The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [37]
Fortunately, Elsie was napping when we had our knock-down drag-out. We’ve found that she hears perfectly well and understands a lot of what we say. She’s also very sensitive to any conflict between us, however much we dissemble our disagreements.
I cannot recall the trifle that sparked the conflagration. We were in the kitchen, tiptoeing around each other, when I made some casual, wounding remark. Diantha erupted. “What do you want me to do, Norman? Bleed? I’ve apologized, haven’t I? I know it was stupid to lend Heinie the gun, but, really, is it that big a deal?”
“Of course it’s a big deal,” I retorted, anger cracking through my mantle of ice. “Because of your … stupidity and your … lack of respect, I have been charged with a serious crime. My whole career is in jeopardy. My life’s work …”
I felt reduced to pompous fatuities. At one point, I proclaimed, “Your love was your own to give, Di, even if it was pledged to me. Vows get broken. We’ve gone through that. But my revolver was not yours to dispose of.”
Our verbal punches grew repetitive. Finally, with true pathos, Diantha said, “Norman, what do you want?”
And I could not tell her.
“Listen,” she said, sounding a conciliatory note, “Felix told me the DA doesn’t have the beginning of a case against you.”
“When were you talking to Felix?” I could not conceal that twitch of alarm that precedes jealousy. Felix, newly married and all, was attracted to and attractive to good-looking women. And Diantha was certainly one of those.
She rolled her eyes. “He called last night looking for you. I told him you were out.”
“The point being that it is immaterial what the merits of the case are. I have been charged, and in my position that is all that matters. You’ve seen the articles in the Bugle, on the radio, on the television. If the board doesn’t support me, I will be finished, the museum will wither to nothing in the clutches of Wainscott, my whole life …”
“Jesus, Norman …”
“Yes, Jesus, Norman,” I threw back in her face, turned and walked away.
I found that returning to work — the actual going there — took a certain amount of courage. I half expected to find my office barred to me, the locks changed, yellow police tape draped around the place.
Doreen, God bless her, welcomed me back with as big a hug as her very pregnant belly would allow. I swear she is going to have a litter. She had also brought in a small bouquet of flowers and put them on my desk. I had to hide my tearing eyes.
Outwardly, things seemed normal. I was not exactly shunned except in a couple of deplorable instances. Rather, people were just a little too nice, their smiles like sweetened grimaces. I came to expect the limp handshake, the averted face, the hurry to be away. They kept their distance, as though news had gotten around that I had contracted a disreputable and contagious disease.
But my real friends did not fail me. Izzy Landes called that first day back. He invited me to join him and Lotte at Albert’s, an old-fashioned sort of place with an excellent cellar. I should have accepted considering what happened later. But I was in no mood for company, for either the avoidance of the topic or, more likely as the wine flowed, explanatory excess.
The Reverend Alfie Lopes came by unannounced and sat with me for nearly an hour, just chatting. He is a charming and, in his own way, a profound man. Not once did he allude to my difficulties. He simply sat and talked, drinking café au lait of a shade that matched his complexion. It was as though he were administering the balm of normality.
I’ve also gotten a note of support from Father S.J. O’Gould, S.J. After commiserating, he stated I could call on him at anytime for support,