Mummy Dearest: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  He was long gone before I emerged from the shower the next morning. He was still sulking, although I had told him in more detail what Salima and I had found in Buffy’s suitcases. He did not appear to care that they were Louis Vuitton. Since he had worn designer diapers at birth, brand names did not impress him.

  I left a note for Caron and Inez, who were asleep, and went to the terrace for breakfast. I was watching a small bird table-hopping like a starlet when I felt a poke in the back. Unamused, I glanced up.

  “May Miriam and I join you?” asked Mrs. McHaver. “There are no vacant tables at the moment, and I’m having a bit of trouble with my knees. Arthritis is not unexpected at my age, I must admit, but I resent it all the same.” She waited until Miriam pulled out a chair, then sat down. “I’m considering having one of those chairlift machines installed at my home. My ancestors will be howling from their graves, but I think it might be rather fun. Have you any experience with them, Mrs. Malloy?”

  I shook my head, too startled to attempt to reply. Miriam sat down next to me and busied herself straightening the sugar packets.

  “I used to ride a bicycle when I was a girl,” Mrs. McHaver continued. “I would sail down the hills with gay abandon, letting my braids fly behind me. There was one time I shall never forget. I came around a corner and into a flock of sheep. They scattered, but not quickly enough, and I landed in a ditch. I must have looked a mess when I finally wheeled my broken bicycle home that day.”

  “Would madam care for coffee or tea?” asked a waiter.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I cannot believe the staff has not yet learned my preference. Tea, you dolt, with milk, and be quick about it!”

  “Shall I fetch your breakfast from the buffet?” Miriam asked.

  “Yes,” she said, flapping her hand. “Go, go.”

  “A nice morning,” I managed to say as Miriam scurried inside.

  “A bit chilly now, but it will warm up later by the time we arrive at the Valley of the Kings. You are coming, are you not? I understand you have a van and driver at your disposal. I intended to ride with Neville, but when I called his room to inquire about a time, Alexander said he’d left more than an hour ago. The discovery of the shabti has reduced him to schoolboy glee. If this excavation proves to be the tomb of Ramses VIII, the name Bledrock will rival that of Carnarvon in the annals of Egyptological discoveries. You are familiar with Lord Carnarvon, I presume.”

  “He financed Howard Carter’s explorations,” I said. I wanted to scurry away in the way Miriam had, although I might have scurried much farther and failed to return. “I saw the photographs in the bar.”

  “Some say there was a curse on anyone who disturbed King Tutankhamun’s place of burial. Soon after the tomb was discovered, Carter’s canary was killed by a cobra. Lord Carnarvon died the following year from an infected mosquito bite. At the moment of his death, his dog howled and then fell over dead. The lights in Cairo went out. More than two dozen archeologists who went into the tomb died during the nineteen-twenties. We can only hope there is not such a curse surrounding the tomb of Ramses VIII.”

  “You believe all that?”

  She pursed her lips and stared at the flowers in the garden. “Do I believe that the Green Lady roams Skipness Castle, or that a ghostly piper appears before weddings at Culzean Castle? That Mary Queen of Scots haunts Borthwick Castle? Or that the Loch Ness monster is an aberration from the prehistoric era? Everything we think we know about ancient Egypt is based on speculation and interpretation. No one can disprove a negative, Mrs. Malloy. You cannot prove for certain that Robert Burns did not show up at my house one winter evening when I was alone. You may deem it highly improbable, but you cannot offer concrete proof that it never happened.”

  I was more in the mood for muesli than metaphysics for breakfast. I excused myself and went inside to the buffet. When I returned, Mrs, McHaver and Miriam were digging into plates of turkey sausages, omelets, and rolls.

  After Mrs. McHaver savored the final bite and allowed Miriam to refill her teacup, she said, “It would be most kind of you to include us in your party when you go the Valley of the Kings this morning. We shall meet you in the lobby over here in precisely half an hour. Come along, Miriam; I need you to hand-wash some of my undergarments. The cost of the hotel laundry service is absurdly high, and the women have been known to pilfer whatever catches their fancy.” She snapped her fingers at a waiter, who immediately pulled back her chair. Without a word, she swept by me and went inside.

