Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

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

  “Don’t be ridicuious, Wallace,” Magritta said. “You can’t write my memoirs.”

  “I did plan to ask you about some of the more graphic details about your connubial relationship with Oskar. Thought I’d spice it up a bit.”

  Mahmoud clapped his hands. “Please, your attention. This is a matter of grave significance. Four persons have been murdered, and many more will die if the culprits are not stopped. If there is an uprising, an attempt to overthrow the government, civilians will suffer.”

  “Someone’s going to overthrow the government?” Salima said. “I should go home and pack. Maybe I can lecture at the Sorbonne. I adore fresh croissants and jam.”

  Mahmoud stared at her until she bit her lip. “The first victim was Oskar Vonderlochen,” he continued. Yes, I realize that I myself investigated his death and was satisfied that it was an accident. I was not aware of the entire situation.”

  “Oskar?” Magritta said, startled. “What he did was reckless, but he was an excitable man. All those years we dug in the hot sun, uncovering nothing more than the traces of a foundation or a broken jar, a piece of stone with a worn relief. When at last it seemed we were going to find something of great importance, he could not contain himself.”

  “And he was drunk,” Mrs. McHaver said tartly.

  “So it seems,” Mahmoud said. “I think now it is likely that someone knew where he was going. There were activities that he might stumble upon inadvertently, not at that site but at another one at the far end of the Valley of the Kings, perhaps at the top of the cliff. These activities could only be conducted at night, which required the use of lanterns and flashlights. A necessary risk, but a potentially lucrative one. It could not have been challenging for this second person to come down a goat path, pick up a rock, and strike Mr. Vonderlochen with enough force to crush his skull.”

  “Balderdash,” said Lord Bledrock. “Who’d want to do something like that? It’s not—well, it’s not cricket, if you understand me.”

  “Utter nonsense,” Miriam said from the doorway to the balcony. “Everyone liked Oskar.”

  Salima shook her head. “Somebody didn’t. One doesn’t bash one’s friends.”

  “That was last spring,” I said, doing my best to prompt Mahmoud, who seemed to be confused by the verbal shots being fired from all corners of the parlor. “MacLeod College decided to allow Magritta to continue the work for at least one final season. Shannon opted to use her temporary authority in order to make a deal with Lord Bledrock. Isn’t that right?”

  “Maybe something to do with exhibiting your collection?” Peter offered helpfully.

  “A pesky woman,” Lord Bledrock said. “She knew I had great expectations for this excavation, much as Lord Carnarvon had when he backed Carter. If MacLeod College relinquished the concession, it might have been the end of it for me.”

  “And for Mrs. McHaver,” I said. “She had expectations, too, although hers were of a more mercenary nature.”

  She peered at me down her nose. “I have great enthusiasm for the continued exploration of ancient Egypt. There is a great deal to be learned.”

  “As well as a great profit to be made.” Mahmoud took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. We had warned him to tread lightly until the trap was sprung, but he was unraveling.

  Alexander went over to pat Mrs. McHaver’s shoulder. “You must be deeply offended by this ridiculous insinuation, Mrs. McHaver. Please allow me to freshen your drink.” He took the glass from her hand and hurried to the bar.

  “Mrs. McHaver’s a generous benefactor, Chief Inspector,” Sittermann said, thumping Mahmoud on the back. “I reckon she’ll overlook your remark if you move right along. You planning to explain how all this ties in together? We don’t have all night.”

  I held up my hand. “There’s something I need to tell all of you. It’s embarrassing, and it reflects badly on me as a parent. Last week my daughter and her friend were invited to a party at Salima’s home across the Nile.”

  “A birthday party,” Salima said.

  “Yes, a birthday party. After the party, they went to a nightclub. I have never allowed them to do that at home, but they felt this was an opportunity to learn more about the modern culture. They did not sample any alcoholic beverages. Due to a rather complicated series of events, they ended up alongside a road on the far edge of Gurna. A donkey cart suffered a minor mishap. After it moved on, they found what they believed was a souvenir like those found in shops all over Luxor. They failed to tell me and Peter, and hid it among their souvenirs. While we were on the cruise, it was taken from their room.”

