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"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 Suręté 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.
Stay tuned for more information on www.MustardMystery.com
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Mount Horeb Mustard Museum & Gourmet Foods Emporium |
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