The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [86]
16
North of here, on our stern and rockbound coast, on a grassy knoll overlooking a particularly beautiful sweep of ocean, islands, and forested points, Izzy and Lotte have their weekend cottage. It was there on an azure day of sunshine and breeze that I drove for the Landeses’ annual summer picnic.
Ah, to be among friends who take you for what you are or might be. No obloquy here, subtle or otherwise, as I unloaded the back of my car — some bottles of good wine, and a cornucopia of fresh fruit and berries. No shunning here. Indeed, the welcoming smiles, grips, and kisses were perhaps a little too hearty, too reassuring.
Not that I minded having Harvey Deharo’s arm around my shoulder. Or the Reverend Alfie’s bowing graciously and extending both hands. Or Father (“Oh, please, ‘S.J.’ ”) O’Gould, elegant even in casual attire, joking about hearing my confession. Then Izzy and Lotte, of course, their son and his family, their friends from the city, and a few summer neighbors.
“Merry enough to be a wedding,” someone remarked as, already well wined, we sat around two long tables bibbed and tuckered for a surfeit of lobsters, steamed clams, fresh corn, Lotte’s potato salad, and a marvelous white Graves that Izzy had found at a bargain. I nearly wanted to make a toast as I looked up and down the table at the happy people. Then I made a toast.
I stood up and rapped my glass. “To Lotte and Izzy,” I said. “And to us, their lucky friends.”
Afterward, while others occupied themselves in various ways, Izzy and I took a walk on a rugged path that led through an evergreen forest and then along the shore where waves crashed and seabirds called. I had told him back in town that I needed to talk to him. So now, as we made our way along a sandy beach in a cove where sailboats lay at anchor, he said, “Talk.”
“Easier said than done,” I quipped. Then I hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject on which I wanted his advice, namely Elgin Warwick’s proposal for his mummification and all that might entail. When I finally managed to get it out, in bits and pieces, making his brow knit and smooth until he stopped and burst out laughing.
“Old Warwick as a mummy! My God, that will be worth seeing.”
“Felix not only wants to accept the offer, he wants us to open up a mortuary wing. For a fee, anyone could join the permanent collection, with niches and shrines of various sizes for cremated remains. Even funerals and receptions. He said it would be a cash cow.”
“A regular herd.”
“But …”
We had stopped and were watching a small sailboat with a party of three casting off its mooring, the sound of its snapping main coming over the water.
Izzy, his abundant white hair lofted by the wind, was shaking his head in mirth. “How about a deal for me and Lotte?”
I smiled at him, suddenly relieved. The alchemy of friendship is the greatest balm. “You’ll have your own temple,” I said. “Right next to mine.”
We paused again to catch our breath and take in cormorants on a shoaling rock looking imperial with their wings spread to dry.
“The fact is,” I said, “human remains have to be old before they become interesting, at least to a museum.”
“Yes. And the older the better. It’s the paradox of death.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the past is the future for all mortal beings.”
“Put that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. I’ve always half lived in the past.”
“Like most of us. What’s that old saw? I don’t mind being dead, it’s dying I don’t look forward to.”
We resumed our walking. “So I take it you have doubts,” he said when the path widened to allow us to amble side by side.
“I am absolutely torn, my friend. Everything Felix says is true. He says we would make a killing, no pun intended. Nor am I a disinterested party in all this. Elgin is on our Board of Governors. The board is meeting on the twenty-fourth to decide whether