"Murder at the Mustard Museum"

Chapter One

The curator of the National Mustard Museum is missing, totally missing, completely missing, missing in a large way, and is presumed, so sad to report this news to you, dead. As in totally dead, completely dead, and dead in a large way. The grieving widow dropped him at the museum at exactly 8:00 a.m. She remembers the eight o'clock news beginning the instant he stepped out of the MustardMobile with keys in hand, approaching the front door to the building that houses more than 4,500 different mustards from all over the planet.

The Curator is irretrievably missing. Strangely missing. Suddenly missing. And, we presume, irretrievably, strangely, and suddenly dead. The very thought of this circumstance makes fans of the golden condiment turn away from their normal joys. A pity, a shame, and a bad bundle indeed.

Curiously missing. Horrifically missing. Tragically missing. We must presume that he is also dead, dead, dead, in the same adverbial ways. You are wondering: how did this come to pass? Did he suffer? When is the funeral? Who is catering? Most important of all, what will the widow wear?

This much we know: he entered the Museum at 8:00. At a few strokes after 8:30, Ms. Priscilla Roughbottom, staff writer for the prestigious magazine Food Trends International, rapped on the door, expecting to interview the Curator. No one answered and Ms. Roughbottom, having traveled a fine distance by air, then by car, then by foot, was annoyed at finding no one about the premises. She rapped and rapped again, until her knuckles pained her. How dare the Curator stand me up?

Several locals, typically minding each other's business and not their own, saw the writer pounding on the door but thought little of the sight. Visitors often came to the Museum before the posted hours. They, too, knocked on the heavy glass door, hoping that they might gain early entrance to the odd institution dedicated to the sauce that the likes of Naigeon, Grey, Poupon, Bordin, Bornibus, Maille, Clements, Keen, Colman, Plochman, Boetje, and Biggi (O how these names gush like a river of gold!) each honored by their particular and spicy style of industry and vision. If the Curator were in the Museum, no matter what he was doing, he would have opened the door to let in the earnest but early pilgrim.

The Curator was not one to stand up a writer because the Curator relished publicity. Not for his own sake but for the sake of the condiment he championed, passionately and relentlessly. Ms. Roughbottom did not know of the Curator's reputation for careful punctuality, else she would have been more concerned than annoyed. Still, she remained in the vicinity of the door, vowing to give the Curator until the point of the hour before giving up and leaving. She paced up and down the sidewalk, as impatient writers from big cities often do when they think their time is being wasted.

At five minutes in front of nine o'clock, Gladly (a proper name, not the adverb) Ettenheim walked to the front door of the Museum, turned out his keys, and opened the door. Ms. Roughbottom, thin as plywood and twice as versatile, found herself in an unusual situation: she was having to wait for someone else. Not the typical circumstance for this well-traveled beauty. While gazing at the display in the village mutton shop, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Gladly at the entry to the Museum. She hailed him, "Excuse me, I have an appointment with the Curator. May I come in with you?"

"Gladly," said Gladly. And he let her in.

Gladly Ettenheim was the Curator's trusted assistant. His birth name was Joseph, or perhaps it was Thomas, or maybe even William, but everyone called him Gladly because he was always polite and answered every request with one word: Gladly. Will you take out the trash? Gladly. Will you show the class how to solve this perplexing problem of long division? Gladly. Will you move your sizeable head so that we can see the movie screen? Gladly.

The name fit. Gladly Ettenheim was a trusted and trusting fellow. He had plenty of money, having made his fortune in some porcine-related commodity futures market. He did not need to work, meaning he did not need the money commonly paid to those who labor, but Gladly found purpose in his role as Curator's Assistant. He helped the Curator do the things curators do. Curating, for instance. Intense, uncompromising and bone-crunching curating.

