Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (18 page)

See what I mean?

“I wonder how Victorian ladies survived trips to Egypt,” I murmured as I inhaled the heavenly scent of honeysuckle and roses as we ambled along the main path of the garden. “Can you imagine wearing a corset, a dozen petticoats, and those horrid, heavy tight-waisted gowns in some thick fabric like bombazine? I’m glad I live in nineteen twenty-two. At least I don’t have to suffocate for the sake of fashion.”

“True. You look lovely this evening, by the way, Daisy. Of course, you always dress impeccably.”

“Thank you, Harold.” I took his arm. “I appreciate your kind words.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Well . . . yes, I do. I’m careful about my clothing for the sake of my job. Nobody wants to hire a shabby spiritualist, don’t you know.”

He chuckled.

We didn’t walk for long, primarily because, even though I’d taken a nap that afternoon, the remnants of my headache were still hovering at the edges of my brain, and I wanted to take another couple of aspirin and go to bed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit in the saloon for a bit, Daisy? My primary aim in getting you out of Pasadena and into the big, wide world was to introduce you to new people and experiences. You can’t do that if you insist on staying in your room all the time.”

“Harold. You’re one of my very best friends in the entire world, and I love you like a brother. In fact, as much as I love Walter, I’d sooner hang out with you than him because you have my kind of sense of humor. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking me on this magnificent trip. But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go back to the hotel and hit the sack. My headache is coming back, and I’m afraid I’m not interested in Mr. Stackville and his business associates, whom I fear would attempt to monopolize the two of us if we returned to the saloon together.”

“Boy, you really don’t like that guy, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How come?”

I shook my head. “Darned if I know. He just rubs me the wrong way I guess. I can’t point to anything specific and tell you ‘this is why I don’t like this man.’ I suppose that sounds stupid.”

“Actually, it doesn’t. I’ve had reactions like that to certain people. Very well, it’s back to the hotel for us, and I’ll deposit you at your room before heading saloon-wards.” He paused for a moment, and I saw him frown. “I have to admit that we haven’t met too many people so far on our journey with whom I’d care to spend a lot of time. Maybe we should do this again in January or something.”

I laughed out loud for perhaps the second time since Billy died. “Harold! You’re the most generous person I’ve ever met in my life, but I’m not going to allow you to spend another fortune on cheering me up come January. If I don’t feel better by the first of nineteen twenty-three, I suspect I’m going to be a grumpy Gus forever.”

With a sigh, Harold said, “That would be a true shame, Daisy. What’s more, I’m sure Billy wouldn’t want you to act like Queen Victoria after her beloved Albert passed. He’d want you to get on with your life and be as happy as you can be.”

“You’re right, Harold. But I am getting on with my life. I know I won’t feel this awful forever, mainly because that’s impossible.” And because Sam Rotondo had told me so, and he should know. I didn’t say that part to Harold. “Still, it’s going to take time for me to get used to Billy not being in my life. This trip was probably a good idea because everywhere we’ve been and are going to be is so different from home, I don’t expect Billy to be there. If that makes any sense.”

“It does, sweetie.”

So we plowed our way through all the street beggars one more time, passed the white-clad and stern-looking dragomen stationed at the foot of Shepheards’ stairs in order to keep the riffraff out, and Harold escorted me to my room.

As soon as I opened the door, I could tell someone else had been there before us. I told Harold so.

“Are you sure?” Harold stood in the doorway, casting his glance this way and that, attempting to see what I saw. Which he did, but he couldn’t know what I knew, which was that things weren’t the same as I’d left them.

“Yes, I’m sure!”

Harold walked into the middle of the sitting room of the suite and looked around. “Maybe it was a maid who came in to clean while you were out.”

I frowned. “Maybe.” But I opened the door and beckoned to the floor man, called a suffragi, according to Mr. Stackville, who, as much as I didn’t like him, seemed to know his way around Egypt and its language. He came trotting up, his brown teeth gleaming. I guess nobody in Egypt brushed their teeth.

