or was that me? “Did you talk to Dr. Solvani while you were arranging to film this segment of your show?”
“Sure.”
“Directly?”
“Not directly. I think Jeannie talked to his secretary. We mostly corresponded by email.”
I too had communicated strictly by email with Solvani. “Why would the curator of a tiny museum the size of the Lasse need a secretary? How would they even afford to pay her on what that museum must bring in?”
Fraser was briskly toweling his head. “I don’t know.”
“He wouldn’t. I’ll tell you something else.” I winced and shielded my eyes as the Windows logo came up with that earsplitting start-up sound. “The Great Solvani is a character in The Mummy’s Hand .”
Fraser stopped mid-toweling. At last he said, “I’m sure more than one person in the world has been named Solvani.” But he came over to join me at the desk, watching the screen as I began typing.
“Yeah, well Babe Jenson is another character from the same movie.”
There was a sharp pause. “Are you serious?”
I nodded—which was a mistake. I moaned and pressed my fingers to my temples. Fraser’s hands landed lightly on my shoulders, and he began to knead them very gently.
“Oh my God, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
He laughed quietly. “I won’t.”
After a time, I sighed and resumed clicking away at the keys. “I’m a big fan of those goofy old mummy movies. I’ve seen them all a million times. In fact, I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out what was going on.”
“What is going on?”
“She’s trying to save her museum by manufacturing a mummy curse.”
“Who is?”
I brought up the Lasse Museum website, clicked on the About Us button.
A thumbnail-size photo came up next to the words “Museum Director.”
Fraser bent over my shoulder, peering down at the screen. “Hey is that…? Why does that picture look so familiar?”
“That’s the photo we knocked over in the museum last night. I mean, a smaller image, obviously.”
“Hmm. I guess so. They need to update this page.”
“I think it is updated.”
“But that’s not…”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“That’s not Dr. Solvani.”
“That’s what I keep telling you. There is no Dr. Solvani.”
“That’s impossible. She referred us to Dr. Solvani.”
“She being?”
“Her.” He nodded at the laptop monitor. “Jillian Hiram. She said Dr. Solvani was now the museum director and she put us in contact with him.”
“With her.”
“With…what?” He straightened, staring down at me.
I said patiently, “Look at this page. Look at this photo. This is a one-woman operation. And that woman is Jillian Hiram. AKA Babe Jenson. AKA Dr. Solvani.”
Chapter Eight
She knelt on the floor like a modern-day temple singer, sweeping up the shards of calcite from the broken canopic jars. When we walked into the main exhibit room of the museum, she spotted us and rose. I wondered how I could have missed the fact that “Babe” moved like a woman half her age. And then there were those wonderful aquamarine eyes of hers.
I didn’t think I misread the wariness in them as she watched our approach.
“It looks like we had some kind of break-in last night,” she greeted us.
Knowing what I knew now, the deep, rough voice sounded totally fake. But as the Great Solvani would have said, people see what they expect to see.
“You can save the act,” Fraser told her. “We figured it all out this morning.”
Babe bridled, looking from Fraser to me. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Solvani, I presume?” I said.
She stared at us, scowling, apparently completely perplexed.
Then she laughed. All at once she was a young woman in a funny wig and stage makeup. “Damn!”
“Damn?”
“I was afraid of this after the look on your face when you were examining the sarcophagus yesterday. Okay, you got me. Jillian Hiram.” She offered her hand. First I, then Fraser shook it.
“You are one crazy lady,”
“Sure.”
“Directly?”
“Not directly. I think Jeannie talked to his secretary. We mostly corresponded by email.”
I too had communicated strictly by email with Solvani. “Why would the curator of a tiny museum the size of the Lasse need a secretary? How would they even afford to pay her on what that museum must bring in?”
Fraser was briskly toweling his head. “I don’t know.”
“He wouldn’t. I’ll tell you something else.” I winced and shielded my eyes as the Windows logo came up with that earsplitting start-up sound. “The Great Solvani is a character in The Mummy’s Hand .”
Fraser stopped mid-toweling. At last he said, “I’m sure more than one person in the world has been named Solvani.” But he came over to join me at the desk, watching the screen as I began typing.
“Yeah, well Babe Jenson is another character from the same movie.”
There was a sharp pause. “Are you serious?”
I nodded—which was a mistake. I moaned and pressed my fingers to my temples. Fraser’s hands landed lightly on my shoulders, and he began to knead them very gently.
“Oh my God, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
He laughed quietly. “I won’t.”
After a time, I sighed and resumed clicking away at the keys. “I’m a big fan of those goofy old mummy movies. I’ve seen them all a million times. In fact, I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out what was going on.”
“What is going on?”
“She’s trying to save her museum by manufacturing a mummy curse.”
“Who is?”
I brought up the Lasse Museum website, clicked on the About Us button.
A thumbnail-size photo came up next to the words “Museum Director.”
Fraser bent over my shoulder, peering down at the screen. “Hey is that…? Why does that picture look so familiar?”
“That’s the photo we knocked over in the museum last night. I mean, a smaller image, obviously.”
“Hmm. I guess so. They need to update this page.”
“I think it is updated.”
“But that’s not…”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“That’s not Dr. Solvani.”
“That’s what I keep telling you. There is no Dr. Solvani.”
“That’s impossible. She referred us to Dr. Solvani.”
“She being?”
“Her.” He nodded at the laptop monitor. “Jillian Hiram. She said Dr. Solvani was now the museum director and she put us in contact with him.”
“With her.”
“With…what?” He straightened, staring down at me.
I said patiently, “Look at this page. Look at this photo. This is a one-woman operation. And that woman is Jillian Hiram. AKA Babe Jenson. AKA Dr. Solvani.”
Chapter Eight
She knelt on the floor like a modern-day temple singer, sweeping up the shards of calcite from the broken canopic jars. When we walked into the main exhibit room of the museum, she spotted us and rose. I wondered how I could have missed the fact that “Babe” moved like a woman half her age. And then there were those wonderful aquamarine eyes of hers.
I didn’t think I misread the wariness in them as she watched our approach.
“It looks like we had some kind of break-in last night,” she greeted us.
Knowing what I knew now, the deep, rough voice sounded totally fake. But as the Great Solvani would have said, people see what they expect to see.
“You can save the act,” Fraser told her. “We figured it all out this morning.”
Babe bridled, looking from Fraser to me. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Solvani, I presume?” I said.
She stared at us, scowling, apparently completely perplexed.
Then she laughed. All at once she was a young woman in a funny wig and stage makeup. “Damn!”
“Damn?”
“I was afraid of this after the look on your face when you were examining the sarcophagus yesterday. Okay, you got me. Jillian Hiram.” She offered her hand. First I, then Fraser shook it.
“You are one crazy lady,”
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