The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man (29 page)

I am not good at adultery. Not because of any acquired or innate moral qualms (and God forbid one would invoke something as passé as morals in these matters). Nor do I mean the more palpable aspects of the undertaking, the enactment, in which I believe I acquitted myself quite respectably. Wherein lies the rub.

Perhaps because I find the pleasure so intense, a pleasure not unalloyed with a thrill of violation, I suffer from a surfeit of what might be called sexual gratitude. Hence the impulse to send flowers in the aftermath, if only because a thank-you note would be as inappropriate as a tip. Hence the nagging sense of obligation conflated with a persistent hankering to repeat the experience.

Or I may simply be susceptible to anyone who will indulge me, especially the way Merissa Bonne did. To paraphrase the great Yeats, in pleasure begins responsibility.
Commitment
may be an overused word these days, but commitment or something very like it is what I have begun to feel for the dear scatterbrained creature.

To begin where it began. Merissa readily agreed to come to the office when I called and told her there had been a development in the case that I’d like her to know about. She offered to take me to lunch. “Or come here, I’ll make something nice for both of us.”

I demurred on the latter offer and suggested that we go to lunch after meeting in my office.

She sighed facetiously. “Oh, Norman, I’ll never get to seduce you, will I?”

We both laughed.

I can’t say I wasn’t tempted when she showed up just before noon. She might have been a streetwalker of the more expensive sort the way her short skirt rode up her shapely haunches and the way her high-heeled boots curved up her calves. Hardly a widow in mourning. She gave me a full-on kiss when I came around the desk to greet her.

“Norman,” she sighed, her memorable perfume wafting over me like some pheromone signaling availability. “It is so good to see you.”

“Likewise,” I returned, holding on to her hand just short of blatant gallantry.

She turned to Alphus. “Oh, so this is what you’ve given up Di for. Well, Norman, she is cute in her way.”

“It’s a he,” I said. “His name’s Alphus.

She made a little wave. “Hi, Alphus. I hope Norman’s treating you well.”

He inclined his head in her direction.

She fluttered a bit more, glancing around with a twirl. “Oh, I do love this office. It’s like a little museum all its own.”

I resisted a self-deprecating remark about being its main exhibit. I said, “I feel at home here.”

She sat and crossed her admirable gams. I twiddled a pencil and tried to look worldly.

“So what’s all this about a development?”

“Well, there has been that. But first, I would like you to indulge me in a little …” To be honest, I had a few qualms about subjecting her to a virtual lie detector test without her knowledge or consent.

“Anything, Norman. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, if
you know what I mean.” She tossed her abundant chestnut hair and I did know what she meant.

“You’re too much, Merissa dear, too much. No, all I have are some basic yes-or-no questions. A kind of exercise.”

“I’m game.”

I gave Alphus a covert glance. He nodded. I surreptitiously clicked on the hidden video camera. I cleared my throat. I began. “Okay. Did you see Heinie on the night he was murdered?”

“Yeah. Before he left the house. We had a real knock-down. I already told the police.”

“You didn’t see him afterward?”

“Not alive.”

“But dead?”

“Well, yeah, I had to identify the body.”

I resisted an impulse to look at Alphus for his reaction. But it would all be on tape anyway.

“Did you see Heinie with a revolver on the night he was murdered?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“He was always waving the damn thing around.”

“Do you know where that gun is now?”

“No.”

“Did you murder Heinie?”

She laughed. “No. But there were times when I wanted to.”

“Do you know who murdered Heinie?”

“No. But I’d guess it was himself if the evidence wasn’t the other way.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Norman, the guy was a mess. You know what he couldn’t stand in the end? He couldn’t stand the way I felt sorry
for him. I mean I tried to be sympathetic, but a woman’s got to have a life.”

“With Max?”

“Mostly.”

“You mean there were others?”

“The world’s full of trigger-happy men.”

I held up my hands and brought them together. “Okay. That’s all.”

“That wasn’t much. So what’s this big development all about?” She leaned forward and I was once again enveloped in her seductive, subtle musk, which had a touch of lavender.