Smiling at him to let him know I wasn’t accusing him of anything, I asked, “Did you happen to see someone enter my room while I was away this evening?”

“Enter your room? No, ma’am. No one enter.”

“Not even a maid or a cleaning person?”

He shook his turbaned head. “No, ma’am. No clean.”

“Thank you.” I handed him a coin, he ducked his head in a kind of bow, and went back to his chair in the hall, which was approximately midway along the row of rooms.

“There. You see?” said Harold. “Nobody’s been here, Daisy. You’re imagining things.”

“Am not. Besides, that guy’s been asleep pretty much every time I’ve passed him in the hall, and I doubt that he changed his ways just because we went to dinner.”

“Well, what do you want to do? Call the police?”

“Don’t be silly. But I do aim to look around and see if anything’s been taken. Although what anyone would want to take is beyond me. I don’t own any precious gems—well, except for the ugly bracelet that Russian count gave me a year or so ago, but that’s in a safe deposit box at the bank in Pasadena.”

“I think you’re imagining things,” Harold said flatly. “Or you’ve been reading too many spy novels.”

“Have not. I read mysteries, not spy novels. Well, except for John Buchan, but . . . oh, never mind.”

With a sigh, Harold said, “Want me to search with you?”

“No, thank you. Go on down to the saloon. I’ll check around and see if I can figure out whether or not anything’s gone missing. Have a good evening, Harold.”

He gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “You, too, Daisy.” He headed for the door but stopped before he reached it and turned around. “You know, I don’t like the idea of leaving you here when you suspect someone’s been snooping. If you’re right about that, whoever it was might still be here.”

Oh, wonderful. I hadn’t thought of that possibility until Harold brought it up. Now I was scared as well as baffled. “Really, Harold, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“No, sir. I’m going to look through every room in this suite and make sure you’re in no danger before I leave you alone here. And be sure to lock your door after I leave.”

I appreciated his valor, although I seriously doubted that Harold would be able to overcome a lurking thug if we found one. Nevertheless, his suggestion was a good one, so I went with him to the bedroom, and together we looked through closets and under the bed. Then we went through the bathroom. Results from all three rooms were negative. If someone had been in my suite—and I could almost swear someone had been—he or she was long gone now.

Therefore, I said, “Thanks, Harold. You go on down to the saloon now, and I’ll just take a peek through my things to see if anything’s been taken.”

“Good idea.”

“You might want to check your suite, too, since you have considerably more items of value than I have.”

“I have all the expensive stuff locked in the hotel’s safe,” he said.

“Well . . .”

“Don’t worry, Daisy. I’ll make sure my room is unoccupied before I retire for the evening.”

My opinion of Harold’s ability to protect himself against an armed bully remained the same as it had been before, but I decided I’d better not say so. “Very well. Thanks, Harold. See you tomorrow.”

“Indeed. Tomorrow we invade the souks and find gifts to take home to everyone.”

“I’m looking forward to that.” We’d decided on that course of action while eating our raspberry desserts. Since we’d opted out of the Nile cruise, we had one last day in Egypt to explore the mysteries of Cairo.

After looking through my luggage, the dressers, my closet, and everything else that might have had anything taken from it and discovering nothing amiss, I took an extra aspirin for the souk’s sake—I was no more interested in walking around in the heat in a marketplace than I was in sailing in it, although I was looking forward to shopping—but Harold was right. We had to procure gifts for our families and friends back home, and it might be fun to find just the right souvenir for everyone.

Then I doffed my evening dress, climbed
in my lightweight lawn nightgown, and crawled into bed, exhausted. I don’t think I’d ever felt so utterly enervated. I chalked my state of fatigue up to the heat, the Great Pyramid and that smelly camel.

Chapter Fifteen

Except for being swarmed by indigent Egyptians of all ages and sexes as we wandered the streets of the various
souks
, and in spite of the crushing heat, I managed to find gifts for everyone in my family, Flossie and Johnny, Edie and Quincy Applewood (as I think I’ve mentioned before, Edie was Mrs. Pinkerton’s lady’s maid, and Quincy looked out after Mr. Pinkerton’s horses), Pudge Wilson next door and a few other neighbors. I even bought a pottery sphinx for Sam. I was pretty sure Pudge was going to love his turquoise scarab. The thing was so cheap that I doubted it was made of real turquoise, but I didn’t think Pudge would mind. He liked bugs and stuff like that.

Fortunately for me, Harold had thought to hire one of the non-guardsman dragomen who haunted the street around Shepheards to carry our many packages. I felt sorry for the man, although he seemed quite cheerful about his burdensome occupation, probably because Harold was lavish with his baksheesh. This was a smart move on Harold’s part because the fellow, named Mohammed of course, was adept at bargaining with the various souk keepers, a form of exchange at which I would have been lousy, not being inclined to argue with anyone at all, much less a native to a land to in which I was every inch an outsider.

Harold bought I don’t know how many sphinxes, scarabs and pieces of pottery, all of which were lovely to look at but incredibly bulky, not to mention expensive.

During one bargaining session—Harold wanted to purchase a perfectly gorgeous golden urn, which the souk proprietor said had been discovered in a pharaoh’s tomb—Harold whispered to me, “I’m sure he’s lying through his teeth. Somebody probably made it the day before yesterday.”

Shocked, I whispered back, “Good Lord, Harold. Do you mean that?”

“Sure. Making fakes with which to fool tourists is the national industry in this part of Egypt.”

“But . . . but that urn is positively beautiful, Harold. What a shame if the merchant is lying about it.”

With a shrug, Harold said, “Honestly, Daisy, I’m not a collector of Egyptian artifacts. I don’t care if the thing is brand new or three thousand years old. I just think it’s pretty, and I want to get it for Del. Thanks to our guide there, maybe I’ll get a deal on it.”

“Oh.” And since I couldn’t think of anything more cogent to say, I remained silent as the dragoman and the shop’s proprietor argued and argued.

As they argued, I gazed at the item in question. It really was quite charming in all its gleaming goldness. Figures of ancient Egyptians had been engraved or carved or etched, or whatever the proper artistic term for the process is on the sides of it, and it contained one panel that looked as if someone had pasted tons of tiny tiles together and then had it inlaid into the gold. The top of the thing featured the head of a cat, I presume the god Bastet of Egyptian lore. Not for nothing had I listened to Billy read all those articles about Egyptian discoveries in the National Geographic. Although, come to think of it, I think Bastet was a goddess. Well, whatever s/he was, the urn thing was fabulous, and I was pleased that Harold had found it.

Finally our guide turned to Harold, gave him a shrug and threw up his arms as if he couldn’t stand to continue bandying words and prices one second longer.

“I guess that’s the best price I’m going to get?” Harold asked, interpreting the shrug.

The man nodded. So Harold bought the lovely urn and, as both the shop owner and our guide appeared quite pleased, I assumed the guide was going to get a percentage of the purchase price for himself. It seemed to me that this was a very queer way of doing business, but Harold assured me on our further perusals of various shops, that barter is the way most of the rest of the world worked. While I thought that was a most interesting point, I was once again glad I lived in the U.S.A., where you paid whatever was stamped on the label and went away with your purchase. I suppose a person can get used to bartering, but I imagine the people who are really good at it generally start when they’re babies. If you see what I mean.

As for me, I almost certainly went a little overboard when we found a little shop that sold fabrics. But what the heck. Mrs. Pinkerton had given me all that money to spend, and I aimed to use at least some of it while I was in Egypt. I spent nowhere near five thousand dollars, however, and I aimed to use the fabrics for clothing for the entire family and not just me. My own personal biggest purchase was a rug that I thought would look great in our dining room back home. Besides—my heart twanged painfully as the notion hit me—Billy would have loved it.