Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) (11 page)

   “Here we are,” called Sandy.
“Antika.”
 

   Behind a stall selling rugs, Sandy led us into a dimly lit shop. Lanterns burned, casting flickering light on the golden and silver objects perched along shabby shelves.

   A thin chap, wearing an outdated businessman’s suit, bowed us a welcome.

   Sandy conversed with the fellow for a moment, and then said to us, “You’ll want to buy something, anything, but that’s how things are done here. I haven’t asked him about the … you-know-what yet, but I will once he has a spot of cash in his hands; of course, he’ll want more.”

   I nodded my chin and looked about the various items.

  “What do you think of this?” I asked Lucy.

   I pointed at a cat, carved from black stone. It was about the size of a standard dictionary. Tall and narrow, the cat sat quite upright. Ever so subtly, a vulture was carved into the feline’s chest. 

   While many items in the cramped room were far flashier, this had the look of quality, even authenticity.

  The weedy man tottered over and smiled at us, taking the black cat from the shelf, causing the shelving to sway rather violently, and said,
“Basset.”

   Sandy spoke up. “That’s its name, Basset, some sort of cat god.”

   I was not impressed with Sandy’s knowledge base. “Tell him I would like to buy it.”

   The two men first spoke in civilized tones, then they became more animated. At one point, I called out to Sandy, “I’ll pay the man what he wants.”

   Sandy called back to me, “He won’t respect us if we do that, Mrs. Stayton!”

   After a few more minutes of haggling, the trader threw his hands into the air, gave a jovial laugh, and then reached out with his lanky arms to hug Sandy, who cried out, “Pay him!”

   “How much?” asked Lucy as I fumbled to open my little coin purse, which had been tucked inside my pocketed vest.

   “Twenty-six Egyptian pounds.”

   Once I started counting out the foreign currency, Sandy was released. The fellow quickly found a little wooded cask and then began to wrap the item in old newspaper.

   “Well, are you going to ask him?” I said to Sandy.

   Our handsome guide pointed into the back room and said, “I don’t know that we even have to.”

   Leaning upright along the wall were two very simple figures, wrapped in old linen.

   “But I want to know who bought it,” I persisted.

   Sandy, with some trepidation, stepped very close to the proprietor, and in a hushed tone, he began to speak.

  The thin man looked over his shoulder and smiled. With a shrug, he responded, and then he watched Sandy reach for his wallet from the breast pocket of the well-fitted khaki jacket.

   This time, the haggling was far more subdued. As Sandy handed over the cash, the man gestured as he spoke. First he put out a flat palm at my eye level, he then indicated something rather round, finally, he squinted and held his mouth tightly together, this expression created the perfect illusion of a beady-eyed, prudish woman.

   Sandy looked over to me as he picked up the boxed artifact and asked, “Do you require a translation, Mrs. Stayton?”

   Before I could tell him otherwise, the lanky fellow blurted out, “Mrs. Stayton!” and grabbed the box back from Sandy and tore the lid from it. Once the black stone cat was sitting on his little work desk, he unfolded the paper and waved me over to see it.

   I was given quite a start to see my photograph on the crumbled page. The proprietor babbled on, excitedly.

   I beckoned Sandy nearer and asked, “Can you translate this headline?”

   Sandy frowned and then gave a great chuckle. “I think you’d rather know what that loathsome fellow asked me on our way here.”

   I tapped the paper with my little white-gloved finger. Sandy cleared his throat and read the caption, “Crazed American Millionairess causes havoc on board British Ocean Liner.”    

   Perhaps Lucy thought my indignation might be staunched by the answer of her question, “Sandy, what did that leering brute ask you?”

   Sandy balled up the newspaper and tossed it aside. With a bashful smile, he replied, “The chap wanted to know if I was trying to sell you two.” He paused to chuckle. “If it is any consolation, he offered me a handsome price.”

   I felt my nostrils flare as I took the now repacked stone cat from the gleeful shop owner and suggested, “Sandy, might you go fetch our livery while we wait here?”