  Caron and Inez were still in bed when I reached the suite. I roused them long enough to ask if they wanted to go on the outing, then sighed as they both buried their heads under their pillows. Since I had no idea when Peter might bother to show up, I decided I might as well allow Bakr to drive me and my inimical breakfast companions to the excavation. I would stay for no more than an hour and be back in time for lunch should Peter make himself available. Odds were not good, but it was our honeymoon, after all.

  I succeeded on my third attempt to call Bakr and asked him to pick me up. I hurriedly brushed my teeth, changed into sensible shoes, grabbed a bottle of water, and sprinted down the stairwell with at least forty seconds to spare. Even in the New Winter Palace’s less regal lobby, Mrs. McHaver looked as though she was seated on a throne—or at the head of a tribunal. Miriam was juggling hats, water bottles, a fan, a bulging woven bag, two cameras, and a thermos. Mrs. McHaver was tapping her foot and staring pointedly at a clock above the entrance.

  Alexander called my name. I skidded to a halt and waited.

  “Are you heading for the Valley?” he asked as he came out of the short hallway that led to the terrace. “My father was in a dither earlier and left while I was shaving. I resigned myself to taking a ferry, but if you’ve booked your vehicle …”

  “By all means.” I grabbed his arm. “We’ll make such a jolly group—you, Mrs. McHaver, Miriam, and I. Don’t even think about calling shotgun.”

  “Shotgun? You’re armed?”

  “Never mind.” I pushed him into a chair next to Miriam and went outside to look for Bakr’s van. It was there, to my relief, so I announced as much and watched Mrs. McHaver thump her way across the lobby. I hadn’t had time to ponder our conversation at breakfast, or even Magritta’s accusations concerning her from the previous night. Placating Peter had taken all of my energy.

  Mrs. McHaver made it clear she’d expected a more luxurious mode of transportation, but all I could do was shrug. After she’d been helped into the van, I scrambled into the front seat and we drove away from the hotel.

  “Have you heard?” Bakr asked me in a low voice. “Chief Inspector el-Habachi is furious. All of the police officers who were supposed to be off-duty today have been called in and given assignments. Soldiers are already stationed along the road to inspect vehicles and identity papers. The police station is louder than a playground.”

  “What’s that?” Mrs. McHaver demanded. “And speak up, young man. It’s very difficult to hear you over all this traffic. Did you say something about soldiers at a playground? Haven’t they anything better to do?” She rapped my shoulder with her cane. “What is he saying, Mrs. Malloy? It makes no sense, no sense at all.”

  Bakr cleared his throat. “There has been an accident in the Valley of the Kings. Chief Inspector el-Habachi and Mrs. Malloy’s husband are there now. The head of the national security is on his way from Cairo.”

  “What kind of accident?” Alexander asked.

  “I do not know. I am not of the rank to be given privileged information.” He pressed the horn as he veered around a carriage, then kept his eyes on the road.

  Miriam laughed unconvincingly. “Surely it’s an overturned tramcar or a gang of drunken Germans forcing their way into a tomb.”

  “At this hour?” Mrs. McHaver snorted. “The Oktoberfest is held in Munich, not Luxor. My late husband and I were hiking in Bavaria one year and didn’t realize until too late that we had chosen an inopportune time. The disgrace
ful behavior, the drunkenness, the copulation in public places! We took the next train to Rome and never returned to Germany.”

  “How fortunate,” Alexander drawled, “… for the Romans, that is.”

  Mrs. McHaver harrumphed and fell silent. We drove across the bridge and through Gurna to the road that led past the Ramesseum. As we neared the entrance to the Valley of the Kings, we began to see soldiers in jeeps parked along the edge of the road. In several instances, cars had been stopped and their occupants were being questioned.

  “I have a special license plate,” Bakr murmured, saving me the bother of asking. He parked by the gate and conversed in Arabic with a guard while we got out of the van. “Please stay with this man,” Bakr said to us. “He will escort you where you wish to go.”

  The parking lot was nearly empty, I noticed, and no tour buses were idling along the back row. The soldiers at the entrance waved us by. I dropped behind Mrs. McHaver, who was making slow but relentless progress up the walkway, and gestured for Alexander to join me.

