Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

  “You must be exhausted,” I said, unimpressed.

  “I am indeed,” Salima said. “But all that matters is that they are safe now.”

  “No thanks to you,” Caron said. “We were almost murdered, if you must know. We were stalked by a psychotic, and nearly kidnapped.”

  “And then ravaged,” added Inez, settling her glasses more squarely on her nose so she could stare at Salima. “In a tent in a remote oasis.”

  “In Gurna?” Salima raised her eyebrows. “It’s hardly a remote oasis.”

  “He would have taken us to one,” Inez said firmly.

  “Who?” asked Salima, bewildered.

  “The man who’s stalking us,” Caron said. “We spotted him after you abandoned us in that nightclub.”

  “I abandoned you? Please, darlings, I left you at a table with Nevine’s girlfriends.”

  “Enough!” I barked. “I don’t want to hear any more fanciful tales or excuses from any of you.”

  Peter seemed overwhelmed by the presence of unhappy females. “We still haven’t heard the rest of the story,” he said with a slightly daunted smile.

  Caron cleared her throat. “So there we were, hiding behind the rocks. Inez’s hiccups finally stopped; otherwise he surely would have found us and plunged his dagger into our hearts. It was so quiet you could have heard a cobra slithering by. We waited for a long time, then decided it was safer to follow the road back to the town than to risk bumping into the man, who might have been somewhere on the path. Just as we were about to stand up, we heard voices.”

  “And a curious squeaky noise,” Inez said.

  “Which,” Caron continued seamlessly, “I recognized as the sound of a wooden wheel rubbing against the side of a cart. I peeked over the rocks and saw the cart coming along the road from the mountainside. As it came closer, we could see that it was being pulled by a donkey. There were six or seven men walking alongside it, talking in low voices. At least three of them were carrying rifles. It didn’t seem prudent to ask if we could hitch a ride. When they got within about ten feet of us, they stopped. One of them trotted down the road, while the rest lit cigarettes and waited.”

  Salima opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “Could you see what was in the cart?” I asked.

  Inez shook her head. “There was a tarp tied over it. It must have been heavy, because the poor donkey was puffing.”

  “And then?” I prompted them.

  “One of the wheels fell off the cart,” Caron said, “I guess because the men were leaning against it. Whatever was under the tarp slid against the side with an awful thump. They got all upset and started hissing and spitting at each other. I don’t know what they were saying, but it probably wasn’t very nice. Finally, some of them lifted the cart and the others got the wheel back in place. The man who’d gone ahead came back, and then they all went down the road.”

  “How very peculiar,” said Salima, who’d managed to obtain a tangerine during the narrative and was peeling it with a pensive frown. “That road—if I’m thinking of the correct one—goes around the far edge of town and then north alongside the river for a mile or so. There’s nothing that way except for a few houses.”

  I wasn’t as interested in the cart’s destination as I was in my daughter and Inez’s. “Please continue, Caron.”

  “We waited for a long time after they were gone, in case that man was across the road. Finally we decided that we couldn’t crouch there forever, so we stayed on the far side of the road as long as we could, then ducked across it and into the backyard of a house. The robes and scarves were on a clothesline. We pulled them over our clothes and made our way to the pier, staying in the shadows as much as we could. Rather than wait half an hour for the ferry, we gave some guy a hundred pounds to take us across the Nile on his felucca. He seemed to think it was very funny.”

  Peter did not. “Was there a chance the cart might have been conveying weapons?”

  Inez bent over, coughing convulsively. Caron, who was not renowned for her Florence Nightingale impulses, jumped up and began to thump Inez’s back. Salima went to the mini-bar and grabbed a bottle of water. Peter raised his eyebrows at me, but all I could do was shake my head.

  When at last Inez regained control, she sat up, her face red and shiny. “No, just a lot of things like pots and jars. There was enough moonlight for us to see broken pieces scattered in the road. We thought maybe they were made by village craftsmen to be sold at the tourist shops.”

