Erased From Memory (30 page)

She shoots Egon. Her gun makes a kind of muffled pop. She has to do it twice, probably because his robes interfere with the Taser tag.

“So,” she says. “Not a good bet. This guy is nutty as a fruitcake. God, what a bunch of feebs . . . Now, Miss Society Pants”—it takes me a minute to realize she’s addressing me—“what about you get your butt up those stairs and call your little Southern girlfriend sheriff and get her over here to get summa these dopes arrested. Jesus. Whatta mess.”

But I have more or less put it together that Bunny was Egon’s little helpmeet and has now gotten scared of that role. I’m not in the mood to be ordered around by Bunny. I reach down and grab the gun out of Egon’s hand.

I tell Bunny that if she shoots me, she will stun me all right, but if I shoot her at the same time, I’ll kill her. “And,” I say, “I
will
do it. I know how to shoot this thing. I took a course.”

Which is an arrant lie. But “taking a course” makes it sound good.

She stares down at her Taser. “Told me it was just for crowd control. Wow. Some crowd control.”

 
 
I take Bunny up with me while I make the phone call to Cherie.

My cell phone works from just outside the door, and two minutes later we are back and I am sitting with my spine against a pillar. I survey my scene.

I have the Taser in my hand and Egon’s gun between my feet.

Egon is still out of it. I’m not sure if another stunner blast would kill him, should he begin coming to. But I’m willing to try.

My father and Scott are sitting on the gravel. Daddy has found a packet of peppermint Jelly Bellies in his pocket and has passed them around. Now he is eating one.

Bunny, looking sullen, is camped against the far wall with her arms folded.

“So,” I say to Scott. “Explain.”

“Why don’t you just let me die?”

“That’s Danielle up in the top sarcophagus.”

“Sure. Yes. Did you just catch on to that?”

“No, I didn’t just catch on. I’ve thought it for a while now.”

“I put her there.”

“I thought that, too.”

Actually, I decide, I could hardly not think it. Scott was advertising the fact. Guilt will make you do things like that.

“I put her there,” he repeats.

We both look up at the top sarcophagus with its hieroglyphic scratches. “She doesn’t smell,” I say. I hate to get circumstantial about this, but the idea has been bothering me.

“Oh, God. Herbs, essences. The whole mummification bit. Oh, Jesus.” He puts his head in his hands. “She looked lovely.”

“And you killed her.”

“I did.”

Give Scott credit, he really doesn’t want to excuse himself. I say, “It was an accident?”

“We fought. You know. She was furious about this plan Marcus had; she came at me. I pushed her. It was down here; she slammed her head.”

There’s a silence while we both think about this. It’s perfectly possible, of course; this gravel is treacherous.

“And so Egon blackmailed you.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Blackmail. Report this and you go to jail. Go along with me and I’ll put her in my tomb and cover for you. And after that I’ll work for you. Build you up, you’re the discoverer of the wonderful tablet. Make you famous.”

“But you liked the idea. Fame, fortune, publicity. Yale.”

“Sure. I loved it. For about ten minutes. The Hartdale; are you kidding?”

“Egon thought it would make the museum famous.”

“Well, it would.”

“And especially you. He took you up on the mountain and pointed and said, ‘All this can be yours . . .’ ”

“Damn fucking right.”

 
 
“Would anyone like a peppermint Jelly Belly?” my father asks. “They’re a bit sticky.”

I tell him to just enjoy them, sweetheart, we’ll all have lunch in a while. Egon stirs and groans and I aim the gun thoughtfully at him. But then he subsides.

“So how did it all start?” I ask.

Scott pulls out his flask, looks at it, and then squeezes it back into his pocket. “Marcus. Marcus and his damn play-acting. The jokester of the Western world. Thought he was so bleeding cute.”

Marcus, Scott says, was trying to prove something. He would show up the group he called
The Archaeological Establishment
; he’d propagate a hoax and get a lot of publicity and have all the stuffed shirts dancing around in joy (that’s how he put it), then reveal it.

