Mummy Dearest: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  “Madam will be careful, yes?”

  “I’ve been told there’s very little street crime. I know to drink bottled water and avoid fresh fruits and vegetables unless they have been peeled. I don’t think I’ll find myself in danger of being trampled by a camel, if that’s what you mean. Or a dromedary, for that matter.”

  “The danger comes from those who will attempt to deceive you.”

  “What kind of danger?” I said, startled. “Who are you talking about, Abdullah?”

  He gazed at the mountains across the Nile, his expression unfathomable. “I am an old man whose mind wanders. Please call room service when you are finished and I will come back for the tray. Will you be wishing to have your rooms cleaned?”

  “Just the bedroom and bath on that side,” I said, indicating Caron and Inez’s quarters. “I believe there’s a separate door to the corridor.”

  Abdullah bowed slightly. “As madam wishes.”

  After he was gone, I sat down and poured a cup of coffee. His obscure warning, coupled with Peter’s remarks about a terrorist organization, disturbed me. The thought of sending Caron and Inez off for the day had seemed like a lovely idea, but now I wanted them to burst into the parlor with rustling plastic bags and smears of ice cream on their chins. I reminded myself that Bakr’s references came from Chief Inspector Mahmoud el-Habachi. It was foolish to be alarmed by a houseman who could be well on his way to senility, or took malicious pleasure in alarming guests. I trusted Peter, and he trusted Mahmoud.

  I went into the girls’ room and found Inez’s copy of The Savage Sheik on her bedside table. I took it back to the balcony, buttered a roll, then settled back. As ludicrous as it was, it proved to be engrossing.

  The minarets were blaring when Peter finally came out of the bedroom. Although he lacked the sheik’s supercilious sneer, he did look complacent. “Did you sleep well?” he asked as he sat down.

  “Very well, thank you,” I said. “Would you like me to order fresh coffee?”

  “I thought we might go have lunch at a restaurant across the road. For some reason, I’m ravenous. Must be because of all that exercise last night. I hope the girls couldn’t hear us when we were in the bathtub. I must say, Sitt Malloy, you are quite a talented mermaid.”

  Modesty prevented me from agreeing with him. “The girls were exhausted. Inez almost fell asleep at dinner, and I doubt Caron had any idea what she was eating. I heard them leaving at about nine this morning. I’m a little nervous about them going off with this driver.”

  Peter put his arms around me. “Bakr is a police officer. Mahmoud introduced him to me at the department. He’s around thirty years old and lives with his parents. He may never rise very high in the ranks, but he’s solid and methodical. He also knows that if you or the girls have a complaint, he’ll be bumped down to traffic control. If that happens, his fiancée’s parents will end the relationship and poor Bakr will be stuck at home with his old-fashioned father and mother, and three whiny sisters.”

  “In that case, I’m more nervous about him. Caron can be tyrannical when she senses she has the upper hand.”

  We took the elevator to the lobby and paused to admire the marble staircase. Ahmed materialized beside us, clasping his hands together. “Ah, Mr. Rosen and Sitt … Malloy-Rosen, I hope you are enjoying the amenities of your suite. If there’s anything I can do, please do not hesitate to tell me. It will be an honor for me to serve you personally.”

  “It’s adequate,” Peter said gravely, “but the flowers are beginning to wilt. The young ladies are particularly fond of tangerines. I do hope there will be fresh ones every day. Sitt Malloy enjoys reading a newspaper with her morning coffee. The Times, and perhaps the International Herald Tribune.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ahmed said, backing away like a rabbit confronted by a coyote. “Fresh tangerines and flowers, and newspapers. I blame myself for not seeing to this already. Do accept my most humble apologies.”

  Peter and I continued to the porch and down one of the curved staircases. I waited until we reached the sidewalk alongside the corniche before I giggled. “The King of Prussia and his consort must have flowers, tangerines, and the news. I’m surprised you didn’t order the man to lick the dust off your shoes.”

  Peter clutched my elbow and we darted across the first lane to the median. “I might have, if I weren’t wearing sandals. I don’t want his tongue on my toes.”

