Mummy Dearest (32 page)

I was feeling rather sorry for myself when Caron and Inez burst into the room. “Mother!” Caron shrieked. “You rescued her! Everybody in the hotel is going crazy! Ahmed is going to send you an enormous bouquet of roses. The
bellmen all clapped when Inez and I went by them, like we were on the red carpet.”

“It was really cool,” Inez added, unable to match Caron’s fervent pitch but doing her best. “Everybody’s coming up to congratulate you.” She noticed my attire. “You might want to get dressed.”

“Everybody?” I echoed, appalled. “Shouldn’t Buffy be getting all the hoopla?”

“That inspector friend of Peter’s is in the lobby,” Caron said. “As soon as Buffy cleans up, he’s going to take her to the police station to get her statement. He told us to remind you to stay here until he can talk to you.”

“Did he mention Peter?” I asked.

Caron poked my shoulder. “He didn’t say. You’ve only got a few minutes, Mother. I’ll be so humiliated if you don’t put on some clothes and makeup. You look like boiled beef.”

I was putting on shorts and a shirt when the partygoers arrived. I could hear Lord Bledrock issuing orders to employees about where to arrange the ice, glasses, and bottles. Mrs. McHaver’s cane thumped as she swept around the room. Miss Cordelia and Miss Portia laughed shrilly at some remark. I couldn’t hear Miriam’s voice, but I would have been shocked if I had. Alexander requested orders for drinks. Lady Emerson commented peevishly about food. Furniture scraped as it was dragged in from the balcony. Magritta demanded a martini, easy on the vermouth.

I was considering my chances of slipping out the bedroom door to the hall and scampering downstairs when I heard Sittermann’s drawling voice. I was so stunned by his audacity that I was unable to finish buttoning my shirt.

“I learned long before God made little green apples that you can never trust a skinny lawyer or a redheaded woman,” he said. “I knew when I first set eyes on Mrs. Malloy that she was a spunky broad. She could grab ol’ Satan by the tail and swing him around her head if she had a mind to. She reminds me of this gal I knew up in Amarillo, name of Pearly
Sue. She had a no-good husband what went every Saturday night to get drunk and find himself a cheap hooker. Well, Pearly Sue got mighty fed up, so she bought herself a dinky little chain saw and—”

“Sittermann,” Lord Bledrock said sternly, “there are ladies present. You really must watch your language.”

“But do continue,” said Miss Portia.

I managed the last button and banged open the door to the sitting room. “My goodness,” I said in a flat voice. “What a surprise to find all of you here.”

Sittermann had the sense to close his mouth and move into a corner. Mrs. McHaver whacked her cane on the coffee table. “We must drink a toast to Mrs. Malloy for her courage and ingenuity. Not all of us would be so foolhardy as to rush into danger without regard to the consequences to ourselves and others.”

“Jolly good job,” said Lord Bledrock.

The others repeated the sentiment and downed their drinks while I stood and watched. Alexander came to my rescue with a scotch and water and kept his hand on my arm until I was seated in one of the upholstered chairs. Miriam brought me a plate of hors d’oeuvres and a napkin. “You must be exhausted,” she whispered.

I was too hungry to answer. Lady Emerson gave me a few minutes to wolf down pastry triangles filled with cheese, grape leaves rolled around rice and minced lamb, and pickled vegetables. “Slow down, Mrs. Malloy,” she said. “You’re liable to end up with a tummy ache. We’re dying to hear what happened at the Kharga Oasis. Buffy was able to tell us some of it in the lobby, before she left with the police inspector to give them a statement. You must have been terrified when the men attacked you in the hall outside her door. She said she nearly fainted when she heard shots.”

“Forcing you to not only disarm them but knock them unconscious,” said Miriam. “I wouldn’t know how to start.”

“How many were there?” Mrs. McHaver asked. “Buffy estimated at least six, and possibly more.”

“Don’t forget the woman in the lobby.” Lord Bledrock thumped my shoulder. “She was armed as well. How did you manage to wrest the keys from her?”

I held up my hand. “It wasn’t nearly that dramatic.”

“Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Malloy,” Sittermann said, giving me a sly smile. “Most women would leap at the chance to be heroines, but you just sit there looking all demure. Why, I do believe you’re blushing. Ain’t that the sweetest thing!”

