Death on Tour (3 page)

“Hurry up,” said Kyla impatiently, tapping one polished leather shoe in the sand. It was already covered with a light coating of dust, which did not entirely displease me. I rose and joined her.

The camel driver beckoned to us impatiently, and we followed, picking our way gingerly past a few recumbent cud-chewing camels to join him. Our driver was immensely fat, the giant beach ball of his stomach making a tent of his galabia. I imagined dozens of small desert creatures sheltering under the folds and then gave a little shudder. One of his front teeth was gold, the other missing, and his swarthy skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat.

“Here, you two ladies. On this camel, please.” He gestured to a bored creature. I had to admit, up close they did look a little flea-bitten.

“Oh no,” said Kyla. “I want my own camel.”

“No, no. Very strong. No problem for two,” he nodded emphatically.

Kyla shot him a glance that should have made him stagger back. “I want my own camel,” she repeated.

He appealed to me with a look, but I just raised my eyebrows and stared coldly. It worked on seventeen-year-olds and it worked on him. His shoulders slumped a little. “This way.” And he led Kyla to another camel.

The young man who held the lead rein of my camel gave a small private smile, then helped me into the saddle.

“Hold here very hard and lean back very far,” he said and waited for me to obey.

It was good advice. I gripped the saddle horn and leaned back just in time as the camel’s back half rose sharply in the air, throwing me forward. Then the front half rose, throwing me sharply back. I settled back into the saddle some eight feet off the ground, pleased not to have fallen.

Alan Stratton came and stood beside my camel, looking up at me and shading his eyes with his hands against the brilliant morning sun. His eyes were the most remarkable color, a soft green that changed subtly from sage to gray depending on the light. His hair, cut short and therefore clearly not as curly as it could have been, was a soft golden brown that had probably once been blond. It made a very attractive little swirl at the crown of his head.

“Having fun?” he asked. His voice was as attractive as the rest of him, deep and ever so slightly gravelly.

I realized I was staring like an idiot. “I had no idea they were so tall,” I said inanely and immediately wanted to kick myself.

He gave a little grin. “Ever ridden one before?”

“No.”

“Me, either. You look like a natural.”

I was trying to think of something devastatingly witty to say when a different camel herder beckoned to Alan and led him away to one of the larger camels. I watched as the animal lifted its hind end straight up and tossed Alan forward like a rag doll. He held on gamely and then gave me a little wave of triumph. I waved back.

The fat camel driver gave a shout, and we were off. Camels take huge, slow strides, swaying from one side to another. Ahead of me, the rest of the group, singly and in pairs, plodded forward across the sand toward the pyramids. I could not believe I was actually here. I wanted to shout with excitement, to grab someone and jump up and down laughing. Kyla was too far ahead to share my exhilaration, but she would have understood. We hadn’t grown up together as kids, but my family moved to Austin for my high school years, and except for one or two quarrels, Kyla and I had been inseparable ever since. During our sophomore year, we’d both become obsessed with Egypt in the way that only teenage girls can obsess about anything. We saw every Discovery Channel special and conned our parents into driving us four hours each way to a special exhibit at the Houston Museum of Natural Science. Saturdays were spent renting every mummy movie ever made. Of course, obsessions don’t last forever, and we’d eventually moved on to boys and clothes, but when the King Tut exhibit arrived in Dallas a couple of years ago, Kyla and I had attended the opening weekend, waiting in line for what seemed like forever in quivering anticipation.

Now I was actually here, on a camel, riding across the sands of the Sahara toward the great pyramids of Giza. Directly in front of me, Kathy Morrison perched stiffly in the saddle, but I didn’t think I could share my excitement with her. I glanced back. Alan Stratton rode the last camel in line, a pensive look on his face. I gave him a huge grin. He met my eyes and relaxed into a smile.

“This is the best!” I called, and he started laughing.

Behind him, the camel herd dotted the sand like toys scattered by a child while the immense desert rolled away to the horizon until it blended seamlessly into the hazy sky. It was a perfect picture and without thinking I raised my little camera and snapped. For an instant, I thought his smile faltered. I wondered if I should apologize, but the next moment he was smiling again.

“You look good on a camel,” he said teasingly.

“Likewise,” I answered, then turned around quickly before he could see any signs of the warmth I felt rising in my cheeks.

