Thousand Dollar Pharaoh

 Excerpt from THOUSAND DOLLAR PHARAOH by Sherry Morris

August 1945 in the Valley of the Kings, Egypt

Moaning as she regained consciousness, Chloe raised her head and twisted it from side to side, struggling to understand. Where was she? A jolt of searing pain in her upper right arm brought her focus back to the job. When she had signed on to become a United States Secret Service Agent in the counterfeiting division, they had neglected to mention all of the occupational hazards. She had quickly learned the missions providing an adrenaline rush always seemed to be accompanied by physical pain.

As she cleared her mind, she realized it was sometime after midnight inside an ancient tomb. On the dusty earthen floor next to her, Grover Cleveland seemed to glare ominously from the bloody thousand dollar bill stuck to a mummy’s severed arm.

Grabbing the three-thousand year old limb for leverage, she struggled to stand as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the flicker from a stubby red candle on the floor of the burial chamber. Oh God, no. Who desecrated this mummy?

Chloe remembered tripping down some wooden stairs and grunting on a landing. As she clambered up, two men appeared at the top of the steps and chased after her. She scurried down, rounded three corners and squeezed into a small breech in an earthen wall. Did I lose them? No, they must’ve knocked me out cold. But my head doesn’t really hurt. Did they make their getaway or are they lurking, waiting to finish me off after they interrogate me?

What’s that smell? I know that smell. From where? She closed her eyes tight. Remembering a winter night. A white fur coat and Bill…Hundred Dollar Bill. The printing room at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington. The woman up on the catwalk. The flash. Six shots ringing out, the last one louder. The silhouette blowing smoke from the gun. The lithe shadow sashaying into blackness. Her lavender French perfume which commingled with hair lacquer and cigarette smoke. Bill’s assailant…his wife loomed there. Is here somewhere now.

Chloe you’re delusional. What would his American wife be doing in Egypt? Ha ha ha. Good one, Chloe girl.

She staggered over to the candle and grabbed it. A bead of hot wax dripped onto her ring finger. She drew in a short breath.  Carefully cradling the mummy’s arm, realizing how sacred it was, she approached the three open stone coffins within the chamber. A female corpse had flowing red hair and a bent left arm. A black-haired male had his hands crossed at his groin. The third was a bald, one-armed female. Shivering at the sight, Chloe brooded over her mission and strategy. She gently replaced the arm on the mummy closest to her. Mummy! Yuk. It appeared to fit. Staring at the thousand dollar bill, her mind kicked into analytical gear.

Chloe examined the ancient corpse. Double ear piercings. Tight banding around the forehead where the headdress would have been. No trace of hair whatsoever. Bent right arm. Henna on the long fingernails. Fingers curled in, as if gripping a scepter, which some evil tomb robber had probably helped himself to. This mummy was a royal woman and was in bad shape. Her mouth and chest had been bashed in on the left side. Right arm ripped off. Hacked off. Chloe’s stomach contracted as the bile churned. What kind of people could do such a heinous deed? The bad guys could. But who were the bad guys? Two of them surprised me in the upper burial chamber. One or both no doubt responsible for…

She grabbed the wound in her right arm.  Her fingers slipped in the coagulated blood.  Pain shot up her arm, all the way to her teeth.

I’ve been shot!

Anger seethed through her. Great. I’m going to die. Alone in a creepy crypt. But wait. I’m not dying yet. I’m up and about. The bleeding seems to have stopped.  So it’s either a flesh wound or else the bullet is lodged in my arm. Fine. Take it like a big girl, Chloe. You’re the one who volunteered to jump right on into the boots of one of our boys at war. You are an American and you will see this mission though. The fire of her resolve manifested itself in the nerve endings of her wound.

Chloe flinched and stumbled backward as a cat pounced from a stone ledge onto the mummy’s chest. Larger than most cats she’d ever seen. Tawny yellow-gray fur, a long tapering tail and striped markings. A Sand Cat. It kneaded and dug into the bandages before circling three times, nesting in the chest or what was left of it inside the shreds of black, tan and red burial wrappings.

Now that is just wrong.

“Here kitty. Nice kitty.” She held her fingers to its nose. The cat sniffed and turned away. Not even a lick. Chloe petted and stroked the shaggy soft fur.

“Come on kitty. Come on girl. Come out of the coffin. Out you go.” Gently tugging on the cat near the back of its neck, it wouldn’t budge.

Dates. I have some dates left.  Where is my bag? Chloe spun around until she spied it near the hole in the wall where she’d penetrated the chamber. The cat kept an eye on Chloe as she shoved her arm into the tapestry carpet bag and fished out a date.  “Here you go kitty.” Chloe offered the sticky sweet fruit. Allowing the cat one lick before pulling the date away, “No, no, no girl. I guess you’re a girl. Let’s play fetch.”  Chloe tossed the date on top of her bag. The cat leapt after it, with a piece of currency stuck to its tail.

