Mummy Dearest: The XOXO Files, Book 1 (2 page)

And, yes, it was a drag to have wasted the money and time on a flight to Wyoming when Noah and I could have spent this weekend together and gone to a couple of the Halloween faculty parties we’d been invited to—or even stayed home with the lights off. We didn’t have many home-alone nights lately. Not together anyway.

I climbed in the rental, turned the key in the ignition and began the slow process of maneuvering my way out from behind the equipment van. No way in hell was I asking them to move for me, although I wasn’t sure
why
since it would have inconvenienced them nicely, but it was a matter of pride to be able to angle my way out of that slot.

The girl who had smiled at me came around and mimed asking the truck to move. I shook my head decidedly.
No way. Everything under control
.

She chewed nervously on her pen as I continued to edge past the immaculate paint job and gleaming chrome.

At last I was clear. I threw one last reluctant look back at the ivy-draped front of the museum. Fraser Fortune stood on the porch beneath the faded sign that proclaimed
Lasse Dime Museum
in letters the color of dried blood. He seemed to be looking for something in the parking lot, and apparently it was me.

He put his hand up in unspoken command, came down the steps and started briskly across the shady lot. He passed his crew, and they called out various smart-aleck comments. He grinned good-humoredly and tossed back equally unflattering observations.

As Fraser reached my car, I pressed the button and the automatic window rolled down. He leaned into the car, resting his hands on the window frame, his head level with mine.

“Uh, look,” he said.

I looked. His lashes were very long and gold-tipped, his skin smooth and lightly tanned. His beard was the color of ripe wheat. He smelled surprisingly nice, although I couldn’t quite place the scent. White tea and lemon blossom and sunlit ocean? Clean.

“Maybe we can help each other.”

“How’s that?” I asked warily.

“It just occurred to me…”

I watched him narrowly. He was right in my personal space. His lashes flicked up, he met my eyes, his lashes flicked down. My unease grew.

“She’s right. Babe, I mean. You’re…probably pretty photogenic. You’ve got that cheekbone thing. Assuming you don’t turn into a total dweeb on camera, we could use you. We like to interview experts for each segment, and you clearly think you’re an expert.”

Gee, what a people pleaser this guy was. “What is it you’d want from me?”

His cheeks got a little pinker. “I just told you. You can examine the princess, but we’ll film you doing it. Then I’ll interview you.”

“You’re kidding.”

He looked straight at me. “No, I’m not kidding. Why not?”

What
was
he doing leaning in my car window? He was practically in my face, practically close enough to rub noses.

A bizarre thought. I talked myself away from it. “Do you know what
publish or perish
means?”

He shrugged—or would have had there been enough space. “Yeah. Of course. It’s the code you sheltered academic types live by. You have to publish enough books and scholarly articles in whatever your field is so your department heads think you’re worth keeping around.”

“Ha. Well, you’re right. Sort of. Getting enough articles published in the right places can make a difference between getting tenure and not getting tenure. But all the scholarly academic articles in the world won’t help me get tenure if I turn up on your monster-of-the-week show.”

Far from insulted, Fraser smiled complacently. “I
knew
you’d seen the show.”

“I’ve seen enough to know what your show is about.” I mimicked him on those stupid ads. “
Oooh.
Sweet mystery of life!”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to strike a pose. I’m not ashamed of what I do. I’m offering you a big opportunity.”

“Well, thanks. But no thanks.”

He rose too fast and banged his head on the roof of the car. “
Ouch
.” He rubbed the back of his head. “God, you are
such
an arrogant ass.”

That stung. I didn’t care what he thought of me, but I wasn’t arrogant. “I am not. All I’m saying is that your show is not exactly about scholarship.”

“How would you know? According to you, you’ve never actually watched it.” He stopped rubbing his head and glared at me.

It wasn’t so much that he was right, it was the fact that just for a second he looked genuinely hurt.

I said, “Answer me this. Why are you here?”

“To do a segment on the princess.”

“
Why
?”

