Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (32 page)

Ultimately, I fetched a pretty brochure from the front desk and sat on a sofa in the lobby with it on my lap, watching the clock and mulling things over. I don’t think I even opened the brochure.

Sam and me. Good Lord. I knew my family liked Sam. Heck, everyone had liked Sam from the moment he thrust himself into our lives. Except me. I hadn’t liked him. He’d scared me. He was so big and so gruff and so policemanly. And, as previously mentioned, always seemed to be getting in my way. Besides that, he’d called me a fortune-teller. Me. Daisy Gumm Majesty, spiritualist-medium to all the best families in Pasadena, California. The person everyone with money turned to if they needed a dead relative retrieved for a chat or to read the tarot cards, a crystal ball or the Ouija board for them. Never, not once, had either Sam or Billy admitted that my job helped people. But it did, curse them both.

I didn’t mean that. At least not about Billy. I wanted Billy to be at peace and without pain, finally, in our beautiful Methodist version of heaven.

Bother. I wish I could call Billy back from the dead and ask him what he thought of the Sam-loving-me issue. But I’m a fake spiritualist and can’t really do the things people pay me for. I felt like burying my head in my hands, but restrained myself as this was a public lobby and I didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle of myself than I already had. If I had.

I don’t know how long I sat there, my hands folded in my lap, staring off into space and becoming more and more confused about life and Sam and everything, when Sam himself stepped out of the elevator. He still looked awful, but I could see the doctor had been at him because he had sticking plasters on his face, and his head sported a big bandage around it that would probably be covered by a hat, except that I guess we’d all left his hat behind at the house where he’d been held hostage. He saw me and stopped in his tracks.

Slowly I rose from the couch. “What did Doctor Weatherfield say, Sam? Do you have any serious injuries?”

“No. He said I’ll be feeling better in a day or two.” He fingered the bandage on his head and frowned. “Damned bandage. I look like an idiot.”

“No, you don’t. You look like a man who’s been through a bad time. When you get back to your hotel, you can clean up, and I’m pretty sure you hat will cover that bandage.”

“Hell of a lot of good that’ll do at dinner,” he grumbled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, quit whining. Everyone has accidents every now and then.”

“Accidents? This was no accident,” he told me as if he were grievously offended at my choice of words.

Taking a page from his book, I rolled my eyes at him. “I know that, but nobody else who looks at you will. For the love of Mike, will you just go to your hotel, clean yourself up, and get back here in time for dinner?” I didn’t want to talk about those few words he’d let slip when we’d been yelling at each other in my room.

Apparently he didn’t, either, because he said “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go to the hotel, and I’ll come back here. But then I’m leaving. I’m not staying another second longer than I have to in Turkey.”

I felt my eyes widen. “You’re not? But . . . but I thought maybe you’d be able to do some more sightseeing with Harold and me. You haven’t seen the Grand Bazaar yet, either.”

“And I don’t want to see it. I want to get back home and go to my job, where things make sense. This—” He waved a hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “—is all too foreign to me.”

I suppose I could understand that. “I see. Well . . . I wish you’d stay a day or two longer.” Not that I wanted to discuss those fateful words of his, but still . . .

Oh, curse it, I’d miss him!

Whatever did this mean?

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

“I thought you had lots of vacation days saved up.”

“Maybe, but I still want to get back to work. I need to do something normal in normal surroundings.”

“Sure. I understand.” I didn’t like it, though.

Sam stomped off, and I went back upstairs to my room where I said a fond farewell to Gaffar after rushing into my room and grabbing my handbag. And then I pulled a page out of Harold’s book and handed him a whole bunch of coins. I have no idea how many or how much they’d have been in American money. I guess I understood Harold in that instant, too. When you’re pressed for time or under stress, you don’t necessarily think through things like foreign money exchange.