Chloe petted the feline as it licked the date and even gave her one scratchy lick of thanks on her hand.  Swishing back and forth, the tail betokened gratitude.

Hmm… A U.S. thousand dollar bill. She removed it from the tail. These haven’t been minted since 1936. Well, isn’t that a coincidence. That’s just the date on here.

Trying hard to examine the bill for authenticity in the dim candle light, it appeared real enough. She rubbed her fingers over a tacky patch. What was making the bills sticky? Taking the candle back to the stone coffin, Chloe shoved her left arm inside, cringing, feeling around. The brittle bandages crinkled. Or was that the currency?  

Peering inside, she found a stash of thousand dollar bills. Chloe dashed over and coaxed the cat off of her bag, more or less yanking it out from underneath the animal. She stuffed it with the cash, filling it one third full. Feeling around the bottom of the sarcophagus, her ring bumped something metallic and clanked.  Her wedding ring.  She smiled and remembered the National Cathedral where Momma had walked her down the aisle. It still seemed like a dream. Did it really happen?

Chloe sighed. Her whirlwind action-adventure romance had culminated in marriage to fellow agent, Mike Taurus. In the picture dictionary of life under the listing for man was his photograph. Perfect in every way, except when he opened his mouth and said something completely inappropriate. What a mouth. Firm lips. Slightly crooked two front teeth. Hot probing tongue. The world’s best kisser. Oh Mike. I wish you were here on this mission with me.

The cat meowed three times. Chloe turned to see the fur standing up along its spine. It must sense danger. Chloe spun around, but saw nothing. She returned her attention to the coffin and dug deep, running her fingers over the metal. They had to be plates. Plates to print currency. Shazam.  Holding the dwindling candle between the mummy’s legs, she verified her deduction.  Her stomach settled and she smiled.

Chloe gasped and nearly dropped the candle as the cat pounced on the mummy’s face. Hissing and with fur bristled up on its arched back, the agitated creature leapt across the three sarcophaguses, onto her carpet bag and then circled back to retrace her route. Conspiring voices from elsewhere in the tomb loomed in the distance. Speaking English.

Relieved she didn’t set the mummy on fire, her pulse raced while she scanned the chamber for a weapon. She hurriedly dug through her bag and extracted her revolver.

Now what? Think Chloe, think. “All mighty God, forgive me and be with me.”  She reached into the next gritty stone coffin, grabbed the mummy’s straight right arm, closed her eyes and yanked. Oh did that hurt. Then pain in her arm shot both ways, up to her brain and stinging into her fingertips.  

She focused on her disgusting task. Eww…just like trying to carve the leg off of an over-baked dried out chicken. Like the one she’d ruined for Uncle Edmund’s wake. That incident was why Daddy had insisted she get her degree in Home Economics.

Chloe waved her hands in the air, shaking off the disgusting creepy task she was performing. Her injured arm screamed in pain. Tears of agony ran down her face as she likened it to the pain this mummy might be feeling in the afterlife, having his arm ripped off. Inhaling the stale air, she looked up at the low stone ceiling and prayed, “And all mighty God of the sun and whoever else these poor old people believed in, whom so ever is guarding this tomb, please, please, please, forgive me.”

She tugged and twisted until the limb finally snapped off. Opening her eyes, she blinked and sneezed as dust flew. Dust and dead bugs and mummified flesh. Shoot! She had to unwind the bandages to get the arm loose. Eww! Ancient flesh and bones. Stop looking at me! Why did they have to perform an eye and mouth opening ceremony after they’d prepared the mummies? They’re all watching me do these horrible things to them. Tears trickled down her dusty face. She shuddered. Good grief, she was desecrating a pharaoh.

Somehow, she had to focus on this task and convince herself she wasn’t actually tomb robbing, abusing a corpse and touching a dead person. This was just another day at the office…out in the field. Just doing her routine job in a routine way. Concealing the identity of this royal mummy, in order to protect her. What was left of her. And in the process, desecrating the mummy’s boyfriend here next to her. Great, just great. Now two spirits can’t rest in peace and enjoy the afterlife.

Shaking off the spine-chilling assignment, literally by shaking her head, Chloe positioned the straight arm on the mummy with the bashed in face and the sarcophagus full of dough. If her research and hunches happened to be correct, these were the remains of a very important royal mummy.  A pharaoh.  A lady pharaoh. How divine. Wow. Chloe felt humbled in her presence. And more determined to protect the mummy and see that the counterfeiters were prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

As she placed the bent right arm in her carpet bag, the cat somersaulted into it. Fine. Come along. Together they squeezed through the two foot breech in the earthen wall and into main chamber of the tomb. The air wasn’t as dusty, but it sure was muggy and hot. Who’s great idea was it to traipse off on a counterfeiting caper in the Egyptian dessert in August? Orpha’s. Well, yeah, Orpha had volunteered for this mission, but Chloe had been drafted because the brass knew she had minored in Egyptology.