  I fell silent, blushing as I recalled some of the activities the previous night. We made it safely to the pier, then went down a flight of stairs to a row of shops and restaurants along one side of a pedestrian walkway. On the other side was the Nile, a silky expanse of light chocolate-hued water, rippling from the wakes of crowded ferries and private runabouts. The cruise ships were dingier at this distance, the white paint chipped and stained, the windows smeared. It was hard to think of them as elegant and festive, despite the looped strings of party lights.

  Peter found a table with an umbrella outside the door of a café. A young man in an apron brought us menus. We decided to sample the local beer with our sandwiches, and I was about to try a sip when I saw a figure striding in our direction.

  “Oh, drat,” I muttered, wishing I still had the menu so I could hide behind it. “It’s that man who dumped himself on us at the breakfast buffet yesterday.”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder. “The man in the white suit with all the cameras and paraphernalia hanging around his neck? He looks like a member of the paparazzi. Maybe he thought you were a celebrity.”

  Sittermann stopped abruptly and used binoculars to scan the river. Something on the opposite bank held his attention for a long moment. He finally lowered the binoculars, turned around, and hurried back toward the steps that led up to the pier.

  I released my breath. “I guess he didn’t see us.”

  “Well, he saw something,” Peter said, frowning as he looked in the same direction that Sittermann had. “There are a couple of houseboats moored near the pier the ferries use, but I don’t see any activity on them. The feluccas are scenic, but hardly that enthralling.”

  “Maybe a fisherman caught an eel or something. He’s a jerk from Texas who wants to build a theme park. You’re off-duty today, Lieutenant Rosen. I have some photos of our wedding that Luanne gave me while she was driving us to the airport. Would you like to see them?”

  We ate lunch while we looked through the photos taken in the Jorgesons’ backyard. I had eschewed lace and satin and worn a pale green summer frock, which I must admit went well with my red hair. Luanne had tried to persuade me to wear a broad-brimmed hat with a ribbon, but I’d resisted. Peter had backed down on his threat to wear a tuxedo and looked remarkably handsome in a light suit and silk tie. Caron stood stiffly behind us, pretty in pink and no doubt sorry she’d opted to wear panty hose in the September heat. Jorgeson, the best man, glowed as if he were personally responsible that Peter and I had finally made it down the garden path, so to speak. After the necessary formalities, the few guests we’d invited toasted us with champagne, then settled down to munch their way through the catered spread while Peter and I escaped to an inn for an all too brief night together.

  It had lacked the drama of a reality show wedding, but it had suited us perfectly.

  After lunch, we dallied in the shops, then went back to the hotel and snuck in through the New Winter Palace entrance. In our absence, all the rooms had been cleaned and the breakfast items removed. The flowers were definitely fresh, and a large bowl of tangerines was centered on the coffee table. The folded copy of the Herald Tribune was three days old, but Ahmed had tried. When Peter went into the bedroom to make calls, I took a chilled bottle of water out of the mini-bar and settled down on the balcony to read more lurid prose.

  At five thirty, we changed into more respectable attire. After I’d applied a bit of makeup and checked my appearance, I sat down on the sofa and graciously accepted a martini. I was relating the saga of the proper English lady and the untamed sheik
with the smoldering eyes when we heard a knock on the door.

  “Oh, Mrs. Malloy, you look absolutely stunning,” Alexander said as he came into the parlor. “After I had a few drinks last night, I couldn’t prevent myself from wondering why you two agreed to this ghastly ordeal. It’s not too late to claim ptomaine poisoning, you know. It would be less painful.”

  Peter was less than amused by Alexander’s wit. “We’re looking forward to meeting your father and his friends. Perhaps it will alleviate their fascination with my wife.”

  “Perhaps,” Alexander said as he offered his arm to me. “May I escort the lady down the hall?”

  “I’ll risk it on my own,” I said perversely, having never enjoyed being addressed in the third person. I gulped down the last of the martini and swept out the door.

  The Baron of Rochland’s rooms were at the far end of the hallway. As we went inside, I realized that his sitting room was decorated with the same decor as the Presidential Suite, suggesting there had been a deep discount on the fabric. I would have commented on it had Lord Bledrock not swooped down on me and squeezed my hand so tightly that I nearly yelped.

