Dearly Departed (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

A
my could have flown first class. No one would have said a word, except perhaps Nicole, who seemed to take each expenditure personally. No one else would have raised an eyebrow.

Amy wouldn't have minded flying coach under normal circumstances. The actual flight was comfortable, with decent KLM service and a plane that was less than half full, such a delightful rarity. No, the reason she wanted to be in first class was that Laila and Maury Steinberg were up there, without adult supervision.

Laila had stayed overnight at the Clinique Paris-Montmartre for observation and had stayed an extra day at the Crillon, just to be safe, while the others had taken the private 757, with its flight crew of six, onward to the next destination. Peter had toyed with the idea of postponing the flight so they could all travel together. But the pilot had already filed his flight plan, and Laila kept insisting that she didn't want to upset everyone's schedule. They would fly commercial and catch up.

Amy could have gone with the group. She'd been tempted, having grown quite fond of private travel, with seats that converted into beds more comfortable than her bed at home. And nearly the same size. Plus rose petals and a chocolate on the pillow every night. Under any other circumstances, she would have been fine with leaving a couple of tour members on their own for a day.

But these circumstances were unnerving. Maury had urged his wife to go to a Parisian brasserie and to order a dish that—and this was mentioned in the
Times
review; Amy had looked it up online—contained an ingredient that his wife was deathly allergic to. Then, once she was in the throes of anaphylactic shock, while fumbling through her purse for one of her lifesaving EpiPens, Laila would find that, inexplicably, there was only one pen and it was empty. She could have died.

And the kicker—the pièce de résistance, to keep the food theme going—was that just the night before, over a few rounds of brandy, Maury had grilled Peter about personal papers in the dead maid's apartment that might get thrown out without a second glance.

In reality, Amy's decision to stay in Paris couldn't have made much of a difference. The Steinbergs had remained in their room for much of the extra twenty-four hours, where Laila could have slipped “accidentally” on a bar of soap or entangled her neck in the cords of the venetian blinds. None of this happened. And Amy had spent the evening alone in her room, eating a room service burger but skipping the fries. She thought about watching something on the hotel's pay-per-view but decided to call Marcus instead. They had Skyped for over an hour, sharing small jokes and whispered intimacies, which turned out to be much more satisfying than any romantic comedy.

Peter and the rest of the tour were doing fine, as far as Amy knew. Her weather app was announcing fair skies. The new hotel was supposed to be great. And the wake's venue was booked and confirmed. True, during her check-in with Peter last night, he had sounded a little stressed. But Peter was like that. It could be the end of the world or a hangnail. She hadn't asked. And since he probably would have mentioned the end of the world, she was betting on the hangnail.

Amy was in a window seat toward the rear of the plane, trying not to think about the trays of warm macadamia nuts being served up front. She looked out the thick glass at the rugged terrain, then reached for her in-flight magazine and checked the map in back. They must be somewhere over Bulgaria. Did Bulgaria have mountains? She was vaguely aware now of someone settling into the empty aisle seat. When she glanced up, she saw Laila smiling at her sweetly across the empty middle seat.

“Why did you stay behind?” Laila asked.

It was unexpected, but Amy treated it as an innocent inquiry. “To make sure you were all right and that no travel complications popped up. All part of the service.”

“It was my fault, you know.” She was still a little weak from her ordeal. “Maury always warns me about having more than one EpiPen on me. Not that an incident happens often, but when you travel sometimes . . .”

A detective friend had once informed Amy that the best way to get away with murder was to give your intended victim an “accident” in a foreign country. The change in routine made it easy. And the police were never as diligent about following through with accident-prone tourists.

“Why was your pen empty?”

Laila looked embarrassed. “It wasn't empty. It malfunctioned. Maury picked it up at the restaurant yesterday and had it tested. Anyway, I should have asked the waiter about nuts. Maury is always good about asking.”

“Not this time.” Amy tried to say it with a smile. “This time he recommended a dish with a chestnut stuffing.”

“Please don't tease him about that,” Laila said, her hand resting on Amy's forearm. “He feels so bad. You saw how he was.”

That much was true. When he'd heard the news about his wife, Maury Steinberg had rushed to the clinic and had done everything a concerned husband should. And when he'd heard that his dining suggestion had been the culprit, he'd been nearly inconsolable. Laila literally had had to pull herself out of her sickbed to comfort him. Amy had seen it personally, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed, each Steinberg apologizing to the other for enabling Laila's near-death experience. Only a cynic would have doubted his sincerity.