He looked uncomfortable. It was fleeting, but I knew I didn’t imagine it. “Because she’s interesting.”

“She’s four thousand years old. She’s not Princess Diana. She’s a mummy.”

“So’s Princess Diana by now.”

That time I didn’t bother to hide my distaste, although I was vaguely surprised to hear my tongue cluck in the exact same sound Noah made when he disapproved of something. “You’re doing a segment on the princess’s mummy because of that idiotic story about a curse.”

His hazel eyes kindled with the light of the true fanatic. “What if it’s
not
just a story?”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s true.”

“
What’s
true?”

Fraser said with every appearance of sincerity, “It might not be just a story. We’ve got a number of eyewitness accounts.”

“Of what?” I curled my lip. “What do these supposed eyewitnesses say?”

“They say that every October thirty-first, the princess rises from her grave.”

Chapter Two

A peculiar chill rippled down my spine. I said flatly, “She doesn’t have a grave. She’s in a display case.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

I recalled that misshapen, desiccated remnant of humanity—those hollow eye sockets staring up at me. “Ridiculous. This is
exactly
why I’m not appearing on your segment.”

His face closed. He straightened. “Fine. I tried to work with you.”

I was equally terse. “Appreciated.”

He stepped away. I put the car in gear and drove slowly, sedately past Fraser Fortune and out of the parking lot.

All the hot tubs and continental breakfasts in the world would not persuade Noah to stay in a less than four-star hotel—ideally nothing built later than 1960. I certainly didn’t object to excellent service and cool vintage décor, but left to myself, I could happily make do with clean sheets and free wi-fi. A nearby coffee shop was good too, and the Best Western in Walsh offered all three at a very reasonable price.

I checked in, unpacked, and was thinking about heading over to the coffee shop for lunch when I noticed I had a voice mail from Noah on my cell phone.

My mood lifted. I was happy—relieved—he’d called. Happy he wasn’t still annoyed with me and that he’d cared enough to make the first move. I sat on the edge of the bed and rang him right back.

“Drew.” At the sound of his voice Noah was right there in front of me: tall and handsome, his hair prematurely gray, his eyes a piercing green. Not cold and clearly disappointed in me as he’d been before I left that morning, but his normal kind and affectionate self.

“I’m so glad you called, Noah. I miss you already.”

His voice softened further. “How was your flight?”

I filled him in, and he cleared his throat. “Excellent. Drew, I wanted to…well, to tell you I was sorry that we argued before you left. I know I wasn’t quite fair about this trip to Wyoming.”

I tried, but I couldn’t help my sense of injustice from coloring my tone. Even knowing that he hadn’t meant to sound so scathing…it had still hurt. “You really weren’t. I’d just got a lecture about how I needed to hurry up and get something else published, but then you’re mad when I have to take time to do the research.”

“I know. That was poor timing on my part.” Noah couldn’t help adding, “It’s just that you knew this was the weekend of Mother’s garden party, and you know how much it means to her.”

“I’ll be back in time. I promise.”

Noah sighed. “I know. I do. But things have a way of happening to you, Drew. Your flights are cancelled. Your car breaks down. There’s always some excu—”

He caught himself. I gave him credit for that, but he’d managed to flick me on the raw again. It made it difficult to keep my own voice even and unemotional. “You said it was imperative that I get something else published this year. Your word.
Imperative
. You said Lionel and a couple of other instructors suggested that the only reason I was being considered for tenure was our relationship. That my teaching record didn’t count.”

Noah said patiently, “I didn’t say it didn’t count. I said that there are considerations beyond students voting you Most Popular Instructor three years running. I mean, that’s all very nice, but frankly it’s not winning you points with your peers.”

Apparently not with Noah either. That was unfair, though. As my department chair, of course our relationship put Noah in a difficult position, which was why I’d taken seriously his order to get something new published as soon as possible.

“I understand.” I heard the shortness of my tone and knew Noah was going to think I was sulking. I tried for a lighter tone. “It’s
because
I don’t want anyone accusing you of nepotism that I’m sitting here in the middle of nowhere with only FOX News for laughs.”