My face was hot, but not from any feigned exhibition of modesty. Under different circumstances (as he well knew), I would have dashed the contents of my glass in his face, then requested a refill so I could do it again. I forced myself to look away. Caron and Inez were huddled in a corner, both of them more interested in watching than contributing to the blather. Alexander wiggled his eyebrows at me. I was not amused. Magritta and Wallace were in the doorway to the balcony. She nodded, but he was too far into his cups to react.

“You haven’t explained, Mrs. Malloy,” Mrs. McHaver said. “We’re waiting.”

“I think,” I said, then paused and listened as they all inhaled in anticipation, “that I need another drink.”

The next hour was surreal. Given an occasional nod or shrug from me, they formulated a story that would have sold to Hollywood in the twinkling of a producer’s eye. Samuel, having received the cryptic message and allowed me to decipher it, had stolen a car and driven to the Kharga Oasis, where he was promptly beaten senseless by thugs and dragged out of the script. I’d stormed the lobby—no, I’d boldly marched into the lobby. Knocked the girl out and tied her up—impossible, too violent—intimidated her with a steely stare (much better). That, of course, wouldn’t slow down the half-dozen maniacal bearded henchmen dressed in flowing robes, daggers between their teeth—all right, a shade too much. Uzis were downgraded to pistols. I’d knocked a man down, grabbed his weapon, and ordered all of them into one room. Shots were exchanged (Alexander
pointed his finger at Caron and made explosive noises; she retaliated as she threw herself behind a chair) and curses rang through the hall. Buffy, chained to the bed frame—tied up, anyway—quivered with fear as the door flew open (Miriam produced a classy quiver). I fired at a man who’d dared to sneak up behind me—terrorists can be so sneaky—then unlocked, untied, Buffy and literally carried her limp body down the stairs (Inez flung herself into Caron’s arms, but Caron wasn’t prepared and they both went over with a thud). We dodged bullets (everybody with the exception of Mrs. McHaver and Wallace began firing their index fingers at me; I obligingly twitched) until we reached the stolen car. I flung Buffy’s body in the backseat and sped down the narrow streets (lots of engines revved) until we reached the highway. Only then did Buffy regain consciousness and sob with gratitude.

It was time for a round of drinks.

I headed for Sittermann, who ducked behind Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia and joined Mrs. McHaver on the sofa. As long as the room was crowded, he could manage to stay on the far side from me. I conceded defeat for the moment and handed my glass to Alexander.

“Have you heard anything more about Shannon’s accident?” I asked him.

“Nothing credible.” He poured my drink and dropped in some ice. “You should have called me before you took off with Samuel. I would have gone with you.”

“I would never disturb a baron’s son before he’s had his breakfast,” I said. “It just isn’t done.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“If you’d been along, I could have gotten both of us killed. It’s funny, though. I was never in any danger. Despite the fanciful tale of my heroics, all I did was accept the key and go unlock Buffy’s door. Nobody tried to stop me. No shots were fired. Buffy was grubby and ill-tempered, but she was okay. I spotted a plate of food and a can of soda under her bed. Maybe she was reluctant to leave because she hadn’t finished her lunch.”

“She didn’t say anything about what happened after the horseman grabbed her and galloped away so dramatically?”

“She didn’t say anything, period. No, that’s not true. She kept insisting that we ought to wait for Samuel. I wasn’t pleased to leave him behind, but he’s capable of getting back here on his own. It’s not as if we left him on a deserted island… and as far as I know, he wasn’t mugged.” I thought for a while as I sipped my drink. “He was gone for more than thirty minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him more than five or ten minutes. The Desert Inn is not a sprawling resort with multiple swimming pools and a golf course.”

Alexander shrugged. “The good inspector will find him. There’s nothing you can do about it. Where’s your friend Salima?”

“Why do you care?” I said. “According to you, she’s a brat, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose she is. My father is glowering at me over an empty glass. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Malloy …”

I glanced at Sittermann, but I could tell he was keeping an eye on me. I considered making my way toward him just to force him to move, then decided to have a word with Magritta instead. She’d propped Wallace in a corner by now and was drinking steadily, as though she aspired to reach his level of alcohol-induced stupor.

“Were you allowed to go back to work today?” I asked her.

