Dear Fuad Ramses,
As I was on my way home the other afternoon from the biweekly meeting of the Northern Miami Opera Society Organizing Committee (unfortunately we have no opera house yet, but this is a big item on our agenda!), I felt a mixture of surprise, astonishment, and stupefaction, combined with a certain sense of the unexpected, on seeing the words "Coming Soon: Fuad Ramses, Egyptian Caterer" on a beautiful new sign on a building that used to be an unsightly blot on the face of our district.
And there, if I am not mistaken, you were, emerging from the store, sleeves rolled up and busily to work, carrying a hammer, a board, and nails between your teeth. (I mean, you were carrying the hammer and the board in your hands, not between your teeth. The nails, only, and not the other objects I mentioned, were between your teeth. The ambiguities of syntax can be so troublesome, as my late husband, Emile Dupree, formerly Professor of Linguistics at the University of Miami, used to point out to me so frequently!)
Well, when I got home I got to thinking how lonely perhaps you may find it here in our city, a foreigner, so far away from your sphinxes and colonnades and pyramids. We do have a motel somewhere in the area with a sphinx in front of it, which you may have seen, but how poor and shabby you must find our American version of the real thing. And that is why I am now taking pen to paper. I wish to assure you that however far you may be from the land of your birth, you need have no reason to pine for companions in your adopted land.
By the way, I don't know what is the correct way to address you, whether I should have addressed the letter Dear Mr. Ramses, or Dear Mr. Fuad, or what. And I believe in some countries where they are very observant of the laws of hospitality it's best to jump right in with Dear Fuad. Or perhaps Dear Ramses. You understand my dilemma? I would hate to start off on the wrong foot with you (pardon my American way of expressing it) by committing a—what is the Egyptian for faux pas? Please tell me how in the future you would prefer to be called, if we should have, as I hope, occasion to pursue what my intuition tells me could be a delightfully stimulating correspondence.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Annette Dupree (widowed)
P.S.: Have you been following the news stories about these ghastly murders? That last poor young woman they found mutilated in Rogers Park—it gives me the shivers to think of it! The police are advising women to stay in their homes with their doors locked and I shall certainly comply!
Dear Fuad Ramses,
It was such a pleasure to get such a speedy reply to my letter. I am so delighted that it is perfectly correct to call you Fuad Ramses. I am also glad to hear that, as you put it, "either one is as good as the other." Thus I feel that, even though I call you by two names, I am already on a first-name basis with you, if you see what I mean.
How full life is of strange coincidences! I was talking this morning with an old friend, Mrs. Diana McAlabaster, and it turns out that she is reading up on Egypt right now. The book is called Ancient Weird Religious Rites and she got it through a book club she belongs to. It certainly sounds very awesome and fascinating, and I wonder if you have read it.
I have to warn you about something. A regrettable slip on my part, really. I happened to mention your catering service at our bridge club yesterday evening, and one of our members, Mrs. Dorothy Fremont, was very interested. She may be calling on you shortly to ask you to arrange some sort of birthday affair for her daughter, Suzette. Well, Dorothy does seem to have connections in our town's society, although I heard her husband was in such debt when he passed on that she inherited little more than the creditors. Unfortunately Dorothy isn't very bright and she's a terrible bore, as I'm sure you'll realize when she calls on you. And such awful taste in hats! Well, business is business, and businessmen must do what businessmen do, I know, but I would advise you to be very persistent with Dorothy about getting your fee up front, if you know what I mean. Anyway, a word to the wise!
Warm regards,
Annette (as you see, this first-name basis goes both ways!)
P.S.: I suppose you have heard that there has been another in that series of horrible killings. This is the seventh in two weeks, and each more brutal than the other. That poor girl! To think of it: her legs sawed off in her bathtub! Or should that be "sawn off"? At times of crisis it's language that's the first to suffer, as my late husband (I believe I've mentioned him to you, he was a linguistics professor) used so neatly to put it. Well, the radio is broadcasting emergency warnings every half hour, but I don't need to be convinced: This girl is staying put, I can assure you. With her door locked!
Dear Fuad,
(I hope you don't mind if I try being a bit casual this time; after all, we're practically old friends by now.) I do hope I haven't opened up a can of worms by mentioning you while Dorothy Fremont was present. (Pardon me, I just realized the expression "open up a can of worms" may not be in the best of taste, you being a caterer; no offense intended, of course!) Well, you know what they say about locking the stable after the horse has bolted, so, thanks to me and my big mouth, it appears from what she tells me that you will be catering her daughter's birthday party. (Pardon me again, it just occurs to me you might not know what I meant about the stable and the horse. The expression means simply: It's too late. The horse left already. You should have locked the stable before. It won't make any difference if you do it now.)