“Are those the Dovetails?” Laila was staring directly into Amy's eyes, and it took Amy a few seconds to realize she was talking about her glasses.

“Oh, these. Yes. Not that I can afford Ellis frames. But I found them in a thrift shop in SoHo and had my prescription put in.”

“I hope it was a high-end thrift shop. May I?” Laila reached out both hands and removed Amy's round, intricately checkered frames in one swift, professional move. She studied the temples and the frame and how the lenses were attached. “These are laser etched on acetate, as I'm sure you know. Your optician did a good job. I wouldn't have known.”

Amy was stumped. And then she focused on Laila's own frames, also undeniably an Ellis pair. In fact, all of Laila's and Maury's frames, she seemed to recall . . . “Ellis is . . .”

“A cute version of my initials. Laila Santorini, my maiden name. But it still works for Steinberg, luckily.”

“You're Ellis Eyewear? No.” Amy was gasping. “No!” It was almost like meeting a rock star. Better. She had no interest in meeting a rock star. “Are you the designer? Oh, my God.” She had to force her mouth shut in order to stop the gushing.

Laila blushed appreciatively. “We sold the company. But I still design a few, for fun.” Laila removed her own frames and handed them over for inspection. They were oval, with an uneven, almost leopard-like pattern of spots. “These are limited edition. Twelve layers of buffalo horn.” The frames were even more perfect close up. Amy felt as if she were holding the Hope Diamond.

For the next half hour, Amy forgot about “accidents” and mysterious “if I die” notes. For the next half hour, it was all about vintage Chanels and keyhole bridges and which celebrity wore what.

“Gwyneth Paltrow isn't even nearsighted,” Laila whispered, evidently afraid that the Armenian family in the row in front of them might be listening. “Except when we have some fabulous design she can get for free. And don't even get me started on Rachel Maddow.”

When the conversation finally wended its way back in the direction of MacGregor and the Steinbergs, Amy was actually disappointed.

“I was never sure what Paisley thought of us,” Laila said, gazing unfocused at a seat-back screen where a soundless Adam Sandler movie had just been playing. “We were going through the sale of the company and money issues. A lot of marital discord,” she said softly, with an eye to the eavesdropping Armenians. “And, of course, she listened. I'm sure Maury confided in her, too. Like a marriage counselor who dusts and changes the sheets.” She chuckled at her own joke.

“But that's what she enjoyed. Being part of your drama. Did you ever give MacGregor a note?” Amy tried to make the question seem natural. It didn't.

“You mean like a reference?”

“No, I mean give her something for safekeeping. Something for her to read later on.”

“You mean like a book?”

“No, like a letter. Never mind,” Amy said and changed the subject.

As soon as the words hit the air, Amy realized how ridiculous it all sounded. It was ridiculous. All she had was an empty envelope. If it had indeed been given to Paisley MacGregor by one of her clients—a big if—well, that was years ago. And every one of these people was still alive. As for Laila Steinberg, she didn't seem particularly frightened of her husband. And even if she was frightened, she knew that Paisley was dead and the note probably lost. She could write another. Or not write one. She could actually tell someone that her husband was trying to kill her. Or just leave him. She certainly had the resources to walk away. Not to mention the glasses.

“I should head back to my seat,” Laila said as she unbuckled herself and got to her feet. Then she turned back. “Why aren't you in first class? You should have gotten Peter to spring for that. You can't let men walk all over you. Am I right?”

“You're right,” said Amy. Suddenly, she felt better than she had in days. Laila was not going to be a victim. This murder obsession was just a reaction to Amy's last, very deadly escapade. As a result, she'd been seeing the shadow of murder everywhere. If she had done the second mystery road rally instead of this trip, it would have been the same, except there would be a different batch of prospective killers around each far-flung corner of the world.

Her whole body relaxed. It was like a revelation, a switch being flipped, and she giggled like a kid, a sound that finally did get the attention of the Armenian family in front. The husband and wife and son all turned and stared. But so what? This was Amy's moment. Either she had to forget about murder plots once and for all and learn to enjoy her job again or she had to find another. And she wasn't ready to find another.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcement, a woman's voice lilting over the intercom. “Please return to your seats. The captain is now making our initial approach into Istanbul.”

CHAPTER 10

“H
e said to go past the sandal street, past the old jewelry kiosk on the left, and then a right at the jewelry shop on the corner.”

“They're all sandal streets and jewelry shops.” Barbara Corns looked down one long, confusing arm of the bazaar, then turned ninety degrees and looked down another. She did this once more and gave up.

