Mummy Dearest: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  “About time,” she grumbled as she crawled into the seat. “It’s utterly gross and sticky down there. I’ll have to get a tetanus shot when we get back. If anybody in this country knows what a tetanus shot is, anyway.”

  “Perhaps you should express a small degree of gratitude for being rescued. I didn’t have to risk my life for you, much less a painfully swollen bladder and an ominous realization that there aren’t any roadside rest areas between here and Luxor.”

  “You could pull over somewhere and go behind some rocks,” she suggested, overlooking my pointed remark about gratitude. “It’s not like this is a California freeway.”

  I shot her a chilly look. “Speaking of California, you’re not from there. You don’t live in Sausalito unless your daddy owns a car dealership with an apartment over the body shop.”

  She let her head flop back and closed her eyes. “Do you have any aspirin? My head is about to implode. I haven’t had anything but bread for two days, and my blood sugar is careening. And water—I need water. They gave me a bottle last night, but none since then. I was locked in that room for—I don’t know—at least a day and a half. No window, so I couldn’t tell for sure if it was day or night. I had to guess from the nosie level of the traffic. It was so gruesome.” She turned her face away and whimpered softly. “I thought I was going to die.”

  I gave up and turned my attention to avoiding potholes while making the best time I could. After a while, I was obliged to stop at the edge of the road. Buffy had not made a sound, but I took the ignition key with me when I carefully made my way behind one of the craggy rock formations.

  CHAPTER 15

  I parked in front of the Winter Palace, then nudged Buffy, who’d been dozing since my brief pit stop. I’d been imploring every deity I’d ever heard of not to let us run out of gas along the highway. One of them (the Almighty OPEC, perhaps) had allowed us to run on fumes the last few miles.

  “Honey, we’re home. You can get out of the car now,” I said. “Never mind; you’re welcome to stay here if you prefer. I myself am going in the hotel.” Uninterested in her decision, I slammed the car door and climbed the curved staircase to the lobby. Ahmed stared at me as I put down the car key in front of him. “There’s a really ugly car out front. Feel free to have it towed. Is my husband back?”

  “No, Sitt Malloy-Rosen, he is not. Is this car yours? We have valet parking, if you would like us to—”

  “I don’t care what you do with it, although you should remove Miss Franz before you do anything drastic.”

  “Miss Franz who was kidnapped? She is with you? This is wonderful news.” His voice dropped and he leaned forward. “Were liberties taken with her person? Should I send for a doctor?”

  “You’ll have to ask her. Is her luggage still in the basement storage room? I suspect she’d rather have her shampoo and moisturizers than a doctor.”

  He stood upright and cleared his throat. “About the storage room in the basement, Sitt Malloy-Rosen. The Winter Palace prides itself on taking care of its guests’ valued possessions. There have been rumors that you and a young lady, as yet to be identified, were seen—”

  “There are always rumors, aren’t there?” Smiling brightly, I went to the elevator and willed myself not to look back at him. Once I’d let myself into the suite, I flopped on the sofa and let weariness invade my every nerve and muscle. My back ached from the tension of driving the horrid car through a minefield of potholes and rocks. My neck was a mass of steel rods, and my fingers were numb. My tongue had mutated into thick sandpaper, but I couldn’t muster the energy to stagger to the mini-bar and take out a bottle of chilled water.

  I allowed myself a couple of minutes, then went into the bedroom. I dialed the number of the police station and repeated Mahmoud’s name until I finally breached the protective barriers of bureaucracy and he came on the line. After I finished my terse recital, I listened to the sound of his measured breathing.

  “Miss Buffy Franz is in a car parked in front of the Winter Palace?” he said at last.

  “I don’t know if she is now, but she was ten minutes ago.”

  “And you rescued her from a hotel room at the Kharga Oasis?”

  “That’s what I just told you, Mahmoud,” I said, trying to be patient. “Her boyfriend, Samuel”—I floundered for a moment, but I’d been up since dawn—“Berry, that’s his surname, may still be over there, or he could be on his way back to Luxor.”

  “And Peter is not aware of any of this?”