Breathless, Chloe scurried up the wooden stairs in the tight passage way, pushing the wall with her left hand, painfully hugging the carpet bag handles and candle with her right. Zigzagging through the ancient passages, she suspected the eyes on the hieroglyphics loomed judging her. As she briefly read the simple curses, she realized they were dooming her to be eaten by a crocodile, hippopotamus and then a rhinoceros. Yet some of the characters bespoke to urge her onward, as if history depended on her to complete this chapter. If circumstances had been different, Chloe would have loved to have lingered and examined the hieroglyphics. Maybe even buy an animal symbol necklace thingy at the gift shop. What do they call those? Take photographs with her Brownie camera. Mug and pose and what a fun honeymoon this would be. Mike…

Chloe forged onward and upward as fast as she could. When the main entrance of the tomb spit her into the black Egyptian night, she extinguished the flame. Climbing the steep steps, she gasped for breath before making a sharp right at the top. She huffed her way through the sand hurrying toward the thunder of approaching hooves. Chloe stifled a scream as a camel rounded the next corner in her path.

U.S. Secret Service Agent Orpha Livingston thumped the camel with a stick, forcing him to his knees. Chloe grimaced at the camel’s body odor as she handed the carpet bag to her partner and then hiked her gauze dress up, grabbed onto the saddle blanket and hoisted herself astride the beast. “Boy am I glad to see you, Orpha.”

“You too, clover-girl.”

As soon as Chloe was seated, she grabbed the bag and hugged it to her middle, smashing it between her and the driver. It screamed a meow as they stole away through the desert.

Orpha flinched and looked over her shoulder at the bag. “What have you got in there?”

“Later. Let’s get out of here!” Clasping the carpet bag between herself and the jockey, Chloe balanced by digging her fingers around the belt on Orpha’s dress. The woman’s slim waist didn’t leave much room for margin.

As the camel proceeded into the indigo night, Chloe’s heart pounded, nearly as much as her arm stung. Please let it just be a graze. I can’t get a bullet dug out now. No time. I should have departed yesterday. She tried to pacify and convince herself she could indeed still make it back to Washington in time. Well she’d just have to. There was no alternative.

In an effort to calm down, she breathed in deeply though her nose and held it as long as possible, then blew it out through her mouth.  Inhaling so deeply of Orpha’s wig-top incense cone was nearly drugging. Orpha had gone a little overboard buying this black braided wig with an incense pot on top. Royal women wore these back in the days of real pharaohs. Orpha always had been a sucker for costumes.

Chloe’s nostrils separated out frankincense, eucalyptus and what was that other scent? Marijuana?  That’s just about right. I’ll not only be late for my mission, I’ll be arrested and thrown in jail on drug charges.  Still, perhaps the marijuana could ease my pain. Chloe lifted her nose and inhaled as closely to the cone as possible. Pressing against the jockey, she mashed the carpet bag between them, sending out a mew of protest from the Sand cat. “Sorry kitty.”

What am I going to do with this cat? I’ve always wanted a cat. A companion. Better than a dog. You don’t have to walk it.

Once they rounded a bend in the hot windy night, Chloe reached up with her left hand, mesmerized by the heady incense. In an attempt to crook the cone downward slightly for a greedy whiff, she inadvertently knocked it from her partner’s head. Chloe flailed as Orpha caught her with one hand and slowed the camel down.

“What the heck are you doing, Clover?” she demanded.

“Sorry.”

“That wig cost me my last six chocolate bars.” Orpha sounded hurt.

“I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae when we get home. I’m so sorry. And I’ll pay for a shampoo and dryer set at Mabel’s.”

Holding firmly to her colleague’s saffron silk belt for the rest of the journey, Chloe’s mind returned to fantasizing about having a cat. Keeping a cat. This cat.  An Egyptian cat. I’ll call her Cleo. For Cleopatra. Maybe Patra? Pat? Patty? Paddycake… She drew in a deep sigh. Good old Paddycake. Paddy Grogan, proprietor of Paddycake’s Bakery in Miami Beach. Her room upstairs. The chocolate frosted yeast raised doughnuts and his infamous cinnamon sugar wiggle worms were to die for…  She shivered. Babies did die for. Hundred Dollar Bill poisoned them. She wept for her twins. They say grief gets easier with time, but she really couldn’t imagine a day would go by when she wouldn’t ache for her unfathomable loss.

Tears stung the kohl makeup into her eyes. She tightened her grip on Orpha’s belt and buried her head in the back of her dress, sobbing.

