Mummy Dearest: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  “Yes,” I said, returning to his earlier question, “I saw the mustache and the scar. He must be the man Caron and Inez have been insisting was after them. Is it possible he’s part of this terrorist group, whatever it’s called?”

  “El Asad li-allah, the Lion of God. I don’t know why they’d bother with you or the girls.”

  “Because they’re suspicious of you,” I suggested. “All these trips to the police station and Cairo, and the other places you went before we arrived. These people are violent. Remember Oskar’s not-so-accidental accident in the spring, and now Shannon’s. The lethal cigarette given to Nabil so that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Magritta about the shabti. The taxi driver, poor man, who did nothing more than pick up a second passenger before driving to the Valley of the Kings. Jess Delmont’s body is likely to be out in the desert, his throat slashed as well.”

  “He’s in custody in Cairo. They picked him up at the airport, and he hasn’t been able to explain why he had ten thousand dollars in his suitcase.”

  “Well, I’m glad he had enough sense to try to get out of the country before they found him. I think you should call Mahmoud before he sits down to dinner with his charming American guests. The sooner Magritta’s taken into custody, the better. Wallace, too.”

  “And why do you think that?” Peter asked.

  I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or not, but I told him anyway. After all, communication is the foundation of a solid marriage.

  CHAPTER 18

  At breakfast, Caron and Inez announced that they were tired of dead pharaohs and ready to shop. Peter gave them a substantial amount of money, told them to call Bakr to escort them, and watched as they hurried into the lobby.

  “Is there anything left to buy in Luxor?” he asked. “They’ll need an extra suitcase to haul their loot home.”

  “They haven’t even started on Cairo.” I filled his coffee cup and sat back. There were only a few people still eating breakfast, none of them familiar. I was relieved not to have to make conversation with anyone but my husband, who was idly watching the birds fight over crumbs on the floor. If we bought a house in the country, we would put up bird feeders and become experts on rare species of wrens and finches.

  “I called Mahmoud while you were in the shower,” my future bird fancier said. “He has doubts about this evening’s plan, but he also admitted that he didn’t have a better idea. I’m going to coach him”—he saw my sudden frown—“here, at the hotel, in an hour. He has to run the show. I can’t appear to know anything more than the others.”

  “You’ll do very well as a bartender. Have the invitations been delivered?”

  “To everyone in the hotel. Salima’s went to the Mummification Museum, where she’s giving tours today, and Lady Emerson’s to her villa. Magritta and Wallace will be escorted here by police officers. There’s been no sign of Samuel. Are you positive he’ll show up today?”

  “Unless he’s buried up to his chin in the desert. It’s impossible to estimate how many people are involved in Buffy’s kidnapping. If they grabbed him, he’s in serious trouble. I doubt they did, though. It’s more likely that once he realized that Buffy and I were gone, he found a safe place to hide until he could arrange transportation. Her rescue has been all over the newspapers and TV. His only hope now is to get to her here in Luxor before she does irreparable damage.”

  “She’s been moved to a room on a different floor, and Ahmed has been instructed not to give out her room number to anyone. She accepted the tourism office’s kind offer of an all-day spa session at a resort on Crocodile Island. Samuel’s backpack is in police custody, and the room is presently occupied by two men from Mahmoud’s crime lab.”

  “That covers everyone but Sittermann. He doesn’t need an invitation. This table is probably bugged, and he’s listening right now, waiting for us to say what time the party starts.” I bent down and whispered into the bowl of sugar packets. “Five o’clock, you sleazebag.”

  Peter grinned in his endearingly sexy way. “If our suite is bugged, he already knows that and a lot of other interesting things.”

  “You don’t honestly think …?”

  “At least my husband will be present at this cocktail party,” I said to Abdullah as he stocked the shelf next to the minibar. “You won’t have to concern yourself with my unseemly behavior.”

  “Yes, Sitt. Will you need more lemons and limes?”

  I waited until he glanced up at me. “You ratted me out yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “I do not know that word.”

  “You not only told Peter that I’d left the hotel, you also told him where I was going. Admit it, Abdullah.”