  “Having one of those déjà vu moments?” I asked him.

  “I wasn’t here last spring, if you’re referring to Oskar Vonderlochen’s so-called accident. We can rule out overturned tramcars but not marauding Teutonic warriors bearing cell phones and beer.”

  “But all the excitement over that artifact last night, and now an accident. You believe it’s just a coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe anything, Mrs. Malloy, including Salima’s ridiculous story about the two of you locking yourselves in a laundry room in the basement last night. She may well be a pathological liar, but I must say I thought better of you.”

  “I never said we locked ourselves in a laundry room.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Where’s that little tram? If it’s not operating, they should have sent a jeep to fetch us. Mrs. McHaver is an elderly lady in need of assistance.”

  “Then I shall assist her,” he said huffily, catching up with her to offer his arm.

  I did not harrumph, but only because I would have felt silly. I watched their backs as we made our way to the guard station, where several dozen soldiers and guards were smoking cigarettes and watching us.

  Mrs. McHaver waved her cane at one of them. “See here, you idle oaf, fetch a vehicle and be quick about it. I shall wait in the shade until you do. Miriam, pour me a cup of tea and open that packet of digestive biscuits. I am feeling faint.”

  The soldiers melted away. Mrs. McHaver sat down on a flat rock and took off her hat. Miriam poured tea from the thermos into a cup, then sat down to search through her knapsack. Alexander lit a cigarette and gazed at the mountains looming on either side of the valley. I found another perch and opened my water bottle. If we were to be buried under an avalanche of rocks, I needed to prepare myself as best I could.

  Within five minutes, a jeep pulled up. The driver grinned nervously and pointed at the empty seats. Alexander helped Mrs. McHaver into the seat next to the driver, then climbed in the back, leaving the empty row for Miriam and me.

  “This is worrisome,” Miriam said, clinging to the back of the seat as the jeep bounced up the road. “I have this horrid premonition. Everyone was excited about the shabti, and a goodly amount of alcohol was consumed as the evening went on. Shannon began taunting Magritta and Wallace. Poor Wallace burst into tears, and Magritta counterattacked with aspersions on Shannon’s lack of field experience and shoddy credentials. That repulsive American graduate student tried to put his hand down the front of my dress. At one point, I feared that my aunt and Lady Emerson might engage in a duel with parasol and cane. Miss Portia offered to make book on the outcome. Ahmed came up several times to beg Lord Bledrock to restrain the party.”

  “So sorry I missed it,” I said. “The shabti must be cursed.”

  Her lips twitched, but she did not reply. Official cars, jeeps, and an ambulance were parked in the road by the excavation site. The workmen sat on a wall, smoking brown cigarettes and watching the activity as though they had ringside seats at a mud-wrestling match. The canvas tarps had been removed. The men standing near the pit were primarily dressed in khaki, although I caught a glimpse of Peter in a particularly fetching bronze cotton pullover. Lord Bledrock’s white hair bobbled into sight briefly. Other men in suits and ties were likely to be bureaucrats. Mahmoud was issuing orders to his uniformed officers.

  I squirmed through the crowd and touched Peter’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re bringing up the body now,” he said. “We need to move out of the way.”

  “Whose body?”

  “Shannon King’s. A guard found her this morning while he was making his rounds. He called to report, then closed the Valley before the tourists and buses arrived. There was quite a scene at the front gate when Mahmoud and I arrived. The Ministry of Tourism must be flooded with calls from angry tour directors, and probably a few embassies as well.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, shocked. “What happened?”

  “Shannon?” said Alexander, who’d come up behind us. “My God, what happened to her? Is she dead?”

  Magritta joined us. “Of course she’s dead. Would these buffoons be moving so slowly if she wasn’t?” Groaning, she gulped down water from a bottle. “I cannot believe the timing. The head of the Supreme Council of Antiquities will be here today to inspect the excavation and grant us permission to continue. Once something of significance has been uncovered, they take a keen interest in making sure that proper procedures are followed. They have the right to withdraw the concession if they’re not satisfied.”

  “You’re not concerned about Shannon?” I asked her.