“He was an artist, remember? He carved this tablet that proved Nefertiti is Smenkhare. Smenkhare’s the next pharaoh down the line. And there’s this theory kicking around that Nefertiti lived on after her husband died and that she is really Smenkhare. A queen ruling as a man. Which is popularly appealing because Nefertiti is so glamorous-looking. Nobody respectable believes it, though. It’s one of those Tutankhamen-curse kind of popular theories.

“Marcus was thrilled shitless about his plan. It would show how gullible everybody is. He produced this gorgeous tablet and he was going to release all these rubbings and photographs. Advertise them, publicize them. And then lose the evidence. Or say it was stolen.”

I say, “Oh.”

Scott looks at me and says, “Yeah?”

I say, “That’s why the artifacts here were disappearing. Egon was losing them on purpose. He was building up a case for the stuff to vanish at the last minute.”

Scott says, “Yeah. Egon loved Marcus’s plan. It would make Egon’s museum famous. And rich. And Egon enlarged it and hyped it and suddenly Marcus realized he’d invented a monster. It was out of his control; Egon had grabbed it.”

Scott subsides back against the gravel. “And Egon got nuttier and nuttier. And Marcus, who wasn’t nutty at all, just full of pranks and stunts, tried to back out. Publicly. Which Egon didn’t like. So Marcus got dead. And then, Christ almighty, Rita got dead.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he says. “I told myself maybe Marcus just died of heart failure. But then came Rita. And Rita was
shot
.”

He leans back against the base of the sarcophagus and closes his eyes. “Why don’t you get your cute Dolly Parton cop down here? This scene is getting stale.”

Chapter 23

Cherie is not interested in hearing about my ordeal in the crypt. She wants to move forward into the future. “So, tell me, lover-girl, what do I do with these idiots you have shoved off in my direction. How many of them are guilty?”

“They’re all guilty.”

Cherie has Scott and Bunny in her new jail cells, which are really just back bedrooms for the building she took over from Sheriff Munro. A deputy sheriff sits in the hall by the bedrooms cradling a rifle and reading a comic book. Egon has been dispatched to Innocente, where they can test and measure him and decide how crazy he is.

Cherie isn’t really asking what to do with everybody. She was systematic and by-the-book in getting them arraigned. Now she’s making conversation. “That Egon is a piece of work.”

“You can say that again.”

“Did you know about him? I mean, of course you didn’t know, but did you kinda guess?”

“I knew he was weird and I thought he was untrustworthy and I knew he’d been mistreating my dad.”

“Mistreating your dad? Darlin’! How did he mistreat your dad? That’s terrible. I will get him for that.”

I describe the hypnotism sessions and Cherie is horrified. “Sweetheart. That is but-awful! Maybe I can dredge up a shrink for your daddy. My God! I mean, a shrink to test my darlin’ and see if he’s okay and that he doesn’t carry away any deleterious effects from all this. Oh, my God, I should have gotten into things sooner and intervened and unmasked that evil bastard.”

Cherie and I are talking in the mahogany-paneled Manor library with the surrounding shelves of green-bound books. Cherie, as usual, looks lovely. Her hair gleams. So does her lipstick. Today is one of her pink days. I waste a minute thinking of the future surprises for Del Oro County miscreants when they meet their new sheriff.

“Well,” she says, “now we know why that evil sheriff was pursuing and tormenting your sweet dad. He had been bribed to do it, did you guess? By that Egon creature?”

Egon, it seems, has been talking, to Cherie and then to the Innocente people, nonstop. “Jeez, morning, noon, and night. Can’t shut him up. My stupid deputy was too stupid to take it all down. Had to hire an extra secretary.

“So Egon bribed the sheriff to go after your dad so he’d be the suspect for the stealing. The one they’d nail for taking the little whoosies missing from the museum. You know. . . .