What was wrong with me? I was as bad as any high school student, feeling all hot and bothered just because an attractive man was being pleasant. To distract myself, I began wondering why he hadn’t been pleased to have his picture taken. Maybe he had a hidden past. Maybe he was hiding from the law. Or from a crazed wife. Or from the mafia. Or he was a spy. Or maybe he was just camera shy, I told myself sternly. More importantly, did I really look good on a camel? How good?

Fortunately, before my own thoughts could drive me crazy, the boy leading my camel stopped and reached up for my camera. It was my turn to have my picture taken. On a camel. In front of the pyramids of Giza. With a great-looking guy just out of frame who might or might not have been flirting a little. If it wasn’t for that pesky woman’s terrible death, it would have been a perfect morning.

*   *   *

The Sphinx was another two-minute bus ride away. We rode in air-conditioned lumbering comfort around the far side of the pyramids and came out on a road that sloped downward, running along the Sphinx’s left. We all craned our necks to get a view, those lucky enough to be on the right side of the bus pressing against the windows like kids at Christmas. Above their heads, I caught a glimpse of the battered, enigmatic face, noseless but serene. Just as the pamphlet said, the massive figure truly rose from the sands in majestic splendor, but what the pamphlet could not convey was its sheer size. The tourists standing behind the barricades at its base looked like tiny dolls.

The bus pulled to the side of the road. We all jumped to our feet, waiting for the doors to open, but Anni waved us down again to give us our instructions.

“As you can see, the authorities do not allow us to approach too closely anymore. Restoration is still ongoing and there has been too much damage done over the years by tourists as well as invading armies. So we stop here. And I will tell you that this is the best place to take your photographs. Even though you will go closer, you will not have as good an angle when we go down the hill. We’ll stay here just a very few minutes and then walk together down to the front so that you can see that I am right.” She gave a little smile. “The bus will meet us down below in the parking lot. Ordinarily, we would have some free time here, but since we are running a little later than planned, I will ask you to stay with me throughout the visit.”

We all nodded our complete understanding and pledge of cooperation. Anni made a gesture to Achmed, our bus driver, who obligingly opened the doors. The Peterson family was off the bus first. By the time the rest of us had streamed off, the boys were halfway down the path and their plump little mother was puffing along behind them, yelling futilely for them to come back. Their father resignedly put the lens cap back on his huge camera and prepared to follow.

Kyla watched their figures getting smaller in the distance. “Dear God. Is that what you put up with day after day?”

“Basically.”

“What was that line about tigers eating their young?”

I grinned and took a perfectly framed picture of the Sphinx. “Those are pretty good kids. You watch, they’ll be the first ones on the bus at the other side.”

She just shook her head. “What a nightmare. And look—there go those batty old ladies.”

I turned. Sure enough, Fiona and Flora were now tottering down the path in the Petersons’ wake, apparently confused about whom they were supposed to follow. Fiona’s wispy black hair was sticking straight out in back. Anni caught up with them after a few paces and gently steered them back, helping them with their cameras and pointing them in the direction of the Sphinx, which they had apparently not noticed up until then, because they lit up and started pointing excitedly.

“A hundred bucks says Anni loses it before we get to the ship,” said Kyla.

“That’s what, three more days?” I considered. “I think she can hold out until then. Make it fifty and you’ve got a bet.”

“Fine. I win if she snaps during the first half. You win if she snaps during the second half. And if she doesn’t snap at all, we’ll put an extra twenty-five each in her tip envelope.”

I nodded agreement. Casually, I looked around to see where Alan was and if he was possibly looking for me, but he stood several paces to the right, taking a photograph of Charlie and Yvonne with a camera that looked almost as old as they were. Charlie kept stepping forward to give Alan pointers on focusing.

Kyla and I took turns taking pictures with the Sphinx in the background and then followed the group down the sloping road. Anni led the way, the pink Hello Kitty umbrella open and held high.

Nimmi Gavaskar passed us to catch up to the Australians, Ben and Lydia Carpenter.

“I meant to ask you earlier,” she said to them in her pleasant singsong accent. “How is your niece feeling this morning? Is she any better?”

“Not bloody much,” said Ben. He and Lydia were in their early forties, open and funny. His hair was a little long and thinning on top, his scalp very brown beneath the blond wisps. “She looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet.”

“Ben!” snapped Lydia, but without any real annoyance. “She had an unpleasant night. That’s all you need to say.” Lydia had sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the creased leathery skin of a devout smoker.

“Sorry, love,” he answered, unrepentant. “She’s got your basic Mummy’s Revenge, that’s for sure.”