Orpha abruptly halted the camel. She twisted around to face Chloe. “What’s the matter, honey?” After prying her friend’s fingers out of her belt, Orpha dismounted. She reached for Chloe’s hand. “Come on down and talk to me.”

Chloe let herself fall into Orpha’s arms, depositing both them and the carpet bag onto the hard-trodden, gritty sand path.

Chloe screamed and grabbed her right arm. Orpha rolled over on top of her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been shot. My babies are dead. I botched the mission. I’m no good at anything.”

“You’ve been shot? Where? Who shot you? Why didn’t you tell me?” She kissed her friend’s forehead. “Honey, I know it’s only been a few months since your miscarriage. But please believe me. The ache will get easier as time passes. You’ll always miss them, but you must go on with your life.”

No stars dared twinkle. No moon shone down. Only blackness. Evil foretold.

Orpha crawled toward the sound of the camel breathing and groped around inside her saddle bag. A beam of dim light returned to Chloe, in the form of an Army flashlight.

“Clover, you’re bleeding. Your arm. Where else were you shot? Who did it?” She yanked down the sleeve on Chloe’s dress, exposing her shoulder and upper arm to examine the wound. Orpha slipped her fingers underneath Chloe’s arm and twisted it around to get a good look.

Chloe shoved her away with a shriek of pain. “Don’t touch me!”

“There’s no exit wound. I’ve got to dig the bullet out.”

“No! Are you crazy? Absolutely not! You are no doctor!”

“Well at the very least I have to close the wound.” She returned to her saddle bag and fished out her Army Air Corps Nurse’s kitbag.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m fine.” Chloe snapped at her friend. The tears in her voice betrayed her brave words.

“You’re fine? Then why are you writhing around in the sand, blubbering, shrieking and generally making a mess of yourself?”

The cat emerged from the tattered bag and pounced on Chloe’s stomach. She paced up and down the length of her torso, licking her nose, turning to swish it with her tail and then kneading her paws into Chloe’s belly before curling into a ball. Chloe concentrated on the cat’s purring as Orpha positioned the flashlight beam, propping it on the carpet bag to illuminate the surgical field.

Chloe jerked upright and screamed from the sting of alcohol as Orpha sterilized the area.

“Sorry honey.” Orpha firmly shoved her patient back down.

“You are going to give me a bullet to bite on, right?”

“You don’t need a bullet, Clover. You already have one, remember? Now you’ll feel a little sting…and burn.”

A little sting and burn…more like blinding pain as Orpha injected the area with a local anesthetic.

“Again a little sting and burn.” She moved the syringe to an adjacent area.

“Could you have used a duller needle? Sheesh! What are you giving me? Procaine?” Chloe dipped her head to the left and tried to wipe her eyes and nose on her dress.

“I wish. Ran out of that the first week here.”

“Well what is it? Camel spit?”

“Cocaine.”

Chloe tried to concentrate on the cat’s purring. She still hadn’t named her. Cleopatra and all its nicknames were unsuitable. Sphinx? Nah. Egypt? Phff. Valley? Valley of the Kings. Yeah right. Here kitty kitty. Here Valley of the  Kings. Why did it have to be kings anyhow? Women were just as effective leaders. Queen. Queenie. Nefertiti. The wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Rumored to have assumed his role as Pharaoh upon her husband’s death. Husband. What a glorious word. Mike. Chloe smiled.

“Do you feel this, Clover?”

“What?”

“Do you feel anything?” Orpha poked around the edges of the wound with a needle.

“No.  What do you think of Nefertiti for a name?”

“You’re changing your name to Nefertiti?”

“No, naming the cat.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Nobody. She just jumped right into my carpet bag.”

“Well you can’t keep her.”

“Why not?” Chloe asked defensively.

“She obviously belongs to somebody. Look how big she is, my gawd she’s well fed.”

“She’s mine now and you can’t take her away from me.”

“Easy now, Clover. You know I wouldn’t do that. I just don’t want you to be surprised if she runs home.

Chloe could feel tugging as her friend sutured the wound. “Are you doing layers?”

“I can’t. You won’t let me dig the bullet out.”

“You don’t know how to dig a bullet out.”

“I’ve watched plenty and assisted the Army docs.”

“Yes, but all you have experience in is closing.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean by not anymore?”

She handed Chloe the bullet.

“You promised you wouldn’t dig this out!”

Orpha tied off the last suture and clipped it.  “It was right under the epidermis. Easy as pie with my little tweezers. I couldn’t leave it inside. The risk of anaerobic bacterial infection is too dangerous. No gangrene on my watch, Clover.”

 Relieved, Chloe changed the subject. “Mike’s cute, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Orpha agreed.