The couple was an island of red, ample flesh bobbing in a moving sea of modest suits and head scarves and dark dresses. The Corns couldn't be called fat—they were, in fact, fairly athletic—but they were instantly recognizable as people of large appetites and passions. Typical Americans.

Evan Corns took his wife by the elbow and led the way, showing more confidence than he felt. “You're the one who forgot the alarm clock,” he reminded her. “I distinctly remember—”

“I brought an alarm. I just didn't realize you meant that one.” It had been less than a minute since that nice English-speaking man had come to their rescue and given them directions, and already she was disoriented. The sickening scent of two competing spice shops, one directly to her left and one to her right, didn't help.

“A digital? How are we supposed to do this with a digital clock?”

“I thought you brought it. You were the one in charge of the bomb.”

“Shh.” Evan pulled her into an alcove, away from the jostling stream of humanity, where their words might not echo quite so loudly off the vaulted ceiling. “I don't think it's smart to say ‘Bomb' in the middle of an Arab street. Do you think it's smart to say ‘Bomb'? I don't.”

“You just said it twice.”

Istanbul's grand bazaar was one of the largest and oldest in the world, a labyrinth of thousands of shops filling dozens of streets, all huddled under one roof, which could be seen from space, if anyone bothered to look. Back in Paris, after they'd discovered the missing clock, it had been Evan's idea to come here to buy a replacement, something small, with hands.

The bomb they were speaking of would be primitive. That was the point, to make it seem homemade and low tech. And the object wasn't to kill, per se, just to obliterate two specific people from the face of the earth. Afterward, if the police could somehow trace the remains back to the point of sale, then, Evan figured, a crowded Arab market would be just the place.

Evan and Barbara had tried to think up something other than a bomb. Nothing else seemed as easy or as final. They felt a little guilty about the prospect of setting off some kind of international incident. But who knew? If they got lucky and the bomb left no remains, the whole thing might get blamed on a faulty fuel line.

Paisley MacGregor's movable wake had been a godsend. It had materialized at just the right moment for the Corns, just as the walls were all closing in. They couldn't have suddenly gone off on their own. That would have looked suspicious, at least from law enforcement's point of view. But going off with a group of friends on a loved one's wake and then getting blown up by terrorists or by a fuel leak . . . that would be tragic. Barbara almost cried every time she thought about it.

Of course, they weren't going to blow themselves up. Their survival instincts were too well honed. They were going to rent a little motorboat tomorrow at Eminönü Pier and bring along their own little inflatable dinghy tucked into Evan's oversize backpack. Barbara would be bringing the bomb in hers—if they ever managed to find a windup alarm clock for their timing device. And then somewhere along the deep, treacherous Sea of Marmara, not far from a deserted cove they had already picked out—thanks to the wonders of Google Earth—they would leave the bomb, slip into the dinghy and . . .
ka-boom
! Two American tourists, tragically killed.

Barbara—as long as she was feeling sorry, for herself and her family and the people of Turkey, but certainly not for Evan, who had created this desperate need to disappear in the first place—was feeling especially sorry for Amy. Barbara had read about Amy's previous tour. The last thing the poor girl needed was another death, two deaths, taking place on another one of her high-end adventures.

“We'll never find a windup clock in this maze.” Barbara stepped back into the flow of traffic and headed back in the vague direction of daylight and the Beyazit Gate. With any luck, they could be out of here in half an hour.

“What do you suggest we do?” asked Evan as he rushed to catch up.

Barbara had thought it through. “We may not need to die,” she whispered and made an arbitrary left turn.

“What?” Evan felt a pang of disappointment. He had put so much work into this plan.

“I overheard something. Come on. I'm hungry. If we have lunch at the hotel, it goes on MacGregor's tab.”

“I'm not sure I can wait that long. I have to pee.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “You always have to pee.”

“You need to eat. I need to pee. What's the difference?”

“Because you always need to pee.”

“Let's take this one need at a time, okay?”

The Four Seasons wasn't far away. The hotel was comprised of a few dozen luxury rooms and suites, situated in the old city, in the picturesque shadow of the Blue Mosque. On reading the hotel's description, Barbara had been concerned that the windows might be a little small for her taste, given that the building had been built two centuries ago as a Turkish prison, but someone must have solved this problem, because the windows were fine.

By the time they made their way to a public bathroom, then out of the bazaar and back to the hotel, it was two hours later, lunch service had ended, and the Steinbergs were just arriving from Paris. Amy was with them, checking them in. All three were in high spirits. Laila was looking much better, Barbara noted, and whatever case of nerves Amy had been suffering from seemed to have dissipated.

