The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [78]
Not seconds later, I glanced toward the reception area where Alphus, unleashed, and with all the aplomb of a worldly roué, was leading the still-tapping Ridley and the two ladies of the bar into the dining area, Kareena carrying the half-filled champagne bottle by the neck. People frowned. Marlen stood looking on like an idiot, his mouth agape.
“They’re joining us for dinner,” Alphus signed to me as he neared.
“I don’t think so,” I said as firmly as I dared. I did not want any kind of scene. I wanted to pay whatever bill there was and leave. Quietly.
“Will you need two more settings?” asked Marlen, mesmerized again by Ridley, who had his wallet out.
“No,” I insisted. “We need a check. We have to leave. Immediately. It’s imperative.”
“What’s imperative?” the blond Roxanne inquired, meaning, I think, the word.
“The food here is yummy,” said Kareena, whose toreador pants made abundantly obvious her callipygian charms.
“We’ll take it with us,” I said, desperate now. Other diners, napkins in hand, were staring at us.
“You want doggie bags?” asked Marlen quite loudly.
“Doggie bags will be fine,” I said.
“Could I have the peppered steak to go?” Roxanne asked.
“Make that two,” chimed in Kareena.
“No, we are leaving. Right now.” I had raised my voice.
“What about your doggie bags, sir?”
“Bring them to reception. Ridley, give the man enough money to cover this.” I wasn’t being cheap. I didn’t want to wait around while people fussed with my credit card. As I spoke, I was calculating that to get to the reception area, it was necessary to cross a ten-foot space where people on the other side of the lattice would have a clear view of us. If we could make it past there and out to the main entrance, we would be in the clear.
But my augmented party were reluctant to go. Alphus sat down with that look on his face.
“Alphus,” I said, bending down to him, “if we don’t leave right now and if there’s any kind of trouble, the museum will insist you return to the Pavilion and there will be nothing I can do about it.”
“Why?” he signed.
“I’ll explain later. Trust me.”
Alphus glanced at Ridley. He signed, “Okay, let’s go.”
Ridley placed several of his hundred-dollar bills on the table as I lined up the two girls to walk to the right of Alphus, shielding him from sight as best they could. My face averted and my body hunched, I herded my group to the reception desk without incident. People, I could tell, were as glad to see us go as I was to leave.
We had just reached the desk, inches away from what I considered sanctuary, when I heard, with a sudden, heart-thudding thump, the shrill, reaching voice of Royale Toite. Coifed, expensively, pantsuited, with the eyes of a mad raptor, she came looming as though out of the wall, but was in fact leading a gaggle of her women’s-club friends from the cloakroom to one side of the desk. She looked straight at me with a face glowering with indignation.
“What is this all about?” She turned her fury to an obviously distressed Simon, who was hurrying over. “How dare you subject us to this … outrage!” She approached within hissing distance. “Norman de Ratour, have you no shame? A beast just like that one killed and ate my dog, my little Miffy …”
I faced her feeling like I had woken from a bad dream into a living nightmare. I didn’t care in the least what this wretched woman thought, but I wanted to avoid an encounter that would bring members of the Governing Board out to see what the ruckus was about.
“Royale,” I said, my tone invoking a certain class allegiance as I pronounced her name Roy Al, the way she liked it, “there’s no reason to …”
“No reason …!” She was all but screaming. “That’s