by Bill Doyle
Copyright
Photos: pp. 12, 59/Ablestock; p. 56/Atif Toor; p. 70/Library of Congress; p. 141/Riccardo Salmona The Inspector photos: p. 1/Barry Sweet/Zuma Press/Newscom; p. 2 (top left, top right)/Ablestock, (center)/Library of Congress, (bottom left)/OAR/National Undersea Research Program (NURP)/NOAA, (bottom right)/NASA Marshall Space Flight Center (NASA-MSFC); p. 3 (top)/Paramount Pictures/Zuma Press/Newscom, (bottom)/Lucas Film Ltd/Zuma Press/ Newscom; p. 4 (top, center right)/KPA/Zuma Press/Newscom, (center left, bottom)/Ablestock
Text copyright © 2006 by Bill Doyle
Compilation, illustrations, and design copyright © 2006 by Nancy Hall, Inc.
Crime Through Time is a trademark of Nancy Hall, Inc.
Developed by Nancy Hall, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/littlebrown
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-08535-9
Contents
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
July 8, 1977: 3:25 PM
JULY 9, 1977: 3:25 PM
JULY 9, 1977: 4:15 PM
JULY 15, 1977: 1:50 PM
JULY 16, 1977: 4:25 PM • CINCINNATI, OHIO
JULY 16, 1977: 7:30 PM
JULY 29, 1977: 8:20 AM •CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
JULY 29, 1977: 5:00 PM
AUGUST 2, 1977: 5:10 PM
AUGUST 3, 1977: 12:30 PM
AUGUST 4, 1977: 10:45 AM
AUGUST 4, 1977: 2:00 PM
AUGUST 4, 1977: 2:55 PM
AUGUST 4, 1977: 3:15 PM
AUGUST 4, 1977: 4:25 PM
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Unravel the mystery with real historical crime-solving methods!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A thank-you of historic proportions to Nancy Hall for making this book and the Crime Through Time series a reality. To kirsten Hall for her insightful grasp of the overall picture, to Linda Falken for her skillful editing and amazing eagle-eye for detail, and to Atif Toor for bringing the books alive visually.
Special thanks to the editors at Little, Brown: Andrea Spooner, Jennifer Hunt, phoebe Sorkin, and Rebekah Rush Mckay, who are always dead-on, always incisive, and never discouraging. And thanks to Riccardo salmona for his constant support.
Our old school bus felt more like a roasting pan!
July 8, 1977
3:25 PM
A mummy is right behind me!
It feels weird to write that in my journal, but it’s true. An ancient Egyptian pharaoh is following our bus as we rumble down Highway 55 toward New Orleans.
But I’d bet my favorite Donna Summer record that the mummy’s having a much better trip than I am. The pharaoh is cruising along in a heavily guarded truck that has airconditioning to protect his 3,300-year-old body from decay. And special shock absorbers to keep the fifty priceless items from his tomb from bouncing around.
Can’t say the same about our ride. Each pebble we run over sends a giant jolt through the old school bus. The springs poking out of the cheap vinyl seats are jabbing into my backside. And forget about pleasant temperatures—unless you like the desert. Even with all the windows open, the summer sun is cooking us like bugs in a can.
At first, the other twenty kids on board didn’t seem to notice. They were too busy being yelled at by the dance instructor, Madame Katerina. She rocked back and forth in the aisle, her plump body wedged between two seats. Everything about her is fierce: from her extremely tight orange headscarf to the way she slams down the end of her ballet stick when she’s upset.
Madame Katerina
“Attention, you, my babies!” she shouted, her Russian accent rising above the clanking of the bus and the rushing wind. “First off,” she said, “you are most laziest of all dancers in world!”
A few of the kids area little older, but most are fourteen-year-olds, like me—Madame Katarina just calls them “my babies.”
She pressed a button on the 8-track tape player on the seat next to her. “Listen to this and concentrate,” she ordered as the sweaty air filled with the hot new disco tunes of the Bee Gees.