“But that Scott cat is the one I feel sorry for,” Cherie finishes, as Susie and Mrs. La Salle and my dad come into the room. We are having lunch together. “That Scott is one very cute stud,” she confides, while being enveloped in Susie’s swathes of handwoven shawl.

“Who is?” Susie inquires. “I love attractive people. Human beings are meant to be attractive. So many of them do not fulfill their potential.”

Mrs. La Salle is her usual erect and elegant grand duchess self in a pale lavender suit. She wears one amethyst earring and holds hands with my father.

For a long time I thought Mrs. La Salle had designs on my dad. Now I do not think that exactly. I know that she understands about his Alzheimer’s and associates it with her brother, whom she feels guilty about. But there’s still some sort of electricity between her and Daddy.

He smiles at us and says that the menu for lunch is chicken à la king and that he is not really looking forward to it, since it is just chicken with cream sauce. “And I am puzzled by the name. How did it get to be
la
king? A king is a male being.”

“Popular corruption in terminology,” Mrs. La Salle instructs as we turn toward the dining room. “How are you, Carla?”

I don’t get a chance to return to the subject of Scott until after lunch, which is filled with discussion of the menu, the weather, of how Cherie is dressed, of whether Egyptology is a science or an art, and on Susie’s part, with how great it is that Rob and I can get together again.

“Not that I would ever criticize dear Cherie,” Susie says. “Cherie was following her star. Of course. And her energy cycle briefly intersected with Rob’s. But we agree now that that wasn’t the definitive, true answer.”

My father suggests the stars are interesting, and sometimes there is an intervention by Ra. Or Horus.

Mrs. La Salle wants to know what will happen to the museum and my father says, “Oh, I need to go there, to my museum,” and Cherie says, “Well, now, they are having a trustees’ meeting and Elena Broussard has been chosen trustee head.”

Yes, she says, Elena Broussard is Marcus Broussard’s wife, his latest one; she is interesting and forceful and—“Well, I don’t know, darling Carla, maybe a bit too forceful? But maybe you’ll like her. You should go to see her. Maybe you can work with her. I worry about you, you know.”

Back in the library, after everyone else has scattered to take naps or write letters, Cherie and I sit together with a bottle of Irish Mist. “This stuff will give you the mother of all headaches. Go easy.” And she takes a healthy slug, but from a small glass.

“So what will happen to him?” I ask. “Scott.”

“Darlin’, I wish I knew.”

“He’s guilty.”

“So he keeps saying. All the time. And you might think he’d get Brownie points off for saying it, but I’m afraid not.”

“It really could have been an accident. She slipped on the gravel in the crypt.”

“Sure it could. The dude needs a good lawyer. If I were in the business, I’d love defending him. Darlin’ client. Cute. Verbal. Does a super penitent act.”

I’m silent, thinking of Scott’s penitent act. I tell Cherie that I think he has a rich family; they ought to be able to spring for a hotshot lawyer. The arrests were only the night before last. But surely he’s had time to get in touch with his family?

“Refused to try. Adamant. He’s settled down in my new cell like a kitty-cat in a closet.” Cherie pats her blond head. “Depressed, I guess. But I doubt he’s going to off himself.”

This upsets me. “Make him get to that family.”

“Baby, it’s tops on my to-do list.” Cherie shrugs and takes another nip of Irish Mist. “But the other one that bothers me is that lying fat liar Bunny. Because I think Egon is telling the truth about her. He says she zapped Marcus.”

“And killed him?”

“No, Egon killed him, later that day. But then down in the crypt she zapped Scott. And I can’t convict her on either one. Egon is a nothing witness and Scott’s no good, either. Confessed killer, right?”

I agree. It’s pretty depressing to think that Bunny can waltz off, free as a flea, to be a guard some other place, maybe in a prison, and have another weapon to shoot at some more people.

“If she sticks around this county, I will emphatically keep an eye on her,” Cherie says.

And she adds that she doesn’t know what narrow sharp object Egon used on Marcus’s ear, Egon goes all weird about this and talks about the vengeance of Horus. But she thinks it was probably an arrow shaft.