I wore one of the evening frocks I’d made for my spiritualist business at dinner that night. For some reason, I wanted to look good for Sam. As a matter of fact, I do believe this was the very dress I’d worn when Sam and I first met, an ankle-length black chiffon number with long fitted sleeves, a collarless wrap-over bodice that fastened on the hip with a beaded and embroidered (by my own very hands) clasp. A beautiful gown, I wore it when I wanted to look especially alluring and spiritualistic, although the latter wasn’t necessarily my aim that evening. I just wanted to look good. Since the dress was made of sheer chiffon, even though it was black, it wouldn’t be too warm to wear in the dining room.
It hung on me kind of like it might on its clothes hanger, but that couldn’t be helped. I aimed to eat lots of food in Turkey and to continue eating until I’d regained the weight I’d lost. Most of it. It wouldn’t hurt me to lose a curve or two. Those bust-flatteners can be painful.

Harold knocked on my door at precisely seven-thirty. He was almost always punctual, something I appreciated
as I, too, shared the trait. Since Sam hadn’t come to my room, I presumed we’d see him in the dining room—unless the rat had stood us up and already lammed it out of Istanbul.

My heart did one of its recently undertaken loopy things when Harold and I walked into the restaurant and found Sam waiting for us. He’d cleaned up rather nicely, even if he still sported bandages here and there. But he wore another white suit, like the one Harold was wearing, and which, I’d come to understand, was standard tourist garb for males in those parts, and he looked quite spiffy. I smiled at him. He seemed a trifle nervous but smiled back anyway.

During dinner and afterwards, we didn’t speak of love. We talked about Stackville’s gang of thieves, and Sam filled us in on some more details about them, which I won’t go in to here. However, they’d clearly played havoc with the law in several countries and had smuggled gobs of antiquities out of Egypt before we’d caught them. They had proved to be brutal a time or two, as well, so it was lucky for Sam that we’d rescued him before they could do him in permanently. Good for us. And to heck with DCI Miller and his snooty attitude.

“The British and Egyptian authorities are going to be very grateful to you two for rounding up the gang,” said Sam at one point.

I refrained from telling him it sure hadn’t sounded that way to hear DCI Miller talk about our daring rescue and capture earlier in the day. I wanted the meal to remain pleasant.

And boy, I did justice it to that meal, too. My appetite had come back sort of like a runaway freight train, and I ate everything set before me, including something delicious made with lamb and eggplant, a vegetable I’d never cared for before, as I believe I’ve mentioned. It soon became apparent that I’d never had it prepared in its proper element before. Then there was a dish with cauliflower and chickpeas and I don’t know what all else; more of those yummy dolmas; some of my favorite yogurt soup; a dish called rice pilaf, which was delicious; and for dessert we had some confections called lokma, which were kind of deep-fried fritters drizzled with honey. I wasn’t sure how I managed to get it all down until I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since early that day when I’d had yogurt soup with dolmas and some flat bread and dip. Besides, it had been a very trying day, and I deserved to eat.

“Glad to see your appetite is back,” said Sam at one point.

“You betcha,” said I, struggling not to get honey all over me as I ate a lokma. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry in my life.”

“Well, you haven’t eaten anything for months,” Harold reminded me.

I only sighed and continued eating.

Both Harold and I tried to talk Sam into staying in Istanbul for another day or two at least, but he was adamant that he wanted to get home to familiar surroundings. I guess I couldn’t blame him for that, although I had a niggling suspicion that some of his eagerness to get away might have something to do with not wanting to think about those few words he’d let drop in my hotel room in the heat of anger. Come to think of it, I couldn’t blame him for that, either.

After dinner, Mr. Ozdemir came to the saloon where we’d all taken ourselves off to, I to have a cup of tea, Harold to have a martini, and Sam to dare another cup of Turkish coffee. The hotel manager bowed low before the three of us and said there was a delegation of officials desiring to see us in his office. So we all trooped after him and, sure enough, when he opened his office and bowed us in, the room was packed with purposeful people.