  “Sitt, it was very dangerous. There are evil men in Luxor who would not hesitate to cut your throat. You’re a nice lady, but your curiosity is too great. Americans do not truly understand the passion of terrorists. Suicide bombers beg to sacrifice themselves for their religious beliefs and their countries. Western aggression has bred a generation of martyrs. Secularism has suffered, as have opportunities for education and individual expression. Women will end up in burqas, and boys will study the Koran instead of science and technology.”

  I was taken aback by his lecture—and his command of English. “Our country is divided, too,” I said weakly.

  “So I have been told, Sitt.” He wheeled the cart out of the room.

  I went into the bedroom and waited until Peter concluded a hush-hush conversation on the telephone. “Is this a safe line? Aren’t you supposed to go to the third pay phone from the left at the bus station, or the emergency room at the hospital?”

  “I was confirming our flight to Cairo tomorrow. I heard Abdullah chastising you. I waited for you to counterattack, but you were strangely passive. Are you the same reckless woman who charged into a hotel to tackle armed men and rescue the witless blond princess?”

  “She may be blond, but I can assure you she’s not witless,” I said huffily. “What was I supposed to say to Abdullah in rebuttal—that we’re clearly superior because we have drive-through windows and reality TV shows? That almost everyone over the age of twelve has a cell phone glued to his head? That football coaches earn ten times more than professors?”

  Peter had the audacity to laugh, and I was considering whether he could continue to do so with a pillow over his face when the phone rang. He answered it, listened, and then said, “Send him up here, Ahmed.”

  “Samuel?” I said smugly.

  “Yes, and according to Ahmed, very dirty and irritated that he no longer has a room here. He was most aggrieved to be told his luggage had been misplaced.”

  “We don’t want him to wander around the hotel lobby, so we need to do something with him until the others arrive,” I said. “Maybe he’d like to take a bath and borrow some clean clothes from you. I’m sure he’s had an unpleasant time these last few days. I think I’ll retreat to the girls’ bedroom.”

  The Savage Sheik lay in wait for me on the bed, and I spent the next hour alternating between flinging myself into his arms and berating myself for falling under his spell. Inez seemed to be correct in theory that he was not a lawless savage, but a rebellious peer tormented by scars from a traumatized childhood. Denial on the Nile. I could hear snippets of conversation between Peter and Samuel, but I stopped listening when I realized that the ravens, falcons, and jaguars under discussion were not Egyptian gods.

  A few minutes before five, I went into the parlor. Peter, a gentleman as well as a devoted spouse, stood up and begged the pleasure of making me a libation. Samuel stayed on the sofa, glaring at me. His hair was damp and he was wearing a navy cotton T-shirt that looked much better on Peter than it did on him. It was unfortunate that Peter would never get it back.

  “I see you made it back safely,” I said to Samuel.

  “No thanks to you. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

  “I did, for half an hour. I finally gave up and went to the hotel, where the desk clerk gave me the room keys and told me
where to find Buffy. It struck me as odd, but I was hardly inclined to delve into the motives behind this benevolent cooperation. Rather than risk our lives while you bumbled around behind the hotel looking for a drainpipe or a ladder, Buffy and I left Kharga as quickly as possible.” I accepted a drink from Peter and sat down across from Samuel, my smile bright and chipper. “Extricating Buffy from the clutches of her bloodthirsty kidnappers was the goal, wasn’t it? I presumed you could take care of yourself. After all, you are just an American student with an interest in Graeco-Roman ruins. Why would anybody wish to harm you?”

  He studied me for a moment. “You’re right, Mrs. Malloy. You did the only sensible thing. I freaked out when I went back to where I’d parked and the car was gone. I didn’t have any idea what happened to you. I was afraid the men had spotted you and taken you hostage, too. I was trying to figure out what to do when the police descended on the hotel. I didn’t want to try to explain why I was there, so I decided I’d better stay out of sight for a couple of days.”

  “The police searched for you,” Peter said, “or so we heard. Where were you?”

  “In a hut at the edge of a date palm grove. I paid some kid to bring me food and water.”

