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door. Geoff would stay wet and off-key forever if she didn’t.
    â€œBe out in a minute!” he yelled, which meant she could expect him in ten.
    Walking back toward her room, she stopped, almost against her will, beside Zenobia’s door.
    A thrill of horror tingled through her. In the morning light the rational part of her mind dismissed what had happened in Zenobia’s room two nights ago as a figment of her overwrought imagination. Common sense told her there had been no voices, no touch from the dead woman’s hand.
    Another part of her, more daring, clung to the memory and insisted it was reality.
    â€œI’m going to need your help,” the voice had whispered.
    The words had been repeating in her mind ever since. What kind of help could a dead person need?
    Marilyn blinked. She had stepped into Zenobia’s room without realizing what she was doing.
    She looked around. Her mother had had no time to come in here and clean things out. Other than a change of sheets, the place looked pretty much as it had the night of Zenobia’s death.
    For a moment Marilyn felt like an intruder. Then she decided she was glad to be here, because it made her feel closer to Zenobia.
    She had crossed to the dresser and was examining her aunt’s bottles of perfume (several) and her selection of cosmetics (minimal) when she spotted an envelope sticking out from under the dresser scarf. Pulling it out, she felt a little tingle run down her spine.
    It was addressed to her.
    Fingers trembling, she opened it.
    Dear Marilyn,
    I have just left your room, and I suddenly find myself doubting whether I should have asked you to guard the amulet for me after all. I am feeling very guilty about it.
    The rational part of my mind says I am just being foolish. But another part says I may have done a terrible thing.
    If I have, I hope Heaven, and you, will forgive me.
    I’m afraid, Marilyn. I think I am in great danger. It may seem silly, but if anything should happen to me, there are some things you should know about the amulet.
    I had the thing, as you may remember, from my “friend” Eldred Cooley, who was a second-rate archaeologist with first-rate ambitions. Eldred found it in the Egyptian desert several years ago. He showed it to me then, with the declaration that there was something “special” about it that he was going to figure out.
    It seems perhaps he did. Last year I ran into Eldred again in Cairo and we went to dinner. After he had a little too much to drink, he began to talk more freely than he should have.
    He told me he had discovered the secret of the amulet and that within a month he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams.
    When I expressed my skepticism he rattled on with a wild story about an ancient race of giants who had created a great civilization while mankind was still grubbing for subsistence in primitive villages. He called them the Suleimans and claimed they were the basis for any number of myths and religious beliefs throughout the East. He said the amulet was an artifact of their culture.
    He must have seen the disbelief in my face, because he got angry and said he would prove it to me. I ignored his comments as the ravings of a drunk—until later that night when he showed up at the door of my hotel room.
    He was holding an exquisite metal box engraved with strange markings.
    And he was dying.
    I took one look at him and dragged him through the door. He was gasping for breath. His skin was mottled with blotches of black and purple, and his hands were horribly swollen.
    â€œLook at this, Zenobia,” he whispered, holding out the box. “Then tell me if you still think I’m crazy.”
    Ignoring the box, I threw him onto the couch and tore open his shirt collar. It did no good. His neck was so swollen his air pipes were being crushed.
    I ran to the phone to call a doctor.
    â€œDon’t!” he whispered. “It’s too late. And I have to talk to you.