Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy Read Online Free PDF Page A

“That was close back there.” She turns the door handle, takes a deep breath, and whispers, “Not a sound. Not a peep. Just follow me.”
    This was not easy to do. The moment we stepped through the door, it felt as though we'd been transported from the Mediterranean to Egypt. From the back door clear through a central open area to the fancy glass double doors at the front of the house, the place looked like an Egyptian museum. There were urns on black marble pedestals, ancient-looking torches strapped to the walls, and Plexiglas cases with cracked and crumbling artifacts in them. Jewelry, plates, scraps of cloth, slabs of stone with hieroglyphics—I felt like I was on a tour through a mansion on the Nile.
    And as we tiptoed along behind my mother, we couldn't help gawking. Or talking.
    Marissa gasped, “Is that a real sarcophagus?”
    “Shhh! Everything here is real. Samantha, don't touch!”
    “I'm not! I can't!”
    “Well, get away from there!” She rubbed her temples. “Oh god, you're giving me a headache!”
    I tried to pull myself away, but I couldn't. The sarcophagus was like the coffin of King Tut, upright, staring at me from behind half an inch of Plexiglas—the large eyes, lined in black, seemed to pierce right through the case, like time and space and man-made displays couldn't contain them.
    “Is this Max guy Egyptian?”
    “No! His father was some kind of ambassador, so the family spent several years in Egypt when Max was growing up. Now come!” She grabbed me by the arm and yanked, then dragged me past a black marble fountain in the central open area, around the corner to the base of a stairwell. Then she turned and whispered, “Please,
please
, don't make any noise.”
    We nodded and followed her up the tiled steps to a hallway that was about as wide as a road. There were fresh flowers in vases on hall tables, brown leather-back chairs, and Oriental rugs running end to end over the polished hardwood floor. My mother tiptoed along in her peachy robe, pointing to doors, making stiff little hand signals and mouthing, “Bathroom… phone room…my room,” and then, right next door, “We're in here.” It was like getting a tour from a mannequin mime.
    She hurries us in, then closes the door without a sound and lets out a windstorm sigh. “Okay. Here we are. Marissa, you can put that down by this bed. I'm afraid thetwo of you will have to share. Or one of you can sleep on the floor. There are extra blankets….”
    After everything we'd walked past and seen, I was expecting the room to be big. Big and fancy. But it wasn't. There were two twin-sized beds with matching ivy-patterned bedspreads, two dressers with vanity mirrors, matching writing desks, and a closet. And even though everything was clean and tidy, it looked more like a budget motel room than a suite in a fancy villa.
    Lady Lana sees what I'm thinking and says, “Our bedrooms don't have to be elaborate, Samantha. We don't spend much time in them—we're here to work. And it's a lot harder work than you've ever imagined.” She motions around the place. “My room's even smaller. One bed, no window—which is why it's not exactly convenient to have guests.”
    Guests. I bit my lip and asked, “Where's the bathroom?”
    “I pointed it out to you as we were walking past it!”
    “That's the bathroom for everybody?”
    “Yes. Four showers, four toilets. There are twelve of us, so most mornings you wait in line.”
    Marissa parked her suitcase by the bed as she studied the room. “It looks like this used to be bigger. Like they subdivided it or something.”
    A perfect little eyebrow arched up on Lady Lana's brow. “Exactly. They made these little cubicles out of the original rooms twenty years ago, when Max first started the agency. He used to be a director and a producer. He's even written a few features.”
    “Uh… what about the phone room?”
    “What about it?”
    “Is that for everyone, too? I mean, can I call Grams? I