  I switched the receiver to my other ear. “I don’t know how to get in touch with Peter. He went to Cairo yesterday. I was hoping you might have some idea how to contact him.”

  “Yes, I will try,” Mahmoud said. “You are unharmed, I trust. What about the girl?”

  “We didn’t discuss it, but she appears to be fine. She may have some scratches on her knees from the floorboard of the car. I thought it was better that she not be seen until we were well away from the town. It seemed like a good idea at the time. She may have felt differently about it.”

  He made a small noise. “I will do everything I can to reach Peter. Will you please stay where you are until I speak again to you? Not just in the hotel, but in the Presidential Suite with the doors locked. I need to assure him that you’re safe.”

  I agreed and hung up. In that Caron and Inez had not appeared when I arrived, I surmised they were elsewhere. I’d left a scribbled note for them, saying only that I would be back in time for tea. It was four o’clock, according to the clock beside the telephone. Since tea was not among their daily rituals at home, they might not be attuned to the time. Disinclined to fret until they returned, I called the desk.

  “Ahmed,” I said briskly, “in that the Winter Palace prides itself on taking care of its guests’ valued possessions and I am a guest, I’d like to report that I’m missing two of mine. They’re females, seventeen years of age. Please have a bellman track them down in the lobby of the New Winter Place, on the terrace, or by the pool, and tell them to get up here immediately. Thank you so much.”

  I went into the bathroom and took a shower, then wrapped my hair in a towel and slipped into the hotel bathrobe. Feeling much improved, I fetched a bottle of water from the mini-bar and went out to the balcony. I was torn between modest pride at my accomplishment and leeriness at Peter’s reaction when he learned about it. Which he probably had by now. I wasn’t sure if he would drop everything and fly back to Luxor in order to clasp me in his arms and shower me with admiring kisses—or start investigating the divorce procedure in Egypt. I’d read somewhere that Muslim law required the husband to do little more than utter the fateful sentence three times. Peter had learned enough Arabic at spy camp to handle it in a respectable accent.

  I was feeling rather sorry for myself when Caron and Inez burst into the room. “Mother!” Caron shrieked. “You rescued her! Everybody in the hotel is going crazy! Ahmed is going to send you an enormous bouquet of roses. The bellmen all clapped when Inez and I went by them, like we were on the red carpet.”

  “It was really cool,” Inez added, unable to match Caron’s fervent pitch but doing her best. “Everybody’s coming up to congratulate you.” She noticed my attire. “You might want to get dressed.”

  “Everybody?” I echoed, appalled. “Shouldn’t Buffy be getting all the hoopla?”

  “That inspector friend of Peter’s is in the lobby,” Caron said. “As soon as Buffy cleans up, he’s going to take her to the police station to get her statement. He told us to remind you to stay here until he can talk to you.”

  “Did he mention Peter?” I asked.

  Caron poked my shoulder. “He didn’t say. You’ve only got a few minutes, Mother. I’ll be so humiliated if you don’t put on some clothes and makeup. You look like boiled beef.”

  I was putting on shorts and a shirt when the partygoers arrived. I could hear Lord Bledrock issuing orders to employees about where to arrange the ice, glasses, and bottles. Mrs. McHaver’s cane thumpe
d as she swept around the room. Miss Cordelia and Miss Portia laughed shrilly at some remark. I couldn’t hear Miriam’s voice, but I would have been shocked if I had. Alexander requested orders for drinks. Lady Emerson commented peevishly about food. Furniture scraped as it was dragged in from the balcony. Magritta demanded a martini, easy on the vermouth.

  I was considering my chances of slipping out the bedroom door to the hall and scampering downstairs when I heard Sittermann’s drawling voice. I was so stunned by his audacity that I was unable to finish buttoning my shirt.

  “I learned long before God made little green apples that you can never trust a skinny lawyer or a redheaded woman,” he said. “I knew when I first set eyes on Mrs. Malloy that she was a spunky broad. She could grab ol’ Satan by the tail and swing him around her head if she had a mind to. She reminds me of this gal I knew up in Amarillo, name of Pearly Sue. She had a no-good husband what went every Saturday night to get drunk and find himself a cheap hooker. Well, Pearly Sue got mighty fed up, so she bought herself a dinky little chain saw and—”

  “Sittermann,” Lord Bledrock said sternly, “there are ladies present. You really must watch your language.”

