Mummy Dearest
Page 1
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PRAISE FOR JOAN HESS
AND THE CLAIRE MALLOY SERIES
“A good substitute for a trip to Egypt.”
—Deadly Pleasures on Mummy Dearest
“Lively, sharp, irreverent.”
—The New York Times Book Review on Poisoned Pins
“Hess fans will find much to entertain them …”
—Publishers Weekly on Damsels in Distress
“Larcenous shenanigans… breezy throughout.”
—Chicago Tribune on Poisoned Pins
“With her wry asides, Claire makes a most engaging narrator. The author deftly juggles the various plot strands… the surprising denouement comes off with éclat.”
—Publishers Weekly on Out on a Limb
“A winning blend of soft-core feminism, trendy subplots, and a completely irreverent style that characterizes both the series and the sleuth.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Refreshing… blends humor, eccentric characters, familiar emotions, and plot twists into an enjoyable lark.”
—Nashville Banner on Poisoned Pins
“A colorful kaleidoscope of plotting and clues… undeniably funny.”
—Arkansas Democrat-Gazette on Poisoned Pins
“A wildly entertaining series.”
—Mystery Scene
“Joan Hess is one of the best mystery writers in the world. She makes it look so easy that few readers and fewer critics realize what a rare talent hers is.”
—Elizabeth Peters, author of Tomb of the Golden Bird
“Joan Hess is seriously funny. Moreover, she is seriously kind as well as clever when depicting the follies, foibles, and fantasies of our lives. Viva Joan!”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead Days of Summer
“Fresh and funny… her trademark humor is stamped on every page.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Goodbye Body
“Breezy and delightful… Claire Malloy is one of the most engaging narrators in mystery.”
—The Drood Review
“Hess is one very funny woman.”
—Susan Dunlap, former president of Sisters in Crime
“Amiable entertainment with an edge.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“If you’ve never spent time with Claire and her crew, I feel sorry for you. Stop reading this nonsense and hop to it. You’ll see wit and humanity all wrapped up in a nifty murder mystery.”
—Harlan Coben, author of Promise Me
THE CLAIRE MALLOY MYSTERIES
BY JOAN HESS
Strangled Prose
The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn
Dear Miss Demeanor
Roll Over and Play Dead
A Diet to Die For
A Really Cute Corpse
Death by the Light of the Moon
Poisoned Pins
A Holly, Jolly Murder
A Conventional Corpse
Out on a Limb
The Goodbye Body
Damsels in Distress
MUMMY DEAREST
Joan Hess
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MUMMY DEAREST
Copyright © 2008 by Joan Hess.
Excerpt from Busy Bodies copyright © 2009 by Joan Hess.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007051831
ISBN: 0-312-36565-9
EAN: 978-0-312-36565-3
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / April 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / February 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated
with love and respect to Barbara Mertz
(who also goes by the aliases Elizabeth Peters and
Barbara Michaels)
Contents
Cover Page
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my gratitude to the following, who willingly or unwittingly provided me with knowledge and opportunities to learn about aspects of Egypt unavailable to most travelers:
Dr. Barbara Mertz, Ph.D. in Egyptology, University of Chicago; Dr. W. Ray Smith, Director, Chicago House, Luxor; Dennis Forbes, editor of KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt; Joel Cole, artist and steadying hand on arduous treks; Dr. Otto Schaden, excavator of KV63; Dr. Salima Ikram, American University in Cairo; Bill and Nancy Petty of Museum Tours; Dr. Marjorie Fisher, Adjunct Assistant Professor of Egyptology, Department of Near East Studies, University of Michigan; and Charles Roberts, who bears sole responsibility for coercing me onto that blasted camel.
CHAPTER 1
“Those Do Not look like camels to me.”
“That’s because they’re horses.”
“Where are the camels?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re the one who said there’d be camels all over the place.”
“I did not!”
“You did so!”
What a dandy way to start a honeymoon, I thought as I came into the parlor of the suite. My daughter, Caron, and her best friend, Inez, were on the balcony, engaged in what was clearly an argument of cosmic significance. I felt as if I’d been flattened by a giant waffle iron. The three of us had left Farberville many hours ago, possibly even days ago. We’d flown to Dallas, then Atlanta, then Frankfurt, followed by a six-hour layover and a flight to Cairo. After an interminable time snaking through customs at that airport, we’d flown on to Luxor. A lovely man whose name I did not remember had met us at the gate, collected our luggage, and whisked us to the hotel. Although the sun was still shining, I’d brushed my teeth and collapsed in bed.