The only one looking stressed was Peter Borg. His lanky frame had just loped down the stairs to the lobby, and despite his broad smile and warm greetings to everyone, he seemed eager to take Amy aside and share a few urgent words. Barbara would have been more curious, except that she was so tired from the walk and ravenously hungry.

Sandwiches and snacks, they discovered, were still being served at the terrace bar, and yes, they could charge them to their room. Evan and Barbara settled in with their strong, sweet mint tea and waited at a mosaic table in the shade, listening to the gurgle of a marble fountain. A hundred years ago, Barbara mused, this pleasant oasis might have been a cozy little exercise yard for rapists and killers.

The sandwiches arrived in short order—some kind of meat and eggplant. It was always eggplant. Why was that? Like a constant national sale on eggplant. They had just finished inspecting the sandwich contents when the Pepper-Sands, Herb and David, limped by on the far side of the exercise yard.

“Hey there. How was the massage?” Evan called out with a friendly wave.

Herb had been talking about a Turkish bath ever since New York. According to him, there was this straight, unbroken line between the baths of ancient Greece and the present-day
hamams
—from the Greeks to the Romans, who copied the Greek baths, then migrated to the eastern part of their empire in Constantinople. The Romans' descendants, the Byzantines, handed off the tradition to the Turks, who conquered this city and changed its name and built these amazing bathhouses in the fourteen hundreds that were still operating in exactly the same way today. According to Herb's theory, each generation of workers trained the next in the noble art of massage, so that a modern tourist could have approximately the same experience that Plato or Alexander the Great might have had on one of their days off. Herb found the prospect fascinating.

“Don't ask,” said David in a voice laden with pain. His golden-red hair looked unusually flat and thin, almost plastered against his head. “It was like wrestling.”

Herb nodded and kept on limping. “They rub you—more like squeeze you—up and down your arms and legs, then stretch you and throw soap and almost drown you. And blind you with the soap. And all the while they're talking incessantly about how big a tip you should give them.”

“Not a sensual experience at all,” David said, loud enough for anyone to hear. “Not that we were looking for one. But we were expecting something pleasant. Or historical, at least.” He glared at Herb. “So much for your theory.”

“The Greeks would never have put up with this,” said Herb. “And no one was even remotely cute,” which was his final, damning critique.

Evan couldn't repress a smirk. “Well, at least you're clean.”

“Right,” Herb said. “I'm going up to the room and taking a shower.”

When the Corns finally got up to their own room, Evan had to pee again. Then they continued from where they'd left off at the bazaar.

“You can't change the plan,” Evan insisted. “Everything's in place.”

“What if we don't disappear?”

“Then our lives are ruined, and we go to jail.”

Barbara hated when he said “we” instead of “I,” but she let it pass. “Peter said something the other night. He said MacGregor didn't unwrap most of the things people gave her, that they all just sat in some closet forever. Unopened.”

“Unopened?” Evan immediately knew. He knew the exact package she meant. “You're kidding me. You're saying she never opened it? It's just sitting there in her damn closet? Right now?”

“We can get it back. It's worth a shot at least.”

“So you're saying she never opened it.”

“I'm thinking no one's going to open it. No one will ever know. It'll just get thrown out. But if we can somehow get it back . . .”

They stood there, side by side, looking out at their partial view of the Blue Mosque through their adequately sized window and doing some mental calculations.

“This could solve our problem,” Evan whispered. “Are you sure it's in there?”

“Where else would it be? If you can somehow get it back— maybe volunteer to help clear out her apartment—it'll give you some breathing room at least.”

Evan hated it when she said “you” instead of “we.” “You're the one who gave it to her in the first place,” he replied. “If you hadn't given it to her in the first place . . .”

“I know, dear. We've been through this a million times. I'm sorry.”

“This means going back home and giving up our plan,” he said, half relieved, half regretful. “Our one chance to escape.”

“You can always bomb a boat in the Long Island Sound.” She said it, not knowing if she was being serious or not.

Evan took her seriously. “It's easier done in Turkey, both the bombing and the disappearing.” He turned away. The sandwich was not settling well, and he suppressed a fragrant little burp. “I'm not going to prison. It doesn't matter what. I can't get caught.”

“Honey, if this works out, we'll have everything. Our old lives back. And no one will ever find out.”

“What if it's not there? We'll be taking a risk.”

“A risk? Bombing a boat and disappearing forever? That's not a risk? Evan . . .” She took his large head between her hands, looked him in the eyes, and ignored the smell of eggplant on his ruddy face. “I don't want to be on the run for the rest of my life. Let's give it a shot. Please.”