  Mrs. McHaver snapped her fingers at Alexander, who’d stopped pouring scotch to listen to me. “Don’t dawdle, Alexander. Mrs. Malloy, I do hope we’re not to be entertained with a list of their souvenirs. It may be of interest to you, but hardly to the rest of us.”

  “If we’re all guessing,” Miss Cordelia said, “then I say a plastic reproduction of Tut’s death mask.”

  “A disposable lighter with Cleopatra’s face?” said Miss Portia. “I see them everywhere.”

  “A clay camel,” Wallace mumbled.

  Sittermann’s reptilian eyes narrowed further. “The shabti?”

  “Ridiculous!” Lord Bledrock rumbled like a bullfrog. “Can’t be the shabti. It’s invaluable. Only a bloody fool would steal it, then toss it in the pit. What would be the point of that?”

  “This is a waste of time.” Mrs. McHaver stood up, but somehow the handle of Lady Emerson’s parasol was caught on her arm and she sat back with a thud.

  Lady Emerson frowned. “So sorry. It has a mind of its own. Mrs. Malloy, I find this most distressing. Are you doubting Magritta’s integrity?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Magritta was as surprised as the rest of you, and initially eager to believe that she was about to discover the lost tomb of Ramses VIII. When the excitement wore down, she began to have suspicions. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Magritta said sadly. “It was wrong. You yourself, Lady Emerson, saw the step earlier that day. Clearly eighteenth dynasty. Lord Bledrock and Mrs. McHaver were deluding themselves, perhaps because they have so much invested in the project. I allowed Shannon to enjoy her momentary triumph, but I knew I had to tell her the next day that the shabti had come from a different site.”

  “Which would have ruined everything,” Buffy said.

  Mahmoud tried to regain center stage. “Yes, it would have, Miss Franz. Professional ethics would have required Shannon to notify the Supreme Council, which would set into motion an intensive search for the true location of the tomb of Ramses VIII. Random remarks heard in the shops and cafés might be taken seriously. When so many people are involved, odds are good that someone will speak indiscreetly. Our informants might find the courage to drop hints in exchange for a few hundred pounds. We in turn would alert certain governmental agencies. Every crate, suitcase, briefcase, and purse would be searched before being allowed out of the country. The military would patrol every road and stop every vehcile.”

  Salima flapped her hand. “What if Magritta decided to tell someone else?”

  “Well,” Magritta said slowly, “we very likely have found a tomb from the eighteenth dynasty. Without Shannon’s negativity, I may be allowed another season. It would be such a tribute to dear Oskar if indeed the site was designated KV64.”

  “Here, here,” Sittermann said. “I think we should all drink to that! Got any champagne, Rosen?”

  Peter gave him a nasty smile. “Put it on your own expense account. You’ve already done enough damage to mine.”

  “Well, ain’t you the testy one,” Sittermann said. “Tut, tut, as we say here in Luxor.”

  I grabbed Peter’s arm and clung to it. “You boys can work this out later. Mahmoud, please continue.”

  “I’m doing my best,” he said, a
ware he was in the middle of a potential combat zone. “Now we agree the shabti was not originally found at the excavation site under Magritta’s supervision. I’m not an expert in Egyptology, but those who are seem to agree that it came from the tomb of Ramses VIII. The fact that Caron and Inez found it outside Gurna suggests that the tomb was discovered not by a recognized team of archeologists but by criminals. Tombs have been systematically robbed for three thousand years. This particular tomb, if it had not been previously discovered, could be filled with heretofore unseen treasures of astounding value. The trick was to move them out of the country without the knowledge of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, the Cairo Museum, and authorities determined to preserve and protect Egypt’s unique legacy. The media needed to be focused on the Valley of the Kings. This eighteenth-century step intrigued the archeological community, but could hardly warrant major interest from the cable networks and newspapers. The discovery of the tomb of the mysterious Ramses VIII was certainly more likely to appeal to the public.”

  “But Caron and Inez had proof that the shabti came from elsewhere,” I said. “They had yet to mention it, but they could at any time.”

  Lady Emerson pointed her parasol at me. “Then how could someone know they had it in their room? It’s impossible to believe that a random thief would realize its significance and subsequently toss it in the pit. That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “I concur,” Mrs. McHaver said emphatically. “Don’t you agree, Neville?”