“That must have come up suddenly,” I said without thinking. “She looked so great at the airport.”

Ben gave a little jump. “You saw us at the airport?” he asked.

I nodded. “Our plane was a bit ahead of yours. We were just going to our car when you were heading to the baggage carousel. She’s very pretty,” I added a little uncertainly. I wasn’t sure why he was staring at me.

“You should let DJ examine her. He would be very glad,” Nimmi offered. “He specializes in pediatrics, but he is fully qualified to look at adults too. He would be most happy to be of service.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Ben. “I’m sure she’ll be feeling better in a day or so, but we’ll take you up on that if she’s not.”

“Please don’t feel it would be an imposition. These things are better caught early. DJ could come to see her when we get back to the hotel.”

Ben shot Lydia a questioning look, and she gave a quick negative shake of the head. I’m not sure Nimmi even noticed, but I did. Personally, I would have taken Nimmi up on the offer if I were sick so far from home, but maybe this young woman was a private person.

They hurried on, and we dropped back. Kyla gave me a puzzled glance. “What was that about? Did you really see them in the airport?”

“Yes. I only noticed them because their niece looks just like a student I had last year.”

“Hmph. Well, it’s too bad she’s missing all this today. She must have been sick when she landed, since she missed dinner last night, too. At least that means the rest of us are probably all right. Nothing wrong with the food.” Kyla seemed satisfied.

“No, the food’s great,” I agreed.

“Well, I’m still not going to eat the salad, no matter what they say.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten that anyway,” I pointed out. Although you couldn’t tell by her perfect figure, Kyla was strictly a meat, dessert, potatoes, dessert, and dessert kind of girl.

She just grinned at me. “Yes, but now I have an excuse.”

We reached the bottom of the hill and rounded the corner. To our left, a row of makeshift stalls full of brightly colored scarves, shirts, and assorted knickknacks were manned by dozens of Egyptian men, all clad in the traditional long tunics. Tourists who approached too closely were quickly swarmed, sort of like one of those Animal Planet specials where the foolish cricket ventures too close to the ant mound. Kyla and I veered away before they could spot us.

As we started walking back toward the Sphinx, we realized Anni was right about the angles. We had been closer and higher where the bus let us off beside the road. It didn’t matter though. I heard zoom lenses whirring into action. My own tiny Canon only had a 3x zoom, which was better than nothing, but I admit to a strong feeling of lens envy when Tom Peterson pulled out his big Nikon again. That baby could capture the crow’s-feet around the Sphinx’s eyes.

Nimmi caught up with DJ, and both of them handed their camera to Keith Kim, who obligingly snapped their photo, then handed his camera over for them to return the favor. The small electronic click was still hanging in the air as DJ made a beeline for the row of shops that lined the street, Nimmi trailing reluctantly in his wake. I watched him a little incredulously, but within seconds he was haggling for all he was worth, appearing to enjoy the shouting and commotion. I don’t know how he could even see what he was attempting to buy.

Not that I was watching, but Alan Stratton was the last one down the hill. He’d been the last off the bus, lingering a moment to talk to Achmed, our driver, and hadn’t hurried on his way down. Now, he strolled up behind Kyla and me.

“Picture, ladies?” he offered, holding up his camera.

Kyla gave him a blinding smile, and he blinked a little in the professionally whitened glare.

Have I mentioned that I’m just a little jealous of Kyla? People say we look alike, and we do, to an extent, because both of us resemble our fathers, who are identical twins. My eyes are brown, hers are blue, but they have the same shape, and we both have dark wavy hair and the Shore nose, thank goodness, small and straight. My own mother’s nose looks like a little potato in the middle of her face. Kyla and I are often mistaken for sisters, although no one would seriously take us for twins, regardless of Nimmi’s comment. Like me, Kyla was slender, but she was also fine-boned, whereas I had the sturdier build of some distant farm-working peasant ancestor. I could open my own peanut butter jars, but that was cold comfort compared to being asked to the prom. Not that I was all that bad. On most days, I could even admit that I probably wouldn’t shatter mirrors, but Kyla transcended basic prettiness into real beauty. Going to the same high school with her had been wonderful, and we’d been closer than sisters, but every once in a while things had gone south in a hurry. The current situation was a perfect example. In the presence of a single, attractive man, Kyla transformed from a fun-loving, foul-mouthed buddy into Princess Siren. She couldn’t help it, and neither I nor Alan Stratton had a prayer in hell. I sighed and prepared to become invisible.