Curse of the Mummy's Hand

It’s a long, hot summer in Los Angeles and there are plenty of changes happening in Poppy Starfire’s life. One thing that’s been holding steady is the continual stream of cases coming into the Starfire Detective Agency. But the Starfires’ latest case really takes the sarcophagus.

When three prominent Egyptologists from the same expedition die unexpectedly, and in short order, the son of one of the deceased wants answers. Harvey Gaffner is certain the doctor who quickly, and without much care, declared his father suffered a heart attack is dead wrong. Poppy and Jasper must find out what happened to Edward Gaffner. Was it natural causes, a murder or something more sinister like a mummy’s curse?

July 12, 1925
Dearest Ginny,

This is a quick reminder that I'm hosting a small dinner party at my house this evening. We promise not to get too rowdy or loud. Although, when my brothers sit at the same table, some of the discussions do get a little rambunctious. But not rowdy, never rowdy. And if you're asking what the difference is, you'll need to refer that question to my father. Daddy always claims he doesn't mind a bit of rambunctious, thought-provoking debate at the dinner table, but he draws the line at rowdiness.

I confess I'm more than a little nervous about the whole affair. It's supposed to be a casual summer supper, but this will be my first true dinner party where we sit down to eat. My best friend, Birdie, is bringing her new special friend, David. I haven't met him yet, but Birdie has been talking of nothing else for the last few weeks. Max and Jasper are bringing their respective girlfriends, Bridget and Betsy. Betsy is a fun sort, always happy to help and laugh along with any possible calamities. Last Sunday, Daddy had invited us all for pancakes. He loves to flip them high in the air to show off his culinary skills. Well, one of those fluffy cakes stuck right to the ceiling. It peeled off and dropped directly onto Betsy's head as she stepped into the kitchen. We were all mortified until she reached up, broke off a piece and ate it. Then she erupted in peals of laughter.
I can tell you if it had been Bridget standing in the kitchen with a pancake on her head, the entire scene would have played out quite differently. I just hope Bridget doesn't have too many complaints about the food or the heat in the room. I've had my windows opened all morning hoping to gather any of the cool air that might be circulating around our small courtyard, only I've been disappointed by the attempt. It seems those cool mornings we had in June disappeared the second the calendar flipped to July. Not that Bridget would complain outright. She tends to be one of those stealthy, polite complainers. I'm sure you know the type, an expert at tossing out snide remarks wrapped in a sugary coating. Honestly, I much prefer a more direct complaint. Anyhow, Daddy and I have gotten used to her ways. We've learned that a polite smile is the best response to one of her little undercover daggers.

Well, enough about the dinner party. How are your walks going? I want to hear all about them at our next tea chat. I hope you love every second of your outings.

Speaking of outings, Kellan and Jasper have been talking nonstop about the new Belmont Amusement Park down south. Aside from all the usual clamor, pushy crowds and sitting benches that are coated with sticky substances that make sitting to rest tired feet terribly unpleasant, this park comes with a massive wooden roller coaster. Jasper and Kellan have been raving on and on about the Giant Dipper Mission Beach Roller Coaster as if it was the greatest achievement of the century. They both insist that neither of them can consider their lives well lived unless they have a ride on that coaster. Men are inherently silly, and this last week, since photos of the roller coaster and the new park splashed across the front page, my brother and boyfriend have topped out as two of the silliest. Now, mind you, I'm not against a trip to the amusement park, if either of them had a car that would actually survive a hundred miles under the hot July sun, but a ride on the Giant Dipper is out of the question. Not that I'm afraid of speeding like a bullet along a wooden track in a small open car—oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm afraid. Terrified of the notion, in fact. Only I can't possibly let the boys know. How can I keep my chin up as a daring and smart private investigator if a little amusement park ride frightens the dickens out of me?