“You really didn’t get a chance to meet properly at our wedding. We’ll have you over for dinner. Lots.”

Orpha tied a bandage over the wound. “I didn’t know you could cook. What kind of food?”

“Country food. Southern cooking. Fried chicken, greens, butter beans, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy you’ll be talking about for weeks.”

“Count me in. But where are you living now? Where did you and Mike set up housekeeping?”

Good question. Make Believe Island was their little hideaway. Primitive and isolated. Oh wait. That was just a safe house on an assignment. Owned by Uncle Sam. Shoot. Somebody else is probably there now.

“Mike said he’d find us a real home while I’m gone. I’m sure it will be small and cozy and just big enough for the two of us.”

“You are so lucky to have a husband. Me, I’m destined to be an old maid. That’s why I have a career you know.”

“What?”

“I learned early on what men want and I just don’t have a pretty face and big bazoomas.”

“Hush. Men don’t want that. Well, yes, they do, but not for a wife. Just the shallow men. The high-quality husbands want personality. Good clean girls they can trust and count on. Sweet girls with a capitol S.”

“Even if that is true, it’s obvious I’m glaringly lacking in the personality department. I’m boring as a boulder.”

“Orpha, stop that. You’re one of the funnest girls I know. Well just look at you. Who else would be skulking around in Egypt, in the black of night, galloping on a camel, sewing up a bullet hole in the middle of the sand? Gee, think of all the adventures you’ve had. You are a very sweet, kind woman too. Caring and you placed your country before your own happiness and safety.”

 Orpha poured alcohol over the hypodermic and wiped it with gauze.  “Sorry I don’t have any antibiotics for you. I’d slather some honey on it to try to ward off infection, but with those sutures, I’m afraid they’ll pull right out when you change the dressing. Keep it dry for forty-eight hours and then change the bandages after every bath.”

Honey. Hmm…maybe that was the substance sticking to the counterfeit thousands.

Orpha wiped down the forceps then packed the unused portion of gauze in her saddle bag.  She kicked sand over the bloody swabs.

Chloe rose to her feet and snatched the flashlight. “I don’t know about leaving that stuff here.”

“I don’t see any medical waste receptacles on the date palms, Clover. What do you propose we do? I can’t risk taking them and getting caught.”

“Why not? You’re here as a nurse.”

Orpha snorted. “Yes. And they’d want to know just who I sewed up and why I was carrying the bloody mess with me.”

“Good point.”

Chloe opened her carpet bag and awkwardly placed the cat inside with her left hand. It stepped inside willingly. She hoped she hadn’t been too rough with it.

Orpha said, “Here, give that to me.” She hooked the two leather handles around the rear saddle horn, draping the bag over the sitting camel’s rear end.

Feeling some euphoric properties of the anesthetic, Chloe giggled as she placed the back of her hand near the camel’s big nostrils. It sniffed and spit on her. How rude. She wiped the spit off onto the top of the animal’s bristly skull and then climbed aboard.  

Orpha jockeyed herself into position and coaxed-commanded the camel to stand, by knocking its knees with a wooden stick. Holding tight to Orpha’s belt, feeling the saddle horn digging into her hind parts, Chloe clutched tight as the camel swayed up and down back and forth as it rose, holding on for dear life. The cat mewed. Chloe turned her head. “Ouch!” It’s okay kitty. Nefertiti. We’re safe. You’ll be fine, girl… Orpha what did you do to me? Sew my arm ligaments to my neck? It hurts like Hades to move. But I can’t feel my arm. And I do have a pretty good buzz going.”

“Sorry, Clover. You’ll have to take it easy for the next seven to ten days. Try not to use your right arm. Limit any reaching or yanking movements. Whatever you do, don’t try to pick up anything heavy with that arm.”

“No problem. I’ll be traveling anyhow. I’ll carry my bag with my left hand.”

The camel found its rough and jerky cadence as it lighted through the sand.

“I am so sorry I knocked your incense cone and wig off.”

“Yeah I’m sorry about that too. The marijuana might’ve eased your pain.”

Chloe gingerly shook her head, giggling. She marveled at the cultural differences. Here they were. Two young women out in the middle of the night alone and they had been inhaling an illegal drug. Illegal in their homeland. But it was perfectly acceptable in this context. Actually it was part of their cover.

Undercover agents for the United States Secret Service.  On the trail of counterfeiters. A far cry from the life she’d led in Shrew, North Carolina.

The thunder of hoof beats approached from the north. Orpha fought to keep the camel under control as it stumbled into a crow-hop. Nefertiti meowed and Chloe screamed as she was thrown.  

A chariot arrived.

THOUSAND DOLLAR PHARAOH is Available at Amazon:

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INAPPROPRIATE

 

Excerpt from INAPPROPRIATE by Sherry Morris

I hate discovering dead bodies. 

