Mummy Dearest: A Claire Malloy Mystery

by Joan Hess

  I was leaning on the rail, comparing this minor incident to the chaos that could be created by a herd of camels in a small town, when I saw Lord Bledrock, Mrs. McHaver, and Miriam walking across the terrace to the sidewalk. Mrs. McHaver carried her cane but was moving at a brisk rate. I expected them to summon a taxi, but they turned in the opposite direction from the temple and continued down the sidewalk. A minute later, Sittermann, who’d been hidden from my view by an umbrella, appeared from the terrace and strolled ever so jauntily in the same direction. He was out of range before I could think of anything to throw at him. He paused for a moment to look up at me and wave.

  I recoiled as if he’d pointed a rifle at me. “You insidious, deceitful, slimy worm,” I muttered under my breath, savoring each word. I repeated it several times, but its cathartic effect was minimal. I had no idea who he was or why he was skulking around, irritating almost everyone (not Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia) by posturing as a slick Texan mogul. He’d as much as admitted to me that he wasn’t, but he hadn’t elaborated. How could he, when he was so busy arranging parties in my suite? I tried not to think what Peter’s supervisors at the CIA would do when they examined his expense account. He’d been dispatched to Luxor to assist with anti-terrorism tactics, not to make a down payment on Aswan Dam.

  The sound of laughter from behind me interrupted my mental tirade. The poker game was well under way, and Bakr was enjoying it, although I doubted he understood the rules. As far as I had been able to tell, wild cards changed willy-nilly and high hands were often low hands. Or something.

  I resumed looking over the rail. On earlier occasions, I had walked in the direction they’d gone, and the only destination of note was the odd little mall. Beyond it were office buildings, banks, a travel agency with faded posters of Paris and London in the window, and clothing and furniture stores that catered to middle-class local shoppers. It seemed likely they were headed to the mall possibly to visit Dr. Butros Guindi, proprietor of his little shop of horrors.

  It was a mere block away, a little voice in the back of my mind whispered. It would be crowded with tourists contemplating water pipes and T-shirts, but not so crowded that I couldn’t keep a prudent distance from my quarries. I’d be there and be back in twenty minutes. If Miriam was trying on scarves and Lord Bledrock was examining silver snuffboxes, while Sittermann bought place mats for the highly theoretical Mrs. Sittermann, I’d be back in ten. A somewhat more pragmatic voice pointed out that I had solemnly vowed not to leave the hotel grounds.

  I could not stay on the balcony and weigh my options any longer. If I was correct in certain assumptions, then I would have to find a way to tell Peter and Mahmoud without digging myself into a hole deep enough to bury a pharaoh, his wife, his children—and all his concubines. Tact would be of the essence.

  I went into the sitting room. “I’m going to take a bath,” I said. “My back is sore after that drive to and from the oasis yesterday. If Peter calls, take a message. If the message involves him staying in Cairo for another day, start packing. You’ll have to see the pyramids from an airplane.”

  Caron, Inez, and even Bakr were too engrossed in the game to respond. I closed the bedroom door, found my sunglasses and a dark blue scarf that I’d bought for Jorgeson’s wife, and turned on the tap in the bathtub. I knew from experience that it would take half an hour for the water to approach the rim. I slipped out the door to the corridor, glanced either way in case Abdullah was lurking, and scampered to the stairwell. When I reached the lobby of the New Winter Palace, the scarf covered my hair and the sunglasses obscured my eyes.

  I kept my face lowered until I reached the bookstore. I paused in front of a circular rack of paperbacks while I assessed the situation. The mall was less crowded than I had hoped. Sittermann’s white jacket was not visible. I went into the adjoining shop and looked out the window. The owner did his best to interest me in chains and bracelets, but I continued to the next shop.

