The curator looked at his legal counsel, who shrugged. Steffords said, “He’s never volunteered to do anything like that.”
“You never asked!” the mummy retorted, then looked over at Robin. Because his lips were so desiccated and stiff, I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or not. (I should have taken the sample of emBalm that Brondon Morris had offered me.) “Yes . . . I could tell museum visitors about Egypt. The real Egypt. In fact, I’d bring it to life, tell them about my home, my family, my mates. ‘Real Housewives of the Nile.’ I could make quite a show of it. Brilliant!”
Robin said encouragingly to the curator, “Mr. Ho-Tep could be the star of your museum, sir, not just part of an exhibit.”
“But only twice a week,” Ramen Ho-Tep interjected. “And I need to be treated with proper respect.”
“What does that mean?” Steffords sounded exasperated.
“He gets a salary,” Robin said, “and an actual job title.”
Ho-Tep piped up. “And a name tag, just like one of yours, to pin right here.” He tapped the bandages on the left side of his chest.
The museum men huddled together, whispering. Steffords said, “Mr. Ho-Tep must cooperate fully with our educational objectives. It goes without saying that he’ll have to follow appropriate standards of behavior.”
“I was Pharaoh of all Egypt!”
Bram Steffords yawned. “Yes, yes, we know.”
“And I will need slaves,” the mummy continued. “Armies of them, like the ones who built my pyramid.”
“We can’t offer that many, but we might find you an assistant or two.”
“We could assign an intern for that purpose,” the museum board member suggested.
When the conversation fell into a lull, and no one made any further demands or protests, Robin closed her folder. She distilled the copious notes on her legal pad into a basic agreement on a clean sheet of paper, which she passed around for signatures. “This will do for now. I’ll have our paralegal type up a more detailed memorandum of understanding to summarize this meeting, and we’ll draft a contract outlining the specific terms to which both the Metropolitan Museum and my client will be bound. I don’t believe we need to pursue any further legal action, if we are agreed on the general principles?”
She looked at the business-suited men, who all nodded slightly, then, seeing their fellows do the same, nodded with more vigor. Ramen Ho-Tep leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. He nodded as well. I had to smile: Robin made it seem so easy.
She ushered the men out, cool and professional, and as soon as they were gone, she threw her arms around the ambulatory mummy, giving him a hug. He squawked, “Do be careful! I just heard something snap!”
She backed away, brushing dust off her business suit. “Sorry, I’m just so pleased.”
Sheyenne drifted close to the mummy. “You understand that when Ms. Deyer told the museum representatives this was a pro bono case, it was merely a bluffing tactic? If you have any spare treasures of ancient Egypt, we still expect to be paid for our services—provided you’re happy with the results of our work.”
Ramen Ho-Tep sounded pleased. “Indeed, I am absolutely delighted! I’ve no doubt I can slip a golden ankh or scarab from a display case to donate to your finances.”
Robin seemed embarrassed that Sheyenne would bring up money at such a celebratory time, but I added, “Our fees allow us to keep our offices open, Mr. Ho-Tep, so we can help other unnaturals in similar situations.” After our cut from the Ricketts art auction, we were definitely going to have a good month, for a change. A solid payment from the emancipated mummy would keep us in business for some time to come.
“I understand completely. I was a benevolent pharaoh. I shall meet my obligation to you.” When the mummy left, I noticed he no longer dragged his foot.
Robin threw her arms around me. Sheyenne said in a longing tone, “I wish I could do the same, Beaux.” I settled for giving her an air-hug instead.
Then a set of metal file drawers rattled open, one after another, and manila case folders scattered out as if they were spring-loaded. Papers flew in the air. With a swirling blur, the ghost of Uncle Stan appeared before us. He stretched his lips in what was intended to be a fearsome grimace. His eyes bugged out. He swirled and did somersaults in the air, dove down into the file cabinets, and unleashed another eruption of papers. He appeared more inebriated than he had during his previous manifestation.
Sheyenne was outraged. “You stop that!” She tumbled into him, poltergeist against poltergeist, knocking Uncle Stan for a loop. They both slammed into the wall, passed through, and reappeared, still tussling.
When Sheyenne released him, Uncle Stan was astonished that anyone would stand up to him. “You’re ruining everything!” His lower lip trembled, and I thought he was going to start blubbering. “Stop trying to turn my own family against me!”
With a final blast of poltergeist power, he scattered the papers of the Dorset file around the office, then vanished into thin air.
I said, “Never a dull moment.”
Chapter 32
I helped Sheyenne retrieve the scattered papers and folders in the ghost’s aftermath, but I let her do the organizing (since she understands our filing system better than anyone). Robin retreated into her office to start drafting the contract between Ramen Ho-Tep and the museum.
And I finally told Sheyenne my idea of having her do a little fieldwork on the Jekyll case. “You never know what we might find,” I said. I didn’t even have to twist her arm, metaphorically speaking.
“I’ve been a med student, exotic dancer, cocktail waitress, nightclub singer, paralegal, and administrative assistant, but I’m happy to add a few more titles to my résumé. Besides, Harvey Jekyll or one of his henchmen could have been the shooter last night.”
Miranda had provided a detailed description of the Jekyll mansion’s layout, so we knew where her husband kept his secret materials. Since she would never deign to make a sketch, that afternoon Miranda brought over a pristine copy of the house’s construction blueprints, obtained from the county records office.
With a magnanimous swish of her hand, she unrolled the drawings onto Sheyenne’s desk. “Here you are, sweethearts. Legally speaking, I can’t imagine why you might be interested in the design and arrangement of my home, especially not the location of Harvey’s secure and private study right here.” With a sly smirk, she pointed to the appropriate spot on the blueprints. “I’ll just assume you’re remodeling your offices and wish to study prime architectural examples.”
I began to speak, but Miranda raised one scarlet fingernail. “Not a word! As I said, I don’t want to hear it . . . at least not until you have something.” She flounced out of our offices, leaving Sheyenne and me to study the blueprints.