“I wasted the day watching the underling from the antiquities department examine every shard we set aside in the last five years. It’s just as well. Without Nabil, I’m going to have to reorganize the crew.” She gave me a bleary look. “You may not have heard. Nabil died of heart failure last night. I’m short of funds, but I’ll scrape together a small sum for his widow. Wallace is taking it badly, as you can see.”

“What’s it been, Maggie? Forty years?” he said, moaning. “Forty backbreaking years, and we haven’t found a mummy. It wouldn’t have to have been a royal. I would have been happy with a dentist or a priest.” He hiccuped. “I would have been happy with a mummified cat. Forty years, and not
even a damn cat.” He hiccuped again, sliding perilously. Magritta caught him and repositioned him. “Not even a damn cat,” he repeated as his eyes closed.

“But you might have found the tomb of Ramses VIII,” I said to Magritta. “The
shabti
has his name on it, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said drily, “in layman’s terms, anyway.”

“And Nabil discovered it at your excavation site.”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

She wasn’t the type to clap her hands with glee, but she was showing no enthusiasm whatsoever. I tried again. “Don’t you believe that’s where Nabil found it?”

“I’m quite sure he found it there.”

“As was Shannon King, right?”

Magritta stared at the bottom of her empty glass. “She believed that’s where Nabil found it. That’s why she went out there two nights ago. The funny thing is that I almost did, too. I don’t buy into any of this supernatural nonsense, but I could hear Oskar forbidding me to go. If there are such things as souls, his is swirling about in the Valley of the Kings. Once he learns ancient Egyptian, he’ll hear some fascinating stories from the pharaohs. I hope they’re fascinating, anyway. Eternity is a very long time.”

Wallace slithered to the floor. She stepped over his outstretched legs and went to the makeshift bar. Caron and Inez joined me.

“These people are obnoxious,” Caron said in the scathing tone she used when adults did not behave properly. “Can we lock ourselves in our bedroom?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said, “as long as you promise not to leave. I have no clue what’s going on, but I’m worried. We’re going to stick together until Peter gets back from Cairo.”

“Are you sure he’s coming back?”

My jaw dropped. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“He’s gotten awfully perturbed in the past when you’ve meddled,” Inez said helpfully.

I was going to point out that rescuing Buffy hardly qualified as mere meddling, but instead sighed and told them to
stay in their bedroom until everyone was gone. To my regret, Wallace was the only one who was not having a lovely time. Magritta had perked up and was arguing with Lady Emerson. Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia had captured Sittermann, each of them clinging to an arm and staring up with an adoring smile. Mrs. McHaver was lecturing the room at large about the intolerable delays caused by official paperwork and general bungling. Alexander was in conversation with Miriam, who looked giddy, while Lord Bledrock flourished an unopened bottle of gin above his head as if it were a trophy. The Fitzwillies were nibbling at hors d’oeuvres like piranhas.

I caught my breath when the door opened. An unfamiliar couple came inside and stopped. “Hi,” the woman gushed, seizing the nearest elbow, which happened to belong to Lord Bledrock. “We’re the Adamses of Morning Glory, Maine. I’m Debbie, and this is Donnie. I believe our son Godfrey was playing cards in the lobby with your”—she looked at him—“granddaughter yesterday.”

“How do you do,” said Lord Bledrock helplessly.

She wiggled her fingers at Sittermann. “When Mr. Sittermann found out we live in Maine, he asked if we knew MacLeod College. I told him it was the funniest coincidence, because our oldest daughter went to MacLeod and graduated two years ago with a degree in musicology. We didn’t know Dr. King, since she was in a different department, but Donnie and I feel awful just the same. Mr. Sittermann insisted that we come up here and share our fond memories with all of you.”

“And have a drink,” Donnie said. “I could use a drink.”

“By all means,” Lord Bledrock said, inching away from the woman. “Alexander is our bartender. He’s my son.”

Mrs. Adams realized she’d stuck her foot in something. She and Donnie went to the bar and waited in mute apprehension until Alexander came over to make them drinks. Minutes later, three teenaged boys peered into the room. Sittermann boomed at them to make themselves at home. I
knocked on the door to Caron and Inez’s room and suggested they come out to entertain their poker friends. Had the hallway been wide enough, I had no doubt Sittermann would have arranged for a tour bus to stop outside the suite and spew out its passengers.

I squeezed through the crowd and sat down next to Wallace. “You and me,” I said, patting his knee, “alone at last.”