  I progressed slowly, scanning the interiors of shops across the walkway for the Brits and Sittermann. I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake and they were all at the travel agency, booking rooms at a resort on the Red Sea, when I arrived at a basket shop near the end of the mall. Dr. Guindi’s antiques shop was directly across from me. The window was as dusty as ever, but through the open doorway I could see Lord Bledrock and Mrs. McHaver, both standing grimly to one side. Miriam, to my consternation, had hold of Dr. Guindi’s jacket lapels and was yelling at him. Her face was so close to his that I could see drops of spittle flying at him like hornets. He shook his head in protest. Miriam slapped him with her free hand, lightly but with enough force to sting. Lord Bledrock said something. Miriam slapped Dr. Guindi again, harder. She still wore a drab, loose-fitting dress and sensible shoes. Her complexion was pale. A lace-trimmed handkerchief was tucked in her cuff. And she was slapping the holy bejeezus out of Dr. Guindi, who had not shown any resistance. If she continued, his head might fly off his neck, I thought numbly. Lord Bledrock would harrumph, then straighten his tie and offer his arm to Mrs. McHaver. Miriam would follow meekly, perhaps using the handkerchief to clean her hands.

  A flash of white caught my eye. I forced myself to look away from the carnage-in-progress and saw Sittermann partially concealed behind a stack of colorful tablecloths. He sensed my stare and turned his head. When his gaze met mine, his eyes widened. He was clearly as appalled as I was. He shook his head slightly, touched his forefinger to his lips, and disappeared into the shop behind him.

  I looked back at the doorway. Miriam had dropped her grip on Dr. Guindi’s coat and was jabbing him in the chest. He retreated inch by inch. Mrs. McHaver spoke; whatever she said startled Dr. Guindi. I eyed the distance across the walkway. I would be exposed for only a few seconds, and I was cleverly disguised (despite Sittermann’s instant recognition). And what was the worst that would happen if they did spot me? I had every right to be there. All newcomers shopped for souvenirs. I could waggle my fingers at them, smile sweetly, and get myself back to the suite before my absence was noticed. I could even take a bath. I stared at my watch. In ten minutes, water would begin to dribble onto the bathroom floor. It would seep under the door and into the carpet. It would spread across the bedroom. Once it made it to the sitting room, my goose would be cooked, carved, and ready to be served with chutney and boiled potatoes.

  I aligned my sunglasses and prepared to make a dash for the shop next to Dr. Guindi’s. Before I could move, an arm wrapped around my neck and a hand clamped over my mouth. I tried to scream as I was dragged backward across the shop. A curtain fluttered against my arm as my assailant pulled me into a back room. I kicked at his shins and tried to scratch his face. The arm tightened around my neck.

  “Stop it,” a voice whispered, so close that I could feel the warm air on my earlobe. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The hand was withdrawn, but I could see it poised beside my head.

  “Then loosen your arm,” I croaked. The pressure eased. I took several deep breaths. “Let me go.”

  “Can’t,” came the whisper.

  “Yes, you can. Start with removing your arm before you fracture my windpipe. I haven’t given up on a career in opera. I promise I won’t scream.” I didn’t add that I had every intention of disabling him with a well-placed jerk of my knee, then snatching up the nearest object and bashing him on the head.

  The hand gripped my shoulder so tightly that I bit back a shriek of pain. I was unceremoniously yanked around and carried to a back door, my feet kicking futilely. He released my shoulder long enough to open the door, then shoved me into an alley with such force that I almost fell across a bicycle propped against a crate. The door slammed, but not before I caught a glimpse of a black mustache and a scar.

  I closed my eyes and waited for my heart to stop pounding. When I could trust my legs, I walked briskly, if unsteadily, toward the corniche, leaving a trail of colorful expletives in my wake. Had Caron and Inez’s purported stalker been following me all this time? W
ith a few small exceptions, I’d been occupied with all the standard tourist activities. As alluring as I was, I had never found myself obliged to beat back admirers.

  It had to be Peter’s fault, I concluded as I swung around the corner.

  And crashed into Peter.

  “Hello, dear,” I said weakly. “How was Cairo?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he said, making no effort to embrace me and inquire about my well-being. We’d been married less than a month; I hoped he would still recognize me in a year or two.

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” I said.

  He gripped my arm as though he was afraid I might bolt into traffic or dash back down the alley. “You weren’t supposed to leave the hotel.”