Enough about that. Just writing about the roller coaster is making me queasy. I'll move on to something far more interesting than sticky benches and wild roller coasters. Did you happen to see the article in the Examiner about Minerva Plimpton? It seems she has been collecting newspapers for every day of her life. Her mother started the collection on the day Minerva was born and everyday of her childhood. She has continued the tradition right up to now. She turned seventy on her last birthday, so that is quite a few papers. It was aggravating to see that the reporter was more focused on the neighbors' complaints about Minerva's collection. Apparently, it has seeped out into the garden and porch. They're worried it's a fire hazard. I suppose it would be somewhat disconcerting to live close to a house that was filled with newspapers. I still couldn't help but think how much fun it would be to know exactly what was happening in the world on each day of your life. Maybe I'm too sentimental. Daddy insists that's the case.
Well, I'm going to start my molded Jell-O salad. It will be filled with fruit cocktail and maraschino cherries. Bridget will probably comment that there are too many cherries, but I'll just give her my polite smile. Daddy and I even practice those smiles before Bridget comes over. We're quite good at them, so good that my brother, Max, doesn't seem to notice that they're rehearsed. I only hope I have enough food for everyone. Max tends to eat like a bear getting ready for winter, and Kellan and Jasper are right behind him. I was planning on a roast with potatoes and carrots until I remembered that my pathetic little oven doesn't like to stay on for more than a half hour at a time. It's also too hot for roast, so I switched my whole menu to much more summery fare, finger sandwiches, Jell-O and macaroni salad. Only now, as I write out the menu, I want to kick myself. How on earth did I think finger sandwiches would be enough to satisfy those three men and their bottomless bellies? I'll have to run to the market and buy some salted nuts and olives. I wonder if the bakery still has a devil's food cake. They won't mind being a little hungry after dinner if there's chocolate cake to chase down the finger sandwiches. Oh dear, it's Sunday. Bakery is closed. What was I thinking? And, with this long, panic filled rant, I will sign off. Let's get together soon.

Your friend,
Poppy

I no longer sealed my letters to my neighbor Ginny in an envelope. We'd grown so close it would have seemed oddly formal. I'd started the letters back when Ginny was still reeling from two consecutive tragedies and no longer able to leave her home. I wanted her to have a connection to the outside world. I was sure someday she'd be able to leave her house. I wanted her to step out into society and the surrounding world as if she hadn't missed one thing. Jasper had ridiculed my plan, insisting my letters wouldn't have any impact. Sometimes brothers could be so harsh and utterly wrong. Ginny was now leaving her house for short trips around the neighborhood. She still hadn't climbed onto a trolley for a trip across town, but she managed to buy her own groceries at the market. I sensed that she was thrilled about that step forward.

I sprang from my small, cluttered desk in the front room and nearly smacked into the fold-out table I'd borrowed from my neighbor, Mr. Crandell. He'd also given me some crisp stalks of celery from his produce stand, suggesting I fill them with pimento cheese for appetizers. The last few moments of panic returned as I thought about the pimento stuffed celery stalks.

I tucked Ginny's letter under my arm and hurried to the ice box. I pulled it open and surveyed the two platters of finger sandwiches. I'd gotten up at the crack of dawn to spread my carefully cut squares of bread with homemade tuna salad, cream cheese, egg salad and slices of ham. It felt as if I was making enough to feed a small village, but now the platters looked woefully small. Darn Max and his grizzly bear appetite. Bridget would probably comment about how they could always stop by the market on the way home for a ready-made sandwich or soup so that Max didn't go home hungry.

Antony rubbed around my ankles yanking me from my minor breakdown. "Oh, Antony, what am I going to do? The market may or may not be open depending on whether or not Mr. Turnbill's arthritis is acting up." I walked to the pantry cupboard and opened it. A half eaten box of vanilla wafer cookies and a tin can of corn scowled angrily back at me as if telling me my larder was empty and they could not be counted on to save the dinner party. Antony circled my ankles again. "You don't happen to have a good recipe that has only two ingredients, vanilla wafers and corn, do you, Tony?" The cat meowed in response, but he wasn't reciting a recipe. He was reminding me that his bowl was empty.

"You're in luck, sir," I told him as I reached into to the ice box. "I have half a can of tuna left. Now, where's your queen?" Just as I said it, Cleopatra jumped down from the window where she perched all morning to watch the birds on the feeder. She rarely showed affection and saved a good nuzzle against my leg only for when I was holding something as affection-worthy as an open can of tuna.

I tossed the fish into their bowls and headed out the door with my letter. Mr. Crandell was watering the pansies he had planted in front of his house. "Morning, Poppy, how is the dinner party preparation going?" He straightened with his watering pot. His thick white eyebrows danced over his smiling eyes. "Were you able to use the celery?"

"Yes, I filled stalks with pimento cheese just as you suggested, and they are delicious. I'm just not sure I have enough food for my brothers. Somehow, I managed to forget that they have big appetites. I'm not sure how that slipped my mind considering how many times I've sat at a dinner table trying to grab the last roll or piece of chicken before they swooped in to grab it first. I guess my first dinner party is going to be a failure." I hated to sound pathetic, but the nerves I'd been feeling about the whole evening had gone into overdrive.

"Nonsense, a dinner party is more about the company than the food."

"Thanks, Thomas, I'll try to remember that. And you're right."

"You know, I have a fine ripe watermelon in my kitchen. It's too much for me to eat on my own. I'll slice off a few wedges and cut the rest up for your party."