  “So you speak Arabic,” I said. “Convenient.”

  “Only a few words and phrases, Mrs. Malloy. When I was a teenager, I spent my summers as a volunteer for an international relief organization in Palestine. We worked on irrigation projects. I had some free time to travel, and that’s when I became interested in archeology and architecture.”

  “Can you read Arabic, too?” I persisted. “Well enough to study the Koran?”

  He was clearly getting annoyed with me. “Only well enough to read a few words on a menu or a road sign. All I know about the Koran is what I learned in a comparative religion course in college. If you wish, we can discuss it, as well as the Torah, the Tripitaka, and the Bhagavad Gita.”

  Peter gave me a small frown. “Let’s stick to the present, Samuel. How did you get back from Kharga?”

  “This morning, I hitched a ride with some German guys. They had a couple of cases of Stella, so we had to stop every twenty minutes so someone could… urinate on a rock. They headed for a pub after they dropped me off here at the hotel. I was really surprised when I got to the desk. Do you know where Buffy is? All the manager would say is that she checked out of our room and that she’s safe. Is she angry at me? You told her what happened, didn’t you, Mrs. Malloy? She’s not avoiding me, is she?”

  “I don’t know exactly where she is,” I said truthfully. “In Kharga she was more worried than angry. She kept demanding that we wait for you, but I wasn’t inclined to linger. One might have suspected she had a grandiose romantic fantasy about you swooping in through the window to rescue her with the panache of Rudolph Valentino.”

  “Who?” he said blankly.

  “You’ll have to ask your mother,” I said. “No, your grandmother. In any case she was—and still is—very concerned that those brutal men who kidnapped her might have caught and detained you.”

  “Such a sensitive girl,” he murmured. “I can hardly wait to assure her in person that I’m okay.”

  “It may happen sooner than you think,” Peter said. “I hear voices in the hall. Mix yourself another drink, Samuel. You may need it.”

  I had to agree with my husband. Samuel was smiling, but he was also squeezing a throw pillow with such intensity that its foam entrails were apt to spurt out. He noticed my gaze and put down the pillow.

  Peter opened the door. Lord Bledrock came in and shook Peter’s hand with such gusto that Peter winced. Mrs. McHaver made a stately entrance, trailed by Miriam. Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia fluttered their eyelashes as they hurried toward the bar. Lady Emerson swept in and made a dash for the sofa before Mrs. McHaver could lay claim to it. Salima shot me a leery look as she came in, then noticed Samuel and stopped in the middle of the room. Alexander bumped into her, caught himself, and sullenly moved away from her. Voices grew louder as our guests clamored for drinks and fought for seats. I hoped those partaking of tea on the terrace would not begin to wonder if a free-for-all was brewing on the third floor.

  Magritta and Wallace appeared in the doorway. She looked very much like the teapot of song—short, stout, and with steam coming out of the spouts on both sides of her head. Wallace was subdued, but brightened when he saw the bottles on the bar. Mahmoud slipped in behind them and stood to one side, ignoring both Peter and me.

  “My goodness, Magritta,” said Mrs. McHaver, “you’re quite the picture of restrained fury. You don’t have a pickax behind your back, do you?”

  Miss Cordelia giggled. “There was a woman in our village, a baker who made delicious tarts and buns. Her only flaw of note was her propensity to bicycle down back roads in search of elderly gentlemen walking their dogs in the evenings. She’d hack them into pieces and toss the body parts into the nearest pond. Had we known, I would have been disinclined to purchase her cherry pies.”

  “Or her pasties,” said Miss Portia. “One naturally assumed the minced meat was lamb or mutton, but …”

  Magritta’s expression turned darker. “I am not in the mood for prattle. I have been detained and forced to spend almost twenty-four hours in a primitive hotel room with a guard outside the door. I was not allowed to speak to anyone. I would like nothing more than a very dry martini and an explanation for this outrageous treatment. Claire, have you any responsibility in the matter?”