  “Something came up. Could we please hurry?”

  “I turned off the tap,” he said, still speaking to me as if I was nothing more than an acquaintance he’d met at a banquet honoring a civic leader. “Please stop gasping and explain.”

  “I do not gasp.” I pulled my arm free. “I’d explain, but I doubt I can meet your standards. I’m a mere amateur who happens to have been attacked in the last five minutes. Shouldn’t I file a report with the CIA first? Is there a manual that’ll tell me how to reduce it to a tiny black microdot and glue it to the leg of a pigeon with security clearance? Am I supposed to use your code name and put ‘Mrs.’ in front of it?”

  “Attacked? By whom?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” I started for the hotel.

  He caught up with me, his expression decidedly unfriendly. We went through the lobby and took the elevator. I pulled off my sunglasses and the scarf and handed them to him. He snorted. Abdullah’s mouth twitched as he watched us from behind a cleaning cart. When we went into the suite, Bakr dropped his cards and scrambled to his feet, looking at each of us in turn.

  “Mrs. Malloy,” he said, gurgling, “I see Mr. Rosen found you. You should not have lied to me. Chief Inspector el-Habachi will be angry at me for failing to—”

  “Wiser men than you have tried with less success,” I said.

  Caron and Inez exchanged looks, then picked up the cards and went into their bedroom. Peter told Bakr to wait outside the door. I retreated to the bathroom, noted wryly that the bathtub was emptying, and splashed water on my face. My hair had been mussed in the scuffle, but there were no marks or bruises on my neck. My clothes felt sullied, so I changed into clean ones.

  A bucket of ice had appeared by the mini-bar. Peter handed me a drink and we went to the balcony. Just a stereotypic married couple, I thought as we sat down and looked at the view. He was home from the office, while I’d spent the day lunching with friends and driving the children to soccer practice and piano lessons. Neither of us motivated to inquire about each other’s day. Same old, same old. Dog threw up in the backseat on the way to the vet’s office. The boss was in a bad mood. Plumber didn’t show up as promised. The meeting lasted more than two hours. Don’t forget the parent-teacher conference on Thursday.

  “How was Cairo?” I asked.

  “Oh, fine. I spent a great deal of time being interrogated and lectured because my wife was prowling in the hotel basement and confronting kidnappers at a seedy hotel in an oasis town. My attempts to explain your behavior were met with incredulous stares and derisive snickers. But I really didn’t mind, because every man should be humiliated on his honeymoon. It’s such a great way to start a marriage.”

  “Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” I said. “I told you about the luggage. As for the excursion to the Kharga Oasis, I had no choice. I tried to get in touch with you, but the only telephone number I had was for the embassy.”

  “You had Mahmoud’s number.”

  “Samuel convinced me that Buffy would be killed if the police intervened. I decided to wait until we arrived there. If it was too dangerous, I would have gone to the police and told them everything.”

  Peter looked at me. “When have you ever told the police everything?”

  “This required delicacy, not the local SWAT team,” I said, evading the issue. “I presume you already know about Nabil’s death, and the murder of the taxi driver who took Shannon to the Valley of the Kings.” Peter nodded, not bothering to ask me how I knew. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended. “There is one thing I haven’t had a chance to mention to Mahmoud. It happened today.”

  “Before you snuck out of the hotel, I assume.”

  I told him about Caron and Inez admitting that they’d found the shabti several days before it was discovered in the excavation. “They left it in their room when we went on the Nubian Sea cruise. Someone found it and planted it at the excavation in order to stir up excitement. That implies this particular someone suspected or knew they had it. Sittermann’s high on my list.”

  “It wasn’t Sittermann,” Peter said. “Would you like another drink?”

  He took my glass and went into the sitting room. He knocked on the door of the girls’ room and reminded them that Bakr would drive them to Mahmoud’s home for dinner shortly, then took his sweet time fixing drinks. I gnawed on my lip and reconsidered my theory. Sittermann was everywhere and knew everything. He’d been following Lord Bledrock and the McHavers (tante et nièce). If I’d been less preoccupied at the Kharga Oasis, I might have noticed him peering out through a shuttered window by the Desert Inn or lurking between the camels.

