Death on Tour (5 page)

Utah? What an odd guess. I wouldn’t have thought they’d get many tourists from Utah or at least any who would admit it. And what was there to hear about Utah?

“No. Texas,” I answered. I thought he gave me a strange look, but he went on.

“Here, look at this. Do you see how the color changes as you turn it?” He flipped a rug expertly. True to his word, the color changed from a shimmery salmon to a rich peach. I was impressed in spite of myself. I reached out to caress the surface. It was so thin, more like a tablecloth than a rug for the floor. I knew I could not afford it, but I did wonder how much it cost. I was just thinking about asking, when he touched my shoulder.

“You are very late,” he said in a lower tone. “Did something go wrong?”

I looked at him, puzzled. He was standing beside me, his face just inches from mine, and I could not think what he meant. Different customs or not, he was definitely invading my personal space, and I shifted away slightly. If we were running late, it could not be by much.

“Yes, there was a terrible accident while we were at Giza.”

“An accident,” he said thoughtfully. “That is too bad. I hope everything was … resolved.” He flashed a quick smile that seemed loaded with meaning.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just nodded and turned my attention back to the rug. “This is very lovely. How much is it?”

“This one? This is a very fine piece, but I think I have something you would find even more interesting. A very fine rug, made entirely by hand in Siwah. We keep it in the back room, just over here.” He gestured to a plain metal door in the back wall.

I lifted my eyebrows. Go into a back room with a guy who made used-car salesmen seem blasé? Who made sharks circling a carcass seem soft and cuddly? No way, no how, not even if he was now my fiancé.

“No, I don’t think so. What about this rug? How much is it?”

“But this other is made in Siwah,” he stressed. His smile faded. The mild enjoyment I’d experienced at his flirting was replaced by a little tickle of uneasiness. I looked around for Kyla and caught sight of her beside DJ and Nimmi, laughing as he haggled for a rug. Ridiculous to be nervous in such a public place, I told myself.

“
La
,
shokrun
,” I said firmly. “No, thank you. I can’t buy anything, and I need to join my friends now.”

He gave me a very hard look. “You misunderstand. You should come with me now.”

I took a swift step back, no longer amused. He stepped forward grimly, but at that moment Alan Stratton appeared beside me. He gave me an encouraging smile and turned an inquiring eye on the salesman. I was so glad to see him that I clutched his arm, which felt warm and hard under my cold fingers. Surprised, he automatically covered my hand with his own. It felt really good. I left it there.

The salesman instantly transformed back into the smiling boy he’d been a few minutes earlier. “Ah, your boyfriend is here. Perhaps you would like to buy a beautiful rug for your beautiful lady, sir?”

“I don’t want a flipping rug!” I snapped, my voice sounding shrill even in my own ears.

“Ah, then I thank you very much for your attention,” said the boy. And never taking his eyes off Alan, he backed away and then darted off.

I gave a sigh of relief and then reluctantly released his arm. He looked down at me with a little grin. “Flipping?”

“Didn’t mean to offend you,” I said, hoping I wasn’t blushing. I couldn’t swear in front of my students, so over the years I’d acquired a slew of milder expressions that occasionally popped out in my real life.

He laughed outright at that, then glanced after the salesman. “He looked like he was getting pretty intense.”

“Yes, and thank you for stepping in. Everybody warned me that the haggling here could be overwhelming, but I had no idea. He actually wanted me to go into the back room. It was creepy.” Very creepy. Surely that wasn’t a normal part of the ordinary rug-buying experience. It bothered me.

Alan didn’t seem to think it too strange. “Part of the culture, I suppose,” he was saying. “It’s just something you have to get used to. Look at DJ. He loves it. He’s going to have to buy another suitcase for all the junk he keeps buying.”

I couldn’t help smiling. DJ apparently was an inveterate haggler. This was the fourth time I’d seen him at it today. While the rest of us scurried past the vendors with eyes lowered and teeth clenched, DJ swooped in with a huge smile and with vigorous gestures haggled for all he was worth. On at least two occasions, a little crowd gathered to watch because DJ was very loud and his performance impressive. He towered over the hapless salesman, as he towered over most people, and a casual observer might think the match was weighted heavily in his favor. But the Egyptian vendors were tenacious and experienced and enjoyed the contest as much as DJ. He always returned in triumph, holding some tacky knickknack like a trophy, but the vendor also seemed quite pleased. Here at the carpet shop, the quality of the objects, as well as the prices, were considerably higher, but the contest was the same. DJ was very loud; Nimmi, tugging at his sleeve and whispering in his ear, was very quiet; and the salesman gesticulated wildly as though in agony. At last, though, DJ gave a triumphant smile, and two men rolled up a large carpet and hurried away. DJ then walked to another pile, pointed to another piece, and the process started all over.

