On the following Saturday, Sheyenne and I went to the Metropolitan Natural History Museum to see Ramen Ho-Tep’s first public presentation. Despite his grudging acquiescence to the terms, the museum curator and his staff got behind the effort and provided substantial publicity. People flocked in to see the ambulatory mummy do his schtick.
“An afternoon at the museum,” Sheyenne said. “When we were still alive, we might have called this a genuine date.”
I grinned at her as we walked into the Ancient Egypt wing. “So why can’t we?”
A smile crept across her beautiful face. “Other than the obvious physical limitations, you mean?” She arched her eyebrows.
If she had ever finished med school, she would definitely have caused an increased pulse rate among her male patients.
“I’m not that kind of guy, Spooky. I don’t do that on a first date.”
She laughed. “Yes, you do. Or did I count wrong?” As if we had rehearsed it, we both took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. That one night would have to do. Dead guys can’t be choosy, and I would rather have a ghost of Sheyenne than any other real woman.
“We could go out for fondue,” I suggested. “In honor of Sheldon.”
“You’d have to invite Robin too. She’s the only one who could really enjoy the food.” Then her pragmatic streak came to the fore. “We could discuss cases, make it a tax-deductible meal.”
“Sounds good to me.”
A crowd of patrons, many of them school-aged children, had gathered around the exhibits and the artificial pyramid that held the ancient treasures. I glanced at my watch—we were just in time.
The museum intern designated as the mummy’s personal assistant (though Ramen Ho-Tep insisted on calling him a slave) hovered around the periphery of the audience, straightening chairs, nervous about this big debut. Recognizing us, the intern pointed to two empty chairs near the front; as guests of the former pharaoh, we had special VIP passes.
Lujean Eccles was also in the audience, accompanied by the Patchwork Princess. The museum had consulted with Miss Eccles on how to spiff up Ramen Ho-Tep for his public-speaking debut. A smile brightened Wendy’s crooked face when she noticed I was wearing the jacket she had stitched up. She waved, and I waved back.
The lights dimmed, and with great theatrical effect, the mummy of Ramen Ho-Tep rose from his sarcophagus and regarded the crowd, who oohed and aahed. The children’s eyes were as big as saucers. The mummy was indeed ready for prime time: his bandages were freshened, the stains removed, the caked dust whisked off him.
Seeing us, he swelled larger with self-confidence. “I was a pharaoh of Ancient Egypt!” His voice boomed, sounding impressive. “I ruled the lands from the Nubian Desert and Kush in Upper Egypt, down to Thebes, and the Nile Delta and Memphis.”
“Memphis?” asked a young boy. “Where Elvis lived?”
“No! I was the King.” Ramen Ho-Tep crossed his arms over his chest. “I had thousands of slaves, and I was worshiped by my people. They gave me gold, lapis lazuli, myrrh, and pretty little paintings on sheets of papyrus. I was a giant among men, worshipped as a god.” He stood barely five feet high, shrunken due to desiccation and dehydration. “My father was Nor-Man Ho-Tep, and before him was—” The mummy rattled off a string of names, none of which meant anything to the listeners.
When the audience started to yawn, the intern/slave scurried to the front and whispered, “Maybe you should skip the rest of the family tree, Mr. Ho-Tep.”
“How did you get to be a mummy?” a girl interrupted.
“Let me tell you, young lady.” Ramen Ho-Tep leaned forward. “When a great pharaoh dies, his body must be carefully preserved for the next life. I was taken to the House of the Dead by my priests and washed in palm wine and rinsed with water from the Nile. All my internal organs were removed—liver, lungs, stomach, intestines—and placed in canopic jars. That’s why I feel hollow inside to this day. The embalmers pushed a hook up my nose to pull out my brain, since I wasn’t using it anymore.”
“Eww,” said a chorus of audience members, mainly the adults.
“Do you need your brain now?” asked a boy.
“I really don’t miss it.”
Ramen Ho-Tep regarded the audience. “I had a beloved cat. As was tradition, and because I was Pharaoh of all Egypt, my cat was also mummified. Everyone needs a pet in the afterlife. His name was”—he uttered another mishmash of odd-sounding syllables, paused, then said, “It translates as Fluffy.”
The kids giggled.
Ramen Ho-Tep reveled in the attention as questions came at him from the audience. Bram Steffords stood at the back of the room, looking haughty, but unmistakably pleased with the presentation.