At any rate, I do hope you took what I said about getting your money to heart. You must think me a terrible back-stabber for talking about my friend that way, but please know that I am motivated purely by your interest. However, I would like to tell you a story that will show you that when I say that Dorothy Fremont isn't too bright, I'm not talking through one of her three-foot hats.
One day she and the mutual acquaintance from whom I heard this story, Miss Cornelia Legume (spinster), were attending a benefit reception for Alfred Smog, Northern Miami's greatest pianist. You may have heard of his rapturously greeted marathon performance of the complete scherzos of Arubentunian at the Veterans Administration Hospital last Lent. (At any rate, it started last Lent. As my husband quipped shortly before he passed away, for all we know it may still be going on!) Well, if Dorothy has one fault (and who can deny that she has several?) it's that she cannot keep her big mouth shut. As Cornelia tells it, Smog was in the middle of a fascinating story about the last years of Olaf Ull, the inventor of the flute, and he happened to mention the composer Purcell. That's all Dorothy needed as her cue to pipe up.
"Does anyone remember the first time Purcell appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show?" Blank stares around the room. Dorothy continued, "They kept the camera above his hips, thank goodness, but it was still a bit risqué for me." Long silence. Finally, Smog said, "My dear lady, you must be thinking of Elvis Presley, the singer. I was talking about Henry Purcell, the composer." Anyone else would have died of embarrassment, but not Dorothy, who sailed right on: "Oh, that's all right. I meant Steve Allen, not Ed Sullivan."
By then everyone was thoroughly confused and I think the reception broke up shortly afterwards. But that's Dorothy for you.
You asked me for the address of Mrs. Diana McAlabaster, my friend who I told you is reading the book Ancient Weird Religious Rites, so that you can correspond with her about the subject. Well, here it is: 3907 Farragut Lane. However, lest you get the wrong impression, I should mention that Diana is no genius either. She was on page 17 when I talked to her last Tuesday. I happened to be at her house yesterday and I peeked at the book. She's still on page 17!
What a mysterious book at that. I read one description of an ancient ritual feast where they—well, it was all too ghastly for a decent woman to repeat. Suffice it to say, it involved collecting various...pieces...from different women. That was certainly one authentic Egyptian feast I shouldn't look forward to attending! (Needless to say I can't wait for yours....)
Breathlessly,
Annette
P.S.: I see we've had two more murders since we last corresponded. One poor girl with her heart removed, the other with her brain cut out. I hate to sound callous, but one does become a bit jaded from reading about these atrocities, if you know what I mean. "Another ghastly mutilation, ho-hum. What's up in the society column?" It almost gets to the point where, to really shock one, the newspapers would have to up the ante (as my late husband, who was an avid poker player, used to put it). I mean, don't just tell us, show us! Give it to us in shocking widescreen and lurid blood-color! Well, I'm rambling... Bye, now.
Dear Fuad,
This will be just a quick note because I'm still not over the shock of learning about the ghastly death of my friend Mrs. Diana McAlabaster. How strange that you and I were corresponding about her the other day, and now the poor thing is in the funeral parlor. At least, most of her is, anyway.
It seems the police are simply unable to cope with this mysterious killer. As you said in your last letter, "He is too smart for them, too brilliant, a genius of crime. They cannot comprehend the actions of an extraordinary human being because they can only see things from the wormlike perspective of their own wretched mediocrity. Praise Ishtar!" Yes, I'm afraid you may have a point. (Although I admit I don't get the bit about Ishtar.)
(By the way, allow me to compliment you on the very striking way you have of expressing yourself. You remind me of my late husband in that regard. I do so like a truly masculine use of language.)
Since you asked, I do know one other person who happens to be interested in ancient Egyptian religions, my old friend Mrs. Coloquintida Hyphen. Her address is 14 1/2 Pleasantvale Terrace. I'm not sure what you want with this information, but let me tell you a story about Coloquintida. Once Coloquintida and our mutual friend, Mrs. Celia Anemone, were in a supermarket. Coloquintida picked up a can. "Sardines!" she exclaimed. "How I adore them!" And she daintily put the can back. Celia said, "Well, if you love them so much, why don't you get some?" Coloquintida replied, "This month Mr. Hyphen and I have sworn that we will buy only American products, and these sardines are from Portugal." They moved on to the produce section, where Coloquintida weighed a bunch of bananas in her hand. "Mmm," she said, "my favorite fruit! Too bad they're from Mexico." Shaking her head, she put them back with an air of deliberation, mixed with regret. In the dairy section, she hoisted a piece of cheese. "Ah," she said, "Stilton, how exquisite. If only it weren't from England!" The slow but firm movement with which she replaced the cheese bespoke noble forbearance. In the next aisle, Coloquintida raised aloft a box of Rice-a-Roni. She considered it for a few moments, then sadly put it back. By now Celia had grown impatient with her friend's performance. "Come now," she remonstrated, "surely there's nothing wrong with that box of rice!" "I'll bet it's delicious," sighed Coloquintida. "Unfortunately it's Spanish rice."