“Well, it seems we have found the originals of the fakes that Heinie gave to the museum.”

“Really!” And she glanced away as the implications registered. “Where?”

“On the
Albatross.”

“I should have known that’s where he’d put them. That thing became his little hidey-hole. Did you ever notice the pose he struck when he was at the wheel? You’d think he was Captain Cook sailing the South Seas.”

“He was a sad man, wasn’t he?”

“Among other things. So where are the originals now?”

“The police have them. Evidence.”

“So, who do they belong to?”

“Probably to you.”

“Because …?”

“Because he gave the other ones to the museum.”

“And kept the originals for himself …”

I hesitated. “Yes … except …”

“Norman, don’t be so melodramatic …”

“The so-called originals are also fakes.”

Her eyes widened and she put a hand to her lips. “No!” Then she laughed. “Oh, that is priceless. Just like Heinie.”

“Merissa, don’t you realize? The originals are worth more than two million dollars.”

She shrugged. “Easy come, easy go. Do you have a powder room?”

“Just down the hall on the right.” She was already fishing out her cell phone to make a call as she went through the door.

I turned to Alphus and signed, “Anything interesting?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t read her.”

“What was it? Her perfume?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Everything she said was a lie.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I think she is one of those people who lie even when they’re telling the truth.”

When Merissa came back, Alphus left with Angela Simone for a conjugal visit with Dalia. She’s a young female with a large, hairless face, intelligent eyes, and small ears who had come into estrus.

I should have sensed I was headed for the same sort of thing when Merissa insisted on taking me to the Little Café at the Miranda Hotel. She appeared utterly unfazed by the loss of the coins. Indeed, she was in high spirits, volubly bubbling up like the bottle of champagne she ordered.

“So really, Norman, not to be mercenary, but are the coins really worth that much?”

“They are. But you might not get that on the open market. Besides …”

She cocked her head. “I’m listening.”

“The estate would have had some real adjustments to make. Heinie’s accountants probably took a whopping deduction
when he gave the coins to the museum. The IRS would have come looking for its due and more.”

She shrugged. “So I haven’t lost that much after all.”

“Enough. And who knows, maybe they’ll show up.”

We drank champagne and ordered. We nibbled at some fresh crudités as we waited. Merissa vacillated between chatty nonsense and frowning introspection. Then, as though interrupting her own thoughts, she said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while now.”

“I’m listening.”

She filled our glasses. “I want to tell you my real alibi for the night Heinie got shot.”

I felt my eyebrows go up. “What did you tell the police?”

She made a moue of disparagement. “I told them I went shopping. Blooms had a late-night sale, and I did in fact pick up an item. I kept the receipt and showed it to them. Then I told them that Max and I went for a drive up the coast.”

“Which is what he told the police.”

“Yes.”

“And what really did happen?”

“We went to a club in the neighborhood.”

“I see.”

“It’s a private, quite exclusive club. Private members only.” She gave her little hiccup of a laugh. “Actually, it’s more like members’ privates only.”

“A sex club?” I asked, trying to resist a swell of titillation.

“If you want. You can keep it social, too. You and Di might want to try it.”

I nodded, but dubiously. I wondered if Di and I still existed. “What happens when you go there?”

“There’s a couple of reception rooms, nicely appointed. In one of them there’s music and you can dance if you want to. And
drinks. You mingle and talk, meet people. If you hit it off with someone or with a couple, you retire to one of the suites.”

“So you and Max went there?”

“Until about midnight.”

“Did you meet anyone else?”

“A very nice couple from Argentina. Gio and Marla, if those were their names.”

“And you …?”

“We had a foursome you wouldn’t believe. Gio had this blow …”

“Blow?”

“Cocaine.”

“I see. Can anyone else vouch for your presence on the night in question?”

“Edgar.”

“Edgar?”

“Edgar’s the guy who runs it. He doesn’t get involved. Otherwise there are only club names.”

“What’s yours?”