   Lucy and I entered the hotel, and at once, a porter rushed to us. “A message, Mrs. Stayton.”

   Only giving me a brief moment to read the note, Lucy asked, “Who is it from?”

   With little surprise, I replied, “Hazel Keeley has invited us to call on her.”

   Dashing up to our rooms, we changed and then made our way to our hostess’s room. Immediately after tapping on the door, a fresh-faced young maid greeted us.

   This young woman was a native, unlike the many English and French fellows that served as porters, bellhops, and waiters. I pictured her rooting through wastebaskets, rummaging about dresser drawers, and picking up my husband’s framed photographs.

   As the young woman smiled at me, my hostility towards her abated. I had just rubbed elbows with the reality of life in Luxor. The woman did what she could to earn her living, and then some. The poverty around her displaced the Western morals claimed by so many of the hotel’s guests, such as myself.

   We were escorted inside the room. Hazel sat, quite poised, on the center of a dark green divan, and the smiling maid ushered us to the two elegant chairs facing our hostess.

   “Good afternoon, it is so nice of you to join me,” said Hazel, perfunctorily. As we returned the greeting, she waved the maid to her side and mumbled something to the girl as she handed her a small box.

   Delighted, the maid gave Hazel a little bow and rushed off.

   A tea tray sat on the low table between us, and Hazel began pouring and then handed us both a fine china cup and saucer.

   My cursory glance about the suite did not go unnoticed, and Hazel remarked, “Lovely, isn’t it?”

   Larger than my room, the walls still seemed rather close for a three-year confinement. Opulently appointed, the sitting room felt more like a London residence than a hotel. Rather than cleaning solutions and fresh laundry, the air smelled of a woman’s boudoir, thick with cosmetics and perfumes.

  Nearby us were several sturdy easels, and each held a colorful painting. I recalled Sandy mentioning that our hostess fancied herself an art dealer; I wondered if these were her current wares, on display for potential buyers.

   “Yes …”

   Before I could say more, Hazel reached toward a container on the table. “You must try these.” She carefully untied a pink silk bow from the slim, long box.

   Lucy asked, in her sweet, curious voice, “What are they?”

   Slowly, carefully, Hazel lifted the top and gently placed it beside her. Almost methodically, she folded back the waxed paper inside, then, offering them to us, she said, “Chocolates, from Paris.”

   The box was covered in a heavy pink paper, the interior was lined in gold foil, and the waxed paper that had kept the chocolates from moving or touching the top of the box was the same quality as the stuffing in a fine hatbox.

   Timidly, Lucy and I both reached toward the open container and partook.

  Hazel batted her eyes and said, “They just melt in your mouth.” Our hostess took a little dark lump and placed it between her delicate lips.

   Hazel was indeed correct; the chocolate melted on my tongue. It was rich, delicious, and decadent.

  “Little more than a year ago, a delightful couple from Paris visited the hotel. They were captivated by my story. I was promised that when they arrived home they would send me a box of these, and they did. Every month, like clockwork, one arrives.”

   Lucy could only respond to this odd form of bragging by smiling and muttering, “What thoughtful people.”

   I nodded my chin, waiting for Hazel to explain her reason for inviting us to meet her.

   Our hostess said, “Please, have another.”

   Speaking for myself, I said, “Thank you.” But I did not take one, I only sipped at my tea.

   Lucy just smiled on, nervously.

   Hazel stretched out a hand and pointed to the four pieces of artwork on canvases, clustered together. “People are always hoping for an invitation to see my art. They are Monets, you know.”

   Just because I hailed from Saint Louis, Missouri, did not mean I lacked culture. “Really? I thought all of his work was quite large.”

   The artist, who had died little more than a year before, was well known for his huge paintings of outdoor scenery. A rebel of the art establishment in his youth, his work had become coveted during his old age.

   Hazel graced me with a polite smile and said, “Those are some of his earliest works.”

