Mummy Dearest (21 page)

I pushed aside my coffee. “If Buffy’s still alive, she’s liable to be in a filthy little mud house, sleeping on a dirt floor and eating rancid meat. She may have been beaten and raped.”

“Not her,” Caron said, jabbing at a turkey sausage.

I waved off the waiter, who had an eye on my coffee cup. “Your naïveté is absurd, as well as petty and selfish, and I don’t want any more of it. If you can’t find any sympathy, then keep your mouth closed.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Poor Buffy. I hope she’s surviving without her curling iron.” Ignoring my hiss, she took a bite of a roll and gazed at the temples. “I got up with Inez this morning to watch the sunrise. It was pretty cool until that rich woman wiggled her way to the railing between us and started asking Inez about Hathor and those people. After that, I might as well have been bird poop.”

I was beginning to understand Caron’s snit. “Listen, dear, fellow travelers can become very chummy, especially in a foreign country, but once they get home …”

“Mitzi invited Inez to fly with her to Cairo on her private jet, and then on to Greece for a Mediterranean cruise on her yacht.”

“And?” I said, trying not to gulp so loudly the waiter felt obliged to thump me on the back.

“Inez said she didn’t think she could, but her voice trembled. Mitzi must think Inez is some sort of biped encyclopedia just because she can spout off all that stuff about pharaohs and gods. Inez isn’t going to impress anybody with her vast knowledge of ancient Greece. She nearly threw up when she had to be in a skit based on
Lysistrata
in Mrs. McLair’s class, and she thinks the story about Leda and the swan is out of a bird-watchers’ guidebook.”

“You don’t need to worry about Mitzi’s invitation. Peter’s arranged for our luggage to be taken ashore while we’re at the temple, and we’ll head from there to the airport. A private jet sounds nice, but we’ll be on a commercial airline to Luxor. I’m not sure when we’ll go to Cairo. The middle of next week, maybe.”

Caron made a face. “I sounded pretty juvenile, didn’t I? Is it too late to plead jet lag?”

“Much too late,” I said sternly. “I’ll allow you this one display of petulance. You’re entitled to be a bit overwhelmed by everything that’s happened in the last month, including the wedding. You don’t have to think of Peter as your stepfather unless you want to. He can just be my husband.”

“I haven’t decided. I was pissed off yesterday when he acted like he had the right to send me to my cabin, even if I deserved it. Then again, I would have been pissed off at you, too. Maybe it’s okay.” She put down her napkin. “I’d better finish packing. Do you know where Inez is?”

I did, but I shrugged and watched Caron go down the steps. She and I had never sat down and discussed her feelings about Peter. She’d occasionally resented his presence
over the last several years, but she’d resented almost everything at one time or another, including the weather, her class schedule, her lack of designer jeans, and my rare demands that she fill in for me at the Book Depot. I was so accustomed to her outbursts that I seldom listened to the nuances. I hoped I wasn’t like the cheerful residents of Pompeii, oblivious to Vesuvius when it began to spew a little smoke.

The waiter cracked under the strain and began to sweep crumbs off the table. I returned to the cabin, made sure I hadn’t overlooked any of my or Peter’s things, and went to the lounge. The other passengers began to filter in for a final cup of coffee or tea before boarding the launches. Most of them were sailing back to Aswan, stopping at a few more sites along the way. Although I am not at all claustrophobic, I was eager to escape the tiny cabin and the forced camaraderie. Dennis, who’d given Peter the memory disc from his camera (after requiring a signed note promising it would be returned), and Joel stopped to wish me a pleasant flight to Luxor, then went outside to jockey for seats in the first launch. Eventually, the rest of my party joined me. When I glanced inquiringly at Peter, he shook his head. Caron and Inez were both silent as well. It did not bode well for a jolly outing.

The launch deposited us on what was nothing more than a ledge. For the first time, I could see the stairs that led all the way to the top of the hillside. I eyed them unhappily. My calves still ached from the interminable hike at Maharakka, Dakka, and Wadi es Sebua. This was worse.

“I don’t suppose that’s an escalator,” I said to Peter as we sidled along the ledge to a slightly wider patch of dirt and loose rocks.

