Mummy Dearest: The XOXO Files, Book 1 (9 page)

Fraser held the tall glass up and considered it. “Three kinds of rum, apricot brandy, pineapple juice, papaya juice and a dash of grenadine.”

“Wrong,” said the bartender, who was mopping up a table next to us. “Crème de almond, triple sec, orange juice, sweet and sour mix and rum.”

“That’s not how you make them,” objected Fraser.

“That’s how we make ’em here at the Blue Moon.”

“And where’s my fruit?” Fraser scowled as I kicked him from underneath the table. “What’s
your
problem?”

“Shut up and drink your drink.”

Fraser shut up and drank his drink.

I’m not a fan of rum drinks, with or without fruit and tiny umbrellas, so I don’t know how it came to be that I ordered a second round just as we were slurping down the dregs of the first.

We had reached the stage where everything was hysterically funny, and as we recounted our mummy-chasing exploits for each other—as though we hadn’t both been there—we kept breaking down as we cracked ourselves up yet again. When Fraser leaned forward to draw on his drink and his straw nearly went up his nose, I all but fell off my chair.

“You weren’t kidding about the weak head for booze.” Fraser laughed, just as though
he
wasn’t the guy who’d nearly punctured his own frontal lobe. He was laughing
with
me, though, and that made all the difference. The difference between his reaction and the way Noah would have responded to my foolishness.

However the straw reminded me of mummies with their brains sucked out, and mummies, brainless and otherwise, reminded me of Princess Merneith and the bogus sarcophagus.

“Hey,” I told Fraser earnestly. “There’s something you should know about me and the princess.”

“You’re engaged?”

Under ordinary circumstances that would not have been so side-splittingly comical. Fraser laughed too, but I think it was at how hard I was giggling.

I finally regained control. “Whoa, I
am
smashed.”

“No way.”

“Yep.”

The jukebox launched into “Monster Mash”.

More laughing. We nearly knocked the table over we were leaning on it so hard. I’m surprised one of those cowboys at the bar didn’t just shoot us on general principles.

The overhead lights flashed on and off.

“Last call,” the bartender informed the room.

“You want another round?” Fraser asked.

“No. You know, Fraser,” I confided. “You could pretty much have your wicked way with me. Now.”

He choked on the last of his zombie and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That is a charming offer, Drew. But I don’t think it would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

I waved a careless hand. “Fuck gentlemen.”

I thought he might have blanched, but it was hard to tell in the feeble light. “Er, yes we do, but I don’t think most of the other cowpokes in here are of the same persuasion, so you should probably keep your voice down.”

I looked around at the bar where assorted plaid shirts and leather boots and cowboy hats were all crowded together. Come to think of it, this was Matthew Shepard country. A little discretion was probably a good idea.

I nodded gravely. Watching me, his expression grew doubtful.

“Right?”

Just like that, the giggles were back. “Um, that right, kemosabe.”

He did a double take. I regret to say I found that side-splitting as well.

Fraser took charge. “Oh boy. Time for a little fresh air.” He dragged me to my feet and hustled me out the door into the cold night air. Given the looks I was getting, he probably saved my life. Certainly whatever was left of my tattered reputation.

I felt much better after a few deep breaths. Of course, a few breaths after
that
I couldn’t feel my feet any longer. “God, it’s cold here. How cold
is
it?”

“Cold. We should get back to the hotel.”

I nodded. “Do you know where the hotel is?”

“I sure do. I’ve got a great head for directions. We’ll go this way.” We started walking. “What were you going to tell me about the princess?”

“Not about the princess.”

“Huh?”

“What I have to tell you isn’t about the princess.” I nearly strolled into a lamppost. “Excuse me,” I told it.

Fraser grabbed my shoulders and maneuvered me to the other side of him, the inside of the sidewalk. “
What
isn’t about the princess?”

“Huh?
Oh.
Her sarcophagus.”

He groaned. “
What
about her sarcophagus?”

“It’s fake.”

He stopped walking. “What do you mean,
fake
?”