  He nodded. “No reason to think there would be anything of value in their room. After all, they’re mere girls.”

  “That’s all true,” I said, “but what’s important is that someone saw them find the shabti in the road.”

  “That’s right,” Caron said as she sailed into the parlor from the hall. “A psychotic Arab stalker with a black mustache and a scar across his face. He’s been following Inez and me since the day we arrived, waiting for his chance to drag us into a back alley and abduct us. That sort of thing is, like, So Uncool, even if he is a sheik.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Caron’s pronouncement was met with reverberating silence. Eyes were round and jaws were dangling. Booze dribbled out of the corners of Wallace’s mouth. Mrs. McHaver began to fan herself with her hand, unmindful that she was holding a drink in the same hand. Lady Emerson, having caught the brunt of it, pulled out a handkerchief to blot her face. Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia giggled faintly. Even Peter, who was accustomed to leading gruesome homicide investigations and ordering his minions to scurry about like fleas, seemed dumbstruck.

  “Back so soon?” I said brightly.

  “I just came up to get some money,” she said. “We started playing some peculiar poker game and I haven’t figured it out yet.” She glanced around the room. “I’ll just get some in my bedroom and go back to the lobby. Sorry to interrupt.”

  We waited until we heard the door from the bedroom to the hall close.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Sittermann said at last. “Any truth to it?”

  “Poppycock, if you ask me,” said Lord Bledrock. “Teenaged girls are such histrionic creatures. Best to send them off to school at an early age.”

  “There is truth to it,” I said. “The girls have seen this Arab man with the mustache and the scar several times, including the day we arrived in Luxor. I myself saw him yesterday. What’s more important is that someone followed the girls when they fled the nightclub in Gurna and later found the shabti in the road. This person, who must have been aware of what was in the donkey cart, later realized that their discovery could be used as a diversionary tactic to muddle up the location of Ramses VIII’s tomb.”

  “And create the opportunity to murder Shannon King,” Mahmoud said somberly. “Nabil’s loyalty to Magritta was predictable, and he was easily manipulated. The cigarette laced with methamphetamine was given to him during the afternoon, since it was known that he would save it until he left the site. Given to him, I would suppose, by the person who planted the shabti at the end of the day. There was too much activity to risk concealing it until then. It might easily have been crushed as endless people descended to examine this eighteenth-dynasty step.”

  “And that would be Jess Delmont,” Magritta murmured. “One of his assignments was to remain until shards and bits of rubble worthy of further study were locked in the truck. He supervised the workmen while they cleaned up the site, gathered their tools, and left. Nabil did not trust Jess to do a thorough job, and usually was the very last person at the site.” She ducked her head for a moment, then flicked a tear off her cheek. “I shall miss him. Are you saying, Chief Inspector, that Jess planted the shabti and gave Nabil that horrid cigarette? I know the boy wasn’t happy to spend the fall season at the concession, but he could have quit. Shannon might have caused problems for him at the college. She wasn’t the permanent chair of the department, and he must have had other professors who would help him. Why did he do it?”

  “Money,” Mahmoud said. “He was paid well. He’s already admitted it and begun to claim that he had no idea the cigarette would prove to be fatal.”

  “Who paid him?” she demanded. “Someone in this room?”

  “He hasn’t named anyone yet, but he will. The American Embassy tries to help its citizens, but when a serious crime is committed, the country’s laws prevail. Once he realizes this, he’s likely to try to bargain his way out of a lengthy prison sentence.”

  “This was all done so somebody could rob a tomb someplace else?” said Samuel.

  Mahmoud nodded. “A group, actually. The name of the group, El Asad li-allah, is not mentioned in public, but it is well-known to the security and intelligence organizations. The members have been relatively ineffectual thus far, because they lack funds to purchase weapons from arms dealers in more sympathetic countries. We suspect they’ve looted tombs in the past. This one was by far the most promising. What they needed was help from unscrupulous dealers and collectors.”

  “Don’t look at me!” Lord Bledrock huffed. “I may not have paperwork on some of the items in my collection, but I don’t aid terrorists.”

