I’m really, really, really not a homicidal maniac, I promise.

It has occurred to me that if my home were searched for any reason – suspicion of smuggling puppies, training a band of monkeys to rob banks, whatever – I would have a whole lot of explaining to do.

My personal library is a bit – uh, well – unusual. In every good mystery, somebody has to die. There’s just no getting around it. And I’m a stickler for authenticity. Blood spatter, stages of decomp, knife wounds, gunshots, the effect of bugs on a corpse. If it’s gross, I’ve got a book on it. And more than once a friend who said, “So what are you working on now?” was sorry they asked.

But I’ve always thought I was able to hide my weirdness from the general public. Turns out, not so much.

The Los Angeles Natural History Museum is hosting an exhibit of Bog People. If you’re not familiar, Bog People are corpses that were deposited – mostly on purpose – into the bogs of northern Europe a thousand years or more ago. The chemical composition of the bogs is such that the bodies are remarkably well preserved, sort of pickled. (By the way, the museum has a pleasant little sign that says the exhibit is intended for families but that younger children may find it intense. I would go a lot further than that and say any child under twelve who goes through it is likely to sleep in mom and dad’s bed for a good week. Ye be warned.)

I, apparently being the ghoulish sort, drug my husband out of work early and braved rush hour traffic into downtown to attend a special showing of the exhibit including a lecture panel with a professor of anthropology, a museum person and a forensic anthropologist for the L.A. County Coroner’s Office. (One guess who I was interested in.)

Afterwards, the forensic anthropologist set up at a table with pictures and bone casts and chatted with the attendees. Of course, I pounced on the poor woman like a famished alley cat on two-week-old tuna. And the subject of adipocere came up. (Doesn’t it always?) FYI: adipocere is a waxy substance that sometimes forms on corpses.

“Oh yes,” I piped up with waaaay too much enthusiasm. “Grave wax.”

“Uh, yes,” she said, slightly alarmed at my glee.

The other patrons turned to stare, and one asked, “What did you say?”

“Grave wax,” I repeated, only starting to grasp the social unacceptability of my outburst. “It’s – you know – just the layman’s term...never mind.”

Feet were shuffled, eyes averted. It turns out an intimate knowledge of death processes is not a great way to make friends. But let’s hope it’s a good way to write books.