Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

  I wasn’t overly anxious, but I wasn’t happy, either. Caron would not have gone back to the hotel without telling me. On the other hand, everyone seemed content to go about their business. She could not have been tricked into leaving with someone; nor could she be forcibly hauled away without making her displeasure loudly known. Loudly enough to be heard in Cairo.

  I glanced at a shop with a dusty window and a display of antique jewelry and trinkets on the sill. It might be a place to find something for Luanne. I was about to go inside when I saw Lord Bledrock by the counter, conversing with a fashionably dressed Arab gentleman likely to be the proprietor. I stepped back, bumping into a hovering shopkeeper with a selection of long robes draped over his arm.

  “Hello, lady,” he said. “You like these? I make you a special deal.”

  I shook my head, keeping an eye on the antiques shop door. “No, thank you. I’m not interested.”

  “American? I have a cousin who lives in America, in the city of Toledo. His name is Hany Husseini. Maybe you know him?”

  “I’ve never been to Toledo,” I said without turning my head. “But if I ever go there, I’ll be sure to look him up.”

  He stuck a robe in front of my face. “This is very pretty with your eyes, Sitt. You try it on, yes?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to buy a robe. Please, if you don’t mind, I’d—”

  “A scarf, then. I have many fine scarves. I will give you a very good price because you are a nice lady.”

  “Nothing.” I eased forward and ascertained that Lord Bledrock was still inside the antiques shop. If I ventured inside, the shopkeeper would attach himself to me with the tenacity of a leech. I risked looking back at him with a steely frown. “I am not going to purchase anything today, okay? Not a robe, a scarf, or anything else you intend to offer me. I may decide to come back another time and let you show me everything you have to sell. I may buy enough robes for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.” I held up a finger. “But only if you leave me alone today.”

  Crestfallen, he went into his shop. I risked another peek inside the antiques shop. Lord Bledrock was no longer visible. There were no white-haired walruses among those moving in the direction of the corniche. I’d turned away for only a few seconds, and Lord Bledrock was hardly nimble enough to vanish into the crowd. Odd, I thought, as I moved in front of the window and studied the jewelry.

  “I have better pieces inside.”

  I looked up at the man in the doorway. He had short gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a precise goatee. Like many of the educated Egyptians I’d met, he had a pronounced British accent. I nodded and followed him into the shop. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were jammed with books, magazines, and haphazard stacks of photographs. Jewelry and small articles made of gold and silver were sprinkled about the room on rickety end tables. What sunlight had found its way through the windows offered little illumination. It was hard to imagine the shop as a profitable business.

  “I am Dr. Butros Guindi. Please allow me to offer you a glass of mint tea,” he murmured, gesturing at a round table and three mismatched, uncomfortable-looking chairs. As I sat down, he went to the curtained doorway behind the counter and barked at someone in terse Arabic. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said as he returned. “Girgis will bring us tea in a moment. Are you looking for anything in particular? A necklace or a bracelet? Perfume bottles?”

  “I don’t really know,” I said. “A gift for a friend.”

  He scratched his chin, then plucked several items from their niches and put them on the table in front of me. “This bracelet was made in the forties for an English lady. The stones are semiprecious, but the craftsmanship is excellent. The filigree is very delicate, and required great skill.” He paused as a boy appeared with two small glasses of tea and set them on the table. “The necklace comes from the Delta region. The amethysts are of good quality. I have these simple chains, too.”

  I admired them as we sipped the fragrant sweet tea. “Very nice,” I finally said, “but I’m not sure what it is I’m looking for.”

  “That is often a problem.”

  “Not a serious one, though.”

  “Sometimes it is better not to look for anything.”

  “Anything?” I said, frowning.

  “If you are not careful, you may not like what you find.”

  I had the unnerving feeling that we were not discussing jewelry. I realized he was staring at me with undue intensity, and hastily picked up an ornate gold box. “This is pretty.”

  “If one likes that sort of thing. It is a replica of a small jewelry case found in the tomb of a lesser pharaoh’s wife. It was made thirty to forty years ago.”

  “Oh.” I put it down and took another sip of tea. “I saw an acquaintance in here a few minutes ago. Does he collect antique jewelry?”

  Dr. Guindi gave me a blank look. “A few minutes ago? You are mistaken, dear lady. At noon I had to close the shop and rush home to deal with a plumbing crisis. You are the first person to come in here since I returned.”

  “I saw him standing right over there by the counter, talking to you,” I persisted. “Elderly, white hair, ruddy complexion.”

  “There was no one here. You saw a reflection in the glass. This gentleman you describe must have been across the walkway in another shop. If you will excuse me, I am expecting an international call.” He took the glass from my hand and stood up. “Please come back another day. Perhaps by then you’ll know what it is you’re seeking.”

  He was trying to ease me out the door, but I wasn’t ready to be summarily dismissed. “I must thank Girgis for the tea.” Before Dr. Guindi could protest, I detoured behind the counter and pulled aside the curtain. The back room was small and crowded with cardboard boxes and wooden crates. A worktable was cluttered with small tools and brushes. Another table had a hot plate and the accouterments for making tea. Despite the shadows, I could see that no one was lurking there.

