Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [37]
“Mr…. Pendergast?” he ventured, almost in a whisper.
“The very same.” The man stepped in and took Tipton’s hand, giving it a cool, brief shake. Tipton just stared.
Pendergast gestured toward the visitor’s chair opposite Tipton’s desk. “May I?”
Tipton nodded and Pendergast seated himself, throwing one leg over the other. Tipton silently took his own chair.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” said Pendergast.
“Well, Mr. Pendergast…” Tipton began, his mind awhirl, “I thought—I thought the family was gone… I had no idea…” His voice stammered into silence.
“The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”
Tipton fumbled in the vest pocket of his dingy three-piece woolen suit, extracted a handkerchief, and patted his brow. “Delighted to see you, just delighted…” Another pat.
“The feeling is mutual.”
“What brings you back here, if I may ask?” Tipton made an effort to recover himself. He had been curator of the Audubon Cottage for almost fifty years, and he knew a great deal about the Pendergast family. The last thing he’d expected was to see one of them again, in the flesh. He remembered the terrible night of the fire as if it were yesterday: the mob, the screams from the upper stories, the flames leaping into the night sky… Although he’d been a trifle relieved when the surviving family members left the area: the Pendergasts had always given him the willies, especially that strange brother, Diogenes. He had heard rumors that Diogenes had died in Italy. He’d also heard that Aloysius had disappeared. He believed it only too well: it was a family that seemed destined for extinction.
“Just paying a visit to our little property across the street. Since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop in and pay my respects to an old friend. How is the museum business these days?”
“Property? You mean…”
“That’s right. The parking lot where Rochenoire once stood. I’ve never been able to let it go, for—for sentimental reasons.” This was followed by a thin smile.
Tipton nodded. “Of course, of course. As for the museum, you can see, Mr. Pendergast, the neighborhood has changed much for the worse. We don’t get many visitors these days.”
“It has indeed changed. How pleasant to see the Audubon Cottage museum is still exactly the same.”
“We try to keep it that way.”
Pendergast rose, clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you mind? I realize that you’re closed at present, but nevertheless I’d love to take a turn through. For old times’ sake.”
Tipton hastily rose. “Of course. Please excuse the Audubon diorama, I was just cleaning it.” He was mortified to see that he had laid the DustBuster in Audubon’s lap, with the feather duster propped up against his arm, as if some jokester had tried to turn the great man into a charwoman.
“Do you recall,” Pendergast said, “the special exhibition you mounted, fifteen years ago, for which we loaned you our double elephant folio?”
“Of course.”
“That was quite a festive opening.”
“It was.” Tipton remembered it all too well: the stress and horror of watching crowds of people wandering about his exhibits with brimming glasses of wine. It had been a beautiful summer evening, with a full moon, but he’d been too harassed to notice it much. That was the first and last special exhibit he had ever mounted.
Pendergast began strolling through the back rooms, peering into the glass cases with their prints and drawings and birds, the Audubon memorabilia, the letters and sketches. Tipton followed in his wake.
“Did you know this is where my wife and I first met? At that very opening.”
“No, Mr. Pendergast, I didn’t.” Tipton felt uneasy. Pendergast seemed strangely excited.
“My wife—Helen—I believe she had an interest in Audubon?”
“Yes, she certainly did.”
“Did she… ever visit the museum afterward?”
“Oh, yes. Before and afterward.”
“Before?”
The sharpness of the question brought Tipton up short. “Why, yes. She was here off and on, doing her research.”
“Her research,” Pendergast repeated.