  I gave up. When Peter sat down, I said, “How do you know it wasn’t Sittermann?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Oh,” I murmured. “One of them …”

  He grinned. “Technically, one of us.”

  “Are you sure he’s on our side?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The thought makes my skin crawl,” I said. “When did you find out?”

  “After the cruise, and with great reluctance from certain parties in D.C. and Cairo. I should have been informed before I left the country, but the different agencies don’t communicate. The Pentagon has seventeen and a half miles of corridors and more than six and a half million square feet. You can pack in a lot of covert agencies with innocuous-sounding names stenciled on the doors. In order to get a bigger chunk of the budget, they all have to run their own operations and keep their intelligence information to themselves. The idea of cooperating with each other is beyond their comprehension. You shouldn’t have a problem with that concept.”

  “So Sittermann …?”

  “Might as well be from another planet. I suspect the only reason he tipped us off was that he was worried about you. Amateurs can get themselves in trouble when they’re inadvertently playing with professionals.”

  “You should have told me,” I said, “or at least given me a hint. He’s been driving me crazy since we got here, with all his inane jabber about Tut-O-Rama and how he’s an ol’ cowhand from the Rio Grande. Does he know about your… connections?”

  Peter shrugged. “I have no idea, but damned if I’m going to enlighten him. Now, will you please tell me why you left the hotel and who attacked you?”

  I had no problem with the first part, stressing that my prime motivation was to find out what Sittermann was up to. Peter leaned forward and listened intently when I described the scene in Dr. Guindi’s shop. “It was an entirely new side of Miriam,” I added, envisioning her coldblooded demeanor as she swung her hand. “It makes sense, though. She went to extremes to look that dowdy. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she used theatrical makeup for the pallor. At breakfast one morning, she tried to convince me she was a shy orchid pining for Alexander, but she fired a lot of questions at me. We may have a troupe of actors at the other end of the hallway, touring with their show.”

  “Including Alexander?” Peter asked.

  I thought I detected a tinge of jealousy in his voice. I wanted to sit in his lap and remind him that he was more handsome, quite as rich, and came from an upper-crust family as well. He would never be a baron, granted, but I had no
desire to live in a drafty manor and devote my energy to snipping flowers and sipping tea. “No, I don’t think Alexander is part of the charade,” I said. “He really is an indolent, spoiled aristocrat with a cushy job that doesn’t interfere with his social life. He either doesn’t realize it or doesn’t care. That’s why I tolerate his company.”

  Peter sipped his drink. “Or he may be more astute than you think. He has to know his father is buying antiquities on the black market, and Mrs. McHaver as well. Mahmoud has known for years. He’d love to put a stop to it, but they have powerful connections. Lord Bledrock went to Eton with some of the higher echelon in the foreign service ministry. His first wife entertained the Egyptian ambassador’s wife in London. Mrs. McHaver funded medical clinics in remote villages. They’re benefactors of the Cairo Museum. Mahmoud would find himself at a desert outpost if he dared to even investigate them.” He fell silent for a long moment. “And this man that attacked you when you were spying on them in the antiques shop? You’re sure you saw the mustache and the scar?”

  I was still brooding about his remarks. “You could have told me this, you know. I could have saved myself a lot of energy figuring it out on my own.”

  “But you’re a lowly amateur, remember? You’re not supposed to be briefed, especially when some of the information is classified. Scotland Yard does not consult Miss Marple.”

  “Stuff it, Sherlock,” I said.

  “Wow,” Caron said from the doorway. “Are you guys having a fight? Don’t let me interrupt or anything. I just wanted to tell you that Inez and I are leaving for an utterly thrilling evening of making conversation and admiring grubby children. I’ll tell you all about it when we get back.”

  I walked to the door with them and made sure Bakr was waiting. He gave me a chilly look, no doubt blaming me for whatever trouble he was in with his superior. I closed the door and rejoined Peter, who had propped his legs on the rail and was gazing with great innocence at the birds flapping over the Nile.