Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [45]
“You must be Dr. D’Agosta,” said a bright, bird-like woman, rising from her desk and bustling toward him on stubby legs, sensible shoes rapping the boards. “We don’t get many visitors this time of year. I’m Lola Marchant.” She stuck out her hand.
D’Agosta took the hand and was given a surprisingly vigorous shake. The woman was all rouge and powder and lipstick, and she had to be at least sixty, stout and vigorous.
“Shame on you, bringing this bad weather!” She broke into a warbling laugh. “Even so, we always welcome Audubon researchers. Mostly we get tourists.”
D’Agosta followed her into a reception hall, done up in white-painted wood and massive beams. He began to regret the cover he had given her over the phone. So little did he know about Audubon or birds, he felt sure he’d be busted on even the most minimal exchange of information. Best thing to do was keep his mouth shut.
“First things first!” Marchant went behind another desk and pushed an enormous logbook toward him. “Please sign your name and fill in the reason for your visit.”
D’Agosta wrote down his name and the supposed reason.
“Thank you!” she said. “Now, let’s get started. What, exactly, would you like to see?”
D’Agosta cleared his throat. “I’m an ornithologist”—he got the word out perfectly—“and I’d like to see some of Audubon’s specimens.”
“Wonderful! As you surely know, Audubon was only here for four months, working as a drawing master for Eliza Pirrie, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Pirrie, owners of the Oakley Plantation. After a tiff with Mrs. Pirrie he abruptly went back to New Orleans, taking with him all his specimens and drawings. But when we became a State Historic Site forty years ago, we were given a bequest of Audubon drawings, letters, and some of his actual bird specimens, which we’ve added to over the years—and now we have one of the finest Audubon collections in Louisiana!”
She smiled brightly at this recital, her bosom heaving slightly from the effort.
“Right,” mumbled D’Agosta, removing a steno notebook from his brown suit coat, hoping it added verisimilitude.
“This way, Dr. D’Agosta, please.”
Dr. D’Agosta. The lieutenant felt his apprehension increase.
The woman pounded her way across the painted pine floors to a set of stairs. They ascended to the second floor and walked through a large series of spacious rooms, furnished in period furniture, finally arriving at a locked door, which—when opened—revealed a set of attic stairs, steep and narrow. D’Agosta followed Marchant to the top. It was an attic in name only, being spotlessly clean and well kept, smelling of fresh paint. Old oaken cabinets with rippled glass lined three of the walls, with more modern, closed cabinets at the far end. The light came from a series of dormers with frosted windows, which let in a cool white light.
“We have about a hundred birds from Audubon’s original collection,” she said, walking briskly down the central corridor. “Unfortunately, Audubon was not much of a taxidermist. The specimens have been stabilized, of course. Here we are.”
They stopped before a large, gray metal cabinet that looked almost like a safe. Marchant spun the center dial and turned the lever handle. With a sigh of air, the great door opened, revealing inner wooden cabinets with labels, stuck into brass label-holders, screwed to every drawer. A stench of mothballs washed over D’Agosta. Grasping one drawer, Marchant drew it out to display three rows of stuffed birds, yellowed tags around each claw, white cotton-wool poking out of their eyes.
“Those tags are Audubon’s originals,” said Marchant. “I’ll handle the birds myself—please don’t touch them without my permission. Now!” She smiled. “Which ones would you like to see?”
D’Agosta consulted his notebook. He had copied down some bird names from a website that listed all of Audubon’s original specimens and their locations.