Sandra Faire wiggled her fingers into a pair of purple nitrile gloves.  Fear crept up her spine as a fishy dead-human stench wafted through the dawn. Waves slapped a creepy cadence.

She tread softly through the sand to a bloated young black man clad in a dress-blue United States Navy uniform.  “Sir, do you need some assistance?”  Please roll over and puke or something.  “Hey buddy you okay?”  Nothing.  She gave him a little nudge in the ribs with her sneaker.  He felt squishy.  She shuddered and hugged herself. 

The sun rose pink on the horizon.  Red sky was good luck for sailors or something like that.  Not for this guy. 

This is so not the way I want to begin my last shift before vacation. 

Sandra unfastened the gold button on his wool collar and placed two of her fingers on his carotid artery.  No pulse.  He stared past her big brown eyes with long eyelashes frozen in a peaceful expression.  The curl of his lips looked as though he had been up to something mischievous.  She lowered her ear to listen for breathing as she studied his chest.  She didn’t see or feel respirations.  Up close he smelled like chlorine bleach.

Sandra wasn’t a coroner but it was obvious to her this guy had been dead for quite some time.

She struggled with the shrunken wet wool, peeling open more buttons on the overcoat.  She loosened his tie and then unbuttoned his white shirt exposing his hairy chest and a gold Star of David necklace.  She didn’t find the dog tags she was searching for.

“Rest in peace unknown sailor.”

She said a little prayer for him and pulled off the gloves as she hurried back to the golf cart.  She tossed them in the back with the trash, exhaled, flipped open her azure cell phone and punched nine on speed dial.  She glanced at her simulated diamond Tinker Bell watch and then wiggled her wrist to make the pixie dust dance under the crystal.

“Cocoa Beach Department of Public Works.  What is your complaint?” demanded Igor the dispatcher.

“It’s Sandra Faire.  I found a military floater washed up in front of the Copacabana.  He’s dead.”

Within ten minutes, Sandra was surrounded by three hotel security guys wearing gray trousers and blue blazers; Andres the perpetually hung-over lifeguard; Eagle, the hotshot volunteer beach patrolman who always startled the sunbathers by tearing around the sand in his ATV; Bicep Betty sporting the yellow polka dot bikini and matching support hose; six uniformed City of Cocoa Beach cops.  And Lieutenant Hottie DiMattina, homicide. 

Okay, so his first name was Frank and not that he was her type--anymore. But her temperature sure rose whenever he met her gaze.  She needed to redirect those misbehaving hormones.  Sandra was finished with uber-hot alpha males.  Especially this one.  No man of hers answered his cell phone during a romantic interlude.  Just because there was a category five hurricane looming, it was no excuse for him to run off to work and leave her panting on the kitchen table.

Well, yeah, there were some other issues.  Frank and Sandra weren’t compatible except when they were making out.  His kisses were addictive. His tongue infiltrated and conquered.  Perhaps it’s just as well the hurricane had interrupted them.  She had nothing to regret. 

They didn’t have anything in common.  She was eighteen the first time they kissed. And the last time. Now she was twenty-three and he was on the other side of thirty.  She didn’t like guys in law enforcement. Most of the cops in her family were manipulative peacocks with swagger.

Hottie was dressed in a black tee shirt--way too tight.  She could see the outline of his chiseled abs and the ripple of his deltoids.  He wore a badge on a chain around his neck, a service weapon and handcuffs tucked into the rear of his form fitting Levis.

The lieutenant studied the deceased as the tide lapped the sailor’s mucky dress shoes.  He paced off an area for the uniforms to seal the death investigation scene.  Hotel security assisted, thrusting hot pink umbrellas into the sand to wrap the yellow police tape around.

Forensics and the medical examiner arrived and got to work.  The lieutenant had a long conversation with the lifeguard then shook his head, scribbled on a notepad, ducked under the police tape and ambled to Sandra. 

She leaned casually against the umbrella rental booth, twisting an errant strand of ash blonde hair around a finger, determined not to allow his deep testosterone voice to move her. 

He looked down and rubbed his clean shaven chin.  His eyes lingered on the finer parts of her anatomy as his gaze climbed to her face and he asked, “You discover this one?”

Sandra sucked down a deep breath of humidity, trying not to remember his erotic whispers. 

“Did you discover the body?” he repeated.

She nodded.

“Anyone in the area at the time?”

She studied his dark coffee eyes, lingering in their mystique. She shook her head.

“How long ago?”

She checked Tinker Bell.  “About forty-five minutes now.  I called in the find at six-thirteen.”

“Did you notice any footprints around the body before you approached it?”  He cocked his head to one side and gave her sneakers the once over.

She kicked up one foot so he could see the treads.  “Sorry, I forgot to check…”

He frowned and gave her that you’ve disappointed me again look.  “Did you disturb anything?”

