Mystery Stories

by Elizabeth Peters

  I miss the old-fashioned telephone booths, with doors you can close, but Grannie’s sunbonnet was a big help; it kept the rain off my face and kept passersby from hearing my end of the conversation.

  First I called Jaz’s office. Mary Jo was on that day. She wanted to talk, but I cut her short. I sure as heck didn’t want to be the one to tell her about Jaz. I asked her where he was due to be that morning, before he came to me. Some of the names I knew, some I didn’t. But they made a pattern. After I hung up I called Rick. He wanted to talk too. Everybody wants to talk. I told him what I wanted. He gasped. “G—d d—n it, Liz—”

  “Watch your mouth, Rick. You know my readers don’t like dirty words.”

  “Oh—oh, yeah. Sorry. But what—”

  “Never mind what. Just be there. I’ve cracked the case. You can make the arrest. I don’t want the credit. I never do.”

  “But—”

  I hung up.

  Rick already owed me a couple. This would make three—no, four. You could call our relationship a social one—at least you’d better call it that. We’d met at a party, one of those boring Washington affairs writers get sucked into; I was sulking in a corner, nursing my drink and wondering how soon I could cut out, when I saw him. And he saw me. Our eyes met, across the room … Later, we got to talking. He asked me what I did for a living, I politely reciprocated—and that’s how it began. He’d been promoted a couple of times since I started helping him out and he was man enough to give me credit—privately, if not to his boss at the Agency—so I knew he’d respond this time.

  It would take him an hour or more to get there, though. I dawdled in the drugstore, picked up a package of Di-Gel and a few other odds and ends I figured I would need, and then headed back to town at a leisurely thirty miles per hour. The rain slid like tears down the cracked facade of the windshield. Tears for a good man gone bad, for a sick world that teaches kids to get high and cop out. I felt sick myself. I chewed a Di-Gel and lit a cigarette.

  I had to circle the block three times before I found the parking spot I wanted, right across from the sheriff’s office. No hurry. Rick wouldn’t be there for another half hour, and I sure as heck wasn’t walking into the lion’s den without him. I’m tough, and I’m smart, but I’m not stupid. I ate a couple of Hershey bars while I thumbed through the latest issue of Victorian Homes. Then I lit a cigarette. I had smoked three of them before Rick showed up. I watched him as he trotted up the stairs. He was a big man. (I like big men.) I waited till he’d gone in, then pulled my sunbonnet over my head and followed.

  A fresh kid in a trooper’s uniform tried to stop me when I headed for Bludger’s office. I straight-armed him out of the way and went on in. Rick was sitting on the edge of the desk and Bludger was yelling at him. He hates having people sit on the edge of his desk. When he saw me, his face turned purple. “D—n it, Grannie, how’d you get past—”

  “I don’t allow talk like that,” I told him, whipping off my sunbonnet. “And I’m not Grannie.”

  His eyes bulged till they looked like they’d roll out of the sockets. Rick was grinning, but he looked a little anxious. The third man started to stand up, and fell back into his chair with a groan. I sat down on the other corner of Bludger’s desk.

  “Hi, Jaz,” I said. “Feeling better?”

  Bludger got his voice back. “You’re under arrest,” he bellowed.

  I raised one eyebrow. “What’s the charge?”

  “Attempted murder!”

  “With this?” I picked up the plasticine envelope. The hatpin had been cut down from ten inches to about two. “Darn it,” I said. “I paid ten bucks for this. It’s ruined.”

  “You shoved that thing into him—” Bludger began.

  “Is that what he says?” I looked at Jaz.

  He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “I don’t … I can’t remember …”

  I lit a cigarette. “Oh, yeah? Well, let me refresh your memory. You stuck that pin into your own back just before you walked into my house. It’s three and a half miles from the previous stop on your schedule; you couldn’t possibly have driven that far without noticing that you had a sharp object in your back. My cleaning woman is a friend of yours; she stole that hatpin for you, several days ago. I was getting too close, wasn’t I, Jaz? And I made the mistake of discussing my ideas with you—my questions about how drugs were being delivered in the county. What better delivery system than good old reliable National Express? You’re on the road every day, covering the same territory. You’ve got your own private delivery schedule, haven’t you?”