“Puss n’ Boots.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Boots are my thing.”

Her seafood salad and my turkey club arrived. We ate with hungry relish, largely silent at first but not uncommunicative as our eyes caught just long enough for significance.

To break the dawning spell, I asked, “So where can I contact this Edgar?”

She looked doubtful. “I’m not sure he keeps any records.”

“But he charges …?”

“Four hundred. For an evening. In cash.”

“Per person?”

“Per person. But it’s all very posh.” She used the word as though testing it on me. “And exclusive. You need a doctor’s
certificate. No STDs allowed.” She laughed. “And it includes breakfast.”

She worked on her salad. She sipped champagne. “I think you and Di might like it. Di tells me you’ve got the goods.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“Oh, more than once. Really, Norman, don’t be so modest. Di’s discreet. But, you know, a girl likes to brag now and then.”

Just the mention of Diantha’s name set off a complex mix of anger, wistfulness, and need within my heart. I sighed. I smiled. I said, as casually as I could, “So how’s Diantha doing these days?”

“You should ask her.”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“Silly girl. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight if I ever got my hooks into you.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Which made her laugh.

“Tell me, Merissa, is she seeing that old boyfriend of hers?”

“Really, Norman, I’ve never been one to tattle on a friend.”

“Is there something to tattle on?”

She didn’t answer except to give me a smile of sympathy.

I got back to business. “So this Edgar. If he takes the money, then he keeps records. Somewhere.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

I tried to dissemble an edge of prurience in asking, “Where are the premises?”

“Devon Street. Right next to the First Seaboard Bank.”

“Really? Does it have a name?”

“Garden of Delights. GOD for short.”

“So why are you telling me this?”

“I’m trying to tempt you.”

“No. Seriously.”

“Because, if and when things get hot and heavy, I want it on the record that I was otherwise occupied. And the cops trust you.”

“So why not just tell them?”

“Well, you know, Max isn’t quite divorced yet. And his wife’s …”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s none of the cops’ business. They ransacked the whole house trying to tie me in to this thing. They went through my things, my really personal things …”

“That’s their job.”

She tittered again. “I know, Norman, I know. But they shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much.”

The waiter, a blank-faced older man, came by and asked us if we would like coffee or desert.

“Both,” Merissa said, looking at me.

“A regular coffee, black.”

“A cappuccino, the cheese selection, and another bottle of the Taittinger. Upstairs.”

“Upstairs?”

“Room three twenty-one.”

The waiter left before I could change the order. “Merissa … Really,” I protested.

“Oh, come on, Norman. I won’t bite you. Unless you want me to.”

So there we were, sitting in comfortable chairs at a small table within reach of a large bed. I know I should have quaffed my coffee, grabbed a piece of the aged goat cheese, stood up, given her a peck on the cheek, and left. But her booted leg had entwined itself with mine and we were both a little drunk and …

“Norman,” she said, “it’s your move.”

“Stalemate,” I muttered weakly.

She laughed. “No stale … mates allowed.”

Laughter under these circumstances can be hazardous, easing as it does the tricky mechanism of complicity. And we all know that it is incumbent upon the gentleman to make the final advance, if only because the female of the species needs to be vouchsafed a scintilla of reticence, however blatant her role in the seduction.

I will not burden the reader with the details of our initial kisses and caresses, our tidy, provocative divestment, our progression into the sublimities of carnal bliss. Too often attempts to render the felicities of sexual congress result in a “copulation of clichés,” as the author of
Pale Fire
so succinctly put it. On the other hand, one should eschew obfuscating polysyllabic latinates such as concupiscent erubescent tumescence and the like. Not that wordplay and foreplay are mutually exclusive.

Happily, I can report no erectile dysfunction on this occasion. Indeed, I was seized by an avidity that made me feel like the butt of that hoary old joke: What happens when you give Viagra to a lawyer? His whole body enlarges. I exaggerate, perhaps because I felt exaggerated in every fiber of my being, and, like many beings, mine is quite fibrous.