The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [86]
I didn’t try to conceal my wonderment at it all. Because it wasn’t until I glanced out of one of the windows that I realized we were in a kind of wide bridge between the main pile and the side of the mountain in the back.
“Is this the master’s bedroom?” I asked, deliberately employing the Saxon genitive.
“Oh, no, that’s upstairs. That’s restricted territory. It looks like this only … it has a winding staircase that goes up to the top where there’s a greenhouse and a pool.” She gave her wide-mouthed laugh. “Maybe we’ll all end up there … for a swim.”
Which left my head swimming a little at the prospect. I walked over to the fireplace and, pretending some interest in Sir Galahad kneeling before the diaphanously clad beauty, asked, “Do you work for Freddie?”
“Don’t we all?” Her laugh had a bitterness to it this time. “Oh, Norman, stop playing detective. It’s a real turnoff.”
“Miss Tangent …”
She had taken both of my hands in hers, and it seemed unmannerly to shake them off. “Seriously, Norman, you’re off duty. Officially. Until morning. Then we’ll straighten everything out for you.”
But Miss Tangent remained very much on duty. She let go my hands and reached up to give me a kiss, opening my mouth with hers and for the barest moment entwining her tongue around mine. At the same time, she reached a hand down and brought it up softly against the crotch of my worsted trousers with a gesture so light and fleeting it might never have been. “I can tell, Norman, you’re not the kind of older guy who needs much help.”
I maintained enough presence of mind to ask, “Perhaps that’s something you could tell me about?”
She pulled away. “If you’re going to be a bore, I’m not going to get naughty with you. Or perhaps I’ll just have to spank you.”
It would be less than honest to say I wasn’t tempted. Most immediately by this attractive woman, by the thought of a night with her on that vast bed, along with God knows what combinations of Diantha and Freddie Bain, the two polar bears, and the little old babushka, for all I knew. Because Miss Tangent’s jean-clad haunches swung before me with maddening palpability as we descended the stairs to the main floor. And as real as they seemed, I felt a deeper, more irresponsible temptation. To simply let go. To smile, finally, to laugh, to loosen my bow tie and give in to the allurements shimmering around me.
Strangely enough, it was Freddie Bain who saved me. Not that I didn’t have misgivings, about Diantha’s situation, for instance. What kind of sordid, silken rat’s nest had she gotten herself into? Perhaps, I kept thinking, I should have been more forthcoming about my suspicions before we went snooping around his gift shop.
All the while, vodka, and then wine from Georgia — the republic — kept flowing. We arranged ourselves at the dining table, which was nearly square. I sat across from the host, the host from hell, as it turned out. I was sober enough, though, to realize that the meal the babushka set out on the dining table was far better than anything Mr. Bain served in his restaurant.
As we finished supping a chunky borscht and began some delectable piroshki, the discussion turned to the music issuing from well-hidden speakers. I recognized it as Wagner, but couldn’t place it as his music seems to me one long continuum. Mr. Bain and I reenacted the Wagner–Brahms debate in a minor key. I stood my ground, saying that Wagner was for hearing and Brahms was for listening to. Mr. Bain, imbibing heavily and growing ruddy of face, waxed dogmatic and craven at the same time, boring in on me, as though desperate for my affirmation of his tastes and ideas. Was it Diantha? I wondered. Did he want me to approve of him for her sake? Or was he just one of those men who cannot imagine others holding opinions different from his own?
I tried to involve the girls, as I thought