Gladly Ettenheim extended his hand to the writer. First, though, he removed his double earflap hunting hat, the head covering that he often tightly pulled over his ears to shut out the noise of the world, giving the effect of listening to a perfect sea shell. He said it was his way of "becoming one with the hat," but those who knew Gladly knew that he found something even more profound in that hat. Some believed that it was the secret of his polite serenity.

Ms. Roughbottom was not comfortable in the presence of Gladly Ettenheim. His steel-wool hair, pointed nose, and ill-fitting red plaid shirt, reminded her of a tantrum her one-time lover had thrown at the ballet in Budapest. It brought back the memory of the sense of nausea that the embarrassing incident had aroused in her. Maybe it was also Gladly's scent, acquired by his many years of carelessly pruning cheap shrubbery.

"I have an eight-thirty appointment with the Curator. But you're not the Curator, are you?"

She had seen pictures of the Curator and it was obvious that this curious fellow was not the Curator. Wrong hair. Wrong nose, wrong eyes, wrong mouth. Wrong all the way around. He nodded no, more of a shrug as if to feign an apology for not being the gentleman Ms. Roughbottom wanted.

"I know who you are, Ms. Roughbottom. You were to interview the Curator at eight-thirty. Something must have happened to delay him. I am sorry for the inconvenience. May I get you something to drink? Or perhaps you would like. . .to wear my hat?"

Why is this simpleton offering me his hat? Who is he?

"No thanks on the hat offer but a cup of strong black coffee would be nice. Sorry to be so blunt but I'm on a tight schedule. Do you mind telling me who you are?"

"Gladly."

Silence.

If the essence of a contract is a meeting of the minds, then Ms. Roughbottom and Gladly Ettenheim did some hard bargaining over how she might address Gladly but they emerged without sealing the deal.

"That is my name: Gladly. Really. Gladly."

"Well, which is it?"

"Call me Ettenheim. I am the Curator's assistant. Again, I apologize for his absence and I will attend to your beverage request as best I can."

Gladly turned and walked three steps toward the lounge (where Gladly kept no actual beverages but did maintain an impressive supply of high-resolution photographs of all sorts of beverages). He stopped, realizing that he was being most ungracious.

"Ms. Roughbottom, forgive me, but would you like to go into the museum? Let me escort you in so you can you see what the Curator has done. I'll first turn up the lights and then I will gladly show you in."

Gladly flipped the circuit breakers, illuminating all of the display cases as well as the overhead exhibit lights. He returned to her and led her into the sacred Hall of Mustards where they both saw, at the very same instant, the disturbing pool of glimmering fresh crimson in the center of the floor.

Priscilla Roughbottom's first thought was that this was some sort of kinky joke; she knew of the Curator's reputation for pranks. He once immersed himself in a tub filled with ketchup; no one knows exactly why. Is this another of his ketchup hijinks? Then she saw a thin waft of steam coming from the slick puddle. This was no playful blob of ketchup.

Without a word uttered between them, Gladly and Priscilla Roughbottom approached the ghastly mass of red. Only when they were straight upon it could they see the seven protrusions sticking up from the eerie scarlet splotch . They were jars of mustard, at least they had the shape of jars of mustard. Each was covered with the shiny red substance, as if artfully dipped by a master candymaker.

Priscilla Roughbottom knew the sight of blood; she had seen much, far too much, of it, back in Paris when she beat her sixteenth boyfriend senseless in the Metro station near Les Halles. Not that the rogue hadn't deserved it but Priscilla could only think of the arduous task of cleaning up Jean-Luc's life fluids as high-ranking members of the Surêté watched on in amusement.

It was blood - five and one quarter liters of it as the crime lab would later determine - and something was amiss. "Aren't you going to call the police? And what is your name?"

"Gladly," replied Gladly, "and Gladly."

Chief Inspector Oslo Puddleton would arrive within six minutes of Gladly's call and there would be much ado about mustard as the pool of red began to change itself slowly but ever so certainly to a chillingly familiar shade of . . . yellow.

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