“I unbuttoned him with gloves on.  He was all buttoned up to his chin.  I felt his carotid artery.  I couldn’t find his dog tags.  Oh…and I kicked him in the ribs.”

“Left or right side?”

“Left.”

He scribbled on his note pad.  “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary on the beach in the last twenty-four hours?”

She shook her head.  This was why she hated discovering dead bodies.  It forced her to collide with the most inappropriate man for her.  Sandra didn’t want things to get stirred up again.  She couldn’t get things stirred up again.  Because of what happened during the hurricane.

“Do you know him from anywhere?” he asked.

She shook her head again exaggeratedly slow with a wide-eyed expression.

“Thank you, Miss Faire.  I’ll be in touch.” He strutted over to the hotel security guards kibitzing near her golf cart. 

Sandra smoothed her bright white Department of Public Works tee shirt down over her red uniform shorts as she traipsed past them.  They were discussing the evangelical Christian service held last night inside the Copacabana ballroom.  Pastor Eugene Donaldson was a modern thinking feel-good preacher, very popular with the locals and tourists alike. He had led prayer breakfasts at the White House during both Slick Willie’s and Dub-yah’s terms.

Sandra chimed in, “The sailor was Jewish.  There is a Star of David around his neck.  He wouldn’t have attended.”

Frank rolled his eyes and glared at her. 

She hated when he did that.  Just because she wasn’t a cop didn’t mean she couldn’t solve crimes…or sort out which leads were dead ends.

She climbed back into the golf cart and waved to Andres, the lifeguard.  He smiled and waved back.  The guy was hot if you liked suntanned guitar playing Euro-blonds without muscles.  Sandra didn’t.  She didn’t like his sing-song German accent either.  And she especially didn’t like guitar players anymore…on account of Hurricane Alfredo.

She went on about her job puttering down the beach stopping to pick up a piece of petrified palm trunk, a glass grape juice bottle and a deflated football.  She plucked them with a mechanical snatcher device.  She didn’t know if it had an official name but she called hers Monkey.  After two years at this job she was pretty efficient.  She could do it all from the driver’s seat. 

The theme to “The Pink Panther” jazzed from her shorts.  She stopped and dug her phone out of her pocket.  Her mother’s picture was on the caller I.D.  She inhaled and answered, “Hi, Mom.”

“Sandra are you still intending to climb aboard that train of fools?”

“They aren’t fools Mom.  They’re very nice people.”

She sobbed, “You’re being kidnapped by that cult and I’ll never see my baby again.” She launched into one of her motherly speeches about how everything Sandra did was inappropriate. 

Sandra knew her mother was so disappointed in her.  Her four brothers were cops working under their dad, the police commissioner, but Sandra, her youngest child, toiled as a sanitation engineer and public relations specialist for the Department of Public Works.  Translation: she picked up the trash left on the beach and told the tourists where the public restrooms were located.  At least the uniform was cute.

What her mom didn’t know was by day Sandra collected garbage but by night she was an infamous cozy mystery author.  She wrote under the pen name of Dixie London.  And she didn’t have a thing published.  She had written almost twelve books…well the first three or four chapters of twelve different books.  Okay, so she was more like an infamous cozy mystery author wannabee.  But she had fun.  Sandra belonged to the Global Order of Scribes, pronounced “goose” for short. 

Rosemary Donaldson, wife of Evangelical Pastor Eugene Donaldson, was the president of her local chapter.  Sandra couldn’t stand her, the snobby fakey flake.  Rosemary arranged a little writers conference of sorts aboard three private railcars hooked onto the back of her husband’s crusade train, hooked onto the back of a regular North American Passenger Railway train. 

Of course Sandra could set her feelings for Rosemary aside and grace the authors with her presence long enough for a two week free vacation aboard the private rail cars.  The Donaldsons were wealthy so she knew this would be a first class to-do.  The Agatha Christie birthday shindigs she hosted at her mansion were always loaded with fat shrimp, alligator tar-tar and a white chocolate fountain.  Maids and cabbage roses everywhere you turned in her lavish residence.  Even the ceilings were painted with rose murals.  Last time Sandra tucked two pieces of Rosemary’s toilet paper into her pocket to show her mom.  It was printed in full color, embossed and scented with roses.  Mom wasn’t impressed.  She told Sandra it would cause bladder infections.

“Mom—Mom—Mom!”  Sandra finally got her to stop ranting.  “I told you it’s not a cult.  I’m not going as one of the devout followers of Pastor Donaldson.  Rosemary invited our mystery readers’ book club to tag along.  We’ll be segregated from the fanatics.  We have our own private cars and we’ll be reading and discussing books…and knitting.”

Her Mom loved knitting so she just threw that in.