  “But do continue,” said Miss Portia.

  I managed the last button and banged open the door to the sitting room. “My goodness,” I said in a flat voice. “What a surprise to find all of you here.”

  Sittermann had the sense to close his mouth and move into a corner. Mrs. McHaver whacked her cane on the coffee table. “We must drink a toast to Mrs. Malloy for her courage and ingenuity. Not all of us would be so foolhardy as to rush into danger without regard to the consequences to ourselves and others.”

  “Jolly good job,” said Lord Bledrock.

  The others repeated the sentiment and downed their drinks while I stood and watched. Alexander came to my rescue with a scotch and water and kept his hand on my arm until I was seated in one of the upholstered chairs. Miriam brought me a plate of hors d’oeuvres and a napkin. “You must be exhausted,” she whispered.

  I was too hungry to answer. Lady Emerson gave me a few minutes to wolf down pastry triangles filled with cheese, grape leaves rolled around rice and minced lamb, and pickled vegetables. “Slow down, Mrs. Malloy,” she said. “You’re liable to end up with a tummy ache. We’re dying to hear what happened at the Kharga Oasis. Buffy was able to tell us some of it in the lobby, before she left with the police inspector to give them a statement. You must have been terrified when the men attacked you in the hall outside her door. She said she nearly fainted when she heard shots.”

  “Forcing you to not only disarm them but knock them unconscious,” said Miriam. “I wouldn’t know how to start.”

  “How many were there?” Mrs. McHaver asked. “Buffy estimated at least six, and possibly more.”

  “Don’t forget the woman in the lobby.” Lord Bledrock thumped my shoulder. “She was armed as well. How did you manage to wrest the keys from her?”

  I held up my hand. “It wasn’t nearly that dramatic.”

  “Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Malloy,” Sittermann said, giving me a sly smile. “Most women would leap at the chance to be heroines, but you just sit there looking all demure. Why, I do believe you’re blushing. Ain’t that the sweetest thing!”

  My face was hot, but not from any feigned exhibition of modesty. Under different circumstances (as he well knew), I would have dashed the contents of my glass in his face, then requested a refill so I could do it again. I forced myself to look away. Caron and Inez were huddled in a corner, both of them more interested in watching than contributing to the blather. Alexander wiggled his eyebrows at me. I was not amused. Magritta and Wallace were in the doorway to the balcony. She nodded, but he was too far into his cups to react.

  “You haven’t explained, Mrs. Malloy,” Mrs. McHaver said. “We’re waiting.”

  “I think,” I said, then paused and listened as they all inhaled in anticipation, “that I need another drink.”

  The next hour was surreal. Given an occasional nod or shrug from me, they formulated a story that would have sold to Hollywood in the twinkling of a producer’s eye. Samuel, having received the cryptic message and allowed me to decipher it, had stolen a car and driven to the Kharga Oasis, where he was promptly beaten senseless by thugs and dragged out of the script. I’d stormed the lobby—no, I’d boldly marched into the lobby. Knocked the girl out and tied her up—impossible, too violent—intimidated her with a steely stare (much better). That, of course, wouldn’t slow down the half-dozen maniacal bearded henchmen dressed in flowing robes, daggers between their teeth—all right, a shade too much. Uzis were downgraded to pistols. I’d knocked a man down, grabbed his weapon, and ordered all of them into one room. Shots were exchanged (Alexander pointed his finger at Caron and made explosive noises; she retaliated as she threw herself behind a chair) and curses rang through the hall. Buffy, chained to the bed frame—tied up, anyway—quivered with fear as the door flew open (Miriam produced a classy quiver). I fired at a man who’d dared to sneak up behind me—terrorists can be so sneaky—then unlocked, untied, Buffy and literally carried her limp body down the stairs (Inez flung herself into Caron’s arms, but Caron wasn’t prepared and they both went over with a thud). We dodged bullets (everybody with the exception of Mrs. McHaver and Wallace began firing their index fingers at me; I obligingly twitched) until we reached the stolen car. I flung Buffy’s body in the backseat and sped down the narrow streets (lots of engines revved) until we reached the highway. Only then did Buffy regain consciousness and sob with gratitude.