  “Detained?” said Lady Emerson. “How can you continue to excavate the site? I’ve been beleaguered by calls from the media, demanding my learned observations in regard to Ramses VIII. I haven’t quite decided how to respond. This morning the site was off-limits to almost everyone. I had no idea you weren’t there in conference with the head of the Supreme Council of Antiquities.”

  “Glad to hear the chap’s arrived,” Wallace said. “An agreeable sort, although very fond of publicity. He travels with an entourage of minions, military guards, and official vehicles. It can made for quite a traffic jam on some of these narrow roads.”

  Wallace would have continued had Peter not nudged him to the bar and inquired about his preference. Alexander joined Peter. Miriam eyed Salima’s short skirt and heels, then went out to the balcony.

  Mrs. McHaver thumped her cane. “Magritta, you must sit next to me and explain all this. If you’re having problems with the authorities, Neville and I will put a stop to it so you can continue work. Have you found someone to replace that local who had the audacity to fling himself on the carpet in Neville’s suite? These people should not be allowed inside the Winter Palace.”

  “Unless they’re in uniform,” Lord Bledrock corrected her. “We can’t get along without waiters, bellmen, and the like. Abdullah brings me tea each morning promptly at eight forty-five. He sees to my shoes if they’re dusty, and has my clothes dry-cleaned. He’s quite useful. If his English were better, I’d take him home and train him to be a butler.”

  “He wouldn’t take you up on it,” Alexander said. “He has a life.”

  Mrs. McHaver snorted. “What kind of life can any of these people have? All this poverty, filth, disease. I should think any one of the would leap at the opportunity to live in a civilized country.”

  I didn’t dare look at Mahmoud. Thus far he had seemed to be as mild-mannered as I, and certainly had shown more restraint than my husband in matters of temperament and tolerance. If he was moved to start heaving the Brits off the balcony, I might never see the pyramids in the moonlight.

  All conversation, pejorative and inane, halted as Buffy came into the room. Her hair was perfectly cut and styled, and her complexion glowed. “Well, hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see all of you. Samuel, I’m so relieved you made it back safely. Did you hear about Mrs. Malloy’s heroics? If it weren’t for her, I don’t know what would have happened to me. It was so scary.”

  “I would have rounded up a posses and come to fetch you,” Sitterman
n said from the doorway. “I was aimin’ to do whatever it took, even if I had to go to Cairo and march right into the American ambassador’s office. No, ma’am, a Texan ain’t gonna allow a gang of foreigners to harm to one hair on the head of a sweet young thing like you.”

  I gritted my teeth and lectured myself to stay where I was, which was far enough from him to prevent me from throwing a punch. I was unnerved by the ferociousness of my reaction, having never thrown a punch or seriously considered doing so. Peter looked at me as if he could see the repressed fury in my eyes. I took a deep breath and said. “So nice that you could make it, Mr. Sittermann. Would you like a drink before we get started?”

  “Before ‘we’ get started, Mrs. Malloy?” he said.

  “I believe Mahmoud has a few remarks planned,” I said carefully.

  Mahmoud emerged from the corner. “Yes, I do. It may take some time, so please make yourselves comfortable. I can promise you that it will all be very civilized—unless one of you causes a disruption.”

  “Oh, dear,” Alexander drawled. “Have we all been called on the carpet, this time in the parlor? It does make me think of all those uncomfortable sessions in the headmaster’s study. All I can say is that Lady Emerson is the culprit. I saw her creeping into the conservatory at midnight, with a candlestick clutched between her teeth.”

  Lady Emerson bristled. “Where my teeth are at midnight is none of your business, Alexander. I suggest you refrain from further personal comments.”

  Lord Bledrock harrumphed. “That’s right, my boy. Let’s have no more nonsense about the location of Lady Emerson’s teeth. They’re in her mouth now, and that’s the important thing.” He flapped his hand at Mahmoud. “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, do,” Magritta said. “I’m beginning to yearn for solitary confinement, where the only sound is the rattle of carts on the street. It will be a wonderful opportunity to start writing my memoirs.”

  “You can’t write your memoirs,” Wallace protested. “I’m already writing them. Thinking about calling it Red Land, Black Mountain.”