  “Why would they be transported at night?” I asked. “Pots and jars, no matter how beautifully crafted, don’t necessitate an armed escort.” I looked at Peter. “Could they have been filled with illegal drugs?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll talk to Mahmoud in the morning. If jars broke when the cart tipped, there should be some evidence in the road. Caron and Inez, he may want you two to help him find the precise spot.”

  “It was dark and we were lost,” Caron protested. “Besides, we have to pack for the cruise. Salima knows which road it was. She can show Mahmoud.”

  “Not tomorrow,” Salima said. “My father and I are going to Cairo to attend a lecture given by one of his old friends from Zurich. We’re taking an early morning flight. I’ll draw a map of the road I believe the girls were on, and they can show it to Chief Inspector el-Habachi.”

  “Besides,” I said, “the girls need the opportunity to find the owner of the robes and scarves that they stole and return them, as well as offer a generous payment in apology for any inconvenience they might have caused. The money will come out of their shopping allowance.”

  “I’d rather attend the lecture by the guy from Zurich,” Caron said glumly as she reached for a tangerine. “Even if it’s in Swiss.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Caron and Inez dragged in just as Peter and I were finishing lunch on the balcony. Inez went into the bedroom, but Caron opted to allow us to appreciate the cataclysmic depth of her indignation.

  “That was a waste of time,” she began sourly. “I mean, how could it not be? Chief Inspector el-Habachi kept making us try to reconstruct the way we went after we went out the back door of the hotel. Last night we were too terrified to stand around and read stupid street signs in Arabic—as if we could anyway. The fronts of the buildings look the same. All of the alleys are narrow and cluttered with garbage bags and piles of junk. There are more vicious dogs over there than… I don’t know, puckers of cellulite on Rhonda Maguire’s thighs.”

  “Did you return the clothing?”

  “Yes, Mother. We apologized, and Bakr translated for us. The lady was kind of annoyed until we gave her fifty pounds. Then she was all friendly and wanted to sell us the robes for another twenty. Like I can see us walking to class in them.” She picked up the remaining french fries on my plate and crammed them in her mouth. “Can we order lunch?”

  “Did you locate the road?” asked Peter, trying not to wince as she went after his fries as well.

  “I think so,” she said indistinctly. “There were cart marks in the dirt, anyway. Of course they could have been there for days, or maybe dynasties, but there was one place where it looked as if a lot of men had been scuffling around. There were footprints behind the rocks on the side of the road. Wow, like actual footprints. I had to restrain myself from whooping in delight.”

  I put down my wineglass. “Did the police find any evidence of whatever might have been in the cart?”

  Her eyes flickered for an instant, and she hesitated. Finding a sudden fascination with the hazy clouds, she said, “Not bullets or packages of heroin, if that’s what you’re implying. There were a few slivers of pottery in the dust. The men must have come back later with flashlights and picked up as much as they could. The chief inspector was pissed off, as if it was our fault. He made us stand there for almost an hour while his men crawled around like gimpy field mice, then had Bakr drive us back here. We only had time for a roll at breakfast.” Her hand fluttered to her forehead. “I’m beginning to feel faint, from
either the sun or low blood sugar. Or then again, maybe from the thrill-a-minute experience of being dragged down every stinky alley in that dumb town.”

  “I’m sure it must be one of those,” Peter said, although it was obvious from Caron’s expression that he had failed miserably in his feeble attempt at sympathy. “Room service will take at least half an hour. You’ll do better if you go to the restaurant.” He put down his napkin and pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll go to the police station and talk to Mahmoud. He’s likely to be frustrated.”

  “It’s Not My Fault,” Caron said as she spun around. “Inez and I both kept telling him that we weren’t sure where we went. A psychotic stalker can be a distraction, you know.”

  “Which wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t gone to the nightclub,” I pointed out.

  “Not necessarily. You keep insisting he’s just some ordinary businessman. Don’t you think it’s kind of a coincidence that he was there?”

  Peter studied her for a moment. “I agree that it’s not likely to have been a coincidence. Mahmoud will question the staff and track down some of the patrons. Other people must have noticed him, too, especially if he was dressed the way Inez described.” Before Caron could express further outrage, he bent down to give me a swift kiss. “I’ll be back in time to finish packing. Perhaps we might enjoy the illumination at Luxor Temple tonight. It’s hokey but very dramatic, with booming voices, flashing lights, and all that.”

