Murder in the Smithsonian Read Free

schedule has benefitted us.
    We all express our appreciation for his presence here tonight, and for his willingness to share his knowledge of the subject of our exhibition.
    Welcome, Dr. Lewis Tunney.
    “I can’t wait to meet him,” one of the volunteer women said. “He’s so handsome in his pictures. Looks like Alan Alda.”
    Another woman laughed. “You’re giving away your age. Alan Alda appeals to… well, to more mature women who appreciate sensitivity in men.”
    “Sensitivity in men? What’s that?”
    They both laughed.
    Sounds from the party downstairs drifted up through the Foucault pendulum’s opening in the floor. One of the women leaned close to another. “I’ve never seen Mr. Throckly so wound up. I can’t decide whetherhe’s excited about having Dr. Tunney here or annoyed.”
    “Well, it did upset Mr. Throckly’s plans… Come on, let’s go downstairs and enjoy the party.”
    ***
    A long, black limousine turned off Constitution Avenue into a circular drive in front of the National Museum of American History. The chauffeur came around to open the door for his passenger but Lewis Tunney had already gotten out. He thanked the driver for a safe and pleasant ride, looked up at the building he’d once said had all the architectural charm of a stone shoe box, drew a deep breath and went to the main doors, where two uniformed guards and a Secret Serviceman stood. He identified himself, was checked off a long list and entered the building. “Hello, I’m Lewis Tunney,” he said to the first person he met, an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a maroon gown.
    “Oh, Dr. Tunney, welcome,” she said, shaking his hand, “let me find Mr. Throckly for you. He’s been worried that your flight might be delayed.”
    “First,” Tunney said, “I’d like to see Vice President Oxenhauer.”
    Before she could respond Tunney spotted the vice president, thanked her for her hospitality and moved away. Oxenhauer saw him coming, left the circle and greeted him warmly. “Lewis, good to see you. How’ve you been?”
    “Just fine, Bill. Yourself?”
    “Considering the fact I willingly committed myself to four years inside an institution, not bad. Come, say hello to Joline. She’s as excited as I am.”
    Joline threw her arms around Tunney, then stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “My God, more handsome than ever. How you’ve stayed a bachelorso long is worth congressional study in itself. You’re an American original.”
    Tunney felt embarrassed by the open flattery. “Thanks, Joline. And you look… splendid.”
    Throckly, who’d broken away from Oxenhauer’s group moments before Tunney’s arrival, returned and said, “Hello, Dr. Tunney. I’m Alfred Throckly. We met a long time ago.”
    “Hello.” Tunney turned to Oxenhauer. “Could I catch a minute with you?” Throckly’s face reflected his annoyance at Tunney’s abrupt greeting, and seeming dismissal.
    “Now?” Oxenhauer asked.
    “Please.”
    “We’ll be going in to dinner soon,” Throckly said. “I thought you might like to come upstairs and see where you’ll be speaking. I have an audiovisual person on hand in case you want to—”
    “Maybe later,” Tunney said. “I’m not using my props. Would you excuse us?” He touched the vice president’s arm. Oxenhauer looked at his wife, whose expression said that she didn’t understand either.
    Oxenhauer and Tunney, accompanied by three Secret Servicemen, went to a corner of the museum near the main entrance, where a rural country store and post office were displayed. It had been a functioning store and post office in West Virginia back in 1861, and had literally been moved lock, stock and barrel to the Smithsonian. Besides being a popular exhibition, it also served as the Smithsonian’s only working postal outlet.
    Oxenhauer nodded to the Secret Servicemen, who retreated out of earshot. “Well?” he said to Tunney. “You look as though whatever’s on your mind is