“Do you and your sister travel together often?” Alan asked.

I glanced up at him, surprised to note that his eyes were now on my salesman, rather than on DJ.

“She’s my cousin, and don’t let her hear you say you thought we were sisters. She doesn’t want to believe we look alike.”

This was his chance to give me a compliment. Something like, “but you’re so beautiful” or “she should be honored to be compared to you” or even “you shine above her like the stars shine above a streetlight.” Any of those would have been acceptable. But of course he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Did you notice anything unusual when we were at Giza?”

“Apart from the dead body and the police investigation?” I asked without thinking.

He gave a little smile at that, but went on. “You know what I mean. Just anything you noticed that seemed a little strange. Not anything big—I know you would have said something already if you’d seen anything about the accident. Did you happen to notice anyone strange hanging around Millie? Was she talking to anyone in particular, maybe one of our group…” his voice trailed off.

I looked at him, puzzled. “What are you saying? Do you think it was more than an accident?”

He shrugged. “No, of course not. I don’t know what I mean. Never mind.”

I felt a little deflated. I’d been trying to strike up a conversation with this man for two days now without appearing to be flirting, at least not too obviously, but this wasn’t the conversation I’d had in mind.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked. It crossed my mind that he might be some sort of policeman or rescue worker, considering the way he’d run to Millie’s side.

“Oh, I’m a, well, basically I’m a financial analyst,” he stammered. “With a bank. I work at a bank. Wells Fargo.”

I stared at him, watching the way his eyes slid away from mine like those of a guilty pup confronted with a stained carpet. Whatever else he was, he was not a very good liar. He suddenly focused on something over my right shoulder, and I glanced back to see what had captured his interest. Kyla was bending over a pile of carpets, lifting the corner of the top rug to see one underneath. She looked fabulous, cool and elegant in her open-necked lemon shirt and tan pants. She had a knack of making even the most casual clothing seem sexy, whereas I probably looked and smelled like someone who had been on a camel not too long ago.

“I’m going to the bus,” I announced, suddenly tired and depressed.

“I’ll go with you,” he offered with more sincerity in his voice than I would have expected.

“No, don’t bother,” I said, flatly.

Surprised, he hesitated, but I hurried off before he could protest, even if he wanted. What the hell was wrong with me? My refusal had been instinctive, a knee-jerk reaction to his lie. I was so tired of hearing lies. But it wouldn’t have hurt me to continue chatting, to maybe flirt a little, to maybe get to know him and figure out what he was hiding. He was interesting and mysterious, and I’d just passed up a chance to spend some private time with him. I was mentally kicking myself before I had gone three paces.

At the door, I couldn’t help glancing back over my shoulder. To my surprise, Alan was still watching me instead of Kyla. I almost turned back, but just then someone called to him and he looked away. Further back, I could see my creepy salesman had turned his attentions to poor hapless Fiona and was escorting her toward the mysterious back room. I felt a little sorry for her, but not as sorry as I felt for myself. After all, I had only myself to blame.

*   *   *

Outside, the afternoon sun was moving toward the western horizon and the winds were dying down. Our driver, Achmed, was standing beside the bus smoking a foul-looking cigarette, but he greeted me with a happy smile and cheerfully opened the door for me. “It is not cool inside. I cannot leave it running,” he warned.

“That’s okay. I just want to get my water,” I reassured him.

The bus was stuffy already, but not too bad. Actually “bus” was something of a misnomer. WorldPal referred to it as a coach, a mammoth vehicle that resembled the inside of an airliner more than the clunky school buses I was used to. The seats were wide and comfortable, with upholstered armrests and levers that enabled you to recline just enough to annoy the passenger behind you. You could pull down a little footrest attached to the seat in front and actually get a fairly comfortable stretch. When the coach was running, icy cold air poured down from the air conditioner vents and soothed your spirit, almost making you forget the heat and dust outside. A coach was an insulated world in itself, not quite a magic carpet, but almost as good and certainly more comfortable.