  His eyes narrowed. I wondered why I’d never noticed before how empty they were, like pale marbles in the head of a wax dummy. “You’re bluffing,” he snarled. “You can’t prove—”

  “I never bluff,” I told him, brushing a lock of shining auburn hair away from my forehead. “The truck will be clean, but you had to package the garbage somewhere. Your own apartment probably. I’d try the kitchen first, Bludger. There’ll be traces left. Men don’t know how to clean a kitchen properly. And, as I have reason to know, neither does Jaz’s ‘cousin.’”

  I didn’t expect him to break so fast. He got to his feet and started toward me. Rick moved to intercept him, but I shook my head. “Don’t dirty your hands, Rick. Come any closer, Jaz, and you get this cigarette right in the face.”

  “You don’t understand,” he groaned. “It was her idea. She made me do it.”

  “Sure,” I said bitterly. “Blame the dame. You and that MCP Adam.”

  “Adam?” He looked like a dead fish, eyes bulging, mouth ajar. “How many guys do you have dropping by for some—”

  “Never mind.” It was all clear to me now. I felt a little sick. Men, I thought bitterly. You try to be nice, offer a guy some milk and cookies, listen to his troubles, and he starts getting ideas.

  I lit a cigarette. “He’s all yours, boys. You’ll have to figure out who has jurisdiction.”

  “I’m sheriff of this county,” Bludger blustered.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if a state line got crossed,” Rick drawled. “And the DEA has jurisdiction—”

  “Fight it out between yourselves,” I told them. “Frankly, I don’t give a darn.”

  Jaz dropped back onto his chair, face hidden in his hands. A lock of thick black hair curled over his fingers. I headed, fast, for the door.

  Rick followed me out. “What say I drop by later for some—”

  “You’re all alike,” I said bitterly. “Wave a chocolate-chip cookie in front of you and you’ll do anything, say anything.”

  He captured my hand. “For one of your chocolate-chip cookies I would. They’re special, Liz. Like you.”

  “Sorry, Rick.” I freed my hand so I could light another cigarette. “I’ve got a chapter to finish. That’s what it’s all about, you know. The real world. Putting words on paper, spelling them right … All the rest of it is just fun and games. Just …”

  The words stuck in my throat. Rick leaned over to look into my face. “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “Who, me? PIs don’t cry.” I tossed the cigarette away. It spun in a glowing arc through the curtain of softly falling snow. Snow. Big fat flakes like fragments of foam rubber. They clung to my long lashes. I blinked. “Rick. Isn’t there a reward for breaking this case?”

  Rick blinked. He has long thick lashes too. (I like long thick lashes in a man.) “Yeah. Some guy whose kid died of an overdose offered it. It’s yours, I guess. Enough to buy a lot of cigarettes and chocolate chips.”

  I took his arm. “You’ll get your chocolate chip cookies, Rick. But first we’re going shopping. Toys ’R’ Us, and then a breeder I know whose golden retriever has just had a litter. A tree, a great big one, with all the trimmings, the fattest turkey Safeway has left … Pick up your feet, Rick. We’ve got a lot to do. It’s Christmas Eve—and it’s snowing!”

  I lit a cigarette. What the heck, you only live once.

  THE LOCKED TOMB MYS
TERY

  Senebtisi’s funeral was the talk of southern Thebes. Of course, it could not compare with the burials of Great Ones and Pharaohs, whose Houses of Eternity were furnished with gold and fine linen and precious gems, but ours was not a quarter where nobles lived; our people were craftsmen and small merchants, able to afford a chamber-tomb and a coffin and a few spells to ward off the perils of the Western Road—no more than that. We had never seen anything like the burial of the old woman who had been our neighbor for so many years.