   “They are very beautiful,” I told her, and this was the truth. All four were studies of nature. The sky, flowers, and greenery surrounding water were all depicted in vibrant and soothing colors.

   Hazel reclined slightly and added, “My security.”

  Curious, Lucy asked, “How is that?”

   Smugly, Hazel replied, “Monet died the December before last; their worth is bound to rise. I have already had one handsome offer, but I chose to pass. When, and if, I plan on leaving the Winter Castle, I speculate they will take care of my tab.”

   I recalled Sandy mentioning how Hazel’s first husband had arrived in Egypt with several valuable paintings. These were the ones she had kept, the aces up her sleeve.

   “That one,” she began, pointing at a portrait of her that hung over the desk, “was done by Percy.”

   The oil painting captured her likeness, but lacked emotion. Percy’s fire and passion that Hazel had described were absent from the work.

   Lucy spoke as I studied the portrait, “How very beautiful.”

   Hazel remarked, “Whatever Percy’s eye saw, his hand could paint. He was indeed skilled.”    

   The woman’s words echoed in my head. I was curious as to why she was showing the art work off to us. The intelligent woman read my face. “Well, as you know, I didn’t invite you two up here to enjoy the chocolates.”

   She stood from the sofa and gracefully crossed the room. As she opened the drawers of a desk along the wall, she said, “I was hesitant to share this with you at first, but I have decided you are a woman of good character.”

   Hazel returned holding a small man’s toiletry case and satchel. “The maids here are very loyal to me. I am generous with gifts, and they take care of me.”

   The woman placed the objects on the low table beside the tea service. “These belonged to Percy. The day before yesterday, the maid who cleans Dr. and Mrs. Smith’s room found them under the bed.” She gave a little sigh. “It doesn’t take a detective to guess what has happened.”

   I raised my brow and asked, “What does this all suggest, to you?”

   Hazel’s eyes narrowed, and she seemed disappointed that I did not jump to my own conclusion. Slowly, cautiously, she spoke, “The doctor and his wife keep saying that Percy traipsed off to the Netherlands. Would he do so without his shaving kit and his clothing? I think not.”

   I held my tongue, very much wanting to ask Hazel if she had given up on implicating Martha. I thought better of it. Hazel had produced the letter and now Percy’s belongings. I was curious what other treasures she could summon if these items did not cause the desired effect.

    Lucy followed me to my room. With the door firmly closed behind us, I set down Percy’s possessions on the desk and sorted through them.

    Lucy chattered like an excited bird. “Hazel’s confidante plucked Percy’s things from the Smiths’. That’s why the doctor sent that telegram and Wilma bought the flimflam mummy. They have been backed into a corner.”

   “So it would seem,” I mumbled as I went through the satchel.

   Lucy noticed the pained expression on my face and asked, “What is the matter; what have you found?”

  Thank Heavens, Xavier had possessed a loyal valet who had trailed behind him like a shadow. During our brief years together, never had I personally had to tidy up after my beloved husband. Sorting through Percy Huston’s threadbare socks and other … unmentionables, left me quite mortified.

   After making sure of my suppositions, I answered Lucy’s query. “Nothing of importance, nothing of value. No camera, no painting brushes, nothing personal aside from dirty laundry.”

   Lucy watched me as I pushed the items aside and picked up the envelope that Sandy had given me. “That is why Hazel summoned us.”

   “What did Sandy find out?”

   I quickly looked over his notes again and replied, “Hazel’s second husband’s death was ruled an accident, but there was an investigation. Hazel had sacked a maid earlier in the day over some sort of squabble. That night, at dinner, the cook served lamb. Hazel had not had an appetite, after the turmoil of the day.” I stopped to reread the last few lines of Sandy’s small handwriting and shared the rest of the information: “Mr. Keeley took the last chunk of the lamb from her plate. He ate it and choked to death. After the meat was removed from his throat, a butcher’s cord was found, holding two pieces together. His windpipe had been blocked, and he was neither able to swallow the meat nor cough it out.”