“Fake. Bogus. Phony baloney. Just what I said. If you want my expert opinion, which has been reinforced after sitting through
The Mummy
again, I think it’s probably a prop from either that film or one of the other early
Mummy
films.”

Fraser started walking again, though more slowly. I glided along beside him.

“But how could that be?”

I explained how that could be. I explained about the inscription being a quote from the movie. And when he tried to suggest that the movie researchers had simply done their research, I explained about the difference between hieratic and hieroglyphics and how legitimate hieratic script wouldn’t be written left-to-right.

He heard me out without interruption. “So the princess is a fake.”

The cold air, walking, and having to be halfway coherent had sobered me considerably. “Not necessarily. I mean, the mummy really is a mummy. Is it Egyptian? Sixth Dynasty? Is it royal? The only way to know for sure is to run tests. It’s possible that it’s legitimate. That’s why I’d like to talk to Doctor Solvani about its provenance and the provenance of the sarcophagus. They may have been matched up along the way by someone at the museum who simply assumed they went together. These old dime museums don’t exactly keep records like the Smithsonian.”

Fraser grunted.

“Does learning this mess up your show?”

“Not necessarily. The legend is the important thing. So long as the mummy is real…”

“It could be.”

He nodded, but his expression was troubled as we continued to walk.

After a time I noticed we were passing a park and that ahead of us was an old, closed theater.

“Hey.”

Fraser looked up. “Hey?”

“Look where we are.”

He nodded. “The museum.”

“Why? Why are we at the museum?”

“I thought we ought to look in on your fiancée, the princess.”

That still struck me as funny, but the cold and the exercise had exerted their blessedly sobering effect and I restrained myself to a snort.

“Why?”

“Seems like a good idea, don’t you think?”

No, actually. The hotel and a warm, comfortable bed seemed like a much better idea. “How are we getting inside?” I gave him an uneasy look. “We’re not breaking in, are we?”

“I’m shocked. Shocked I tell you. Do you really think I would commit breaking and entering?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well we don’t have to.” Fraser held up a set of keys and dangled them before my nose. “Babe gave me a spare key so I could check my equipment.”

“Your equipment seemed like it was in perfect working order to me.” Did I say that aloud? Who was writing my material? Obviously I was still three sheets to the wind.

Fraser gave a little hoot of amusement. “I can’t believe you said that, Dr. Lawson. I must be rubbing off on you.”

I opened my mouth, but movement over his shoulder caught my eye. A light had flared on inside the museum.

“Hey. Look at that.”

Fraser turned to look at the cheerful brightness shining behind one square-paned window. “Well, well, well,” he said softly.

“Is someone from your crew in there?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe it’s on a timer? A security measure to protect the museum?”

“I don’t think they could give away most of the junk in that place.”

“Maybe it’s a nightlight for the princess.”

“Come on.”

“Wait. Maybe we should—”

Once again I was talking to myself. Fraser went charging down the sidewalk, up the porch steps, and then—then—belatedly showed a little discretion and stealthily unlocked the front door.

He slipped inside and waved for me to join him, and showing the same fabulous good sense I’d shown all evening, I did just that. I crept through the open door behind him.

We stood for a few seconds, listening. The light from the exhibit room threw a sharp triangular shadow across the hallway floor, and I found myself trying to decide if it looked like a pyramid or not. And whether that was relevant. And whether I was going to beg Fraser to shoot me in the morning. I could hear the very faint whir of some kind of electronic equipment.

Fraser made a motion for me to stand still. Why
I
should stand still and not him, I had no idea—and I wanted to discuss it. But he gestured sharply for me to stay quiet before turning away to step cautiously toward the exhibition room. One of the floorboards squeaked beneath his foot like the crack of doom.

He froze and looked at me. No way could that sound be mistaken for anything like the building settling or wooden joints contracting in the cold. And the total stillness from the other room confirmed it.