  The night after the funeral, the customers of Nehi’s tavern could talk of nothing else. I remember that evening well. For one thing, I had just won my first appointment as a temple scribe. I was looking forward to boasting a little, and perhaps paying for a round of beer, if my friends displayed proper appreciation of my good fortune. Three of the others were already at the tavern when I arrived, my linen shawl wrapped tight around me. The weather was cold even for winter, with a cruel, dry wind driving sand into every crevice of the body.

  “Close the door quickly,” said Senu, the carpenter. “What weather! I wonder if the Western journey will be like this—cold enough to freeze a man’s bones.”

  This prompted a ribald comment from Rennefer, the weaver, concerning the effects of freezing on certain of Senebtisi’s vital organs. “Not that anyone would notice the difference,” he added. “There was never any warmth in the old hag. What sort of mother would take all her possessions to the next world and leave her only son penniless?”

  “Is it true, then?” I asked, signaling Nehi to fetch the beer jar. “I have heard stories—”

  “All true,” said the potter, Baenre. “It is a pity you could not attend the burial, Wadjsen; it was magnificent!”

  “You went?” I inquired. “That was good of you, since she ordered none of her funerary equipment from you.”

  Baenre is a scanty little man with thin hair and sharp bones. It is said that he is a domestic tyrant, and that his wife cowers when he comes roaring home from the tavern, but when he is with us, his voice is almost a whisper. “My rough kitchenware would not be good enough to hold the wine and fine oil she took to the tomb. Wadjsen, you should have seen the boxes and jars and baskets—dozens of them. They say she had a gold mask, like the ones worn by great nobles, and that all her ornaments were of solid gold.”

  “It is true,” said Rennefer. “I know a man who knows one of the servants of Bakenmut, the goldsmith who made the ornaments.”

  “How is her son taking it?” I asked. I knew Minmose slightly; a shy, serious man, he followed his father’s trade of stone carving. His mother had lived with him all his life, greedily scooping up his profits, though she had money of her own, inherited from her parents.

  “Why, as you would expect,” said Senu, shrugging. “Have you ever heard him speak harshly to anyone, much less his mother? She was an old she-goat who treated him like a boy who has not cut off the side lock; but with him it was always ‘Yes, honored mother,’ and ‘As you say, honored mother.’ She would not even allow him to take a wife.”

  “How will he live?”

  “Oh, he has the shop and the business, such as it is. He is a hard worker; he will survive.”

  In the following months I heard occasional news of Minmose. Gossip said he must be doing well, for he had taken to spending his leisure time at a local house of prostitution—a pleasure he never had dared enjoy while his mother lived. Nefertiry, the loveliest and most expensive of the girls, was the object of his desire, and Rennefer remarked that the maiden must have a kind heart, for she could command higher prices than Minmose was able to pay. However, as time passed, I forgot Minmose and Senebtisi, and her rich burial. It was not until almost a year later that the matter was recalled to my attention.

  The rumors began in the marketplace, at the end of the time of inundation, when the floodwater lay on the fields and the farmers were idle. They enjoy this time, but the police of the city do not; for idleness leads to crime, and one of the most popular crimes is tomb robbing. This goes on all the time in a small way, but when the Pharaoh is strong and stern, and the laws are strictly enforced, it is a very risky trade. A man stands to lose more than a hand or an ear if he is caught. He also risks damnation after he has entered his own tomb; but some men simply do not have proper respect for the gods.

  The king, Nebmaatre (may he live forever!), was then in his prime, so there had been no tomb robbing for some time—or at least none had been detected. But, the rumors said, three men of west Thebes had been caught trying to sell ornaments such as are buried with the dead. The rumors turned out to be correct, for once. The men were questioned on the soles of their feet and confessed to the robbing of several tombs.

  Naturally all those who had kin buried on the west bank—which included most of us—were alarmed by this news, and half the nervous matrons in our neighborhood went rushing across the river to make sure the family tombs were safe. I was not surprised to hear that that dutiful son Minmose had also felt obliged to make sure his mother had not been disturbed.

