Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

  “Yes, he died about four months ago—at the excavation site. The local police investigated and deemed it an accident. I think he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “No, sir, you are wrong,” said Bakr, having reluctantly joined us at my insistence. “It was not murder. Chief Inspector el-Habachi was in charge of the investigation. He is a very smart man, and thorough. I myself accompanied him when he interrogated the guards on duty, who were most certain that Oskar Vonder–something, I cannot recall his exact name, was alone that night. His wife said he had been drinking, and this was confirmed during the autopsy. Chief Inspector el-Habachi examined all the evidence before he wrote the final report. The American Embassy was satisfied.”

  I glanced at Peter, who was more interested in the label on the beer bottle. “I thought he was German,” I said.

  Alexander shrugged. “A logical assumption. He was of German ancestry, but he and Magritta were both born in the States. He taught history at a community college during the summer terms. Magritta owns a small travel agency that specializes in educational tours of Egypt—the sort that ropes in groups of would-be scholars and lectures them incessantly while they’re dragged to every site from Alexandria to the border of Sudan. I feel quite pale when I envision the horror of it. You’ll see them in the lobby of the hotel, their sunburned faces drooping with exhaustion as they huddle next to a great pyramid of luggage. Those who survive should be awarded medals.”

  “And you think this guy was murdered by a disgruntled tourist?” asked Caron. “Give me a break.”

  I kicked her under the table. “Why do you think Oskar’s death was not an accident?” I said.

  “Chief Inspector el-Habachi was most thorough,” insisted Bakr. He clearly was prepared to defend his boss at any cost. “Most very, very thorough.”

  Peter had yet to show any inclination to enter the conversation. I considered kicking him, then decided it was inappropriate to physically assault him on our honeymoon. “Well?” I prompted Alexander. “Surely you have a reason.”

  His eyes met mine. “I wish I did.”

  The waiter appeared, juggling plates of roasted chicken, grilled eggplant, and potatoes stewed with tomatoes and green beans. I discovered I had little appetite, although the food was agreeable. Caron kept her face lowered while she ate. Inez had pulled a notebook out of one of her pockets and was jotting down notes between bites. Peter, Alexander, and Bakr discussed Egypt’s chances in a soccer match against some obscure rival.

  After we’d all declined coffee, Peter settled the bill and we rode in silence back to the hotel. As we entered the lobby, Sittermann emerged from behind a potted plant. It seemed likely that he’d been lying in wait for us. There was very little entertainment to be had in the lobby, except watching jet-lagged tourists stagger in, panting from the climb up the staircase in front.

  “Well, look who’s here!” he said, clad in baggy white shorts and an egregiously floral shirt that must have come from a clearance sale rack at a cheap Hawaiian souvenir store. “I was hoping I might bump into you folks. How ’bout we go have a drink in the bar?”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I think we’d prefer to retreat upstairs. Perhaps another time.”

  Sittermann clutched my arm. “Nonsense, Mrs. Malloy. I didn’t have a chance to meet Mr. Rosen here at the little soiree last night. I heard he’s looking into property hereabouts, same as me.” He flung his free arm around Alexander’s shoulder. “Your dad’s a regular guy. That was my first time hanging around with the peers of the realm, and I sure did enjoy it. Those sweet grannies dressed in purple—well, I ain’t ever heard such language. They laughed so hard I reckoned they was going to pee their panties!”

  Caron and Inez had made it to the elevator and were holding the door. They both had the expression of bullfrogs caught in a blinding beam.

  I removed Sittermann’s hand and edged away from him. “I’m going up to the suite. Peter?”

  He’d been acting so oddly that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d agreed to have a drink with the insufferable Sittermann. Instead, he said, “No, I have a meeting in a few minutes. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He sauntered back through the lobby entrance and down the stairs. I wondered if it was too late for an annulment.

  Alexander hastily joined us in the elevator. “Another time, Mr. Sittermann. I must escort the ladies in Mr. Rosen’s absence. Give my father a call on the house phone. He may be back by now.”

