by Joan Hess
Her eyes glittered. “No, I shall be Sekmet, the lioness goddess of vengeance and destruction, or better yet, Taweret. She’s the hippopotamus goddess who scares away evil forces and protects women.”
“Need a quick shot of gin?”
“Several.”
We went into the suite, and the girls promptly disappeared into their room. I put on a clean shirt and ran a comb through my hair. When I came into the parlor, I wasn’t surprised to find Salima on the sofa with a glass in her hand.
“Couldn’t wait for ice?” I asked.
“I spent five years at Cambridge. The only ice I ever saw was on the sidewalks. It was highly entertaining to watch the fellows step on a slick spot and kersplat on their bums like giant bats dropping out of the sky.”
I was visualizing the scene with some amusement when the parlor door opened and in came, in no particular order, Sittermann, Lord Bledrock, Miriam and Rose McHaver, Shannon King, Alexander, Samuel Berry, Buffy Franz, Wallace Laxenby, the Misses Portia and Cordelia, Lord and Lady Fitzwillie, and a couple of unknowns. They were all babbling with boundless vivacity, bumping into one another, and clearly expecting a well-laid bar and a grand spread of food.
“Hello,” I said weakly.
Abdullah and several uniformed waiters wheeled in linen-draped tables and began to set up a bar and a buffet. Sittermann took charge and drawled orders in Arabic, while my purported guests rearranged furniture. Chairs were fetched from the balcony, my bedroom, and Caron and Inez’s bedroom (despite the muffled shrieks).
“How do you do,” said a formidable woman with jet-black hair. “I am Lady Amanda Peabody Emerson. You must be this Malloy woman of whom I’ve heard so much these last few weeks. Fancy yourself to be a detective, do you?”
“Give her a break, Mandy,” Sittermann said as he sat down on the arm of the sofa and winked at me.
“She seems ill equipped,” Lady Emerson pronounced firmly, then headed for the bar.
Alexander managed to squeeze himself between Salima and me. “I think you’re very well equipped, my dear Claire. The old girl’s jealous. She made a fortune off some deceased relative’s fanciful memoirs of murder and intrigue a hundred years ago. Rumor has it she still collects royalties. Lady Emerson herself would never be caught dead within spitting distance of a camel.”
“Nor would I,” I said. I unwedged myself and went to circulate, making sure everyone had a drink. Samuel and Buffy seemed delighted to see me and gushed over the decor and view. Rose McHaver sat in one of the more comfortable chairs, thumping a lethal-looking walking stick as she waited for Miriam to fetch her a drink. Queen Victoria could not have looked more imperious. Wallace had retreated to a corner, martinis in both hands. Shannon was doing her best to interrupt Lord Bledrock’s conversation with a pasty woman drooping under the weight of her diamonds. Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia were out on the balcony, lobbing ice cubes at unwary pedestrians crossing the terrace. Abdullah watched me with a faint grimace of reproof.
“Hope you’ve been having a good time,” Sittermann said, clutching my elbow. “Been out exploring the West Bank, I hear.”
“From whom do you hear this? I hardly consider myself a worthy topic of conversation.”
“Word gets around.”
“I have no idea what that word might be.”
“Let’s just say I’m concerned about you, Mrs. Malloy. A woman like yourself could find herself stumbling into trouble, especially if she pokes around the wrong places and asks too many questions.”
“I beg your pardon!” I tried to remove his hand, but he tightened his grip. “The question in my mind at this moment has to do with why I shouldn’t stomp down on your foot hard enough to turn your toes into bloody pulp.”
“Spirited little thing, ain’t you?”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I said, struggling to keep my voice low.
He released my arm and stepped back. “Just someone who thinks you need to be warned against snooping around while your so-called husband is off in Cairo.”
“How dare you—” I began, then stopped as he went out to the balcony. I forced myself to breathe evenly until my body stopped quivering with outrage. To my dismay, Samuel and Buffy joined me.
“Are you okay?” asked Buffy. “You look awfully pale, like one of those albino fish that live in caves. They are so creepy.”
