“Oh, they had several scenarios …”

“They?”

“Oh, yes, Merissa was in on it, too.”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, Heinie drank a lot, and they thought they could doctor a bottle of whiskey on his boat so that he would pass out and fall overboard when he was out sailing. Merissa said they talked about how she would sneak Max on board and how after she got Heinie drunk, they would dump him overboard and say it was an accident.”

“And what other way?”

“She was going to get him drunk and drugged at home and Max would have someone burn the house down.”

“Nice. Real nice.”

“But, you see, she treated this whole thing as though it were a joke.”

“What about using a gun?”

“Oh, that was their favorite. They thought of having Max shoot him … Max has lots of guns. Or he knows how to get them. His father used to own that pawnshop. And making it look like a suicide. Or self-defense.”

“Self-defense?”

Diantha, I could tell, had already told me more than she meant to.

“Well, okay. It seems that Heinie got all worked up one morning after Merissa had been out with Max. He took your gun and went to Max’s office.”

“To shoot him?”

“No. Just to scare him off. Merissa and Max were going at it hot and heavy at the time.”

“Did it work?”

“I guess not. Heinie came back lower than ever.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.

“Merissa swore me to secrecy and then said she was joking, that it was only a fantasy. And even after they found Heinie murdered, I still couldn’t believe she had anything to do with it.”

She paused, pondering, and I could sense there was more. “Okay, but you’ve got to promise me that you won’t tell a soul. Especially not the police.”

“I can’t promise, Di, you know that. But you can trust me to be discreet.”

“Okay.” But she hesitated. “Okay. On the night Heinie was murdered, he had set up a meeting with Max.”

My nose actually twitched. I experienced that atavistic, very nearly spinal response of a hunter sensing his quarry. “Do you know at what time?”

“The meeting? She didn’t say, but I think it was late.”

“Did they meet?”

“Merissa didn’t tell me that. She said she didn’t really know.”

“You asked her?”

“Of course.”

I refrained from telling her how smart she was. Compliments like that flatter the giver more than the recipient. Instead I thanked her. “I know Merissa is your friend.”

She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “Yeah, she’s also kind of a ditz. I mean she wouldn’t know which side of a book to open.”

We drank our wine and ate our steaks, which were quite delicious. We looked into each other’s eyes. It was she who said, “Want to take a cabin for a while?”

It was very simple. To the buxom lady behind the cash register, I asked if there was a cabin available.

“You want it for a couple of hours or for the night.”

“Half an hour will do,” Diantha giggled beside me.

The woman rolled her eyes. “It’s seventy-five dollars until ten thirty.”

Passion, alas, can neither be feigned nor premeditated. Perhaps it was our surroundings, a sagging bed in a mean little room quaintly and disagreeably redolent of postcoital cigarette smoke. Or perhaps our expectations got ahead of us, or ahead of me, at least. Simply put, I could not rise to the occasion. With the bases loaded, I struck out. I didn’t even swing.

Diantha’s sympathy shriveled me inwardly edged as it was with the kind of concern one expresses for a medical condition. “Norman, it’s all right,” she said, patting my knee. “You’ve been through a lot lately.”

It was then that I confessed, though it might have sounded like bragging, my worst fear. We were sitting on the sad bed next to each other. I held her hand. I said, “Diantha, you once asked me in anger if I murdered Heinie …”

“And?”

“I think I may have.”

Shock touched with excited admiration showed in her pretty eyes. “Really!”

I nodded.

“But you’re not sure?”

“I’m not sure. I either shot him or I fantasized about doing it
with such vivid intensity that it seems in retrospect like the same thing.”

“Because of me?”

I should have lied or at least fudged the truth. It would have been a declaration of love, however twisted, one that I might have believed in enough to inspire what the dear woman has called my better part. I shrugged instead and told the miserable truth. “Mostly it was the way he treated me after you and he had been … together. He acted as though we shared an unspoken, obscene joke. And I could never figure out if it was at your expense or mine.”