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  Pythag was masterful. Even under this prolonged scrutiny, he—as the saying goes—kept his cool. Or would have, were it not for the television lights. The heat they generated would have made puddles of the exhibit if any of the ice and snow had been real. Instead, it made a puddle of Pythag. He began to perspire profusely.

  I do believe he still might have carried it off, had not Mrs. Farthington chanced to look at him just when he felt forced to lift a finger to swipe a ticklish drop of moisture from the end of his nose.

  Mrs. Farthington, startled to see a mannequin move, clutched at her bosom and fell down dead on the spot.

  The tortoise inherited.

  When his friends in the police department refused to pursue a criminal case against him, Pythagoras Peabody was sued by the museum.

  Persephone was not pleased with me.

  This last was uppermost in my mind when I strolled alone through the museum the day after the civil suit was announced, and my own suit of Persephone rejected. Had I not loved her so dearly, I might have been a little angry with Perse. Her brother was a confounded nuisance, but she blamed me for his present troubles. I should have kept a closer watch, she told me. Had she deigned to accompany him on his daily outings? No. Monday was the worst day of the week, as far as she was concerned. That was the day her lunatic brother stayed home. I decided to give her a little time with him, to remind her of my usefulness to her.

  One would think I would have gone elsewhere, now that I had the chance to go where I pleased, but there was something comfortable about following routine at a time when my life was so topsy-turvy. So I returned to the museum.

  Standing before the great mastodon, I sighed. It had been Pythag’s ambition to ride the colossus. Could it be done? To give the devil his due, that was the thing about going to a place like this with Pythag—he managed, somehow, to always add a bit of excitement. I mean, one really doesn’t think of a museum as a place where the unexpected might happen at any moment. Unless one visited it with Pythag.

  Why should Pythag have all the fun? I overcame the hand-railing with ease.

  It was not so easy to make the climb aboard the skeleton, but I managed it. I enjoyed the view from its back only briefly—let me tell you, there is no comfortable seating astride the spine of a mastodon. Knowing that Pythag would be nettled that I had achieved this summit before him, I decided that I would leave some little proof of my visit. I made a rather precarious search of my pockets and found a piece of string. Tied in a bow about a knot of wires along the spine, it did very nicely.

  The skeleton swayed a bit as I got down, and the only witness, a child, was soon asking his mother if he might go for a ride, too—but in a stern, Pythag-inspired voice, I informed her that I was an official of the museum, repairing the damage done by the last little boy who climbed the mastodon, a boy whose parents could be contacted at the poor house, where they were working off payments. Although we haven’t had a poor house in this city in a century, she seemed to understand the larger implications, and they quickly left the museum.

  As anticipated, Persephone called the next day.

  “Take him,” she pleaded. “Take him anywhere, and I’ll take you back.”

  “Persephone,” I said sternly.

  “I know, and I apologize, dearest. I will marry you, just as we planned, only we must wait until this suit is settled. I won’t have a penny to my name, I’m afraid, but the three of us will manage somehow, won’t we?”

  “Three of us?”

  “Well, I can’t leave poor Pythagoras to fend for himself now, can I?”

  And so once again, I found myself in the Museum of Natural History with Pythag at my side. He had donned a disguise—a false mustache and a dark wig. A costume not quite so warm as the Inuit garb, but no less suited to its wearer.

  He began teasing me about my recent setback with Persephone. If he was an expert at devising troublesome frolics, Pythag’s meanness also derived benefit from his ingenuity. When he told me that Perse would never marry me, that she had only said she would so that I would continue to take him to the museum, I felt a little downcast. When he averred that she would keep putting me off, always coming up with some new excuse, I found his Pythagorean theorem all too believable.

  I had experienced such taunting before, though, and I rebuffed his attempts to hurt and annoy me by remaining calm. Outwardly, in any case. The result was that he became more agitated, more determined to upset me. At one point, he said that she would never marry me because I was dull, and lacked imagination and daring.

  “Really?” I said, lifting my nose a little higher. “As it happens, Professor, I have done something you haven’t dared to do.”

  His disbelief was patent.

  “I’ve climbed the mastodon,” I told him.

  “Rubbish,” he said.

  “Conquered the proboscidean peak.”

  “Balderdash!”

  “Not at all. There’s a little piece of string, tied in a bow on his back to prove it.”

  It was enough to do the trick. He climbed, and it seemed to me the skeleton swayed more than it had the day before. As I watched him, and saw him come closer to my little marker, it became apparent to me that I had tied the string at a most fragile juncture of supporting wires.

  It was a wonder, really, that I hadn’t been killed.

  The thought came to me as simply as that. One minute, Pythag was astride the spine, asking me to bring him a piece of string, so that he might tie his own knot. I imagined spending the rest of my days nearly as tied to him as I would be to his sister. All my life, protecting treasures of one sort or another from a man who thought rules were only for other people, never himself.

  “You must bring my own string back to me,” I said. “That is how it’s done.”

  And that was how it was done.

  I was horrified by the result, and remain so. Mastodon skeletons are, after all, devilishly hard to come by. Persephone is convinced that the experts there are actually enjoying the challenge of reassembling the great beast.

  The museum, no matter what it may say to the papers, is considering dropping its civil suit, hoping to extract a promise from Persephone not to pursue a wrongful death action against them. We are mulling it over.

  I say we, because Pythagoras was mistaken, as it turns out. His sister will marry me. I confessed all to her, of course. Persephone merely asked me what took me so long to see what needed to be done.

  Persephone and I are indeed well-suited.

  About the Author

  National bestseller Jan Burke is the author of a dozen novels and a collection of short stories. Among the awards her work has garnered are Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar® for Best Novel, Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award, Mystery Readers International’s Macavity, and the RT Book Club’s Best Contemporary Mystery. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project (CrimeLabProject.com) and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at JanBurke.com.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Jan-Burke

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  Also by Jan Burke

  Irene Kelly Mysteries

  Disturbance

  Kidnapped

  Bloodlines

  Bones

  Liar

  Hocus

  Remember Me, Irene

  Dear Irene,

  Sweet Dreams, Irene

  Goodnight, Irene

  Other Fiction

  The Messenger

  Nine

  Flight

  Eighteen

  Caught Red-Handed

  Apprehended

  Tried

  Convicted

  Justice Done


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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Jan Burke

  “The Hunting of Carrick Hollow,” “Mea Culpa,” and “The Man in the Civil Suit,” were previously published in Eighteen © 2002 by Jan Burke.

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  First Pocket Star Books ebook edition November 2014

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  Interior design by Leydiana Rodríguez

  Cover design by Anna Dorfman

  Cover photo (tree) © Amy Johansson/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-4767-4918-1