Grinning, he took my hand. “One step at a time.”

The other passengers were progressing like a swarm of ants. I took a deep breath, and we began the ascent. Someone had been thoughtful enough to design places to sit along the way. I availed myself of them as necessary, then glumly watched elderly passengers hurry past us, chatting
cheerfully as they went. Eventually we arrived at the top of what proved to be more than eighty torturous steps, then walked down a steep path to the facades of the two temples.

Several tour groups were already there, taking photos while their guides droned about the intricacies of the design. I found a rock of acceptable height and sat down to pull off my shoes and massage my feet. I declined Peter’s invitation to go inside the temple, trying not to think about the walk back up the hill to the tourist center. When we got to Luxor, I vowed to spend countless hours in a hot, bubbly bath, sipping icy drinks and making peace with my legs and feet.

Eventually, Peter, Caron, and Inez emerged from the second temple and we trooped up the hill. The girls lagged behind us, whispering to each other. I was relieved that they were more amiable, since I had no enthusiasm for further bickering. When we arrived at the center, Peter and I found a shady café table while Caron and Inez shopped at the rows of stalls that undoubtedly had the exact same things as every other tourist destination in Egypt. There had to be a market for tacky T-shirts and amateurish replicas of tomb relics, but I had no theory about the demographics of the buyers.

A private car was waiting for us. The ride to the airport and the flight back to Luxor were unremarkable. No one seemed inclined to discuss Buffy, and what conversation there was concerned the amenities on the ship. Caron refrained from making snide remarks about Mitizi, and Inez kept her nose in one of her travel books. Bakr was waiting for us at the airport. He greeted us enthusiastically, loaded our luggage, and drove us to the Winter Palace.

As usual, Ahmed was lurking in the lobby. “Mr. Rosen and dear
Sitt
Malloy-Rosen,” he gushed, grasping my hand in a moist clamp, “I hope you enjoyed the cruise. Egyptians are very proud of the dam at Aswan and the prosperity it has brought us. Were the accommodations on the ship to your liking? Have you had lunch?
Sitt
Malloy-Rosen, I have saved many newspapers for you. Abdullah will bring
them up immediately. You have both received messages. If you will allow me a moment to find them, I will—”

“Send them to the suite,” Peter said. He led me to the elevator and pushed the button. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to Mahmoud’s office. We need prints of the photos of Buffy and the horsemen to distribute to the military. Why don’t you and the girls order room service?”

Before I could respond, I found myself staring at his back as he hurried toward the lobby. The elevator doors opened. “Do you want to wait for room service?” I asked Caron and Inez.

“I think I’ll check e-mail first,” Inez said, blinking at me like an owlet.

“We’ll eat at the restaurant,” Caron added. “See you later.”

I rode the elevator in solitude, annoyed at being so handily dismissed. A cleaning cart in the hall was the only suggestion of life on the third floor. I let myself into the Presidential Suite and went out to the balcony. It felt very much like home, although my apartment in Farberville was hardly as posh. Peter and I had not had time to look at houses, since he’d been off learning how to be a spook before and after the wedding. I was gazing at my ring to assure myself that we were indeed married when Abdullah appeared at my side.

“Your newspaper and messages,
Sitt
Malloy,” he said gravely. “I also brought a bucket of ice and some fresh fruit. Will you be ordering room service?”

“Did you miss me, Abdullah?”

“Yes,
Sitt
, as did Lord Bledrock and his group. You will find an invitation for a cocktail party among the messages. I believe they have heard rumors about the young American lady who has gone missing.”

“What have you heard?” I asked him.

“Nothing more than gossip at the cafés and shops. There are more police officers on the street and at the tourist sites. I myself was asked to provide identification when I came to work this morning. Hotel security has placed a metal detector
at the service entrance, which made many of us late to our work.”

I tried to read his expression, but I might have had more luck with a newspaper in Arabic. “So what do you make of it, Abdullah? Was Miss Franz snatched by a couple of brash young men, or is there something more sinister going on?”

“That is not for me to say,
Sitt.
Please let me know if you require anything else.” He glided across the living room and out the front door.