Now, showered and wearing the terry-cloth bathrobe I’d found in the bathroom, I joined the girls on the balcony. The view was dazzling. Below us were terraces delineated with marble rails, a lush garden of shady grass and cheerful flowers, and beyond those the corniche, a boulevard that ran alongside the Nile. The medians were dotted with palm trees, shrubs, and minimal litter. Boxy metal cruise ships were docked at a lar
ge concrete pier, and small boats with triangular sails sliced through the brown water. On the other side of the river, hostile mountains dominated the horizon. There was no trace of vegetation on the slopes, only rocks and sheer cliffs. The fabled West Bank, with its Valley of the Kings and, somewhere to the south, the Valley of the Queens. The pharaohs, it seemed, preferred separate accommodations, even in the next world.
“Horse-drawn carriages and frenetic little cars,” I said, “but no camels. Camels have humps.”
Inez coughed delicately. “What one would expect to see here are dromedaries, or Arabian camels. They have one hump. Bactrian camels are indigenous to Asia and have two humps. Camels can go for two weeks without water, and a month without food. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t store water in their humps. The fatty tissue metabolizes with—”
“Hump, hump, harrumph.” Caron sat down on one of the padded chairs. “We were about to call for the paramedics, Mother. You slept for fifteen hours.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Malloy,” Inez said earnestly. “It’s classic jet lag, and at your age, it—” She stopped and stared. “I guess I should call you Ms. Rosen, shouldn’t I? I’ll try, but it still sounds really weird. I’ve always called you Ms. Malloy.”
“I’m not going to change my name,” I said.
Caron snorted. “Yeah, all that paperwork. What does Peter think about it—or did you bother to ask him? Where is he, anyway?”
I leaned against the marble rail. “It’s my decision, not his. As for his whereabouts, they are unknown. He was supposed to be here when we arrived. He must have been tied up in a meeting in Cairo.” I was relieved when neither girl persisted with questions. I’d intentionally been vague about the trip in general, saying only that Peter might be asked to discuss police matters while we were there. I did not want them to know the extent of his involvement, and frankly, I didn’t want to know, either. He’d attended a training session at what I blithely had called FBI summer camp and, after a brief furlough, returned to the East Coast for six weeks of further tutelage in the delicacies of international skulduggery. He’d had three days off to come home to give me tickets and travel information, confer with the captain of the Farberville Police Department—and show up at our wedding. Two days later Peter left for final briefings, and I hadn’t seen him since. I suspected the CIA, Interpol, and the Department of Homeland Security were behind all this, but Peter hadn’t volunteered any information and I hadn’t asked.
However, because of whoever it was, we had an all-expenses-paid honeymoon to an exotic locale. We had a suite in the Winter Palace, where the idle rich had come for more than a hundred years to play whist, gingerly poke around dusty tombs, and enjoy the balmy fall and winter weather. Situated at one end of the third floor, the suite had a large parlor with fiercely floral upholstered sofas and chairs, and an eclectic mix of antique (sideboard, framed paintings, gaudy vases) and contemporary (mini-bar, TV) furnishings. Massive arrangements of flowers and a tray of fresh and dried fruit had awaited us. I had not yet seen the girls’ bedroom, but the master bedroom had a fireplace, a sitting area, and a bathroom with a stall shower, a marble vanity, and a bathtub in which one might swim laps.
There was a knock. Caron hurried past me to the front door of the parlor.
“She ordered coffee from room service while you were taking a shower,” Inez explained.
“Oh,” I murmured, somewhat unnerved by their display of thoughtfulness. Although Caron was still plagued by fits of adolescent pique, she was beginning to show more frequent outbursts of maturity. I didn’t know if it was due to the arrival of her seventeenth birthday, her ascendancy to status of an upperclassman, or my marriage. September had been a month fraught with significance for all of us.
Caron came out to the balcony and whispered, “Am I supposed to tip him?”
I looked back at the elderly man in a white coat, who was gathering up orange and banana peels from the coffee table. He was bald, his scalp dappled with dark blemishes; his face was creased like a walnut shell. “I don’t know,” I said, “so let’s not worry about it now. I’ll ask Peter when he gets here.”
“This was delivered to the front desk,” she said, handing me an envelope. Peter’s meticulously proper prep school handwriting on the front was easy to identify. “The guy in there brought it for you. This is a bizarre honeymoon, Mother. I mean, what’s the point if all the two of you are going to do is correspond? We could have stayed home.”
