Buried Secrets by Kristi Belcamino (best ebook reader for surface pro TXT) 📗

and a tall figure emerged. She had ebony skin, high cheekbones, red lips and spiked black hair. As she came down the porch steps and seemingly glided toward her, all Dallas could think was that the six-foot-plus willowy woman should be an internationally renowned model on Parisian runaways instead of being out here in the sticks in this remote farmhouse.

The woman grew closer. She wore a red silk Sari cut with gold thread. Her eyes were dark but sparkling as she smiled and stuck out her hand.

“Dallas Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Safra.”

Dallas took her hand warily and gave it a brief shake.

“I’m here to find out more about this,” Dallas held out the patch. “And how it ended up in my bag.”

The woman smiled. “I’m so glad you came.”

“You know me, but I’ve never heard of you. Why is that?” Dallas asked. Although the woman’s open manner and smile made her want to let down her guard, Dallas also couldn’t help but remember the dead man on her crew.

“I know this must seem very odd and disconcerting, but I promise you we mean you no harm,” the woman said. “I’d love to explain it after dinner. We are just about to sit down to eat.”

Dallas shrugged. She was ravenous. And there were some amazing smells coming from the house.

“Okay.”

“Wonderful. This way,” the woman turned and Dallas gave one last glance back at her car before following. On the porch, she joined the throng of women lining up to enter the front door to the house. The woman shot her friendly glances but when she met their eyes, they seemed to be shy and looked away.

The other women were dressed in bright clothing. Some wore traditional African garb, while others wore dresses or skirts. None wore jeans or pants of any sort.

When it came to Dallas’s turn to enter the house, she followed the women through a living room area with couches and armchairs and overflowing bookshelves into a massive three-season porch at the rear of the house containing several long wooden tables. Each table contained a massive pot of something that smelled delicious. The table also contained several smaller bowls. Dallas recognized shelled peanuts, cilantro and hot chilies in the smaller bowls.

Safra indicated that Dallas should sit next to her.

Without preamble, the women seated near the pots began dishing ladles of the stew or soup from the pots and passing them down.

When a bowl was passed to Dallas Safra leaned over. “It’s vegetarian. I recommend you garnish it with peanuts and cilantro.”

Dallas did so and then dug into the dish, which was some sort of stew containing sweet potatoes, collard greens, and what tasted like peanut butter.

“This is amazing,” she said when she finally came up for air.

Safra tilted her head and smiled. “We do like to eat well around here.”

After dinner, the women cleared the table and Safra gestured to a couch in the corner of the back porch. “Shall we?”

The back porch grew quiet as the table was cleared and the women filed out.

Safra poured them both tea and after taking a sip, she smiled.

“The Daughters of Isis is an organization that was formed as a place for the wives of Shriners to be involved in their own charitable and benevolent organization. Our focus in the early 1900s was to help those in need—the disabled, teenage mothers, the needy, the poor—and give African-American women a voice.

We formally were recognized by the Ancient Egyptian Arabic Order Nobles of the Mystic Shrine. We have more than ten thousand members in several countries. But we here in Sedona are also part of a special, secret subset.”

Dallas was riveted. Up until now she was just being given a spiel. Here was where the real dirt was. And the way Safra paused before saying it, made Dallas hold her breath.

“We’ve branched off from the main organization,” Safra said. “We still are very involved in the charitable side of the Daughters, but we have a different, larger mission.”

“How did you know that I would come here?” Dallas asked.

Safra smiled. “I didn’t know. I just had a feeling.”

“I’m glad I came,” Dallas said.

“We branched off from the main group a few years ago when the sunken treasures of Alexandria were first being discovered.”

The tea cup was halfway to Dallas’s mouth, but she froze.

Safra continued. “We were, as you might expect, very excited about the discovery. At first,” she paused dramatically.

Dallas finished taking her sip of tea, but didn’t take her eyes off Safra.

“But then some odd things happened. It came to our attention that some people were interested in finding Cleopatra’s tomb for all the wrong reasons.”

Hearing the words “Cleopatra’s tomb” come out of Safra’s mouth nearly made Dallas gasp. She felt light-headed for a second and disoriented but managed to blurt, “What do you mean?”

“There is a curse on the tomb.”

“Of course, there is,” Dallas said, wryly.

Safra tilted her head.

“Before we go too much further, I have to ask,” Dallas said. “There’s been some sketchy stuff going on—my house and office burglarized, the murder of one of my crew members …” She stopped to see Safra’s reaction.

The woman bowed her head. “Yes, I was sorry to hear about that.”

“I have to ask,” Dallas continued. “Was any of this you guys?”

Safra shook her head slowly. “It was them.”

Dallas scoffed. “Who? That’s why I’m here. Who?”

“We aren’t sure exactly who is at the head of it all, but there is a very powerful organization that is trying to find the tomb before anyone else. We’ve been aware of them for years, but it wasn’t until David Caldwell found the sunken treasures that we realized the group had been backing him and his partner, Malcolm Land.”

Dallas’s mouth opened. “Okay. Some of this is starting to make sense.”

“We must stop them from finding it. If they find it, they will gain the ability to rule the world.”

Dallas frowned. “Now I’m lost again.”

Safra pulled a cell phone out of a fold of her sari. “I’ll