The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [103]
I cannot claim that Merissa proved a “revelation,” as fiction-a lists are wont to say. Sex ends up being sex whatever bells and whistles of the flesh precede the final tupping. But she was appreciative, eager, friendly, and, to say the least, generous in the succession of venues she offered for my unflagging delectation, the last of which I declined, much to her merriment.
“Oh, Norman, you really are an old stick in the mud.”
“Yes and no,” I murmured, “yes and no.”
But I am not good at adultery. For all its culminatory excesses (the sound effects on Merissa’s part must have carried into the hall), the encounter left me unappeased and hankering, but for what, I did not know. What I could not fathom, as the aforementioned gratitude took hold, was what, if anything, I owed Merissa. Respect, certainly. But it’s presumptuous to assume I owe her anything. One has to assume the gratifications are mutual. In fact, she may regard me as little more than an overripe plum she plucked from a low branch. Or found lying on the ground. She’ll surely tell Diantha, as though by mistake, scoring points, giving them something to spat about and then patch up, closer than ever. Women are a strange species.
And what about my own motives? Other than simple lust, though lust is seldom simple, how much of my sudden ardor for Merissa might have sprung from anger? Was there not an element of preemptive retribution? Because I feared that Diantha was off cavorting with her minstrel boy and his merry band of drug addicts? It wasn’t any sense of conquest. I have no urge to take pelts of the kind you either hang on the wall or record in your diary. But I did worry in wondering if I had indulged the primal act of possessing the woman of a man I had murdered.
I decided not to analyze any of this too closely. Drained but not satiated, I made my way home with a noticeably subdued Alphus next to me in the front seat, both of us staring out at a steady rain through the metronomic swish swish of the windshield wipers.
20
Limbo can be hell. In three days I face the Governing Board. If they ask for my resignation, then life as I have known it for several decades will cease to exist. Even now, when I glance around my office or walk through galleries of the museum, I feel like I am walking through my past.
If fired, what will I do, I ask myself now in a steady refrain of foreboding. Vegetate? Smell the roses? On what, my own funeral wreaths? I am far too old to revive my youthful dreams of doing field archaeology. I will be financially embarrassed, as my pension will be puny and many of my securities have become insecurities. All work may be honorable, but I can’t quite see myself bagging groceries at the supermarket.
I suppose I should have delayed writing to Elgin Warwick about his mummy scheme. Felix shook his head in disbelief when I showed him a copy of the letter I had sent.
“So what’s his response been?”
“Nothing. A deafening silence.”
“Not good. Not good. Guys like Warwick are used to getting what they want. Especially when they’re willing to pay for it.”
I looked out the tall windows of my office at the overcast sky and said nothing.
“You know, Norman, you don’t make it easy for people trying to help you.”
I apologized. But how to explain that I needed to tie up at least one loose end and that the letter to Warwick did just that, perhaps in more ways than one. Because I have still not heard from Diantha. Bella called to tell me that Elsie was doing fine. “She teach me hand talk, Mr. Norman.”
“That’s nice,” I said, grateful for at least that tidbit. Still, I was craven enough to ask, “Is Diantha there?”
“No, Mr. Norman. She says to be back later.” I did not press it. If I have not succumbed to the temptation to call Merissa and propose another lunch, to put it euphemistically, it’s because my emotions are in one big mangle. Of course, I would like to roger her royally again, to use