“1, 2, 3…4! 1, 2, 3…4!” she repeated over and over, ramming her stick down in rhythm. I could hear the kids going through the steps of the dance around me. She gave each of them a long, scrutinizing look as if she could see their feet moving under the bench seats. I tried tapping my foot in time to the music, but it jerked around like a remote-control toy gone haywire. My brain just wasn’t sending down the right signals, and I gave up.
Okay, I’m a detective—not a dancer. So luckily, I didn’t have to pay attention to Madame Katerina and could check out the scenery zipping by outside my window.
There were actually people out there lining the sides of the highway! They were cheering as our bus rattled by. Little kids sat on their parents’ shoulders, waving their hands and shouting. It’s like I’m traveling with The Fonz or Mark Spitz. As I looked at the starstruck faces, it was clear to me that America had fallen head over heels for the mummy in the truck behind our bus—King Tut.
TUT-TUT, HOREMHEB
The Egyptian pharaoh King Tutankhamen-better known as King Tut—was born around 1341 BCE His name means “the living image of Aten,” who was a god worshiped by ancient Egyptians. Tut took the throne when he was only eight or nine years old and was already married to a girl of about the same age. At the time, Egypt was a superpower, and the boy ruled over as many as 1.5 million people. Tut’s reign was short, ending when he died at eighteen or nineteen. A later pharaoh, Horemheb, wanted to be the only ruler that the Egyptians remembered and tried to wipe out traces of Tut’s existence. But by hiding Tut’s tomb, Horemheb protected it from grave robbers and ensured that it would be discovered almost completely intact thousands of years later. In other words, because Horemheb wanted him forgotten, Tut will be remembered forever.
A bunch of Tut’s fans were holding up signs. They read:
KING TUT (STILL) RULES!
I’M A TUT MANIAC!
I LOVE THE PHARAOH
MORE THAN MY CAMARO!
The signs helped make me feel like I was part of something important. I was just starting to think that maybe clattering along in this sauna with wheels all summer was worth it.
And then—
BEWARE!!!
THE MUMMY’S CURSE!
The letters of this last sign dripped with thick black paint. It was held by a grim-looking man wearing a dirty sweat suit. Even in the heat, I felt a chill run down my spine.
No one else on the bus seemed to notice, and I turned to look again, but the man had already disappeared as we rounded a turn. I shook off the weird feeling—I’m normally too practical to be affected by superstition. It must be that I’ve never left Nebraska before, and I’m feeling a little homesick for Mom and Dad.
Mom and Dad
They are staying at home our cattle ranch outside Omaha, while my twin brother, R.T., and I are spending our summer vacation on the road. We’ve been hired by TEENS FOR TUT, a disco television show that travels from cite to cite with the King Tut exhibition.
Maybe “hired” is the wrong word. Sure, we do tons of work—R.T.’s a dancer, and I work behind the scenes—but we don’t get paid or anything. Mr. Myles, the producer of the show, says we get to see the country and spread the joy of entertainment—what do we need with money? Out of the goodness of his heart, he will feed us and provide a room in one of the trailers.
After school let out for the summer, her cast and crew met in St. Louis. We rehearsed there for a week before heading off to New Orleans for our first show.
What do I know about disco? Not much. This whole thing was my brother’s idea. He told Mr. Myles he wouldn’t go unless they invited me along, too.
TEENS FOR TUT PRODUCTIONS
ST. LOUIS MISSOURI 57478
May 3, 1977
Dr. and Mrs. Randall Moorie
Bural Route #4
Hartland, Nebraska 54393
Dear Dr. and Mrs. Moorie,
Congratulations! Your son R.T. has been accepted to dance in the chorus of Teens for Tut! Please sign the enclosed legally binding contract and fallow the attached directions to our first rehearsal in St. Louis.
Yours in Disco,
Mr. Nathaniel J. Myles, Producer
P.S per your son’s “take it or leave it” request, we are willing “to take” your other son, Zeke. I suppose we’ll find something for him to do backstage.
