Controlling Interest (20 page)

“Maybe.” Dewey gave Betty a warning look. “Maybe not. Is there some kind of reward for this girl?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Matt threw caution to the wind. “Tell you what. We'll stay in touch with you. Do you have a cell phone number where we can reach you?” He pulled his PDA from his pocket.

Dewey and Betty retired behind the table to confer. After a moment, Dewey folded his arms and looked manly while Betty reached into her pocket and produced a business card with barbecue sauce stains and bent corners. She handed it to Natalie. “Here. I don't turn on my cell phone unless I have an emergency, so I don't know how much good that'll do. But you can call our daughter and leave a message. We stay in touch with her. Her number's on the back.” Betty's small brown eyes were kind. “I'd like to know when Yasmine gets home safe.”

Natalie leaned over the table to give the woman a hug. “Thank you so much! We'll be in touch.”

Matt picked up the two Styrofoam to-go boxes and backed out of the booth. “Come on, Trouble. We've wasted enough time.”

“Wasted? How can you say that? We got Yasmine's backpack!” Natalie followed, waving at Dewey and Betty over her shoulder.

“Alright. Whatever. Let's sit down at that table over there. We can eat and go through it.” He caught her look. “Okay,
you
can go through it.”

Matt plunked their food down on a picnic table in a grassy area with a stunning view of the river and the bridge. Behind and to the side, multi-colored tents and awnings exploded in pinwheels of circus colors, with families and couples milling around like the ants that had crawled into Natalie's shoes. Tantalizing odors of charcoal, roasted pork, and tangy sauces drifted on the mild spring breeze.

Natalie looked up as a red, blue, and yellow Superman kite floated overhead. “Too bad we don't have time to enjoy this.”

“Might as well.” Matt straddled a bench and opened his lunch. “We're about to take a road trip, so we'll be pretty busy for the next few days.”

Natalie sat down across from him. Shoving her box of food away, she unzipped the backpack. “This is so weird. I know we have to look in it, but I feel like a criminal anyway. Maybe we should give it to Yasmine's mother first.”

“No way.” Matt swallowed a bite of potato salad rich with eggs and onions and mayonnaise. Betty was one first-class cook. “There's something funny going on with that family. I don't trust any of them. Except maybe Liba.”

“Why not?” Natalie looked up. “They're paying us to find her. They obviously have her best interests at heart.”

“Not every family is as close as yours, Natalie. Abid has got some real control issues, and Yasmine's an adult. For her to disappear without a word isn't normal.”

“You're right. Well, here goes.” Taking a deep breath, Natalie drew the backpack close and pulled it open.

Matt continued to eat while Natalie withdrew a pile of feminine stuff: a package of tissues, gum, and a zippered makeup case, which contained a couple of tubes of lipstick, a small bottle of Tylenol, and a tiny manicure set. A hairbrush came next, followed by an eelskin wallet.

“Uh-oh,” Natalie murmured. “She's gonna be in trouble without this.”

“How much money's in it?”

“Let's see.” Natalie unsnapped the wallet and poked through it. “Three fifty-rupee notes and about five American dollars. Looks like about twenty euros. A Visa . . . it's got her name on it. Some bank in Pakistan.” She handed it to Matt. “Here. You can take a look.”

“Thanks.” He laid it on the table, more interested in what else she might pull out of the backpack.

“Oh, goodness. Here's her passport.” Natalie studied the photo. “Not fair for someone to look that beautiful in a mug shot. Mine looks like I've been on a three-day drunk.” She flipped through the passport. “Yasmine's been all over the world. London, Cyprus, Switzerland, Rio . . . Golly.”

“Try the other zipper pocket. The big one in the middle.”

“Okay.”

Natalie unzipped the central section of the backpack. Out came a long, sheer apple green scarf, embroidered in silver threads. “Ooh. This is what she was wearing when I met her at the airport. Isn't it pretty?”

“Wouldn't exactly keep you warm in the winter,” he said with a grin. “What else you got?”

Natalie looped the scarf around her neck and peered into the bag. “Just a notebook. One of those things you write essays on in college. And a book. Looks like a Koran.” She pulled it out. Her mouth fell open. “It's not a Koran.”

“Then what — Holy moly, that's a Bible!”

Yasmine sat on her bed in a tiny cabin located in the dank, noisy bowels of the cruise boat, contemplating the sudden twist in her personal history. She should be frightened out of her mind.

Instead, possessed of nothing to call her own, she felt free.

No passport. No money. No clothes except her Elvis shirt and jeans. She'd even kicked off her sandals while running for the boat.

She watched her roommate, a young Russian woman who spoke practically no English — and certainly no Urdu — wearily strip off her black maid's uniform and fling herself onto the other bunk. The two beds, little more than cots, were so close together that one could barely stand up between them. A triangular closet with a skinny louvered door contained four drawers and two feet of hanging space. The two women would share a communal bath with six others in the staff section.

Yasmine was content.

Her new roommate, who called herself Oksana, rolled to her side to face Yasmine. It was broad daylight, barely afternoon according to Yasmine's watch, but Oksana had been on duty for ten hours already.

“Your shift when?” Oksana asked sleepily. Her eyes closed. She had outrageous Slavic cheekbones and blonde coloring.

“I do not know.” Yasmine drew her feet up to examine her toes. The blisters across her instep were bleeding, the soles aching from stone bruises. She needed a pedicure. “The steward said he would bring me a schedule, along with my uniforms.”

Oksana suddenly turned over on her back, eyes wide. “Do not give him in. Bad man.”

Yasmine forgot about hiding her identity and switched to Russian. “Has he hurt you?”

Oksana sat up, all traces of sleep gone from her green eyes. She answered in Russian. “You speak my language! Oh, this is wonderful.” She began to cry. “I miss my mother and my grandmother and my little boy and the village where I grew up. I came to the U.S. to get married, but I could not bring Misha right away. And then my husband beat me, so I left him to get a job, only I do not know how to do anything but clean — ” The flood of words halted as Oksana crammed her fist against her mouth. “I am sorry. I do not know you, and I spill all this. How is it you know the Russian language?”

Yasmine scooted to the edge of the bed and took Oksana's trembling hands. “I translated in the American embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. My Russian is simple, but I learned a little in college. Language is my gift.” She smiled. “God gives good gifts.”

Oksana's face twisted. “I do not know about that.” She looked around, wrinkling her nose against the smell of diesel fuel that pervaded the cramped cabin.

“You will see.” Yasmine jumped at a sharp knock on the door and squeezed Oksana's hands. “I will talk to the steward in the hallway. Do not worry.”

She opened the door and found the man who had hired her yesterday blocking the narrow hallway. Dressed in a uniform of black slacks, a cheap white shirt, and a black military-style jacket, he carried a clipboard and a couple of black garments. “Yasmine.” He looked her up and down with protruding ice-colored eyes. “I have brought your uniform and schedule. We will discuss it now.”

Yasmine blocked his move toward the door. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “My roommate is sleeping. If you will give me the schedule, I will study it.” As she reached for the uniforms, she looked down at her bare feet. “Perhaps there are some shoes I could borrow?” Pride had come to an end.

“You'll bleed on the carpets. Go to Cook and ask for some Band-Aids.” The steward frowned. “He'll tell you where the lost and found is. There should be a pair of shoes to fit you. What happened to yours?”

Yasmine's heart bumped. He couldn't know she had left everything behind in Memphis. He might put her off at the next stop, and she had to get to New Orleans. “They were not suitable for standing all day. My last job was a desk job.” Both true statements.

He looked skeptical. “You will start work at four. Be in the kitchen ready to serve. If you have questions, Cook will instruct you.”

It sounded to Yasmine as if the mysterious Cook was the person who actually ran the boat. She nodded. “Alright. Thank you.” She backed toward the door.

He tried to peer past her into the room, but Yasmine quickly shut it in his face. Ugh. A voyeur.

Realizing Oksana was awake and watching her, she straightened her back and made herself smile. “See? I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

CHAPTER
TWELVE

I
t's no big deal, Dad.” Natalie was still getting used to the sight of her father kicked back in Mom's overstuffed chair. For previously unknown reasons, it had stayed in the study all these years. Deb Tubberville, hard-nosed diva of prosthetic accounts, apparently had an unsuspected sentimental streak. Natalie, sitting on the ottoman at Dad's feet, waved a careless hand. “Matt doesn't even like me.”

Dad snorted. “I find that hard to believe.” He leaned forward to fix her with his Papa Bear glare. “Besides, your grandma always used to preach about the ‘appearance of evil.' Maybe she had a point.”

“As if Mrs. Dorothy's preaching ever deterred you from doing whatever you pleased.” Mom turned from the computer, giving him an amused look over the top of her glasses. “You and I sowed our wild oats, so how can you lecture Natalie? I'm sure she'll be smarter than us and at least take precautions.”

“Mom!” Natalie fanned her flaming face with the notebook in her lap. “I told you Matt and I aren't — and even if we were, I don't — because I believe you're supposed to wait until you get married.”

Her mother looked offended and slightly guilty. “Well, of course that's all well and good, but it's not always possible to control your feelings. So
please
, sweetheart, don't go off with that boy without — ”

“Deb, can't you see you're mortifying the poor girl?” Dad patted Natalie's shoulder. “She's serious about this religious stuff. It's
him
I don't trust. Is he coming by here to pick you up?”

“No, we're taking my car, so I'm picking him up at his apartment.” Which, considering this humiliating conversation, was a very good thing. “Besides, you don't have to worry. The boat's docking tonight in Helena, Arkansas. There won't be any motel involved.” She gave her father a pleading look. “So will you lay off?”

“Touchy, touchy.”

Mercifully Mom found something less personal to pick on her about. “What happened to your sandals? Didn't you just buy those last weekend? You look like you ran a marathon in them.”

“Our missing girl took off running, and I tried to catch her. She was faster than me.” Natalie sighed. “Which is why we have to drive to Helena.”

Dad looked at his watch. “What does that take? About two hours?”

Natalie shook her head. “Less than that. The boat's scheduled to dock at ten. I told Matt I'd pick him up after supper, and we'd get there in plenty of time.” She stood up. “I'm going to go put on some jeans.” She stuck out one blistered foot. “Learned my lesson about dressing for comfort on this job.”

Mom patted her chest in mock disbelief. “Is the clothes horse coming in off the range?”

Natalie paused at the door of the study, wrinkling her nose. “Only temporarily.”

In her room, she poked through a closet full of trendy skirts, feminine tops in a rainbow of colors, and slacks with “dry clean only” tags.
This is a sickness, Natalie Tubberville. You have serious garment issues.

Trouble was, ever since middle school, Dad had bought her whatever she wanted. Probably felt guilty about not spending enough time with her. So every other weekend he'd take her shopping and whip out the credit card or send her to the mall with a wad of cash.

Which, for a fourteen-year-old with a shoe fetish, turned out to be a dangerous thing.

She pulled down a couple of long-sleeved T-shirts she rarely wore. Time to make a donation to the homeless shelter.

An hour or so later her cell rang as she was on her way to the car, staggering under an enormous pile of clothes. “Oh, fudgesicles.” The phone kept ringing. “Hold on, let me put these in the trunk.” Voice mail took over just as she fished it out of her purse. The clock above the message center indignantly flashed Matt's cell phone number. “Oh no! Six forty-five! How'd it get that late?”