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he burbled with excitement. “My dear, dear woman! This is such an honor. I feel as though I’m meeting Dame Agatha. Please, allow Alexander to fix you up with a drink while I introduce you to my friends. You, too, Rosen.” I was whisked over to a settee, where a corpulent lady with wispy gray hair was peering at me over the frames of her half-moon spectacles. Her double chin and high forehead distorted her face, and her heavily rouged cheeks glowed with neon intensity. “Rose, allow me to introduce Claire Malloy, the amateur detective who solves murders. Claire—do you mind if I address you with such informality?—is American. It’s a very violent country, or so I’ve noticed from watching their television shows. They shoot each other with very little provocation. This, my dear, is Mrs. Rose McHaver. Her great-grandfather started a distillery in Glasgow in the middle of the nineteenth century. In its heyday, McHaver’s was one of the best double-blend malt whiskies in the country. When Rose could no longer tolerate the weather, she moved to Cumbria. Quite as chilly, if you ask me.”

  Mrs. McHaver studied me as if I were carrying a concealed weapon. “How delightful to meet you, Mrs. Malloy,” she said with a tight nod, then looked across the room. “Miriam! Do stop gawking at Alexander and come over here. I need a fresh drink.”

  Miriam came scuttling over. She was wearing a shapeless gray dress, exposing arms and legs so painfully thin that they looked as though they might snap. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tenuous bun. Thick glasses with heavy frames dominated her face, magnifying pale blue eyes and sparse eyelashes. Although the room was cool, she was damp with perspiration. “How do you do?” she said to me, extending a hand. “I’m Miriam McHaver, if you haven’t already deduced that. I understand you’re terribly clever.”

  “How nice to meet you.” I forced myself to shake her hand. “This is Peter Rosen, my husband.”

  “Fetch me a martini, Miriam,” Mrs. McHaver said before Peter could reply. “And this time, do try to remember to put in three olives. They’re essential to the digestive process.”

  “Come along, Mrs. Malloy,” said Lord Bledrock, steering me toward a blond woman and a tall, stooped man near the door to the balcony. In a low voice that surely carried across the room and into the next, he said, “In case you’re perplexed, Mrs. McHaver resumed her family name after her husband, Cecil, wandered off in the jungles of Malaysia thirty years ago. A decent enough chap, but always was a bit vague.” He gazed at the ceiling as if his mind had wandered off as well, then cleared his throat. “Mrs. McHaver tends to bully poor Miriam. The girl hardly ever makes a peep, which is just as well. Barely passed her A levels at a second-rate college, and teaches nursery school. Knows absolutely nothing about Egyptology.” He put his hand on the small of my back and propelled me forward. “Claire, this is Dr. Shannon King, head of the archeology department at some little college in the States. Can’t recall which one, but she can tell you. Shannon, this is our sleuth, Claire Malloy.”

  I noticed Peter had fallen out of formation and was standing by the bar, talking to Alexander. “How nice to meet you,” I said to Dr. King, who appeared too young to be head of anything except a high school cheerleading squad, or in her case, perhaps the chess or Latin club. Her blond hair was sensibly short, her makeup deftly applied, her posture impeccable. She wore khaki pants and a white blouse that was unbuttoned far enough to allow a glimpse of a lacy bra, but her expression was steely. I suspected she would be as equally competent running a marathon as a departmental meeting.

  She managed a polite smile. “You, too. I’m chairman of the archeology department at MacLeod College in Maine. Well, acting chairman. The dean has to observe academic protocol, which means advertising the position and reviewing applications. I expect formal notification by the end of the year.” She bit her lip for a brief moment, as if holding back some sort of emotional outburst, then said, “This is Wallace Laxenby, the photographer for our current project.”

  “Wallace may not have the latest technology,” Lord Bledrock said heartily, “but he certainly has experience. How long have you been at this, Wallace?”