  However, I was surprised at the news that greeted me when I paid my next visit to Nehi’s tavern. The moment I entered, the others began to talk at once, each eager to be the first to tell the shocking facts.

  “Robbed?” I repeated when I had sorted out the babble of voices. “Do you speak truly?”

  “I do not know why you should doubt it,” said Rennefer. “The richness of her burial was the talk of the city, was it not? Just what the tomb robbers like! They made a clean sweep of all the gold, and ripped the poor old hag’s mummy to shreds.”

  At that point we were joined by another of the habitués, Merusir. He is a pompous, fat man who considers himself superior to the rest of us because he is Fifth Prophet of Amon. We put up with his patronizing ways because sometimes he knows court gossip. On that particular evening it was apparent that he was bursting with excitement. He listened with a supercilious sneer while we told him the sensational news. “I know, I know,” he drawled. “I heard it much earlier—and with it, the other news which is known only to those in the confidence of the Palace.”

  He paused, ostensibly to empty his cup. Of course, we reacted as he had hoped we would, begging him to share the secret. Finally he condescended to inform us.

  ‘‘Why, the amazing thing is not the robbery itself, but how it was done. The tomb entrance was untouched, the seals of the necropolis were unbroken. The tomb itself is entirely rock-cut, and there was not the slightest break in the walls or floor or ceiling. Yet when Minmose entered the burial chamber, he found the coffin open, the mummy mutilated, and the gold ornaments gone.”

  We stared at him, openmouthed.

  “It is a most remarkable story,” I said.

  “Call me a liar if you like,” said Merusir, who knows the language of polite insult as well as I do. “There was a witness—two, if you count Minmose himself. The sem-priest Wennefer was with him.”

  This silenced the critics. Wennefer was known to us all. There was not a man in southern Thebes with a higher reputation. Even Senebtisi had been fond of him, and she was not fond of many people. He had officiated at her funeral.

  Pleased at the effect of his announcement, Merusir went on in his most pompous manner. “The king himself has taken an interest in the matter. He has called on Amenhotep Sa Hapu to investigate.”

  “Amenhotep?” I exclaimed. “But I know him well.”

  “You do?” Merusir’s plump cheeks sagged like bladders punctured by a sharp knife.

  Now, at that time Amenhotep’s name was not in the mouth of everyone, though he had taken the first steps on that astonishing career that was to make him the intimate friend of Pharaoh. When I first met him, he had been a poor, insignificant priest at a local shrine. I had been sent to fetch him to the house where my master lay dead of a stab wound, presumably murdered. Amenhotep’s fame had begun with that matter, for he had discovered the truth and saved an innocent man from execution. Since then he had handled sever
al other cases, with equal success.

  My exclamation had taken the wind out of Merusir’s sails. He had hoped to impress us by telling us something we did not know. Instead it was I who enlightened the others about Amenhotep’s triumphs. But when I finished, Rennefer shook his head.

  “If this wise man is all you say, Wadjsen, it will be like inviting a lion to rid the house of mice. He will find there is a simple explanation. No doubt the thieves entered the burial chamber from above or from one side, tunneling through the rock. Minmose and Wennefer were too shocked to observe the hole in the wall, that is all.”

  We argued the matter for some time, growing more and more heated as the level of the beer in the jar dropped. It was a foolish argument, for none of us knew the facts; and to argue without knowledge is like trying to weave without thread.

  This truth did not occur to me until the cool night breeze had cleared my head, when I was halfway home. I decided to pay Amenhotep a visit. The next time I went to the tavern, I would be the one to tell the latest news, and Merusir would be nothing!

  Most of the honest householders had retired, but there were lamps burning in the street of the prostitutes, and in a few taverns. There was a light, as well, in one window of the house where Amenhotep lodged. Like the owl he resembled, with his beaky nose and large, close-set eyes, he preferred to work at night.