  “Nor do I,” said Mrs. McHaver.

  “Absolutely not,” Miriam added firmly. “The last thing we want is chaos. The extremists are unreliable, and capable of destroying any remains of a religious nature that contradict their beliefs. The Taliban exploded those priceless temples carved in a mountain.”

  Unprepared for this tactical move, Mahmoud looked at me. “It’s possible,” I said, “that you didn’t know for sure with whom you were dealing. Dr. Guindi must have, though. He’s your middleman, isn’t he? I saw the three of you in his shop yesterday. Were you angry because he mentioned a delay in moving the artifacts from the tomb to his storage—where you could arrange to get them out of the country in your trunks and empty scotch cases?”

  “He raised the prices,” Mrs. McHaver said, then gulped. “For some jewelry in his shop. He keeps some very nice pieces for his longtime clients. We negotiated a price weeks earlier.”

  “Just how do you figure there was a delay?” asked Sittermann, grinning at me over a glass of bourbon.

  “Yes,” said Buffy. “You seem to know everything else.”

  “Unless she’s stealing the Chief Inspector el-Habachi’s thunder,” he added. “Then again, he may not be a match for her sleuthing skills, any more than her husband. She casts a big shadow, Rosen. You better watch your step.”

  Everyone froze and waited for Peter’s reaction. Wallace moved to a neutral corner, as did Salima and Buffy. Lady Emerson tightened her grip on her parasol. Miriam held her lace hanky to her mouth. Lord Bledrock eased behind Mrs. McHaver’s chair. I must admit I was curious, as well as ambivalent.

  Peter nodded. “Sittermann seems bewildered, dear. Please put him out of his misery with an explanation, since he’s unable to see it. I guess there’s truth in the adage that you can’t teach an old”—he paused—“dog new tricks. Some of them need to roll over and drop
dead.”

  “I believe the word is ‘play,’ Rosen,” Lord Bledrock said. “Play dead.”

  “My mistake,” Peter murmured. “Anyone need a drink?”

  Disappointed, I continued. “The delay was the result of Buffy’s purported kidnapping. It wasn’t a kidnapping, but merely an opportunity for her to brief her group and make plans.”

  “What group?” Buffy asked. “My Triple-A membership lapsed last year, and my college doesn’t have sororities.”

  “You’re not in college,” I said, tired of tiptoeing around. “Your group is comprised of those trying to stop El Asad from desecularizing Egypt. Moderates, I assume. I have no idea if they have a fancy name as well. I won’t ask, because if you tell me, you’ll have to kill me.”

  Buffy gave me a distinctly un-perky look. “I may anyway.”

  “Whoa,” Sittermann said. “She’s …?” He made a vague gesture with his free hand. “Really? Well, I’ve been hornswoggled before, but don’t this take the cake? I was beginning to wonder why I couldn’t get any information about her past beyond a certain point.”

  I tried not to look too smug. “Because her identity as bubble-brained Buffy is nothing but a fabrication—an elaborate cover story to allow her to come to Egypt, assess the situation, and decide what to do. She couldn’t risk a meeting with her group, so she decided to take a much more dramatic route. If I hadn’t seen a picture of her talking to the horsemen, I would have easily fallen for the charade. She dearly hoped Samuel had.”

  “This is so fascinating,” Buffy said, her arms crossed. “Like I really wanted to be dragged across a saddle, spend the night in the desert, and get locked in a nasty hotel room, all the time thinking I was going to be murdered. Doesn’t everyone?”

  No one seemed able to digest any of this, except for Samuel. His eyes were narrowed and his body tensed. I nudged Peter and pointed, then waited until he’d moved behind Samuel’s chair.

  “I won’t argue that point,” I said, “but I doubt you suffered all that much. You’ve known all along who Samuel really is. Your organization must have been keeping track of him for years. I have no idea when you were first assigned to him, but you decided to move on him after you followed him to Rome. Your cover was a bored, blond girl from California. You persuaded him to let you come to Egypt with him, which wasn’t too hard since he realized that you would strengthen his cover story as a casual tourist. To maintain your role, you had to buy designer luggage. Did your supervisors balk at designer clothes as well?”