  “Decades,” the man said, bobbling his head with such enthusiasm that I was afraid it might topple off and roll out to the balcony. His face was as wrinkled and weathered as Abdullah’s, and his sport coat was frayed. His smile was much warmer than that of his companion, who now was glaring out the window at some unseen impediment to her academic promotion. “I first came out here more than forty years ago,” Wallace continued. “We were all so young back then, and determined to make discoveries that would undermine the quintessence of the Egyptological doctrine of that time. Oskar was a graduate student. My wife and I introduced him to Magritta, and I stood as his best man when they married. We couldn’t afford to stay in a hotel like this, so we lived in what amounted to a boardinghouse on the West Bank. No hot water, and often no electricity. Not that I can afford to stay here these days. MacLeod College barely gives us adequate funding to pay the workers.” His shoulders heaved as he let out a morose sigh. “Poor Oskar, I do miss him.” He pulled a soiled handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Our first concession was—”

  “I’m sure it was,” Lord Bledrock said. “Come along, Claire. I must introduce you to the others.”

  Dr. King caught his arm. “I would like to continue the discussion we had earlier in the week. I need your decision as soon as possible.”

  “You will have my decision when I’ve had time to consider all the factors,” he said, removing her hand as if it might leave an unsightly smudge on his sleeve. “You must excuse us. Others are waiting to meet Mrs. Malloy.”

  I was once again propelled into action. This time we stopped in front of a sofa, where two blue-haired ladies were eying me like greedy pigeons. They were both small and wiry, like underfed children, although such children hardly wore glittery rings and pearls. One wore lavender, the other lilac. Their consanguinity was obvious.

  Lord Bledrock’s mustache trembled with disapproval at the number of empty martini glasses on the coffee table in front of them, but he merely said, “Miss Cordelia, Miss Portia, this is Claire Malloy. She’s the American sleuth.”

  They both twittered. One of them (and I had no idea which) said, “And you’ve come all this way to solve a mystery! How fascinating. I personally think it was Rose McHaver, in the ballroom, with the candlestick—unless, of course, it was Alexander, in the conservatory, with the rope. What do you think, Mrs. Malloy?”

  The other tilted her head to stare at me. “We must first test her detective prowess, Cordelia. We must ask the perfect question.”

  I was, as Caron would say, clueless. I was hoping Lord Bledrock would rescue me, but he was proving himself to be worthless. We made quite a pair.

  “Oh, I have it!” said Miss Portia, gleefully clapping her hands. “Mrs. Malloy, how do you titillate
an ocelot?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You oscillate his tit a lot!” Miss Cordelia shrieked. She collapsed against her sister as they both laughed uncontrollably. “You… oscillate his… tit a lot!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Peter was still standing near Alexander, but I could tell from his ill-controlled expression that he was as amused as the duo on the sofa. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “I do believe I’d like a martini, Lord Bledrock. Nice meeting you, Miss Cordelia, Miss Portia.”

  They flapped their hands at me, still cackling with laughter between gasps.

  I fled across the room and grabbed Peter’s lapel. “Can we please leave?”

  “Now, Claire,” Alexander said, “you must ignore them, as we all do. The old girls are pickled to the gills. You have now heard the entirety of their repertoire of off-color jokes.”

  Peter gently removed my hand, kissed it, and gave me a martini. “A few more minutes, and then we’ll go. Alexander has been telling me about the active concessions in the Valley of the Kings. I thought we might take the girls and go over there tomorrow. There’s a bridge not too far from here. Bakr will drive us, so we won’t have to risk one of the ferries dumping us in the Nile. I’ve heard rumors of crocodiles.”

  “I say,” Alexander cut in, “would you mind if I tagged along?”

  I had a vision of being packed into a van with all the people I’d met thus far. Rose McHaver would be barking at Miriam, while the two blue-haired women retold their joke numerous times, Wallace recited his personal history, and Lord Bledrock pontificated. Dr. King would be thumping the dashboard with her fist and futilely attempting to call the meeting to order. Before I could come up with a tactful remark, Peter said, “We’d be pleased. Shall we meet in the lobby after breakfast?”

  Alexander read my mind better than my husband. “Only me, Mrs. Malloy. The others are attending a luncheon at Lady Emerson’s villa, followed by a long afternoon of bridge and gin. I was going to spend the day reading and catching up on my correspondence. I’d much prefer to see if anyone’s found a mummy.”