I shook my head. Fraser nodded solemn understanding—and then did exactly what I was afraid he’d do. He rushed headlong into the exhibition room. It sounded like he drove into a brick wall. The whole building shook, and there was a sound of a smashing clash and crashing wood.

I burst into the room after him to witness a scene straight out of a Hammer film. Fraser was locked in combat with a mummy. A mummy built like Lurch from
The Addams Family
. The mummy had its big bandaged paws on Fraser’s shoulders and was shaking him like a rag doll—until Fraser hauled off and delivered a punch that sent the mummy careening back into the small offering table. I cried out as the canopic jars went flying. They smashed to the floor and one cracked open. Sand spilled out.

Considering what
should
have spilled out, that was maybe a good thing.

The mummy tore free of Fraser’s grip and charged toward the entrance, which meant me. As he brushed by Fraser’s equipment, he knocked the camera on its tripod, and I dived to save it.

The mummy flew past me and pounded down the hallway. It disappeared into another room.

“Come on!” Fraser whipped by next, and I ran after him.

We pounded into the room where the mummy had disappeared. We were in a small office. There was a desk and a number of wooden file cabinets. Framed black-and-white photos lined the wall. The room was empty. A window on the opposite side stood wide open, and the cold, Wyoming night air gusted through, rippling the papers on the desk.

Chapter Seven

Fraser began to swear.

I ignored him and picked up a framed photo that had fallen from the desk to the floor. The image was of a dark-haired woman, hand propped on chin, smiling for the camera.

Dr. Solvani’s wife? Dr. Solvani?

Fraser stopped swearing at last. “We better call the cops. Or the sheriff. Whatever they have for law enforcement in this hick town.”

“I’m not so sure.” I was still gazing at the photograph. Something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t think what.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” I met his eyes. “One mummy appearance tonight could be chalked up to coincidence. Two mummy appearances might be a joke. Three mummy appearances indicate a plan.”

“A plan? What plan?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But we didn’t randomly stumble in here tonight.”

“How do you figure that? No one could know we were going to drop by.
We
didn’t even know until fifteen minutes ago.”

“Really? Your equipment is here. The Princess is supposed to walk tonight. And in case you lost track of that fact, Mummy Man keeps popping up to remind you. I think you received everything but an invitation with hieroglyphics to get over to the museum.”

Fraser frowned, thinking this over. “What would be the point?”

“I don’t know.”

He scratched his beard absently.

I said, “Think about it. What was he doing in here except waiting for us to show up? The light didn’t even go on until we were standing outside the building. I think we’re going to look like total fools if we call the cops. Maybe that’s the point.”

His gaze darkened. “You think someone’s out to discredit the show?”

“Uh…” Was there a way to discredit a show like
The Mysterious
? Not that I was unwise enough to say so, but since he put it like that, I couldn’t imagine the goal was to destroy Fraser’s credibility in the scientific or historical community.

But I also didn’t think it was by chance that we’d stumbled on our friend the mummy for the third time that night.

“Is your equipment okay?” I asked instead.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Thanks for saving my camera, by the way.”

I nodded acknowledgment. “Those canopic jars.”

“What about them?”

“They’re filled with sand.”

“So?”

“You know what they should contain.”

“The internal organs of the deceased.”

“Exactly. Canopic jars were used by the Egyptians to store the large internal organs during the mummification process so that their owner could use them in the afterlife.”

“I know. I know about the whole sucking-the-brain-out-with-a-straw thing too.”

I sighed. “Something about those jars is triggering my warning system.”

“You have a warning system? Like the Emergency Broadcast System? Like the National Severe Weather Warning Service?”

“No, smartass. More like the Traffic Collision Avoidance System. I think we’re headed for a pileup if we call the cops. Assuming we can even convince them this isn’t a prank call.”

“I guess the truth is there’s no rush in calling anyone.” Fraser checked his wristwatch. “It’s two in the morning. I can’t see what difference a couple of hours will make.”

Not to the police. I was thinking I’d kill for a couple of hours sleep.

“You convinced me,” Fraser said. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll report the break-in to Babe in the morning.”