“Really, knitting?”

“Un-hunh.  A couple of the ladies are involved in the knit-a-scarf-for-a-sailor charity.  We’ll be softly warming the brave necks of our men and women at war.” Sandra was great at making things up.

“Oh well why didn’t you tell me? What time do we leave? I’ll need to finish the laundry—“

“No!”  She cleared her throat.  “No, Mom.  You can’t go.  The train is already filled to capacity.  You needed to reserve a compartment ahead of time.”

“Nonsense.  I’ll bunk-in with you.”

“No can do.  I have a roommate.  Josephine.”

“Oh…Josephine.  How is she? Is her Aunt Beverly recuperating as well as can be expected?”

Josephine White was the only friend she had whom Mom approved of.

“Josephine and Aunt Beverly are doing just fine.  I’ll tell her you asked about them.  I gotta go, Mom.  Got to finish up by noon today.”

“Come see me before you leave.”

Yeah, right.  So you can jump in the backseat and stow away.  “I’ll try.  Gotta run.  Bye.”  Sandra closed her phone and stuffed it back inside her pocket.

She motored along the beach.  Two guys stumbled knee deep in the surf, fishing.  An early jogger trotted by.  Sandra smacked her forehead and lifted her foot off the gas.  If Lieutenant Hottie had any follow up questions for her she wouldn’t be available.  She should have told him she’d be departing on the GOOS Express.  Could this be a dilemma? He didn’t tell her not to leave town or anything.  And she had only discovered the body.  Sandra wasn’t technically a witness or suspect.  And besides it was just a routine death investigation.  She was confident the autopsy would show he had drowned.

Sandra deduced the sailor probably was on shore leave, rented a speed boat with his buddies, got drunk and fell overboard.  Yeah, that’s it.  He seemed really happy by the smirk frozen on his face.  I ought to open a detective agency.  And I could hire my writing pals as operatives.  An all woman force.  Nobody would suspect us of spying on them.  We’d make a killing.  She giggled at her pun.

Sandra peeked at Tinker Bell, shook up the pixie dust, looped around and did a U-turn.  It was time to stop by the dumpster and then check-in with Igor. 

A mob of tourists had congregated at the crime scene as the police carted off the corpse.  They were gobbling Krispy Kremes and sucking back Starbucks.  Sandra placed her hands on her hips and sighed.  More trash for her to collect later on.

She observed the lieutenant down along the shoreline, running his fingers through his short dark hair.  Perhaps I should advise him I’ll be leaving town.  Sandra decelerated and threw her hand up.  He didn’t notice so she kept going.  She decided to call him from the train.

Part of her was relieved not to have to talk to him face-to-face.  If Lieutenant Hottie were to make a late night visit to her little studio apartment--to discuss the case--she wouldn’t be home to answer the door wearing something entirely inappropriate.

* * * *

At exactly 1:47 P.M. Sandra checked-in at the Orlando North American Passenger Railway station and then dragged her huge navy blue rolling duffle bag outside.  Missing one wheel, it fought her the whole way.  She balanced a turquoise hard plastic cooler on top of it as she glanced around the platform. 

The crusaders sported primary and water colored leisure suits and church appropriate dresses.  The African, Asian and Cuban-Americans carried the style off well enough.  However, the European-Americans who had baked thousands of hours in the Florida sun resembled shriveled dates.

Rosemary Donaldson waved her down to the rear of the train.

Sandra’s tummy jittered with excitement.  And hunger.  She couldn’t wait to gobble the gourmet goodies.  She drew a deep breath and plodded through the throng of elderly passengers. 

“Hi, Rosemary.”

They fake kissed the humidity near both cheeks.  Sandra tried not to cough in the perfume haze engulfing the raven haired, liposuctioned, botoxed pastor’s wife dressed in white patent leather boots, striped over-the-knee socks, a ruffled plaid fuchsia miniskirt and an orange low-cut sweater.  Rosemary had the body for the outfit but at her age and considering her husband’s holy profession, jail bait tart was not a good look.

“We can board any minute now.  Here’s our itinerary,” Rosemary said, in her high-pitched nasally voice as she presented Sandra with a floral motif pocket folder.

Sandra released her luggage handle and accepted it.  The suitcase plopped down onto the concrete with a resonating thud.  The cooler’s lid didn’t dislodge, thank goodness. She squatted to pick them up.

 “Sandra, I’m so glad you talked your mother into joining us,” said Rosemary.

Sandra shut her eyes tight, scrunched up her face and clenched her fists, hoping she hadn’t heard correctly.  “Pardon? What did you say?”

“Your momma stopped by my house this morning with a trunk full of yarn and knitting needles.  She volunteered to teach the crusaders to knit.”

INAPPROPRIATE by Sherry Morris is Available at Amazon 

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