I found my seat and retrieved my backpack from the overhead bin. I didn’t really want my water bottle, but I needed an excuse to be on the bus and water was as good as any. I was really just seeking a few minutes of solitude, the one commodity in very short supply on a tour. I glanced at my watch and tried to work out the time difference between here and Austin. Three o’clock in the afternoon here meant seven o’clock in the morning at home. My ex-husband was probably just waking up. With his new tootsie by his side. I felt a little prickle in my eyes and blinked hard. What was the good of pyramids if I was all alone? Especially if anyone even remotely attractive had his eyes on Kyla and not me. It was exactly like being back in high school. A wave of depression washed over me, one of the aftershocks of the divorce, which I hoped would become less frequent and eventually vanish with time.

I looked around, trying to find something to distract myself before self-pity ruined the day, and my eyes swept across the packs and bags in the overhead bins. On a tour bus, seating arrangements are very important. When first boarding, everyone immediately and inevitably marks their territory by placing some belonging on the seat or overhead. I carry a sweater for that very purpose. On some primitive level, owning your own seat is imperative, and any one of us would have been outraged to climb onto the bus and find an intruder in our personal space. I’d been on tours where the seat you chose the first day became yours for the entire trip. This occasioned discontent for those who were late and didn’t manage to nab one of the choice spots. Anni was very wise and made us move to a different place each day, ostensibly to give everyone a fair chance to sit in the front. In reality, she probably wanted to avoid getting continually hammered with questions from the same overeager few. There were always one or two chatterboxes on any tour. Millie Owens had been ours. In fact, she’d tried to nab the front seat for the second time in a row just this morning, and Anni had gently but firmly insisted that she move back. The fact that she’d ended up directly across from Kyla and me had been annoying in the extreme. I was a little ashamed about feeling that way, now that she was dead. Her empty seat seemed to reproach me for my callousness.

Empty. Something about that didn’t seem quite right. Where was her seat marker? Nothing was visible on or under the seat across from me. I looked forward to the front seat, the one she’d claimed initially, and there it was. In the overhead bin lay the little pack she’d stowed when she first got on. Anni had collected Millie’s purse from beside the body and stowed it somewhere to be sent on to relatives, but she hadn’t thought about the pack.

I considered it thoughtfully. I was still convinced that Millie had stolen a lip balm from my bag that first day she’d rooted through it and commented on my Imodium. With a glance out the window to ensure no one was watching me, I stood, retrieved the bag, and quickly returned to my own seat. I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I just needed a distraction from my own morbid thoughts, maybe my teacher-sense was on alert. Something about it seemed significant, and there was no reason I shouldn’t satisfy my curiosity. And I definitely wanted my lip balm back.

I held it for a moment, a small navy blue canvas bag with a mesh pouch on the outside for a water bottle and the WorldPal logo in one corner, thinking it was surprisingly heavy. We’d each received one with our information packets and itinerary, although Millie was the only one who brought hers on the bus. For one thing, they were really too small to be useful. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right to snoop through a dead woman’s bag, even for the noble cause of searching out a stolen lip balm. I reminded myself that Millie herself would not have hesitated, and besides, it wasn’t like I was stealing. That did it. My scruples evaporated in the face of such masterful rationalization.

I had to admit, unzipping that bag made me feel like a spy or a crime scene investigator. Or maybe just a common criminal. My heart beat a little faster, and my hands felt clammy. But it was well worth it, because inside was the oddest collection of objects I’d seen in a long time. My lip balm was only the first and least significant of the bunch, but it confirmed what I’d suspected. Millie Owens had been quite the little thief. I saw a silver cigarette lighter with the initials LC on the side, which must belong to Lydia Carpenter. A very nice gold pen that seemed unlikely to be Millie’s—probably Jerry’s if I were to hazard a guess, although there was nothing to identify it. A beaded coin purse I was almost positive I’d seen in Yvonne de Vance’s possession. A whole book of tear-out postcards. I paused. Well, she probably hadn’t stolen those. They were available in every gift shop and from every vendor on every corner in Cairo. A miniature red notebook complete with zippered case and miniature pen. Millie hadn’t just been a thief. She’d been a full-blown kleptomaniac.