Samuel nudged her aside. “Are you and Sittermann close friends?”
His question startled me. “Hardly,” I said. “Why would you think we were?”
He flushed. “He acts pretty interested in you, that’s all. I had the impression that you and he… well, I don’t know. I mean, your husband’s away and …”
“You men are all alike,” Buffy said with the arrogant wisdom of youth. “If I hadn’t been like totally bored in Rome, I would never have come with you. I could have gone skiing, you know, or taken off for a Greek island with fabulous beaches and hunky fishermen who know how to utilize their manly talents. All you do is take photographs of ruins in the blistering sun and hang out half the night with illiterate camel drivers. You told me we were going to see the pyramids, but all we’ve seen so far are pitiful villages in the middle of nowhere. I’m absolutely covered in flea bites. If I get lice, I’ll track you down to the last sand dune in this filthy country and make you sorry.”
“You invited yourself to come along with me,” he muttered.
“That has nothing to do with it. Mrs. Malloy knows what I’m talking about.”
They both glared at me. I licked my lips, but no glib responses came to mind. I realized that Wallace and Shannon had overheard Buffy’s harangue on the indignities and were waiting for me to make a ruling. I wondered wildly if they represented the prosecution or the defense.
“Well,” I said carefully, “it does seem as if you two might have discussed this back in Rome.”
“All we did in Rome was have sex,” Buffy said. “Then he said I should come to Egypt with him, and I asked if there were decent shops in Cairo, and he said yeah. He just forgot to mention that we weren’t going to Cairo. Do you have any idea what they sell in local markets? Carcasses of dead animals, onions, and turnips, that’s what. Brands of clothing that Wal-Mart wouldn’t touch.”
Samuel shook his head. “Some people enjoy learning about other cultures.”
“In an air-conditioned classroom, maybe,” she said, “but not in a stinky market with flies and cripples and screaming babies. And who cares about some culture in which the women hide their faces behind veils and stay home, while the men go to cafés and the mosques? I’ve had a really swell time reading an old issue of People for the hundredth time while Samuel hangs out with his buddies. One night they started shooting off guns like little boys with fireworks. I thought I’d never get to sleep.”
“Making friends with the locals is the best way to find out about lesser-known Greek and Roman sites,” Samuel said to me. “There are plenty of them that don’t warrant mention in the guidebooks. Alexander liberated Egypt from the Persians three hundred years before the Christian era. He and his successor, Ptolemy, established a Graeco-Egyptian pantheon and built temples all over the country. The Romans came along next. The pharaonic sites get all the attention, but—”
“Samuel’s just fascinated with broken columns and a few stone blocks,” Buffy interrupted, sneering. “As long as they’re in the middle of some forsaken expanse of rocks and sand. At least the Colosseum is surrounded by cafés and shops.”
They were exchanging heated remarks as I eased away from them. I was contemplating locking myself in my bathroom until they left when Lord Bledrock shoved a martini glass in my hand.
“I hear you were allowed in Nefertari’s tomb earlier today,” he said. “You’re really quite lucky. The Supreme Council of Antiquities rarely opens it to anyone. The humidity has a deleterious effect on the delicate paintings. The human body is quite soggy, as well as a source of bacteria and carbon dioxide. The only way to truly preserve the
paintings is to keep them in a closed room with controlled humidity and temperature. I’ve often thought children should be reared in a similar environment, released only for brief appearances at holiday gatherings until they’re old enough to be packed off to school.”
“Why bother having them in the first place?”
His eyes widened in disbelief at my question. “One must have heirs.”
I was not completely sure he wasn’t serious. “What about daughters?”
“One marries them off to the heirs of other estates. What with all the taxes and onerous death duties, one must protect the family title. The first Baron of Rochland was an ally of Charles II. The Merry Monarch, as he was called, had fourteen illegitimate children by a string of mistresses. There are rumors that the baroness was one of them, although the history is vague. A delightful thought, eh?”
“You must be very proud.”