  When the elevator doors slid closed, we let out a collective sigh. Caron and Inez huddled in one corner, covertly watching Alexander. No one spoke until we reached the sanctity of the Presidential Suite. The girls fled into their bedroom. Alexander turned to leave, but I realized I had a fortuitous opportunity and suggested that he stay for a drink.

  “Martinis on the balcony?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow, surely something all young men of his class were taught to do by their nannies. Advanced training would include insolent grins and ill-disguised disdain.

  Once we were settled across the table from each other, I said, “Tell me about Oskar Vonderlochen’s death.”

  “Does this mean you didn’t lure me up here in order to seduce me?”

  “Yes, it does, and while we’re on the subject—”

  “I know,” he interrupted with a grin. “They’re seventeen and I’m a dirty old man of twenty-nine.” He held up his palm. “I swear I have no intentions on their innocence. It will do them good to be exposed to rogues like me, and learn how to avoid being manipulated. I fear there are a lot of us out there. You’re lucky, since I won’t shatter their self-esteem or take advantage of their naïveté.”

  “If you do, I will track you down to the darkest corner on the planet,” I said, “and do what’s anatomically necessary to put an end to the Bledrock dynasty.”

  He took a sip of gin and gazed at the Nile. “Now, about Oskar. It was late last spring. The excavations close down about then, because of the heat. Oskar and Magritta had made little progress during the season. Shannon was making all manner of threats about giving the concession to someone else. Wallace had lapsed into drinking heavily and mumbling to himself. The two graduate students were on the verge of a mutiny. Some of the Brits had departed, but my father, Mrs. McHaver, and a few of the others were lingering. Miriam, I think, and maybe Portia and Cordelia. Lady Emerson had closed her villa and gone to Rome. Penelope and Paunchy were still here, but in the throes of a marital scandal involving the entire Danish archeology team, male and female. I’d flown in to help my father pack up his clothes and personal possessions, and arrange for his purchases to be shipped back to the estate in Kent.”

  “You don’t stay the entire season?” I asked.

  “Good lord, no,” he said. “I’d go out of my mind. I have a job in the City, investment banking and that sort of drab thing, and I do have to pop into the office every now and then to water my potted plants and flirt with the secretaries.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a demanding job.”

  “If you must know, I mainly handle the family trusts and those of a few other friends of the family. The firm can’t afford to let me go. I really do work, Mrs. Malloy, but I also indulge myself. What’s the point of being filthy rich if you don’t enjoy it?” His grin was disarming, but his eyes were calculating, as though he was debating how much of his posturing I would buy. “So you have an idea of what was going on. The cocktail parties were gloomy. Tempers flared at every imagined slight or cross word. Bridge tables turned into battlefields. My father was especially irritable because he’d had little luck making acquisitions for his collection, and because his financial backing was coming to naught. Then something happened.” He stopped and waited for me to demand that he continue.

  I crossed my arms. “Oh, really?”

  “Nabil, one of the workmen, showed up at the hotel late one afternoon to show us something. He claimed that after everyone had left for the day, he’d gone back into the pit to look for a missing b
rush. He was more likely looking for any coins that had fallen out of someone’s pocket, but that doesn’t matter. He found a piece of an amulet. My father was quite certain it was eighteenth dynasty, which meant it was of the same era as King Tut. Fitzwillie confirmed this. Shannon was stunned. Eventually, she sent a boy to fetch Oskar, Magritta, and Wallace. All of them sat around the table and stared at this little bit of gold. One would have assumed they’d found the Holy Grail.”

  “A broken amulet?”

  “But with features reminiscent of those found in Tut’s tomb. Amulets suggest mummies. Without going into the gruesome steps of mummification, as entertaining as they may be, amulets were wrapped between layers of linen for protection. This might lead one to think that some sort of burial chamber was very close at hand. The amulet could have been dropped when tomb robbers escaped with whatever treasures might be sold on the black market.”

  “So the tomb had already been robbed?” I asked, frowning. “Recently, I suppose, if this amulet was lying there.”

  Alexander shook his head. “Almost every tomb was robbed at some time during the last couple of thousand years, but that doesn’t mean the robbers looted all the chambers. As for the bit of amulet, it may well have been covered up centuries earlier. Excavations are painfully slow and tedious. Each inch of rubble has to be examined.”

  “I still don’t understand why the tomb hasn’t been opened after four years. The hole didn’t look all that deep, even if progress is only a few inches a day.”

  “A reasonable observation,” he said, swatting at a cloud of gnats. “The problem lies in the fact that at the end of every season, all the rubble is put back into the hole to prevent theft. Oskar, like his fellow excavators, was a modern-day Sisyphus, who was condemned to an eternity of hard labor in which he rolled a boulder to the top of a hill, then watched it roll all the way back down. It’s rather a miracle that any tombs get opened these days.”

  “But there are guards,” I pointed out.

  “A couple of them in the hut at the top of a mountain and one or two at the entrance. It’s a boring, thankless job, and they’re paid a pittance. It’s also possible the tomb robbers are friends or relatives. Corruption is a way of life here, from the most petty bureaucrats to those in high positions. It’s no better or worse in our countries. The poor want to take care of their families, and the rich simply want to get richer. The black market in stolen antiquities is lucrative, and the collectors can be ruthless.”

  “Your point is that the guards can be bought, then.”

  “Persuaded to look the other way, or to ignore covert activity. Sometimes it’s nothing more than settling down to listen to a football match on the radio or falling asleep. The Valley of the Kings is not impenetrable. One could enter from a wadi and stay in the shadows.”

  I considered this for a moment. “Let’s get back to Oskar’s death. A workman found an amulet, and everybody was thrilled. Then what?”

  “Oskar couldn’t wait until morning to get back to his precious site. According to Magritta’s statement, he left their flat shortly before midnight, armed with a torch and a spade. He never returned, and his body was found in the pit early the next morning. One of the guards at the entrance admitted to accepting a few pounds to allow Oskar inside. It was not the first time Oskar had returned at night to ponder his lack of progress. The guard swore that he neither saw anyone else enter nor heard anything suspicious.”

  “He must have noticed that Oskar did not reappear.”

  Alexander went into the parlor to the mini-bar. “He said that he did check out all the tomb areas and eventually concluded Oskar had left without his noticing. He admitted that he didn’t shine a torch into the pit.”

  “Not a conscientious sort, I gather,” I said.

  “After the investigation, he was transferred to a station on the Sudanese border.” Alexander sat down. “Chief Inspector el-Habachi could find no evidence that anyone else had been there. Oskar had suffered several bruises and head injuries that could be explained as a result of his fall. There was a lot of loose gravel at the edge of the pit, and scuff marks that might have come from Oskar’s futile attempt to regain his balance. His blood alcohol level was high.”

  “Well, then,” I murmured, “why do you think he was murdered?”

  “The timing, for one thing. Had nothing been found at the site to suggest a burial tomb, Shannon might well have taken away the concession. Oskar was too slow and methodical for her; she needed results both to impress her dean and to raise money to continue any projects the college might sponsor. The benefactors were losing enthusiasm as the years passed without any significant discoveries. The fragment of the amulet was a veritable shot of adrenaline to start off this new season.”

  “So you believe it was planted there for that reason?”

  He nodded. “It could have been.”

  “By Oskar and Magritta?”

  “Or Wallace, who knows he’ll never be asked to work on another project. What is optimistically referred to as KV64 will be his last hurrah. The discovery was enough to ensure another season or two.” Alexander picked up his glass and swirled its contents. “There are others with an interest in ensuring another season, as well.”

  “Shannon King, you mean?” I asked. “I’m familiar with the publish-or-perish policy of academia. Is this the archeological version of it?”

  “It’ll give her the opportunity to write it up for some of the more prestigious journals, and if something of major significance is found, give interviews to the media. The opening of KV63 received worldwide attention from newspapers and cable television.”

  I sat back and studied him. “So you’re basing your belief that Oskar was murdered solely on the coincidence of the timing? One of those you mentioned, or some mysterious party, killed Oskar so that the excavation would resume this year? Doesn’t it make just as much sense to accept the official report that Oskar was excited about the discovery and went to poke around in the rubble? Could someone have anticipated that he would go to the Valley of the Kings in the middle of the night—which implies that someone was either watching his hotel or waiting near the site?”

  “Well, if you want to get picky …,” muttered Alexander. “I thought you’d be intrigued.”

  “I’m on my honeymoon, Alexander. I left my magnifying glass and fingerprint kit at home.”

  “But not your reputation, Miss Marple.”

  I was about to offer a rather uncouth rebuttal when Caron, Inez, and a young woman came out to the balcony.

  The woman thrust out her hand. “I am so excited to meet you, Mrs. Malloy! In fact, I am honored! I am Salima el-Musafira, your most humble servant and devoted fan.” She spun around to Caron. “Dear girl, you must introduce me properly. Quickly, before I am rendered speechless and make an utter fool of myself.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said cautiously.

  “No, I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Malloy.” Shoving dark, curly hair out of her face, she perched on the balcony rail, seemingly oblivious to the peril of a three-story fall. “Caron and Inez, my dearest confidantes, I should like a martini.” She glanced at Alexander, then turned her large brown eyes on me. Feigning a scowl of horrified embarrassment, she said, “Am I interrupting? My father says I am a dreadful pest at times. I cannot imagine why.”

  Alexander stood up. “Allow me to make you a martini, Miss el-Musafira.”

  “How charming!” She waited until he left, then smiled at me. “My mother says I must allow you to have a look at me so that you might permit the girls to come to my family’s house on Saturday. She can be hopelessly old-fashioned at times, despite the fact she’s a surgeon and clinic administrator as well.”

  Salima was most certainly not old-fashioned, I thought. Her face was heart shaped and defined by precise, elegant features, and her British accent almost as pronounced as Alexander’s. She did not drawl, however. Everything she said shimmered with an almost manic enthusiasm, her hands fluttering and her
expression reflecting a myriad of emotions. Although I was marginally old enough to be her mother, I felt more like a weary grandmother. I regretted not making Alexander entertain himself for a few minutes while I showered and changed into fresh clothes.

  Caron and Inez dragged chairs from the parlor out to the balcony and mutely sat down, watching me. Alexander returned and offered Salima a glass.

  “As Your Highness requested,” he said with a grin.

  Salima laughed. “I can assure you that the only blue blood in my veins came several generations ago from an Abyssinian princess. You’re Lord Bledrock’s son, aren’t you? You must have forgotten the last time we encountered each other. I was in the midst of that terrible preadolescent stage and you were a despicable boor. You looked down your aristocratic nose and declared me to be a spoiled brat.”

  “Were you?” said Alexander.

  She waggled a finger at him. “That’s hardly the point, is it?” Dismissing him, she turned back to me. “Did you enjoy your outing to the Valley of the Kings?”

  “It was very interesting,” I said.

  “I do hope you’ll allow me to join you another time. There are several tombs barely mentioned in the guidebooks that are much more intriguing than that of the much-regaled Tutankhamun. Carnarvon and his cohorts made off with souvenirs, but the Egyptians managed to keep most of the contents of the tomb. Have you been to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo? It’s vast, dusty, and disorganized, but they do have the solid gold death mask and coffin, and the incredible jewelry.”

  “We’re hoping to have some time in Cairo during our stay.”

  “We haven’t even seen the pyramids,” Caron said. “I mean, who goes to Egypt and Doesn’t See The Pyramids?”

  Salima shook her head in sympathy, although her eyes were glittering. “Well, Mrs. Malloy, will you permit the girls to come to my little family gathering on Saturday? It will be boring, I fear. The older relatives don’t speak English, and the younger ones tend to be overly excited in the presence of sweets and festivities. I solemnly promise to bring the girls back to the hotel by eleven o’clock.”