by P. N. Elrod
Her home reflected her inner creative drive; cats were everywhere. When he asked, she replied with pride that yes, she had sculpted all of them.
“There are so many different artistic styles,” he said. “My understanding is that an artist strives to perfect his or her own expression.”
“I do that, but I also enjoy exploring the various modes of the past. Each age looked on cats in their own way, and it helps me to understand those lost worlds better when I create something that could have come from a long dead time. Of course, my modern efforts are signed and dated so I’m in no danger of being accused of forgery.”
“You display an amazing range.” Escott compared an elongated Celtic-style carving to one with a distinct Chinese ancestry. “I could swear that these were done by two different artists.”
“It took years of study and experimentation.” She invited him to sit on her couch, and he accepted her offer of sherry. “What I have here are my best efforts, the ones I can’t bear to sell. As you can see, Egyptian is my favorite. It’s clean and pure in form, but can be both staid and playful, depending on one’s approach. . . .” Her enthusiasm for her craft made her pale face light up, creating a hypnotic contrast to her dark hair and eyes.
Eventually they took a tour of her home. It was better than a museum, for she was able to tell exactly how she’d made each of her works, pointing out details he might otherwise have missed. By the time they’d returned to her parlor she sat next to him in a most cozy and unaffected manner.
Cassandra plied him with more sherry and finally asked about her client’s reaction to the statue. Escott gave her a full report.
He concluded: “She told me that you must phone tomorrow so she may express her pleasure personally.”
“Of course. I’m relieved I got the hieroglyphics right. Sometimes taking a commission is a thankless task. A client’s vision is often totally different from what’s in my mind. They are rarely able to describe what they want, and more than once I’ve had pieces rejected because of the client’s own confusion—for which I would get the blame. When an acceptance like this happens it’s something to celebrate.”
Escott congratulated her and privately wondered if she would mind very much if he kissed her. They were seated quite close on her couch. Not quite yet, his inner instinct told him. He expected she would let him know when she was ready.
“Would you like to see my studio?” she asked.
“Very much.”
Standing up was almost embarrassing, but he managed not to sway from a wave of dizziness. Normally two small sherries wouldn’t faze him, but he’d forgotten to eat again. Perhaps that was a good thing. He could ask Cassandra to a late dinner. It shouldn’t take her long to change from her outfit. It looked as though an easy tug on one of the ties would have the whole thing off in a trice.
Happy thought, that.
Cassandra led him down to what would be a basement in any other house. This one had been reconstructed to her needs, though. The ceiling was twelve feet high and decoratively painted. This time the Egyptian influence was undiluted. Birds, flowers, rushes, palm trees, and papyrus plants brought the smooth plaster walls to startling life.
“This is no studio,” he said, entranced. “It is art itself.”
“I knew you would feel it, too,” she said. “Let me show you where I work.”
But as she led him in he saw no sculpting tools, no kiln, no boxes of supplies, no piles of raw clay kept damp under protective cloth, no works in progress, not even a sketch book. This broad room was more like an extravagant film set. Rows of torches marched along its walls. Though their light was obviously electrical, the anachronistic bulbs were carefully concealed by yellow and red tinted glass shaped to look like flames. Some mechanism for the current made them flicker, giving the effect of fire.
At the far end of the chamber stood two tall guardian cats of painted terracotta, larger yet still-elegant versions of the silver one he’d delivered. Between them, standing on its end was a—oh, God, that couldn’t be right—a mummy case? It was open, and within lay a shrunken man-shaped form wrapped with dusty gray bandages.
“You look a little overwhelmed,” said Cassandra. “Here. . .sit a moment.” She eased him onto a low, wide bench covered with hieroglyphics, many of them picked out in gold leaf.
“I-I might mar the finish.”
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “There, that’s much better.”
He had to admit that his dizziness was turning into a great nuisance. Unless he could get it under control this evening would conclude with an ignominious finish. What would she think, him getting drunk on just two—
No, impossible. Even on an empty stomach.
His inner alarm bells rang loud and long, yet he felt strangely distanced from them, strangely slowed. There was a terrific emergency he had to see to, but it seemed miles away. Someone else would deal with it, he was sure.
Smiling down at him beatifically, Cassandra persuaded him to stretch full length upon that low bench. She really was quite breathtaking in the flickering light. For a moment he thought she would kiss him, but she moved out of his rapidly blurring view.
He called after her, futilely. She didn’t come back.
God, he was so tired.
The drink, Hamlet, the drink. . .
Queen Gertrude’s words as she succumbed to poison drifted through his mind. That had always been a hard scene to pull off well. The audience was focused on the excitement of the duel, and then Gertrude had to shift their attention and sympathy over to her. Not easy, but with the right actress. . .
Escott shook his head violently. It made him more dizzy, but woke him up a bit. Right. He had to get out of here. Find some fresh air. He’d send Miss Selk a bill, and that would be the end of it.
But when he tried to sit up, he found his arms to be snugly bound to. . .to. . .he wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t allowing him much movement.
Oh, dear. This was bad.