I hadn’t really expected him to confide in me. I sat down and glanced through the messages. The majority of them were for Peter and came from the embassy as well as purported international investment firms that might as well announce themselves as “Spies ‘R’ Us.” I paused as I found a message asking me to call Luanne Bradshaw. It was curious—and alarming. Luanne was not the sort to expect an update on my honeymoon, especially when it involved the machinations of an international call. I squinted at the lengthy string of digits necessary to call her back. Peter probably knew how to call London, Paris, CIA headquarters, and the North Pole, but I didn’t want to wait for him to come back from the police station.

I was dithering when Alexander breezed into the suite, bearing a tray with covered dishes. He set it down on the table. “I ran into the girls downstairs, and they said you haven’t eaten since breakfast on the ship. I brought you a salad, an omelet, and a selection of pastries. How about a drink?”

“Do you have a key?” I asked with an unfriendly look.

“No. Abdullah saw me struggling and unlocked the door for me. I think he suspects we’re engaging in a bit of hanky-panky. I think the idea is delightful. Is there a chance …?”

“There’s ice by the mini-bar,” I said.

I tucked the messages in my pocket while he availed himself of my less than gracious hospitality, and picked at the salad when he joined me. Feeling guilty, I said, “Thank you for bringing me lunch, Alexander. I understand rumors
have been flying up and down the staid corridors of the hotel. What’s the current theory?”

He poked his finger in his drink to stir it. “Ransom. The girl’s father will pay a small fortune for her return. The Arabs who took her will be more than willing to give her back for Hummers, which are a lot more useful than spoiled California princesses. They’ve already realized that they can’t get more than a hundred camels for her. Mrs. McHaver is quite certain that the girl’s virtue has been tarnished beyond redemption, but she’s an anomaly from the Victorian era. My father, in contrast, is concerned about potential international repercussions.”

“He’s a politician? I thought he was more into riding to the hounds, shooting pheasants, and pinching parlor maids.”

“He has no interest in politics, I assure you, and hardly ever bothers to show up at the House of Lords. He’s worried that enhanced security at the docks will make it more challenging to slip antiquities out of Egypt. It could be awkward if the contents of some of his crates were subjected to proper documentation.”

“The Baron of Rochland deals in black-market antiquities?” I said, almost choking on a bite of tomato. I set down my fork and stared at him.

“I did mention his private collection, if I recall. Not all of it would stand up to scrutiny. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a glass of wine with your lunch? There’s a decent selection in the cabinet.”

“No,” I said distractedly, picturing Lord Bledrock creeping around a freighter in the middle of the night, dressed in black, his white hair tucked under a knitted cap. The image came straight out of a 1940s movie, complete with heavy fog and the raspy reverberation of the ship’s horn. Miriam McHaver in the shadows, tears welling in her eyes. Sittermann in a trench coat, prowling like a feral cat.

Alexander finished his drink. “If all you’re going to do is gape at the lovely lunch that I brought you, I shall be on my way. Perhaps you’ll be more sociable at the little party this evening. You and your husband must come. There’s been a
curious increase in activity at the excavation site. Farewell, my lovely Mrs. Malloy.”

I gave up on my noir fantasy and ate enough to tide me over until tea. After I’d replaced the covers on the plates, I went into the parlor and sat down by the telephone. Rather than tackling the innumerable numbers required to call Luanne, I punched the button for the concierge’s desk and asked him to put through the call. A minute later, Luanne answered the phone with her typical Yankee briskness.

“Hey,” I said. “What happened?”

She ignored my question and asked about the flight, the hotel, and so on. I obliged with somewhat terse answers, aware that the meter was running, then brought the conversation back to her message to call me.

“Strangest thing,” she said slowly. “I went by your apartment last night to water that pathetic weed you call a houseplant. I’m not sure, but I got the impression that someone had searched your apartment. It wasn’t obvious. Superficially, no one would have even noticed. The contents of your drawers and cabinets were almost too neat, as if someone had moved them and then very carefully replaced them. The stack of books by your bed was too precisely aligned. The patina of dust on the furniture was gone. What really caught me was that whoever was there was so overwhelmed with pity for your houseplant that he couldn’t stop himself from watering it. I have to admit it was turning yellow and dropping leaves, but I thought it was pining for you.”