The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [107]
Speaking of which, and perhaps not all that surprisingly, the Ponce Institute has already come up with the trade names Priaptin — the version being developed for men — and Lubricitin for women. Another team has taken over the project, and the Acting Director at the lab tells me it shows enormous commercial potential.
A thorough search of that monstrosity in the woods turned up the cellar room where Korky had been kept on a starvation diet. Korky appears, by the way, to have landed on his feet. With the cooperation of many of the haute cuisine restaurants in and around Seaboard, he has opened up a soup kitchen for the homeless dubbed “the Best Leftovers.” It uses surplus food from the sponsoring eateries and aims at “personal redemption through fine dining.” It’s been so successful that he has reserved a part of the establishment for paying customers.
Other matters are resolving themselves in one way or another. Production of A Taste of the Real, Raul Brauer’s self-aggrandizing film project, has come to a shuddering halt. It turns out that Freddie Bain was the principal backer. The government has seized all of his ill-gained assets, and I doubt it will feel compelled to honor Mr. Bain’s obligations in that regard … although it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that lawyers are working on it right now.
On quite another topic, my book about the MOM, The Past Redeemed: The History of the Museum of Man, has received some very positive advance notices. Indeed, on the strength of this reception, I have been asked by a well-known university publishing house to edit the considerable correspondence between Mason Twitchell and Lady Miriam Rothschild, the eccentric English aristocrat who kept a large collection of trained fleas. To date I haven’t said yes, but I haven’t said no, either.
In the interest of promoting the museum and my new book, I have made several guest appearances on national television talk shows. Elsbeth could watch them for hours and knew extraordinary amounts about the people interviewed and talked about. To me the shows all seemed the same — a ritual in which the host and the guest try to be funny or profound. And I have always found it annoying when the host or hostess lowers his or her voice, mimicking sincerity and signaling to everyone they were asking a searching question. But I must say they all treated me with respect and consideration. One fellow, in suspenders, reminded me of a sideshow barker, and the alpha female on one of the morning shows had very nice legs.
Which brings me to my own situation. Two days after the denouement in the castle, late in the evening, Diantha came into my room where, restless, I was trying to read myself to sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed and, in essence, confessed that she had returned to the Bain place “on an impulse.” She said she was going to try to convince him to leave me alone. “I knew it was a mistake the minute I got there. At first he was amused. Then he turned freaky. I mean really freaky. He wouldn’t let me go. He kept asking me where Celeste was. He wouldn’t believe me when I told him I didn’t know.”
“Were you still in love with him?” I asked.
“Maybe. Until I got there and saw him again. Then …” She sighed and looked at me with her marvelous eyes. “I kept thinking about you.”
Thus in quick succession she came into my arms, into my bed, and into my life.
Diantha, it turns out, is pregnant. A week ago she informed me she was late with her period and that an off-the-shelf test from the pharmacy proved positive. I didn’t know quite how to respond, to tell the truth.
“It’s yours, you know,” she said as we moved around the kitchen, making dinner together.
“How can you be sure?” I asked