"Could you repeat that, Ma’am?" Morgan asked, leaning forward. He was forty-two years old and pencil-thin. As always, he was dressed in a black suit and tie, his fedora hat resting on the tabletop next to his right hand. His dark hair was slicked back and his moustache waxed.
The young woman in white visibly composed herself before continuing. She looked a few years older than Samantha, which put her somewhere in her mid-twenties. With dark hair, dusky complexion and large, liquid eyes, she was in stark contrast with Samantha, who had golden blonde hair, blue eyes and a peaches-and-cream skin color. The lady in white had the air about her of a woman used to getting her way. She had not been pleased to learn that Lazarus Gray was away on business, meaning that she’d have to reveal her private affairs to his employees. "I told you: God is dead. That’s what the corpse said."
"That’s what I thought you said," Morgan muttered. "Think you could back up and start over? So far, what you’re saying isn’t making a whole lot of sense."
The woman sighed loudly and closed her eyes for several seconds, obviously trying to steel herself for what was to come. "I’m sorry. I’m not normally so cross."
Morgan somehow doubted that but he forced a smile. "It’s okay. We’re used to it. People come to see us in all sorts of states."
"I’m sure," she answered. "My name is Lorraine Mitchell. My husband was President of the Sovereign People’s Bank. You probably heard about his death. It was in all the papers two weeks ago. He had a heart attack in his study in the middle of the night. I was sleeping at the time and was awoken by a terrible, bloodcurdling scream. I sat bolt upright in my bed and looked at the clock. I distinctly remember that it was exactly midnight."
"It must have been terrible finding your husband’s body like that," Samantha said, trying to be comforting.
The withering stare she got in return silenced her immediately. Morgan could sense that Mrs. Mitchell didn’t care much for Samantha and he wondered why. Then again, some beautiful women simply had it in for other gorgeous dames, he mused. There could only be so many Queen Bees in some women’s lives, after all. "I suppose it was," Lorraine answered. "Though my husband and I had a marriage of convenience. It was based out of mutual need, not love."
"How so?" Samantha asked, dispensing with pleasantries. Her tone was now clipped and much more formal. It was the exact same tone she’d been using with Morgan lately. He’d invited her to see a film with him not long ago, swearing it was simply one friend wanting to spend time with another. But things had gone so well that he’d tried putting the moves on her afterward, leaning in to steal a kiss after the show. He was pretty sure he could still feel the sting of her slap to his face.
"My husband inherited his position at the bank but his father was adamant that he find financial security on his own. As such, my husband was given a job but he wasn’t able to touch a penny of his family’s fortune. He tried to turn his salary into something more substantial in the stock market but as we all know, that’s not nearly as easy now as it was back in the Twenties. Eventually, he came up with an easier route to financial success: he married me. I’m quite wealthy and my husband found my checkbook just as desirable as the swish of my hips."
"And what did you get out of the… partnership?" Samantha inquired.
"I’ve never been one for romance, Miss Grace. I planned to have children someday and I wanted them to have plenty of opportunities. My husband’s family name would have provided those in spades. Unfortunately, he died without giving me a child. It was just like him. He wasn’t much of a success at anything, really." Lorraine opened her purse, taking out a cigarette. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Morgan retrieved a set of matches from the inner pocket of his jacket. He lit her cigarette and she took a few puffs before continuing.
"One of my husband’s favorite ways of spending my money was visiting Europe. He cultivated a lot of friendships over there, especially in England. I think it made him feel very Continental." Lorraine chuckled coldly. "When he came back from his last trip, he’d brought back a trophy. He said it was for me but I knew better. What would I want with a moldy old corpse wrapped up in bandages?"
Samantha reached down and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. She was aware of Morgan watching her movements and she tried to ignore it. She was still a bit angry over their evening out together, though most of her anger was actually directed at herself. She shouldn’t have put herself in that position, nor should she have laughed so hard at his jokes. She’d encouraged him and even though he was handsome and intelligent, they were coworkers. She couldn’t jeopardize her position with Assistance Unlimited over a romantic fling. Clearing her throat, she asked, "Where did he manage to acquire a mummy?"
Lorraine waved her cigarette dismissively. "Oh, owning a mummy was all the rage in England a few decades back. Anyone who was anyone had at least one of the little Egyptians propped against the study room wall. They’d have unwrapping parties, where the owners could show them off to their friends. Ghastly, if you ask me. Anyway, my husband had a friend over there — a Mr. Garmont, I believe — who was in possession of three of the things. They were just stacked up like cordwood in the attic. Well, my husband fell in love upon seeing them. He simply had to have one. So he bought her and brought her back."
"Her?" Morgan asked.
"Yes. Garmont told him some cock and bull story about the mummy having once been a princess of some sort. He insisted we call her Femi around the house. The thing stank like old linen and formaldehyde. He was in the room with it when he died, which wasn’t a surprise. He spent most nights in the study with her."
Morgan tapped his fingers on the tabletop thoughtfully. "And at what point did the mummy speak to you?"
"Exactly three days after my husband’s death. It was the day of his funeral and I was restless that evening so I couldn’t sleep. I wandered around our home nursing a bottle of scotch until I ended up in the study. I happened to glance at the time and noticed it was 11:59. I had just sat down at his old desk when the clock struck twelve… and the mummy began to move. I was terrified, I’ll tell you that. The little bitch turned her head and looked right at me and I swear to you that I wasn’t drunk enough to have imagined that. She looked right at me and screamed. It was an awful sound, like someone was witnessing something so horrible that they couldn’t bear it." Lorraine’s fingers began to tremble and her cigarette dropped ash onto her white dress. She brushed it away and licked her lips nervously. "When the screaming was finished, it told me, ‘God is dead.’"
"And has this happened to you since?"
"Every three nights, like clockwork. The only differences have been slight. The second time it happened, she raised and arm and pointed at me. The third time, she took two steps in my direction. Every time she screams, she gets closer to being animate again. I think she killed my husband. I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but she caused the heart attack that killed him. I’m sure of it."
Morgan looked at their client through narrow eyes. "And the mummy spoke to you in English?"
Lorraine paused, as if the implications of that hadn’t occurred to her. "Well, yes."
Samantha nudged her partner. "Doesn’t mean anything. If a mummy really can come back to life, that’s more amazing than it being able to speak English."
Morgan had to agree with that. They’d both seen things that defied description, which meant you couldn’t discount anything.
"When is it supposed to happen again?" Samantha wanted to know.