Ignoring her, I went into the parlor and nodded at the man. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “It is my pleasure. My name is Abdullah, and I will be your houseman for your time with us. If there is any little thing I can do to make your stay most pleasant, please call the desk and they will send me here. Are your rooms to your liking?”
“Everything is lovely,” I said.
“Would madam care to order breakfast, or will you prefer the buffet on the patio adjoining the restaurant? It is served until ten o’clock.”
Caron gave him a wary look. “I don’t know about this buffet. I need something more substantial than pickled onions and hummus.”
“Oh no, miss,” Abdullah said. “Many of our guests are British or American. You will find toast and eggs, cereal, and fruit, and also cold meats and cheeses. The bacon and sausages are made of turkey meat, but I am told they are tasty.”
Inez sounded disappointed as she said, “No traditional Arab dishes?”
“Those, also,” he said, smiling at her.
“We’ll go down to the buffet,” I said to Abdullah. “I don’t believe there’s anything else we need right now. Thank you very much for the coffee.”
After he’d left, I poured myself a cup of coffee. I opened the envelope and read Peter’s note, then said, “He apologizes for missing our arrival, but will be here in time to take us out to dinner. He suggests we spend the day resting or exploring the area around the hotel. There are plenty of shops within a block or two. We can have lunch here.”
“Is that all?” asked Caron.
“The rest is personal.” I tucked the note in my bathrobe pocket. “Give me ten minutes to get dressed; then we’ll go downstairs for breakfast.” The girls were wearing shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. The guidebooks had sworn that such attire was suitable for tourist activities, with the exception of holy Muslim sites. I opted for slacks and a cotton blouse, ran a comb through my red curls, and put the heavy room key in my purse.
When we reached the multi-leveled lobby, with its impressively high ceiling, plush carpets, brass urns holding plants, and grandiose staircase, the manager hurried over. I vaguely recognized him from the previous afternoon when we’d staggered into the hotel, bleary and shell-shocked.
“Good morning, Sitt Malloy-Rosen,” he said, beaming at me. “I hope you had a nice long sleep and that the traffic did not disturb you. Some nights the drivers honk their cars and drummers gather on the pier. In the old days, our valued guests were obliged to endure only the clopping of horses as they pulled carriages along the corniche. Now, the youths have radios that blare more loudly than braying camels. We at the Winter Palace can only apologize and beg your forgiveness.”
It seemed to me that “in the old days” the manager was more likely to have been wearing diapers instead of a black suit and a striped tie. “It’s not a problem,” I said. “All cities are noisy.”
“Yes, you are so very correct. Cairo is much, much worse. Here we have only one hundred and fifty thousand citizens. Cairo has ten million, with air that smells very bad and much poverty and crime. You and Mr. Rosen are wise to bring your young ladies here to Luxor. I do hope he will be joining you soon.”
The final remark was more of a request for information than a sentiment. I chose to overlook it. “We’re looking forward to seeing all the wonderful archeological wonders of Luxor, but right now we’re more interested in breakfast. If you’ll be so kind as to point us in the right direction …”
“I shall escort you.” He barke
d something in Arabic to a desk clerk, then gestured at a short flight of steps up to a hallway. “The restaurants and patio dining are in the New Winter Palace, which was added to accommodate those who are unable to afford the Winter Palace. You are in the Presidential Suite. Directly across the hall is a stairwell that will take you to the New Winter Palace. This will save you the necessity of walking down the corridor to the elevators to come through the lobby. The entrance is not so grand there, but you may find it convenient. We at the Winter Palace are very proud of our marble staircases from the driveway to the lobby, which have been shown in many American movies. Perhaps you have seen Death on the Nile, based on a novel by Agatha Christie? She was a very fine writer of mystery novels. She visited Cairo when she was a girl, and her second husband was a noted archeologist. Many famous archeologists have stayed here at the Winter Palace, including Howard Carter, who found King Tut’s tomb almost ninety years ago. You will see many photographs of him and his benefactor, the Earl of Carnarvon, in our bar.”
I silently vowed to avoid the lobby in the future. Behind me I heard a noise that was either rumbling or grumbling, which suggested I was not the only one with the same idea. By the time we reached the patio door, I knew that the manager’s name was Ahmed, that he was born in Luxor, learned English as a purser on an British ship, had a cousin in Milwaukee, and would die in order to protect us from speeding taxis. I stopped him before he could seat us at a table and drape napkins on our laps, and sent him away as graciously as possible. The girls and I perused the buffet and returned to our table with standard American fare.
“That man is a menace,” Caron said as she spread jam on a roll.
Inez nodded. “It’s tempting to go stand in the middle of the corniche and see if he keeps his word.”