Spanish rice! Can you beat that? It just goes to show. And speaking of food, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how much I'm looking forward to your feast. And goodness, it's this very weekend! How time flies!
Impatiently,
Annette
Dear Fuad,
To think that only the other day I was exchanging pleasant chit-chat with you about poor Coloquintida Hyphen, and now—phffft! How strange life is! At least it's lucky she died before your feast. That way she was spared having to turn down all that yummy Egyptian food you'll be serving in a few days. Well, as my late husband used to say to me in that dry way of his, "Annette, you will have your silver lining!" ("Silver lining," by the way, comes from an American expression that has to do with clouds.)
With bated breath,
Annette
P.S.: It just occurs to me that it's a strange coincidence both Diana and Coloquintida were reading the book Ancient Weird Religious Rites when they were murdered. Do you suppose there's any occult significance to this? Not that I put any stock in mystical mumbo-jumbo—to me it's all a lot of supernatural bologna—but the coincidence struck me as so strange that I admit even I was unsettled. Do you think there's anything in it? Should I tell the police about it? (God knows they need whatever help they can get! As you, with your typical exotic suggestiveness, noted in your last letter, "Before Ishtar they are nothing but insignificant toads!")
Dear Fuad,
Thanks so much for setting me straight with your advice about not going to the police. I'm sure that you're right, they would only laugh at me if I ventured to approach them with an idea so wild and absurd. Besides, what could the bloodthirsty religious practices of an obscure cult 3,000 years ago have to do with the brutal slayings of a series of women in modern-day Miami?
I notice from the calendar your feast is tomorrow. All I can say is—
Praise Ishtar,
Annette
P.S.: There was another murder last night. This time the killer took only the victim's toe. Seems like a last-minute afterthought!
Dear Fuad,
It's with heavy heart, combined with a deep sadness, that I write this letter. Also with a little—more than a little, really—embarrassment. No doubt you noticed I wasn't at your feast today. That's because I'm in jail!
You see, despite your advice, I decided finally to go to the police with my theory that the book Ancient Weird Religious Rites had some connection with these murders. The thing that made me resolve to do this was, buried at the end of the newspaper article about the last killing, a mention that the victim had been attending a series of lectures on cults in ancient Egypt.
So I went to the police station and started telling the desk sergeant what I suspected: namely, that some modern-day member of an ancient weird religious cult was behind the killings. And do you know what? The sergeant told me I'd been spending too many nights at the dusk till dawn show at the drive-in!
Well, anyone who knows me will tell you that if I have one fault, it's my temper. So I let him have it in no uncertain terms. I even borrowed some of your language—it stuck in my mind for some reason—to the effect that the police, apart from being a bunch of useless idiots and blundering incompetents, were also quasi-human apes, or worse.
I guess the sergeant didn't appreciate that remark because before I knew it he put me in the cell where I am now writing you this letter.
My case won't come up before the judge until late this afternoon so it appears that I will have no way, unfortunately, of making it to your feast. That's the most painful part of this whole affair, and, in a way, the most ironic. If only I had listened to you and not gone to the police at all!
Despite my disappointment about missing you today, which I must leave it to you to imagine because no words can express it, I am more determined than ever that you and I will meet. Dare I confide in you? I think it's our destiny.
Yours in spite of everything,
Annette
P.S.: Guess what? Just now there was a great commotion in the corridors outside my cell. As a guard went hurrying past, I asked him what had happened. It turns out they've found the killer! I'm sure by the time you get this letter, you'll have heard all about it in the news, but you can imagine how exciting it is to be here getting it so close to the horse's mouth, as it were. I don't know much more at this point, but from what I can piece together, it appears the killer went berserk at some social event and tried to sacrifice the hostess's daughter on the kitchen counter! Then, while escaping from the police, he somehow got himself crushed in the back of a garbage truck!
Poetic justice, if you ask me. Well, now we can all go outside again at night and get back to our everyday lives. Believe me, I've learned my lesson about getting mixed up in murders. From now on, I'm going to leave it to the experts. Speaking of experts, if I'm not being too forward, could I propose that you and I have our own private feast? I could bring a couple of choice selections from my late husband's wine cellar. Naturally I'd defer to you on the cooking!
Mal Arnold plays an "Egyptian caterer"—Fuad Ramses—in Herschell Gordon Lewis's 1963 Blood Feast usually considered the cinema's first gore film.—ed.