That last part of the letter is about me. That’s the way it usually goes with R.T. and me—he’s the star. Most people would think I’d be jealous of him. But I’m not jealous—curious is a better description. I mean, how can twins be so different?
My brother is tall, handsome, athletic, a great dancer—and I’m… well, I’m not. Back home he’ll jump on a horse that’s just been broken that day and ride it bareback. And I still like the pony, Teddy, I god when I was eight.
R.T.’s a great guy, though, and would never rub my face in it. If anything, he says he’s jealous of me. He thinks I ended up with all the brains. “I’d kill to be able solve cases the way you and Dad do,” he told me once when I was feeling sorry for myself. Dad is an expert at detecting scams and cons. “I’d love to be like you, Enigma.”
It’s true cryptanalysis just comes naturally to me. At times, I find myself slipping into what our family friend Judge Pinkerton calls the code zone. The way some people just look up into the sky and see clouds, I can look at something—the bricks of a building or words on a page—and suddenly, I see numbers, codes, and hidden patterns.
R.T. Calls me “enigma” sometimes because the Enigma was a code machine used in World war II, and I’m so good at breaking and writing codes.
Say I just glance at a pineapple—I’ll feel something like a little itch at the back of my brain and then—BLAM! I’m in the Code Zone and the number 8 and 13 pop out at me.
In pineapples and pinecones, it’s easy to spot two different kinds of spirals. One running clockwise, has 18 spirals, and the other in the opposite direction, has 8 spirals. IT’S ALWAYS THE SAME!
Like everyone in my family, R.T.’s a good detective, too. But his specialty is a little more social. He’s better at figuring out what makes people happy—and he loves telling jokes.
In fact, he’s telling one right now. Madame Katerina has stopped yelling at the dancers and is talking to Mr. Myles at the front of the bus—so R.T. is setting up the punch line to a joke.
“That’s when the duck says to the pharaoh, he says…” R.T. is slapping his forehead as if trying to remember how it ends. The kids around him are hanging on his every word as if he’s telling them the meaning of life. Uh-oh. R.T. just turned toward me, pushing back his thick blonde hair. I know what’s coming next…
“Hey, Enigma, what’s the punch line?”
The other kids looked at me and waited for me to say something. But I just stared back.
R.T.’s smile dipped slightly with worry. He was just trying to include me, and it was going wrong. “You know… that duck joke?” he prodded me gently. “How’s it go?”
“I… I…,” I stammered. I couldn’t think. Attention like that makes me freeze up. I get stage fright and my mind goes blank.
Come on! COME ON! I shouted at myself.
“The duck says…” My voice trailed off into nervous silence. How could I be so smart about tough things and so dumb about this simple stuff? I felt pathetic. R.T. gave me a wink, which meant, “No big deal. Don’t worry about it.”
Snapping his fingers, he said to everyone else, “I remember! The duck says to the pharaoh, ‘I sphinx, therefore I am!’”
The other kids laugh and slap R.T. on the back like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Thanks to him, they’re already forgetting about how stupid I acted.
“We love you, King Tut!” a woman standing by the road just shouted at the bus.
Great, I thought. Nothing like traveling with a 3,300-hundred-year-old mummy who is better with people than you are to really build your confidence!
Food tables were set up in the parking lot.
JULY 9, 1977
3:25 PM
This morning, I woke up at seven o’clock in the tiny room I share with R.T. There was no morning sun streaming through the windows—because there were no windows!
Our room is like a closet with a bunk bed (R.T. gets the top, I get the bottom). We use the bus to travel from city to city, but at night, we climb aboard one of the two trailers. Each one has been split into seven mini bedrooms, giving the twenty-eight members of the cast and crew a place to sleep.