As it turned out, there were the London coppers, Turkish folks from both governmental and policemanly branches, and even some Egyptians, who fawned over us as if we’d saved the entirety of Egypt’s antiquities. Heck, it had only been one golden urn. I mean canopic jar. But after Harold went to his room, fetched the jar and brought it back to Mr. Ozdemir’s office, those fellows nearly salivated with joy. Turned out they weren’t just happy about the canopic jar, but, by capturing Stackville and the rest of his crew, we had not merely foiled a den of thieves, but we’d been the catalyst for their retrieving a whole bunch of other antiquities that had previously been smuggled out of Egypt.

Hooray for us!

After that, and after all the officials had gone and Mr. Ozdemir thanked us again and again—even though it wasn’t Turkish antiquities we’d rescued but Egyptian—Sam left us, and Harold and I went up to bed.

* * * * *

We enjoyed the rest of our stay in Istanbul, which lasted another three days. Mr. Ozdemir had clearly spread word of our heroic activities around the hotel, because every time we passed a hotel employee, he or she bowed and grinned at us. I noted that Turkish teeth didn’t seem to be in as bad shape as the Egyptian teeth I’d seen. All things considered, and in spite of terrible tales of ancient and not-so-ancient Turkish atrocities Billy had read to me out of the National Geographic, I decided I liked Turkey a whole lot better than Egypt.

Because I was still reeling from those fateful words Sam had let drop, and also because I was once more healthy and even eating and we were no longer in danger of being besieged by thugs, I went kind of overboard at the Grand Bazaar. Still and all, my shopping spree pleased Harold, and I even managed to snaggle a Turkish cookbook, written in English, for Aunt Vi! I hoped she’d be open to attempting new ways of cooking eggplant.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Harold and I arrived home to Pasadena three weeks after our adventures in
Constantinople. We didn’t stay long in England, both of us having had our fill of foreign travel by that time. Also, fortunately for me, I wasn’t seasick at all on the voyage home, this time on the Cunard Line’s Berengaria, although I doubt the difference in the ocean liner company had anything to do with my state of health. I was just getting better all around.

“I think this idea of yours was brilliant, Harold. About taking me to Egypt for a cure, I mean. I can’t tell you how much better I feel now than when we left Pasadena.”

Harold eyed me over his gin and tonic. “This has been the most disastrous trip I’ve ever taken in my entire life, and you’re thanking me for it?”

I flung my arms out so that Harold could get a good look at me. “It might have been uncomfortable in spots—”

“Spots?”

“—but look. I’m ever so much healthier-looking now than I was when we left.”

Tilting his head, Harold squinted at me for a moment before he said, “You do look better, Daisy. Much better, in fact. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid Sam Rotondo might be right about you thriving on chaos and pandemonium.”

“He never said any such thing!” Mind you, he’d said just about the same thing, but not in those words, time and again.

“Well, he did to me.”

“Hmph.”

“It’s true, Daisy. You attract trouble like honey attracts flies.”

“Nuts.”

Nevertheless, it was a Daisy Majesty refreshed in body and spirit who ran up the walkway and into the arms of my family—and neighbors and friends and assorted acquaintances—that hot September day when Harold’s rented limousine dropped me off in front of my beloved bungalow on South Marengo Avenue in Pasadena, California. Harold followed a few paces behind. He didn’t care to run even in cool weather.

Naturally, Spike was the first to greet me. He had, after all, four legs to everyone else’s two, even if they were short. I squatted on walkway and let him leap into my arms. From there he proceeded to kiss my face all the way to the front porch, where I set him down and he proceeded to frolic around me as if he’d never expected to see me again and was mighty happy I was back. Poor thing. First he’d lost Billy, and then he’d nearly lost me. But then the rest of the greetings began.

“Oh, Daisy!” Ma said, her face streaming with tears. “You look ever so much better than you did when you left home!”

“I feel better, too, Ma,” said I, trying to hold my own tears at bay. I’d cried enough in the past few months.