  It was time for a round of drinks.

  I headed for Sittermann, who ducked behind Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia and joined Mrs. McHaver on the sofa. As long as the room was crowded, he could manage to stay on the far side from me. I conceded defeat for the moment and handed my glass to Alexander.

  “Have you heard anything more about Shannon’s accident?” I asked him.

  “Nothing credible.” He poured my drink and dropped in some ice. “You should have called me before you took off with Samuel. I would have gone with you.”

  “I would never disturb a baron’s son before he’s had his breakfast,” I said. “It just isn’t done.”

  “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

  “If you’d been along, I could have gotten both of us killed. It’s funny, though. I was never in any danger. Despite the fanciful tale of my heroics, all I did was accept the key and go unlock Buffy’s door. Nobody tried to stop me. No shots were fired. Buffy was grubby and ill-tempered, but she was okay. I spotted a plate of food and a can of soda under her bed. Maybe she was reluctant to leave because she hadn’t finished her lunch.”

  “She didn’t say anything about what happened after the horseman grabbed her and galloped away so dramatically?”

  “She didn’t say anything, period. No, that’s not true. She kept insisting that we ought to wait for Samuel. I wasn’t pleased to leave him behind, but he’s capable of getting back here on his own. It’s not as if we left him on a deserted island… and as far as I know, he wasn’t mugged.” I thought for a while as I sipped my drink. “He was gone for more than thirty minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him more than five or ten minutes. The Desert Inn is not a sprawling resort with multiple swimming pools and a golf course.”

  Alexander shrugged. “The good inspector will find him. There’s nothing you can do about it. Where’s your friend Salima?”

  “Why do you care?” I said. “According to you, she’s a brat, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, I suppose she is. My father is glowering at me over an empty glass. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Malloy …”

  I glanced at Sittermann, but I could tell he was keeping an eye on me. I considered making my way toward him just to force him to move, then decided to have a word with Magritta instead. She’d propped Wallace in a corner by now and was drinking steadily, as though she aspired to reach his level of alcohol-induced stupor.

  “
Were you allowed to go back to work today?” I asked her.

  “I wasted the day watching the underling from the antiquities department examine every shard we set aside in the last five years. It’s just as well. Without Nabil, I’m going to have to reorganize the crew.” She gave me a bleary look. “You may not have heard. Nabil died of heart failure last night. I’m short of funds, but I’ll scrape together a small sum for his widow. Wallace is taking it badly, as you can see.”

  “What’s it been, Maggie? Forty years?” he said, moaning. “Forty backbreaking years, and we haven’t found a mummy. It wouldn’t have to have been a royal. I would have been happy with a dentist or a priest.” He hiccuped. “I would have been happy with a mummified cat. Forty years, and not even a damn cat.” He hiccuped again, sliding perilously. Magritta caught him and repositioned him. “Not even a damn cat,” he repeated as his eyes closed.

  “But you might have found the tomb of Ramses VIII,” I said to Magritta. “The shabti has his name on it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said drily, “in layman’s terms, anyway.”

  “And Nabil discovered it at your excavation site.”

  “That seems to be the consensus.”

  She wasn’t the type to clap her hands with glee, but she was showing no enthusiasm whatsoever. I tried again. “Don’t you believe that’s where Nabil found it?”

  “I’m quite sure he found it there.”

  “As was Shannon King, right?”

  Magritta stared at the bottom of her empty glass. “She believed that’s where Nabil found it. That’s why she went out there two nights ago. The funny thing is that I almost did, too. I don’t buy into any of this supernatural nonsense, but I could hear Oskar forbidding me to go. If there are such things as souls, his is swirling about in the Valley of the Kings. Once he learns ancient Egyptian, he’ll hear some fascinating stories from the pharaohs. I hope they’re fascinating, anyway. Eternity is a very long time.”