"That would be wonderful, Thomas, but are you sure? I don't want to take your watermelon—"

"Please, Poppy, I run a produce stand. I eat more watermelon than any person in this fair city. I'm happy to share. I'll go right inside and cut it up after I water the flowers."

"You're the best neighbor a girl could have," I said. "Thank you, Thomas."

Mr. Crandell looked past me. "No, Poppy, I think you're the best neighbor a girl could have. There's proof right behind you." His sincere smile was more thoughtful than cheery. I spun around and spotted Ginny walking up the little pathway into our courtyard. She was holding the stem of a yellow rose between her fingers. "She goes a little farther each day," Mr. Crandell said quietly behind me. "That's because of you, Poppy."

I smiled back at him and hurried forward to greet Ginny. I pulled the letter from under my arm. It was astounding the difference in Ginny's appearance since she'd started venturing out on short walks. Her complexion was smooth as cream and filled with glowing touches of sun. Her cheeks were pink and her chocolate brown eyes sparkled with energy. Even her posture seemed straighter, stronger.

"I was just about to push a letter through your mailbox." We kept walking toward her house. There was still plenty of angst whenever Ginny stood outside her home. Her cozy, secure little world, the one she'd counted on to get her through heartbreak, was just beyond the oak panels of her front door.

"Wonderful." Ginny happily took the letter.

"Now, please ignore my selfish and slightly unhinged speech at the end. I was suddenly struck with the terrifying reality that I didn't have enough food for my summer supper to satisfy my brothers' appetites. But as Thomas so wisely pointed out, the success of a dinner party relies more on good company rather than piles of food."

"That's right," Ginny said as she stepped up to her stoop. She didn't rush inside which was another step forward, even though her feet stood firmly on her welcome mat. "Birdie is bringing her new friend. You still haven't met him?"

I shook my head. "But I feel like I have because Birdie talks about him non-stop. He works at a law firm as a legal assistant. He's going to college for his law degree. And he drives a Mercedes. Between you and me, sometimes I think Birdie likes that car more than David."

"David? That's a nice, solid name." She turned to her door to unlock it. She had spent so many months, years even, inside her house, unlocking the door was still a challenge. I waited quietly while she fussed with it. "This darn key just doesn't want to work right." It was the same thing she said every time she had to fidget with the lock. I'd tried the lock myself more than once and had no problem. She knew it was lack of practice that made it hard for her to open a locked door, so I saw no reason to contradict her.
"Yes, that's what Birdie says. She hasn't found any fault with him yet, and that's rare for my friend, an expert at fault-finding."

Ginny pushed the door open. The familiar fragrance of her favorite apple tea wafted out. The faint aroma reminded me of our nice, quiet chats around her kitchen table. As much as I'd like to think I helped Ginny come out of the darkness losing her son and husband had caused, she had helped me too. I'd lost my mother when I was a young girl, and while I had a loving, supportive family, they were all men, every single one of them. I had the most wonderful father, but it was still nice to have a woman to talk to, to confide in. Birdie was the greatest friend I could ask for but talking to her wasn't the same as talking to Ginny. Ginny had sealed herself off from the world, but she had still lived a rich, full life. She had all the experience and knowledge of a mother. She was the perfect addition to my tight circle of friends and family. She filled a void that had been left behind when my mother died.

"Ginny," I said briskly before she disappeared back into her house, "do you think Mr. Turnbill might open the store this morning? I'm thinking I may try to bake a devil's food cake for the party. My brothers can't complain about the food if there's a two layer cake staring at them from the kitchen counter. I think I have some flour. I just need sugar and eggs and cocoa…" My voice trailed off. "I guess I need everything but the flour." My idea now seemed about as plausible as the temperature suddenly dropping and rain falling from the sky.

"You know, Poppy, I've got all the ingredients. Why don't you come on inside, and we'll whip up a chocolate cake so scrumptious those boys won't know what hit them."
"Oh, Ginny! You're the greatest. And Thomas is slicing up a watermelon too. I've got the best neighbors in the world." Right then, our less agreeable neighbor, Mr. Wolfe, stomped out of his house. He always shut the front door with a loud snap as if he was perpetually angry about something. The permanent scowl on his face seemed to confirm that theory. He marched down his pathway and turned toward the sidewalk without even looking our direction. We'd all given up on any efforts to be friendly. Mr. Wolfe just didn't want hellos or smiles or interactions of any kind from his neighbors.

I turned back to Ginny. The sun was just starting to warm up her front stoop. It added even more color to her cheeks. "Correction," I said. "I've got two out of three of the best neighbors in the world. I'll go get my canister of flour. I can at least contribute that to the cake. You've saved my whole day, Ginny. You're the best."