The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [56]
I immediately supervised the making of a copy — keeping the screen blank throughout — and sent the original to Lieutenant Tracy by special courier. In an accompanying note I identified Ossmann, but I also wondered aloud, so to speak, about how useful, at this point in the investigation, the information really was. Had Ossmann and the other two been working on some kind of love potion and decided to give it a try? Had he tried again with Dr. Woodley and gotten the dose wrong? Or was the effect of a lethal dose known and for some reason used against Ossmann and Woodley? If so, why experiment on Bert and Betti?
Speaking of whom, the spotlight of unseemly publicity has once again been turned on the Museum of Man. Amanda Feeney-Morin wrote a front-page story in yesterday’s Bugle disclosing details from the autopsies of Bert and Betti. She revealed that the biochemical analysis turned up compounds identical to those found in Ossmann and Woodley. Ms. Feeney quoted an unidentified source within the SPD to the effect that the compounds constitute “a blockbuster aphrodisiac.” It sounds like my friend Sergeant Lemure is at it again.
Then Ms. Feeney got to the real point of her story. “Norman de Ratour, Director of the museum, did not return calls.” Of course the woman called me. She calls every day to ask me if I beat my wife or molest donkeys. So of course I don’t return her calls. But that’s not the kind of thing I can include in the press releases I put out stating that no research on aphrodisiacs is taking place in the Genetics Lab. It would get twisted around until it sounded like an evasion.
Which reminds me, I have yet to look at the rest of Corny’s tape. Why me? I complain to the air. Why not send it to Murdleston or Brauer? Because Murdleston’s too foggy and Brauer, who has his own geek show in progress, can’t be trusted.
But none of the above, I must confess, is what has me dithered like a teenager. Sixpak Shakur has moved out, lock, stock, and amplifiers, and while a measure of peace reigns here at home I find myself beset again with the worst kind of temptation.
More accurately, the King of the Redneck Rappers was thrown out by Diantha, for whom I feel heartfelt sympathy, genuine love, and a low, cunning, opportunistic lust. Even when I try to be high-minded, when I lift my head and straighten my shoulders and think, yes, indeed, the breakup will be the best thing for her in the long run, I find myself in the equation. I find my imagination flaring, conflating with images from the video so that I am behind her, in front of her, on top of her … Which is shameful beyond words because the dear girl is, for the nonce, very upset.
Diantha, in fact, was close to hysterics when I came in around seven thirty this evening. She met me at the door, her eyes fetchingly pink from weeping. She fell into my arms, sobbing again.
“Elsbeth?” I asked in alarm, fearing and expecting the worst.
“No, no, no,” she moaned. “It’s Sixy. He’s gone. Sixy’s gone.”
“You poor girl,” I said, taking her in my arms, my relief at the man’s departure mixing with my commiseration for her all-too-evident distress.
“But I still have you, don’t I, Norman,” she sniffled and gave me a big wet kiss on the lips, which I can still feel imprinted, like a stain I want to keep.
I decorously disentangled myself. “Gone,” I said, trying to dissemble the sense of giddy release that kept arriving like pleasant shocks as I hung up my topcoat in the hall closet. “Diantha,” I said firmly, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Tell me what happened. But first, how is your mother doing?”
Diantha nodded, my indirect rebuke and its implied perspective calming her.