  “Girgis has gone to run an errand for me,” the proprietor said as he took my elbow and steered me to the entrance. “I will pass along your regards, Mrs. Malloy.”

  I found myself on the cobbled walkway, blinking in the sunlight. I spun around, but a “Closed” sign hung on the door and the owner had vanished. I had taken a few shaky steps when I realized he’d addressed me by name. I mentally replayed our conversation. He’d mentioned his name, but I most decidedly had not offered mine. I was pondering this when Caron stumbled into me.

  Clutching my arm, she said, “I saw him again!”

  “Saw who, dear?”

  “That man who was following Inez and me the other day. The one with the mustache and the scar. He was wearing the same suit and everything!”

  “He was shopping.”

  “He was following me!”

  I glanced around but saw no one that fit his description. “Why do you think he was following you? This is the most convenient shopping area near the hotel. Have you and Inez been staying up half the night reading about that sheik?”

  “I am not imagining this,” she said, her forehead lowered ominously. Her eyes were glittering as brightly as the amethysts in the necklace that I’d been shown minutes earlier. “Just forget it, okay? Don’t let my kidnapping or murder spoil your honeymoon. I’m going to the hotel, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you stay and find a T-shirt with camels on it for Peter? He can wear it to my funeral.”

  She stomped back toward the corniche. I trailed her at a prudent distance, keeping an eye out for Lord Bledrock and any stray shoppers with mustaches and scars. We continued in silence to the entrance of the Winter Palace and up the curved marble staircase to the lobby. If Ahmed was lurking around, he had enough sense not to attempt to divert either of us. The elevator ride was chilly. Once in the suite, Caron disappeared into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  I freshened up and was reading on the balcony when Inez came into the suite, accompanied by Alexander. Blushing, she said, “I ran into him in the elevator, Mrs. Ma
lloy.”

  “Literally,” Alexander said with a grin. “She had her nose in a guidebook and nearly ran me down. Rather than file an assault charge, I negotiated for a vodka and tonic. If that’s all right with you, of course …”

  “Help yourself,” I said to him. “There’s ice in the bucket.”

  Inez scuttled into her bedroom as Alexander busied himself at the mini-bar. He was still grinning when he joined me. “She’s quite a passionate student of all things Egyptian, isn’t she?” he said.

  “Unlike my daughter, who’d rather support the local economy.” I paused for a moment, contemplating how to phrase my next remark. “Did you attend the lecture at the museum earlier today?”

  “Unfortunately, I did, and it went on interminably. We just now got back to the hotel.”

  “Did everybody go?”

  “With the exception of Mrs. McHaver, who is suffering from gout. She prides herself on having only the most aristocratic maladies. Poor Miriam was sent to take notes and report anything that might be considered controversial. However, since no one could understand a word the Swedish chap said, it was impossible to dispute his premises. Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia fluttered around like lavender moths. Lady Emerson and Lewis Ferncliff got into a terrible row over some scrap of papyrus. Wallace kept nipping from a flask and glowering at anyone who came within ten feet of him. Shannon tried to talk to my father, but he was in his typical dyspeptic mood. She finally slunk away in tears.”

  “Your father was there the entire time?”

  Alexander eyed me over the rim of his glass. “He dozed off during the lecture. I jabbed him whenever he began to snore. Are you regretting that you missed the show? I can promise there’ll be many repeat performances during the season.”

  “I thought I saw your father earlier this afternoon,” I said.

  “He may have been dreaming that he was elsewhere, but he was in the back row with me. You must have seen someone who resembled him.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, still unconvinced. After a moment, I continued, “Why is Shannon so determined to talk to your father? Is she hoping for more financial support for the dig?”

  “What she’s hoping for is the position of department head at her cozy little college. Although I have no idea why, she seems to think the position is significant and will enhance her prestige with her colleagues in the field. Academia is an ugly battlefield in every country. British dons have resorted to murder over committee chairmanships and obscure awards. Scandinavian universities are rife with scandals involving plagiarism. The French prefer accusations of mauvaise conduite sexuelle.”

  “American academics resort to all of those,” I admitted. “So what does Shannon want from your father, if not money?”

  “He has an extensive collection of Egyptian antiquities at the house in Kent, the majority of it unavailable to scholars. Shannon wants him to endow a wing at her college and donate some of them to a permanent collection. He prefers to gloat over them in private. He’s turned down every request, including those of the Metropolitan in New York and the British Museum. He sneered when someone asked him if he’d seen the traveling King Tut exhibition. Only Amun-Ra knows what he has locked away on the second floor.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Good heavens, no. When I was much younger, I used to try to pick the locks with my mother’s hairpins, but I invariably set off the security alarms and was banished to the nursery in disgrace. I finally decided to let the old man wallow in his precious treasures, and dedicated myself to carousing and chasing women.” He gazed at me. “I don’t understand how you’ve been able to resist me.”

  “I seem to be the only woman who has,” I said drily.

  “Thus far.”

