Murder in the Museum of Man (Norman de Ratour Mystery, Book 1)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Dean Cranston Fessing, dispatched from Wainscott University to investigate the finances of the neighboring Museum of Man, has been murdered. Not only that, but his grisly remains bear the unmistakable mark of preparation as haute cuisine. Norman de Ratour, museum recording secretary and unlikely sleuth, sets out to uncover a bubbling cauldron of clues in this hilarious satire of academic life and contemporary social issues, a stew of murder, cannibalism, political posturing. and high camp.
One of them needs medical attention. Then arrest him and bring him to the Twitchell Room. Lieutenant Tracy, who’ll be arriving shortly, will show you where it is.” “What’s the charge?” he asked, skeptical. “Assault with deadly animals. Attempted murder.” Then I turned and headed back up to my office to retrieve some papers I needed. Royd lay on his side, and I might have felt some pity for the beast were his eyes not open and his fangs bared and menacing even in the stillness of death. I
Then he laughed. “Point, ha, ha, how you say, a fun pun, is break the balloon of man’s prideness.” “But it will just be random,” I protested. “Yes, yes, random.” I laughed myself, deprecatingly of course. But when he took my jeer as assent to his craziness, I shook my head. “But literature is not random.” I groped for meaning myself. “If anything at all, literature is an attempt to render coherent the seeming chaos of life.” I know I sounded like a Sunday school teacher, but in the face of
I think there was some murmured approval for the daringness of it all. Father O’Gould demurred, saying that showing the models at some form of prayer would be more edifying. Professor Murdleston replied that communal defecation may well have been an early form of prayer. Izzy Landes rejoined that sometimes it still is, however solitary. Personally, I don’t know what it would add other than a kind of spurious realism for its own sake. From defecation, the discussion moved to food. Professor Pilty
admitted there had been rumors over there for months about a very sensitive and controversial project. I was tempted to go to the computer and bring up the missives I had received from Worried. But I decided against it, in part out of my respect for “hard” science, which I take the study of genetics to be, but also because it seemed inconceivable to me that anyone exploring the mysteries of the genes would kill and cannibalize not one but two deans, if indeed that had been Scrabbe’s fate. “Just a
to Seaboard. The old cottage out at the lake, it seems, is in a state of near collapse from an infestation of carpenter ants. She asks if I would like to meet her for lunch or dinner. While surprised and delighted, I find myself tortured by old quandaries and new possibilities. What am I to do? I have asked myself, pacing my office with her scented letter in hand, the faint, unmistakable musk rising from it, a heady elixir out of the past. I grew angry. Does she want me now, at the eleventh