Yesterday, the whole caravan—including the two trucks that carried King Tut and his treasures—pulled into the back parking lot of the New Orleans History Museum. It’s kind of like camping out—if your campground was a big, greasy concrete slab where cars usually park. But not everyone has to stay here. After Tut’s treasures are safely loaded into the museum, the guards who watch over the exhibit while it’s on the road get to stay in fancy hotels.
When a few of the kids in the TEENS FOR TUT had complained that this was unfair, Mr. Myles just shrugged and said, “But you kids get the applause after the show! That’s worth more than all the hotel rooms in the world.”
The show! My heart skipped a few beats when I realized we had a television show to do in just a few hours.
From my bunk, I kicked the bottom of R.T.’s thin mattress to wake him up. He mumbled something, and I could hear him turn over and start snoring again.
I decided to get going without him. After changing into my cut-off jeans and my favorite T-shirt (the one that says SWEET!), I squeezed out the door.
The sun had just come up, but you could tell it was going to be a scorcher. Most of the dancers were already up and hovering around two long tables that had been set up near the bus. Madame Katerina darted here and there in a flurry of activity as she organized breakfast. The tables were heaped with all sorts of fruits, doughnuts, muffins, juices, and other treats.
I walked over and reached for a strawberry pastry (my favorite), and out of nowhere, a hand slapped mine. It was Madame Katerina. She said, “No! You are crew. Dancers eat the first. Then you!”
Food for the cast and crew was called “craft services.” (I always thought there should be knitting needles or construction paper.)
Embarrassed, I took a step back and waited for the other kids to fill their plates. Everyone seemed nervous and on edge. I guess it’s because the show was scheduled for 3:00 in the afternoon. That only gave them seven hours to get ready.
And it’s not like I didn’t have anything to do. I’m the production assistant or P.A. It’s my job to do… well, everything that no one else wants to do. Like making sure the dancers are ready to go onstage, that all the props are set and working, that Mr. Myles’s cup of coffee is made with six packets of sugar.
By the time it was my turn to go through the line, all that was left was a squashed banana and a crumbled piece of toast.
Madame Katerina grabbed the banana before I could and tossed it on another boy’s plate. “Dancers must be strong and vital to perform,” she told the boy. “Especially since my Muse came to me last night!”
“No, not your Muse!” The boy with my banana cried, and a few of the other kids groaned.
Madame Katerina claimed to be in contact with the Muse of Dance, who visited her dreams. When Madame Katerina got a visit, the dance w
as usually drastically altered.
“Yes, is right,” Madame Katerina said fiercely. “The Muse demands the dance must be changed.”
“That’s not fair,” a tall chorus dancer whined through a mouthful of apple. “We’ve been working on that dance for weeks, and the show is in just a few hours!”
Madame Katerina turned toward her. “I will not stand for—”
She broke off as R.T. emerged from the trailer. He must have snuck two cinnamon buns from dinner last night—he was always hoarding food. Now, he held them up to his ears like Princess Leia from that new sci-fi movie STAR WARS.
R.T. kidding around
With the buns to his ears, he announced, “Boy, breakfast SOUNDS so good!”
Okay, the joke definitely isn’t funny when I write it down here in my journal, but the way R.T. says things, they can be really hilarious.
Everyone laughed, even Madame Katerina. But she quickly got back to business. “Enough games!” she bellowed, whapping her stick on the ground. “Now is work time. All dancers come with me over to end of parking lot, and I will show you new dance steps from my Muse. You in crew, time for work.”
With another group groan, the dancers followed her across the lot. R.T walked by me, munching on one of his “ears.” He said, “See you later, Enigma.”
“See you,” I said and headed into the museum to get to work.
Here’s how we were supposed to set up.
The auditorium where the show would be held was a disaster. Crates, pipes, ropes, lights, everything was scattered across the stage. I walked over to two burly guys, and they put me to work helping to assemble the dance floor.
The dance performance takes place on a giant mobile disco floor. The floor is made up of 225 different-colored boxes. Each box contains a light bulb that lights up when a dancer steps on it. The floor looks like this:
