Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [20]
The Egyptians, no fools, had figured out that tourists thought the mummies were the most interesting thing in the entire museum and were charging an additional fee to go inside. I pulled a wad of crumpled, musty Egyptian pounds from my wallet and paid for a brightly colored ticket. The tickets at the tourists sites were beautiful enough to save for a scrapbook. A few steps away, we showed them to a bored guard who nodded us through, and I stowed mine in my wallet, careful not to wrinkle it. Kyla wadded hers up, looked around for a nonexistent trash can, then stuffed it into her pocket.
The mummy room was small, dimly lit, and absolutely silent, worse than a church or a library. The ceiling was low and the air seemed musty and stale, as though it, like the mummies, had come from inside a crypt. I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the small of my back. As our eyes adjusted to the light, we could see walls lined with display cases and a couple of low glass boxes resting in the middle of the floor. Strategically placed weak lights threw a halfhearted glow on the shadowy forms within. In the far corner, a couple of tourists stood before the glass. They did not turn around as we entered.
We approached the first box on the floor cautiously, steeling ourselves for any number of grisly horrors, and found ourselves looking down into the open coffin of a woman.
“She’s tiny,” said Kyla finally. “And so … dry.”
She was, too. Small and brittle and creepy.
“We may have seen too many horror movies,” I admitted.
“I swear I saw her on a beach in Florida last year. That leathery skin, those anorexic cheekbones.”
We both burst into laughter. The two other tourists turned to look at us with deep disapproval.
The door to the mummy room opened again with a quiet swoosh, and Alan Stratton walked in, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the low light. Kyla brightened visibly, and instantly forgot all about the shriveled bandaged corpses.
“Now that’s more like it,” she whispered to me with a wink. She immediately went to his side.
I wandered over to another display case so I wouldn’t have to listen to the flirting on an empty stomach. I was ready for dinner and my feet and back were hurting. And now I had no one to mock the mummies with. Definitely time to head back to the hotel.
Susan and Tom Peterson burst into the room and looked around wildly, Susan’s plump little face frantic with worry.
“Damn it!” said Tom. “Where the hell are they?”
“I was sure they would be here,” answered Susan, sounding tearful.
They caught sight of me and hurried over.
“Have you seen the boys?” asked Susan. “They ran ahead of us and we’ve lost them.”
My heart went out to her, she sounded so apologetic. Trying not to laugh, I said, “No. They haven’t been in here. Shall I tell them you’re looking for them if I see them?”
Tom made a sound like a low growl. “You can tell them we’re going to kill them when we see them!”
“Tom!” Susan gave him an outraged glare, then turned back to me. “Don’t tell them that,” she pleaded.
I did laugh then. “I won’t. But if it helps, I’m sure they are fine. Probably back in the King Tut room or looking at the mummification tools. And this will probably be their next stop, so you might as well wait for them and take the opportunity to see what you want to see. You can kill them when they catch up to you.”
Tom shot me a grateful look, but Susan just shook her head. “We’ll just go back toward Tut’s room,” she said, and dragged him out.
Kyla still had her arm linked through Alan’s, and they were examining one of the pharaohs. She looked very pretty by his side. Tall as she was, her head barely reached his cheekbone and her shoulder rubbed against his arm in just the right place. I felt a sharp pang of jealousy,