  “Oh, please, spare me.” Caron went to the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Inez. “Let’s eat, darling,” she said loudly, imitating Salima. “Your camel awaits you in the hall.”

  “Then shriek for the sheik to join us,” Inez trilled. “The sheik, très chic!”

  There is a reason why newlyweds should go on their honeymoons before they have children. Or teenagers.

  I’d finished packing my things and Peter’s, and was reading a mystery novel on the balcony when Abdullah materialized at my side. Had I been a giddy heroine, I would have swooned, or at least let out a blood-chilling screech.

  “Begging the sitt’s pardon,” he murmured. “The door was ajar, and I was alarmed. The Winter Palace is very safe, but thieves have been able to slip in through the basement and take the service elevators.”

  I found my breath. “Thank you for your vigilance, Abdullah. I will call if I encounter any thieves in the suite.”

  “I will take extra care while you, Mr. Rosen, and the young misses are away.”

  “How do you know we’ll be away?” I demanded.

  “One hears things.”

  “Did you hear what happened to the young misses last night?”

  Abdullah began to brush crumbs off the chair cushions. “It must have been alarming for the sitt. Visitors are much safer in Luxor after dark.”

  “Especially snoopy ones who ask too many questions?”

  “That is not for me to say. Will you be wanting to have tea here later?”

  His expression was as imperturbable as that of the Sphinx. If the lower floors of the hotel were on fire, with raging flames threatening to destroy the entire structure, I could picture him in the doorway of the suite, gravely saying, “Sitt Malloy, if I may be so bold as to disturb you …”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “My husband and the girls are out at the moment. We’ll call room service unless we decide to have tea on the terrace.” I glanced at my watch, suddenly annoyed. The girls, having sworn they would not leave the hotel grounds, had gone downstairs for lunch almost two hours earlier.

  “The young misses are using the computer in the lower lobby,” Abdullah said. He hesitated, then looked out at the Nile. “It is very nice weather for a cruise, Sitt Malloy. I do hope you enjoy yourselves.”

  He turned to leave. As he reached the door to the hall, Alexander breezed past him and came out to the balcony.

  “Is this a tag team event?” I asked, wishing I could get back to my novel.

  “You should appreciate my restraint.” He sat down and propped his feet on the rail of the balcony. “I’m dreadfully eager to hear what happened last night. Did Caron and Inez have a decent excuse for coming in late? At school, we had an antiquated curfew, strictly enforced by caning and endless hours of supervised study in a cramped, stuffy room where so much as a cough was forbidden. To avoid such brutal punishment, I became quite adept at shinnying up the drainpipe to the roof, then skittering from chimney to chimney until I was above my bedroom window. I came very close to breaking my neck on innumerable occasions. The reckless abandon of youth.”

  “Maybe you should have run away and joined a circus.”

  “That’s a peculiar American tradition,” he said. “Shall we drink to it while you tell me what tale the girls concocted to avoid your wrath?”

  “I suppose so.” My response was perfunctory, since he was already headed for the mini-bar. When he returned, I merely told him that the girls had gotten separated from Salima and lost in the alleys of Gurna. His look of incredulousness provoked me into adding that they’d taken the robes and scarves to avoid being noticed, and therefore harassed, by the local males.

  “I wish my headmaster had been as gullible as you, Mrs. Malloy.” He took a noisy sip of his martini, then said, “My father and his cohorts are having cocktails this evening in his suite. He hopes you and Mr. Rosen will join us. Magritta will be there with her weekly report, which one has to suffer through with feigned interest. We can count on Shannon to make rude remarks about the lack of progress, followed by Wallace’s blustery defense. Mrs. McHaver will interrupt with caustic comments, while Miriam twitches as if she’s infected with some sort of exotic rash. Unless a miracle occurs, Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia will get totally potted and sing bawdy songs from the war era. Given enough gin, Lady Emerson may bash someone with her parasol. I’m hoping it will be Sittermann.”