“This is going to work out just fine,” I whispered to Sheyenne. “Ramen Ho-Tep is in his element.” Glancing down, I saw that her ghostly hand was resting on mine, though I couldn’t feel it. Imagining that we were holding hands did produce a surprising warm swirly sensation in my stomach, though.
After the mummy had finished, and the audience members crowded forward to ask for his autograph on their program booklets, Sheyenne and I left the Ancient Egypt wing.
Now that I had time, I decided to spend a few minutes at the Necronomicon exhibit out in the central hall. I wasn’t a scientist, nor an occultist (the two professions now had more overlap than anyone ever imagined), but this book’s strange magical powers, not to mention a ludicrous set of coincidences and a rare planetary alignment, had changed the world.
If not for the Big Uneasy, I would have stayed dead after Brondon Morris shot me, and the cases wouldn’t have solved themselves. On the other hand, without the Big Uneasy, without JLPN’s scheme to eradicate the unnaturals, I probably wouldn’t have been shot in the first place….
Near the rare books displayed in high-security vitrines, I saw the large black-gowned form of Mavis Wannovich, wearing her pointed black hat and the star-and-moon spangled scarf. She held a thick notebook in her hands, scribbling notations. Well behaved and very clean, her sow-sister Alma rooted around the displays, pressing her dark eyes close to the glass so she could read the information cards.
The witch looked up with a smile on her face. “A pleasure to see you, Mr. Chambeaux. Alma’s here under a special dispen-sation—I’ve gotten her classified as a service pig.” Then her expression fell. “Oh, I heard about Mr. Fennerman. I’m so sorry our protective spell wasn’t good enough. I feel just terrible. That poor vampire!”
“Your protective spell worked, but it would have taken a howitzer to drive away that monster.” After an awkward moment of silence, I added, “You’re looking good … much more relaxed.”
Mavis self-consciously brushed down her frizzy black hair. “Thanks. Alma and I just had the most amazing spa and mud-bath treatment. Sometimes you have to pamper yourself.”
“How are your jobs going?” Sheyenne asked. “Is the publishing house treating you well?”
“Oh, yes. Now that our dispute is resolved, Howard Phillips is a fine company, and they definitely needed someone to organize their records. Alma and I have our work cut out for us. In fact, I’m here taking notes for the special rerelease of our annotated Necronomicon. There were typos in the previous printing, if you can believe that!” She rolled her eyes. Alma let out a loud confirm-atory snort.
“Any progress on reversing your sister’s condition?” I asked.
“We’ll get around to that, but we’ve both been incredibly busy. Howard Phillips has an entire room full of slush-pile manuscripts. They’ve fallen far behind, all those aspiring authors just waiting for a response … Now it’s my responsibility to go through the shelves, alphabetize the submissions, and begin responding. I give each book a fair assessment, don’t pull any punches. And Alma can smell a bad manuscript from the other side of the room.”
The sow circled, pressed her snout against a display case, and came back to us.
Mavis added with a happy sigh, “This is my dream job, Mr. Chambeaux—working as an editor, dealing with writers, seeing a book through the publication process, typesetting, proofreading, printing. I want to thank you and Ms. Deyer for the opportunity. And yes, we will eventually start testing spells to reverse the effects on my sister, as soon as we institute some solid quality control.”
“If you’re satisfied with our service, would you write us a short testimonial—just a few sentences?” Sheyenne said. “Did you receive our bill, by the way? I can print up another one, if you’d like.”
“Oh yes, don’t worry—the check is in the mail.” Mavis beamed. “And Alma and I would be honored to write you a glowing recommendation.” After pondering a moment, the witch added, “Now that I think of it, Mr. Chambeaux, you’ve been through such enthralling adventures in the Unnatural Quarter. Have you ever considered writing about some of your more interesting cases, penning a memoir? The world would be fascinated to read it … or at least a number of our special-edition subscribers would.”
I frowned. “Never thought about it.”
“Since Alma and I have such fond feelings for you, if you were to submit a manuscript to Howard Phillips Publishing, I would give it my fullest attention.”
Sheyenne hovered beside me. “Not a bad idea, Beaux. You could handwrite a few pages a day, and I’ll type them up. In less than a year, you’d finish a whole book.”
I wasn’t convinced, but seeing Sheyenne’s enthusiasm, I decided not to turn her down right away. “I’ll think about it.”