His surge of panic helped clear his muzzy head enough to stay awake. He had a presentiment that sleeping in this place would prove fatal. Where was Cassandra?
Escott shoved his immediate terror down deep and concentrated on getting loose from the bench or altar or whatever it was. He didn’t want to think of it as an altar, for that implied a sacrifice of some sort.
Bloody hell. . .
He struggled to slip free, and when that didn’t work, he tried to make slack instead. That tightened his bonds, but allowed him movement. By some hard and painful twisting, he was able to get a hand inside his waistcoat pocket where he always kept a pen knife. No longer used to cut quill pens, it served to open his mail, and hopefully the blade would be sharp enough to sever these. . .bandages?
His guts swooped at the sight of so many layers of narrow, wheat-colored linen wrapping his wrists. He looked like a recovering suicide. Careful not to drop the knife, he got the blade open using his thumbnail and began awkwardly sawing away. He couldn’t see what he was cutting or feel much. His hand was numb. Had to work fast, before he lost all feeling, before Cassandra—
He froze at the soft sound of a door opening. Should he pretend to be unconscious? No, better to try talking to her.
She glided close, bare feet whispering against the floor. They darted in and out from the long hem of her gown like shy doves. She wore the same pleated silk garment, but had added wrist cuffs covered with glittering stones, a jeweled belt, and a wide pectoral collar rested on her shoulders. She’d arranged her black hair so that it hung straight, held back from her face by a gold forehead band. He wasn’t sure how historically accurate it might be, but she did look impressive.
Please, God, don’t let her notice the knife. He thought his fingers were closed over it, but couldn’t tell.
“Hello,” he said, as though nothing was amiss. He was surprised at how calm he sounded. All that stage training helped.
“Hello,” she responded, her tone warm and loving. “Don’t be afraid
.”
“Oh, not at all.” Improvisation had never been his strong suit on stage, but it seemed to work well enough here. Desperation turning to inspiration, that had to be it. “Is everything going well?”
She caught her breath, fingers to her red-painted mouth. “I knew, I just knew you were the one.”
“Of course I must be. Your insight is uncanny.”
“But I’ve been misled before. Those who have tried to keep us apart interfered, but I have at last been guided to the clear path. Oh, my love, it’s been such a long and terrible wait.”
“It has. But it’s over now. Please, raise me up that I might embrace you.” He hoped this was what she wanted to hear.
Her eyes blazed with exultation. “Yes, oh, yes! Soon, my love. Soon we will join. Bast has forgiven our transgression. She knows that the world is changed and her chosen ones must change with it. In this life we can be together. That which was once forbidden now has her blessing.”
“How glad I am. My heart sings from it, but I’m not sure I remember everything.” He’d begun sawing at the linen bindings again. If he could keep her talking long enough, distracted. . .
Cassandra seemed as fixed on her delusion as she was about her art. “My poor love, of course you can’t remember, not until you are made whole again. In his rage Ra struck with his sword of gold and sundered your ka in twain. Only part of you lives on in this body, your other half was preserved until such time as Bast could persuade Ra to forgive you as she forgave me.”
Just who or what does she think is in that mummy case? “I deserved mighty Ra’s wrath, did I not?”
“It’s followed you through many lifetimes. Bast revealed them to me, but your suffering is about to end.”
He didn’t care for the sound of that. “What glad news. How will you—ah—heal me?”
“You shall see, my dearest of all dear hearts. You’ll have but the briefest moment of darkness. In that moment your ka will return, and you’ll wake again whole and well.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Each word you speak seems to open my memory. But these bindings are too tight and quite unnecessary. Please, take them away that I may give my ka a proper welcome.”
She stroked his brow with cool fingers. “Soon. Your hold on this life may overpower your willingness to surrender to the next. There are vast forces at work against us. This time we will prevail. This time I will get the ceremony right. There is nothing to fear.”
He held to a brave loving face until she walked from view, then fought another swift jolt of panic. He doubled his sawing efforts, but couldn’t feel anything of his fingers; for all he could tell he could be cutting the wrong bit of fabric.
Cassandra was somewhere by the mummy case, half-chanting, half-singing words he couldn’t understand. Occasionally the name Bast cropped up, and twice he heard Ra mentioned. Their latter-day priestess began pacing around the chamber, carrying a shallow bowl filled with aromatic incense. Clouds of the stuff filled every corner. He hoped it would obscure her vision, for now he was being anything but subtle at trying to cut the bandaging.
Then Cassandra appeared next to him. Her eyes watered freely from the smoke, but she seemed elated. “They have heard my prayers.”
“Good,” he said, resisting the urge to cough. “I feel my ka approaching across the darkness.”
“Not yet. Just one more moment of darkness. . .”
She bent and pulled up a thick and heavy cushion. It was embroidered with more Egyptian motifs. She raised it high like an offering, and called for Bast and Ra to bless what she was about to do.
Abrupt comprehension as to what that would be flooded him. He threw all his strength into tearing his arm free, but though there was some give, the bindings remained fast.
“Cassandra!”