  “It sounds delightful, Alexander, but we have some lastminute packing to do before we leave in the morning.”

  “Ah, yes, the cruise on the Nubian Sea. The ship is rumored to be terribly posh. Have you ever seen the film version of Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile? I doubt the cabins will be as spacious, but the lounge is done in an elegant Victorian decor. Don’t take any midnight strolls on the deck, and you should be fine.”

  “Are you implying we’ll be in danger?”

  “Prudence is a virtue. If you’ll excuse me, I must convey your regrets to my father. He’ll be distraught. He’s enamored of you, Mrs. Malloy. If you weren’t happily married, you could have been the next Lady Bledrock. What a delightful stepmother you would have been, and I the envy of every chap in the county.”

  I returned my attention to the mysterious affair at Whit-bread Crossing, where the local squire had been found bludgeoned in a ditch, much to the dismay of the bumbling constable. After an hour, I began to think that crumpets and tea sounded like an excellent idea. Rather than call room service, I decided to go downstairs and drag Caron and Inez away from the computer before they ran up a bill comparable to the gross national product of an obscure South Pacific kingdom.

  I carefully locked the door that led to the hall, then took the elevator to the lobby. A bellman directed me to the grimy, claustrophobic computer room. Caron and Inez were hunched in front of the monitor.

  “Still sending e-mail?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse over their shoulders.

  Inez hit a key and the screen went dark. “Hi, Ms. Malloy,” she said in a strangled voice. “I was—well, I was looking up Abu Simbel on the Internet.” She yanked off her glasses and began to clean them on the hem of her shirt. “Did you know that it would have been covered by Lake Nasser, so an international effort was made to raise money so that it could be moved two hundred and ten meters away? It took the UNESCO team four years, and it’s considered—”

  “Fascinating, and so forth,” Caron said. “Is Peter back yet?”

  “No,” I said, bemused by their flushed faces. “I came down to see if you wanted to have tea with m
e on the terrace.”

  They looked at each other as if I’d suggested something preposterous and potentially fatal. Caron at last said, “We need to go up to the suite and pack. I don’t know what we’re supposed to wear. Are we sitting at the captain’s table? That’d be cool.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I said. “Take one nice outfit, just in case people do dress for dinner on the final night. Other than that, T-shirts, shorts, and walking shoes.”

  Inez shut down the computer with a few deft clicks. They edged around me and scurried toward the elevators. I was heading for the desk when Ahmed caught me.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Sitt Malloy-Rosen? I do hope Abdullah is seeing to your needs. He is very old, you know, and not as quick as he used to be. I would fire him, but his father and his grandfather also worked here. His father served drinks to Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon in our bar. It looks much the same now as it did then. We are very proud of it.”

  His smirk reminded me of a gargoyle on a cathedral. “Abdullah is quite competent,” I said evenly. “If my husband comes through the lobby within the next hour, please let him know I’ll be on the terrace.”

  “Of course, Sitt Malloy-Rosen, and do have a pleasant cruise. The ship is very nice, I hear, very nice indeed.”

  I nodded, then continued out to the terrace. To my relief, Lord Bledrock was not at his usual table, nor was Mrs. McHaver. I found a shady table and ordered tea and cakes. Weary tourists staggered up the marble stairs from their day trips, laden with shopping bags filled with items bought on a whim, to be gazed at with bafflement when they returned home. Carriages lined the curb of the corniche, their drivers eternally optimistic. Two Saudi men in long white thobes, their heads covered with red-and-white-checkered ghutras held in place with black cords, walked by, intent on their conversation. Following them were two women in black burqas. Their attire reminded me of the clothes taken by Caron and Inez. Peter and I had discussed their story after we’d retired for the night, but had finally agreed that it was impossible to separate the truth from the hyperbole. They might have been chased through the alleys. On the other hand, they might have panicked when a nightclub employee opened the back door to set out a crate of empty bottles. From that point, any footstep would have been misconstrued. The cart on the road could well have been transporting inexpensive pottery, and the men armed with nothing more lethal than walking sticks.