He glanced at those who might have been within earshot, then drew me to a vacant corner. “Alexander mentioned that you were curious about the lecture. If the Swedish chap is staying in the hotel, I’m sure I could arrange an introduction. I found him to be tedious, but you might enjoy him.”
“I’m surprised you stayed all afternoon,” I said.
“Courtesy demanded as much. Can’t just toddle off when the chap is talking about his life’s work. I strongly believe one has to make sacrifices to maintain one’s position in the community. Wouldn’t you agree, Claire?”
“I would never argue the point with a baron.”
“I say, you are the droll one, aren’t you? I like that in a woman. Now, you must tell me what you think of the all the marvelous temples and tombs in the area. When I gaze at the tourists trudging up the hill to the Valley of the Kings, I envision a procession of mortuary priests dressed in their finest white robes, their shaved heads glittering in the sunlight, leading workmen bearing the treasures to be buried with their pharaoh in order to enure his safe passage into the next world. What a shame it is that these masterpieces of gold, silver, and precious jewels were intended to never be seen again by mortal eyes.” He licked his lips in a disturbingly predatory way. “No living person had laid eyes on Tutankhamun’s golden death mask for three thousand years when Carter opened the tomb. Although the curse was nothing more than a bit of journalistic sensationalism, it’s easy to imagine why it became so popular. Do you believe in curses?”
“Should I?” I said.
“Yes, indeed. It can be very dangerous when one ventures into an unknown situation. It is often more prudent to mind one’s own business.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It is whatever you choose to make of it, Claire.” He gazed at me for a moment, then said, “Have you tried the baba ghanoug? It’s quite tasty.”
CHAPTER 6
Salima slipped away shortly before seven, and the rest departed after a final round of drinks. Caron came out of her bedroom, and she and I pondered the wreckage while Abdullah supervised the cleanup crew. At his suggestion, we loaded plates with food before they wheeled out the serving tables. When at last everyone was gone, Caron and I flopped down in chairs on the balcony.
“What a nasty group,” I said. “I hate to think what they’re like at the end of the season. The hotel staff must be adept at removing bloodstains.”
Caron inspected her fingernails. “The price of popularity—or notoriety, in your case.”
“Did Inez have luck with the hotel Internet?”
“You’ll have to ask her when she gets back. She probably heard how loud the party had become as soon as she stepped off the elevator, and went down to the lobby. I considered doing the same.”
“That bad?”
“Along the lines of a street riot,” she said. “So what are we doing tomorrow? More temples, tombs, and hieroglyphs?”
“Peter should be back by noon, so I thought I’d stick around here. You and Inez need to buy presents for the party at Salima’s house, if you haven’t changed your minds.” I mentally crossed my fingers and tried once again. “Spending the evening with all those children and elderly relatives doesn’t sound exciting. It might turn out to be more tedious than this last gathering, but in Arabic.”
“Nothing could be More Tedious, trust me. That awful man from Texas barged into our room and started asking me all sorts of really dumb questions. I kept telling him I needed to wash my hair, but he would not leave. I was ready to sling something at him when Alexander came in and dragged him away.”
“What was your weapon of choice? A bottle of fingernail polish?”
“Inez’s book about the sheik, of course.” She shifted her attention to the new freckles on her arms. “Salima says there are still guys like him out in the desert. They don’t kidnap English ladies or do that kind of overblown, theatrical stuff, but they do attack caravans and convoys to steal guns. They’re extremist Muslims who think Egypt ought to be controlled by clerics. There’s one group with an Arab name, El Asad or something, that means ‘Lion of God.’”
“Salima told you that?”
“I’m a little old for Ali Baba. Anyway, Inez read about it in one of her books and asked. Bakr was driving us at the time, and he kept trying to shush Salima. He would have had more luck damming up a river with chicken wire.”
I resolved to have a talk with Peter as soon as he returned, and one with Salima as well. I wasn’t worried that Caron would obsess on rogue sheiks, but I was less sure about Inez. As a distraction for both of us, I asked Caron if she’d had any ideas about presents to take to the party. We were idly discussing possibilities when Inez skittered into the parlor and locked the door.