She looked down.
He spoke quickly, trying to keep up with a burst of an idea engendered by her watering eyes. “I beg of you a boon. Something to give me courage in the darkness, for my fear is great.” No lie in that.
“What? The gods won’t be put off.”
“They will for this, they understand. Please, love, let me kiss you on this side of the veil.”
She hesitated. “But why? Soon we will—”
“It’s for you! Once I have passed through the darkness, once my ka has returned, I will kiss you again, and then you will be certain my sundering has been healed. You will know!”
Cassandra lowered the cushion. “Oh, if I had doubts before they flee from me now. You are the one!”
With that, she fairly flung herself upon him. In turn, he managed to summon up an illusion of feeling for her. He hoped she would mistake it for sincere passion rather than shuddering terror. It helped that she helped. Her anticipation for his soul’s restoration had apparently gotten her well into a state of arousal.
He put everything he had into their kiss, and prayed it would be enough. Eventually she collapsed breathless onto his chest, holding him tight. Better and better.
“Soon,” she muttered into his coat, which still bore a liberal coating of Ma’at’s fur. “Very, very soon.”
After a moment, she dragged away, wiping her wet cheeks. Her eyes streamed tears, yet she smiled through them. She sneezed, messily, and grabbed his breast pocket handkerchief. Repairs took a little time and didn’t seem to help. Her kohl-outlined eyes were red and puffy.
“How sweet it will be for us both.” Her voice had grown thick with emotion, but her arms were steady as she picked the cushion up. She raised it again, then brought it down hard on Escott’s face.
He struggled, wrenching to one side, trying to draw air, but his mouth and nose were wholly covered. There was no escape. If he could just hold his breath long enough, she might take him for dead, if he could just—
The terrible smothering weight suddenly lifted. He gasped, filling his starved lungs while he could.
But no second assault came. He could hear Cassandra wheezing like an asthma victim.
Escott dislodged the cushion. It dropped away, but he couldn’t see Cassandra. She was over by the mummy case, panting, trying to speak to her gods. He worked the knife blade. Quickly now, while she was—
Then came the awful gagging sounds, followed by a thump and thrashing.
He frantically hurried to cut free.
By the time he succeeded, it was long over. Cassandra lay curled at the foot of the case, her face rounded like an apple and just as red. Her lips were distended, her swollen tongue showing between them, huge and purple. He hastily turned away and staggered upstairs.
* * *
A few nights later, after he’d had enough to drink, Escott sat in his living room and told his partner what had happened.
Jack Fleming remained quiet through the whole story, moving his long lanky form only once to pour Escott another shot of gin. “Tough spot to be in,” he said. “I don’t know how you could have done things different.”
Escott lifted one hand in a hopeless gesture. The red marks on his wrists were nearly faded. “I thought she would only suffer a sneezing fit, and that would buy me enough time to get free. I had no idea her allergy was so deadly.”
“Is that why you wiped up all your prints and never called the cops?”
“I phoned the police. Once I was well away. Couldn’t just leave her there. But nothing good would come of my involvement. They can draw their own conclusions about how she died—after they’re done digging up her garden. The paper said three bodies have been found so far, and they expect more to follow. Dear God.”
“They couldn’t have nailed you on murder one,” Fleming speculated. “Involuntary manslaughter at the most.”
“Self-defense, I should think.”
“Self-defense? After you let that cat climb all over you?”
“The climbing all over me was the cat’s idea, not mine. I just went along with it.” Escott fell silent, thankful he made the delivery in Cassandra’s name, not his own. With any luck he would remain forever anonymou
s.
Fleming picked up a book next to Escott’s chair. “Reading up on Egypt? Haven’t you had enough of it?”
Escott shrugged. “Knowledge is power. Perhaps if I’d known more I could have talked the woman out of her twisted ceremony. She had an extraordinary talent. Gone now.”
“Learn anything?”
“Nothing relevant to what I went through. I think Miss Selk made up most of it to fit her delusion. However, that cat, the way it took to me. . .I can’t help but think the influence of Bast was indeed involved in some way, and that she used me to stop her erstwhile and misguided priestess. Either Bast or some other goddess.”
Fleming flipped through the book, stopping on a page. “You underlined this name, but the picture’s not a cat, but a woman with a feather. Maat? Is that how you say it?”
“Ma’at, the goddess of order and justice.” Escott grimaced. “What a dread and terrible lady she must be.”
* * * * * *
__________
B O S S M A N
Author’s Note: I was thrilled to get a call asking to trib a story to a collection edited by bestselling author Anne Perry. This one sold to HOROSCOPE MURDER, and while locations and some of the people are real, everything else, happily, is not!
Dallas, Texas, The Present
Elbows on the table, Caitlin read from a new paperback with a gaudy cover. “It says you’re headstrong, you like challenge, conquest, and pursuit, but bore easily once your objective is achieved. That sounds about right.”
“Only because it means I’ve finished my drink,” said Nick Tarrant, suiting action to word. He polished off his Guinness with relish. “Let’s boogie, chickadee.”