  When he’d finished his drink, I sent him away. At sunset, Caron and Inez came out to the balcony and we watched the feluccas gliding on the Nile.

  Over breakfast even Caron agreed that we needed to get serious about the must-see sites. With Bakr providing transportation, we returned to the West Bank to admire the two massive statues known as the Colossi of Memnon, all that remained of a temple complex built by Amenhotep III, unfortunately without regard to its position in the floodplain. When several tour buses parked in the lot, we continued on to the Ramesseum, where Inez chattered happily about Ramses II and I recited “Ozymandias” to an unappreciative audience. We returned to the Valley of the Kings to dutifully visit King Tut’s tomb and a few others, and I sat in the shade of the visitor’s center while Inez scrambled to the top of a hill to view the Temple of Hatshepsut. Caron was noticeably less fervent as she tagged along.

  The following day Salima arrived in the van with Bakr, and we toured the half-dozen tombs in the Valley of the Queens. Salima had arranged special passes for us to visit the tomb of Nefertari, often closed to visitors. The spectacular wall paintings of the pharaoh’s wife and a pantheon of gods and goddesses overwhelmed us. Salima provided the standard tourist spiel, but in a soft, lilting tone. Inez was speechless, and periodically pulled off her glasses to wipe her eyes. It was a pleasant respite from her incessant recitation of names and dates.

  Afterward, we returned to the van to swill water from Bakr’s stash of bottles and gaze at the valley, wider than that of the kings and less popular with the tourists. “Shall we call it a day?” I asked.

  “I am drenched in perspiration,” Caron said. “If I don’t have a shower soon, my pores will literally shut down.”

  Inez, still resolutely dressed in her increasingly sweat-stained khakis, glanced up from one of her guidebooks and nodded.

  I looked at Salima. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind terribly, I thought I’d go back to the hotel with you. I’m having dinner at seven with the group from the University of Chicago, but I don’t want to arrive early. I’ll end up having a frightful row with someone. We don’t always agree on restoration and preservation issues, and some of them”—she rolled her eyes—“are appallingly opinionated.”

  “Then why are you going?” I asked as Bakr started the van.

  “There are times when one needs to have a frightful row to invigorate oneself. I suspect that’s the best reason for getting married.”

  “Perhaps,” I murmured, thinking of some of the disagreements I’d had with Peter in the past. I would never describe them as “frightful rows,” but he had been known to become rather testy when he felt as though I was interfering in an official police investigation. He never seemed to grasp that I was merely doing my civic duty to assist the authorities in their pursuit of justice. Now that I had married him, I would retire to a less stressful life of selling books and flipping through decorator magazines. In two years, Caron would be in college, preferably one that was not within easy driving distance. I looked out the window at the bleak lunar landscape, devoid of any trace of vitality or passion.

  Caron poked Salima’s arm. “Are you sure you’re not hoping Alexander might drop by the suite for a cocktail?”

  “Alexander?” she said. “Oh, you mean the cheeky bastard from London? I should say not. I ran into too many of his kind at Cambridge. There is a reason behind the cliché about the ne’er-do-well offspring of the peers of the realm. Vapid, spoiled, and insufferably smug. The only calluses on their hands come from wielding a cricket bat.”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Inez said without looking up.

  “Don’t be such a child,” Salima retorted sulkily.

  I agreed with Inez, but I wisely remained silent as we drove back across the bridge and through the crowded streets of Luxor. Bakr dropped us off at the hotel entrance. To my dismay, Sittermann waylaid us as soon as we entered the lobby.

  “Well, isn’t this a coincidence!” he boomed. “I was just about to leave a message for you, but here you are right in front of me. Who’s this most fetching young lady? Not another one of your fillies, surely.”

  I could see Ahmed hovering behind a pillar, wringing his hands. I
had no idea why he was agitated, unless he had tipped off Sittermann about the likely time of our return. If he had, I thought grimly, he would need Osiris’s intervention to save himself. “This is Mr. Sittermann, from Texas,” I said through clenched teeth. “Salima el-Musafira, a noted Egyptologist.”

  “I’m tickled pink to meet you, honey,” Sittermann said. “Why don’t you all join us out on the terrace for a drink?”

  “I think we’d prefer to go upstairs,” I said quickly.

  He beamed at me. “Yeah, that would be a sight nicer, wouldn’t it? I’ll just get my group together and we’ll be on your heels. In fact, I’ll have the restaurant send up some platters of finger food and we can have ourselves a proper party. You don’t have to do a thing, Mrs. Malloy. I’ll take care of ice, glasses, and whiskey. See you in ten minutes, give or take.”

  He was gone before I could protest. Ahmed had managed to fade into the decor and, if he had any sense, would continue to stay there for a few days. For his sake, I hoped he’d pocketed a goodly sum.

  “It seems that we’re having a party,” I said as we rode the elevator to the second floor.

  “Maybe you are,” Caron said. “I’m going to exfoliate my pores. It will take hours.”

  Inez took off her canvas hat and tucked it in a pocket. “The hotel has an Internet connection, and I promised my parents that I’d e-mail them once a week. I don’t know how much it costs, but—”