“I saw him,” she said breathlessly.
“Lawrence of Arabia?” I asked.
“That sinister man who was following us earlier in the week, with the mustache and the scar. This time he was wearing a lime green suit and a bow tie. The scar looked—I don’t know—different somehow, sort of shorter. I’m sure it was him, though.”
Caron shot me a smug look. “I saw him a couple of days ago in that little mall, but Certain People didn’t believe me.”
“I believed you saw him,” I said. “I just found it hard to believe he was following you. What was he doing when you saw him, Inez?”
“Buying cigarettes in a shop in the hotel—or pretending to, anyway. He must have seen me coming and ducked inside.”
“He could be a spy,” Caron contributed, “and was passing a message to his organization via the shopkeeper. Maybe he works for that lion group.”
Inez’s eyes rounded. “El Asad li-allah? It’s more of a cult, but very dangerous, Ms. Malloy. They have international links to organizations all over the Middle East and cells in other countries. The police don’t even know who’s the head of it because everybody’s too scared to talk, even the snitches. They’ve infiltrated the government and the military, and—”
“That man …” Caron gripped the armrests of the chair as she leaned forward. “He could be plotting to kidnap us and demand a ransom. They have to think we’re rich because of this suite and our driver and stuff. They need money to fund their terrorist attack on the present political regime. We could be held hostage in some filthy oasis, and tortured—or worse!”
“Wait a minute, girls,” I said evenly. “Before you make any wild accusations, at least entertain the possibility that he’s just a traveler who’s staying in the hotel, smokes, and needs gifts to take home to his wife and children. The hotel has nearly a hundred rooms, and that means a lot of guests. Most of them stay at least several days. I saw a few familiar faces at Luxor Temple and at the Valley of the Kings. Tables on the terrace are staked out by the same people every afternoon. Half the people at breakfast nod at us every morning. If you weren’t obsessed with this poor man, you wouldn’t even notice him. He may think you’re following him. He may have taken refuge in the tobacco shop because you alarmed him, Inez.”
“I’ll bet he has a gun in a shoulder holster,” Caron continued. “That
’s why his jackets are so frumpy.”
Considering the situations they’d been in over the last few years, their paranoia wasn’t surprising. Few teenagers, with the exception of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, have found themselves involved in so many bizarre investigations. Only two months earlier we’d been in the midst of lords and ladies, as well as knights, a duke, a duchess, and a baron, but of the faux Renaissance variety and all behaving quite perniciously. And that was merely the latest escapade. Caron and Inez had teethed on misdemeanors and flirted with felonies. Only my diligence and Peter’s influence at the police department had saved them from a rap sheet long enough to stretch across the Nile.
They exchanged looks. When neither deigned to argue with me, I went into the bedroom I shared with my so-called husband, found my robe and nightgown, and retreated to the bathroom to fill the expansive bathtub and exfoliate my pores until they begged for mercy.
Peter arrived in time for lunch. The girls had taken themselves off to the hotel pool for the afternoon, so I suggested that we go out to a restaurant and then do a bit of shopping for Luanne, the Jorgesons, and Peter’s mother. Rather than call Bakr, we opted to explore the narrow streets behind the hotel.
Once we’d found a suitably quaint restaurant and ordered, I told Peter about the party I’d been coerced into hosting.
“Sounds worse than my meeting in Cairo,” he said, dutifully smiling with husbandly sympathy. “Mahmoud came along. One would think he’s accustomed to bureaucratic blathering, but he almost lost his temper a couple of times. He’s not interested in the international intrigue—he wants to make sure his jurisdiction is safe.”
“Is it?” I instinctively glanced out the window to make sure no one was covertly watching us from across the street.
“In general, yes, but like any city, there are neighborhoods where it’s not safe for anyone to wander around late at night. Occasionally a backpacker is mugged, usually because of an overindulgence in beer and a lack of common sense.” He stopped as a waiter put down our plates and hovered until we nodded. “Let’s not talk about it. What have you and the girls been doing?”