  “I’m very sorry, naturally, but if she wanted to do something reckless, I wish she had done it at the Winter Palace, not here. When I think of all the years Oskar and I devoted to finding a tomb …”

  “Peter, my darling,” I said, “would you help me find a seat in the shade? You know how fragile I am.”

  “About as fragile as a tank,” he said under his breath as he escorted me to a low rock shaded by an overhang. “Mahmoud thinks Dr. King came out here at least an hour before sunrise. The guards who were on duty swear they never saw her, but they’re not about to admit they accepted a bribe to look the other way. There are pieces of glass from a champagne bottle in the pit. Lord Bledrock said that she was inebriated when she left his suite, and mumbling about the need for better security at the site. He was worried about her, but not so much that he saw her safely to her room. They were all displeased by her verbal attacks on Magritta and Wallace. He went so far as to describe her as ‘lacking grace.’ That’s the ultimate insult in his circle.”

  “How did she get here at that hour?”

  “Most likely a taxi driver, who’s now home asleep. If the taxi driver is a conscientious citizen, he’ll contact the police later today, but it’s possible he charged her an outrageous fare and will decide not to get involved.”

  I glanced at the pit, then looked away as several officers emerged with a body bag. “The modern-day version of a mummy, I suppose. She didn’t have the shabti with her, did she?”

  “It’s in the safe in Lord Bledrock’s suite. He put it there when things got rowdy. He said Shannon was in no condition to take proper care of it.”

  “It doesn’t sound as though she was.” I took a sip of water and blotted my face with a tissue. “Has Mahmoud acknowledged the parallel with what happened to Oskar Vonderlochen last spring?”

  “Oh yeah,” Peter said. “I need to go back to Luxor and make some phone calls to, ah, interested parties. You might as well come, too. There’s nothing to see. I assume Bakr drove you, so we can ride back together.”

  “Along with Mrs. McHaver, Miriam, and Alexander. I was waylaid at breakfast, and bullied into offering them a ride. If I’m a tank, Mrs. McHaver is a battalion. Her deceased husband’s name was probably MacArthur. Quite a mouthful if she’d hyphenated.”

  “Gather them up and start for the parkin
g lot. I’ll catch up with you after I have a few words with Mahmoud and a certain Mr. Jones from the American Embassy.”

  “Taxi drivers may work from dusk till dawn, but a spy’s work is never done,” I said with a grin, then obediently followed his instructions.

  CHAPTER 13

  Caron and Inez were sitting on the balcony when I returned, Peter having kept the van so that Bakr could drive him to wherever clandestine calls were to be made. I had no idea what was going on in the basement; nor did I want to find out at the expense of marital bliss (which was in short supply).

  I called a greeting, then went into our bedroom to freshen up and change into less sensible shoes. “Did you sleep late?” I asked as I joined them.

  “Where have you been?” demanded Caron.

  “In the Valley of the Kings. There was an accident at the excavation site. Did you two ever meet Shannon King, the blond woman from the college in Maine?”

  “We saw her in the lobby a couple of times,” Inez said. “Is she going to be okay?”

  I shook my head. “Do you recall what Alexander said about Oskar Vonderlochen going out to the Valley late at night and tumbling into the pit? She seems to have done the same thing. A guard found her early this morning. From what I heard, she drank heavily last night and most likely took a taxi over there. She bribed a guard, then staggered up the hill and… fell.”

  “Alexander said he thought this Oskar person was murdered,” Caron said, shivering. “It’s like there’s a curse. I don’t think we ought to go there anymore. In fact, I don’t think we ought to stay in Egypt. We’re juniors, Mother. We have to protect our reputations.”

  “Everybody at school already thinks we’re weird,” Inez added gloomily.

  “But not boring,” I said with a bright smile.

  Caron and Inez exchanged looks, which seemed to be their primary mode of communication for the last ten days. Before I pointed this out, Caron said, “By the way, our room was searched.”

  “Oh, really? How could you tell? I was in there yesterday, and it looked worse than the back room of a thrift store. Clothes everywhere, suitcases on the floor, towels on the backs of chairs, enough plastic shopping bags to build a squishy pyramid.” I had doubted Luanne’s assertion that my apartment had been searched because it was too tidy. I was even more reluctant to buy theirs. “I don’t know how anyone can clean in there without a bulldozer. Is something missing?”