“I know. Please don’t sulk. I’m proud that you’re moving on this, and it wasn’t fair to give you a hard time for picking this weekend, as long as you’re back on Sunday.”

“I’ll be there.”
I wouldn’t miss those fucking finger sandwiches and the pink champagne for the world.

He said teasingly, “All right. No cloudbursts or forced landings. I’m holding you to that promise.”

It was a little harder the second time. “I’ll be there.”

“I’ll see you then. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Noah clicked off. I clicked off too and stared down at the dim screen.

Okay. Well. That was…that. No. No, it was great that Noah had called. Why did I feel let down? It was great that he had cared enough about my feelings—which I’d clearly failed to disguise—to ring me up and reassure me.

For a few dispirited moments I sat on the edge of the bed staring out the sliding glass door at the autumn sunlight glittering off the swimming pool in the empty courtyard.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t told Noah about the problem I’d run into at the museum. That was actually a good thing because the bottom line was, somehow, I had to get in there and examine the mummy of the princess myself. It was paramount. Hell, it was
imperative
.

I could probably… What? Fake it? Make stuff up?

The fact that the idea even crossed my mind sent a ripple of unease down my spine. But what
was
I going to do?

Maybe the museum gift shop had some postcards I could use in place of my own photographs? Maybe Dr. Solvani had some old photographs which he could email me later on. Not that my brief correspondence with Dr. Solvani had reassured me as to his meticulous record keeping.

Photos wouldn’t change the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to inspect the mummy, hadn’t had time to do more than verify that the mummy did exist.

Or
I could swallow my pride and go back to the museum and tell Fraser Fortune that I’d had time to reconsider his generous offer.

I swore and looked at the time on my phone. It had been just about thirty minutes since I’d left Fraser in possession of the mummy. They probably weren’t shooting or filming or whatever they called it yet.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have to necessarily
grovel.
But even if I did, it would be worth it because going home and admitting to Noah that I had made this trip without being absolutely sure of all the details was going to earn me another lecture. And I wasn’t sure I could take one quite this soon.

I grabbed my keys and set off for the museum once more.

It was less than a five-minute drive. As I pulled into the small parking area, I noticed that the small community theater on the other side of the lot had its windows boarded up and a sign on the door listing the realtor to contact. It was the same story in a lot of the town’s shops and stores. The recession had hit Walsh pretty hard. Tourism couldn’t factor much into the local economy when the closest thing to a tourist attraction was the rundown Lasse Dime Museum.

There was no sign of anyone as I parked next to the station wagon and walked up the steps to the museum. As I stepped inside, though, I could hear sounds of activity and the buzz of voices.

I went past the gift-shop window where Babe was busily arranging a stack of black tee shirts which read
My parents went to Lasse Dime Museum and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
The script was in red letters designed to look like dripping blood.

She spotted me and her face lit up. “Dr. Lawson! Did you change your mind?”

“I guess I did,” I admitted. “If Fortune will let me.”

“Oh, I’m
sure
he will. Such a sweet man.” She came out into the narrow hallway. “This will be so good for the museum. Your article and then being featured on
The Mysterious
…”

I tried not to wince. “I guess you don’t get a lot of visitors this time of year.”

“We don’t get a lot of visitors
any
time of year.” She smiled, but looked slightly guilty at the admission.

“I saw a lot of closed shops on my way over.”

“It’s the same everywhere, I guess. Times are tough. But we’ve been here a long time now. I guess we can weather this too.”

“How old is the museum?”

“It was built in 1904.”

“Wow.”

She nodded with grim pride. “Yep. And the princess has been here almost since the beginning.”

We reached the main exhibition room. Bright light poured out the doorway like a nuclear blast, bleaching the floorboards and dark wood panels, highlighting the dust and occasional cobwebs.

Jean-clad figures hustled around. Male and female, they all looked pretty much the same. Skinny bodies in bell-bottom jeans and shirttails, shoulder-length hair parted down the middle.