Death on Tour (23 page)
“Not at all.”
* * *
On the way out of the valley, we stopped at an alabaster factory, or what Anni referred to as a factory. In fact, it was a small one-story building made of cinder blocks. Covering one wall, a garish painting of questionable artistic merit depicted a plane and several oddly proportioned people.
“The painting indicates the owner is very devout and has made the trip to Mecca,” said Anni as the bus rolled to a stop. “Moreover, it indicates his success in the community because he was able to make the trip by airplane.”
A few paces from the bus, several men sat on cinder blocks in the dust. They talked and laughed with each other until we drew near, then fell silent, eyes lowered. The owner came out and greeted us, gave a brief history of alabaster, and then had one of the men hold up a half-completed piece destined to become a vase. The yellow dusty lump of rock was not what I expected at all.
“This is hand-carved alabaster,” the owner said, holding it up so that the light filtered through the stone. “You see how fine and translucent it is. The unevenness of the surface is how you can tell it was made by hand. This,” he said, holding up another vase, of similar size, “was made by a machine. Both are very beautiful,” he added quickly, “but very different.”
We looked at the two vases. I could tell the hand-carved piece was supposed to be more highly prized, more authentic, but for once in my life I wasn’t drawn to the most expensive item in the shop. The machine-made vase was smooth and polished, the grain of the stone visible, the translucent quality far stronger. I was so disappointed in myself. It was like seeing an authentic Picasso next to a Monet print and secretly preferring the print.
Inside, the shop was bright and airy, walls lined with shelves holding every possible form in alabaster. Carvings of Egyptian cats, of Anubis, of the Eye of Horus. Small pyramids, large pyramids, and dozens of canopic jars topped with scarab beetles or falcon heads. The Peterson boys were frozen in front of one item, pointing and giggling until their mother actually slapped the backs of both red heads and shooed them away. Curious, I went to look. A huge alabaster phallus lay on a wooden stand. Ben Carpenter caught sight of it and rushed over to get Lydia. They both burst into giggles.
Jerry Morrison ambled over, curious. Taking one look at it, he caught my eye and said, “Yeah. That’s about the right size.”
I snorted, and Lydia shot him a look of deep loathing, but Ben gave a grin. “I don’t know, mate. Australians are a good deal larger than that little thing.”
“It’s big enough to knock both of you upside the head. Men!” Lydia said, appealing to me.
“I know.”
I joined Kyla, who was looking at some small bowls. She glanced up at me. “These would be perfect for ice cream. I wonder if you can put them in the dishwasher.”
“I doubt it. They’re really soft stone.”
“Well, I’m going to ask that guy over there.” She gestured to one of the salesmen.
“Somehow, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy that runs his alabaster through the rinse cycle.”
She looked at him, a young man who seemed a little overwhelmed by all of us swarming around the floor. He had one hand near his nose as if he was thinking about going for the gold. “Hmm, you might be right. I’ll ask Anni.”
DJ called to Nimmi in a loud voice from across the room and pointed out a set of four large canopic jars. She joined him and looked down at the little collection doubtfully.
“But they are perfect. Look how large they are,” he was saying.
I frowned. “Look, there he goes again. He’s going to buy those.”
Kyla glanced over at him. “What is he going to do with all that junk? And those jars are just morbid. I know they haven’t actually been used, but they still creep me out.”
“I guess you could put anything in them. Flour, sugar. They’d be heavy as hell, though.”
She set the bowl down with a bang. “That’s it! That’s what he’s doing.”
I looked at her blankly. “Buying kitchen storage?”
“No, idiot!” She took my arm and pulled me into a corner. Lowering her voice, she said, “He’s going to try to smuggle something out. He’s buying all that crap to hide the one or two real thingies that he’s smuggling.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Think about it. He gets up to customs with a whole carry-on full of cheap souvenirs. The customs guy is going to take a quick look, check out one or two crappy plaster statues and a plastic pyramid, and pass him through without a second glance.”
I tried to find a flaw in her logic, but couldn’t. “Okay. That’s actually a brilliant thought. It would work perfectly as long as he didn’t seem nervous, or do something to make them take a closer look.”
“Exactly!”
“Except for one thing. Where is he supposed to get the authentic stuff?”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips together. “I see what you mean. Wait. Mohammad!”
“Mohammad?”
“Sure. He’s been awfully suspicious lately. Coming with us when he wasn’t supposed to. That weird phone call you heard. And he’s always coming and going without a word. I mean, for example, where is he now?”
We both looked around. Sure enough, Mohammad was nowhere to be seen.
“He might just be out at the bus or talking with those stone carvers out front,” I suggested. “And I’m not even positive that was him on the phone back in Cairo.”
“I bet it was. And maybe he’s out there now receiving stolen property. Maybe real canopic jars. He’ll pass them over to DJ later. DJ will have a receipt showing he bought canopic jars. Who would be able to tell?”
“What are you whispering about?” asked a voice.
Kyla gave a little squeak, and we both jumped. Alan had somehow appeared out of nowhere. I looked down at his feet. He was wearing tan Docksiders, perfect for sneaking around.
He raised his eyebrows. “My God, you two look guilty. What are you up to?”
“Not creeping around, listening to other people’s conversations,” said Kyla, a little tartly. Handsome guy or no, she didn’t like being made to look foolish.
“I didn’t hear what you were talking about, although now I’m curious,” he answered. Seeing our expressions, he threw up his hands. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking!” He turned to me. “So, are you buying anything?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. We decided nothing is dishwasher safe, and I already have a giant alabaster dung beetle.”
“I guessed as much,” he answered with a grin.
A loud crash made us jump. We turned to see Fiona and Flora standing over the remains of a very large alabaster horse. Its body was snapped right off its legs, and the head rested several feet away. Chris Peterson stooped to pick up the little head, then with a quick glance to see if anyone was watching, slipped it into his pocket. The little turd. But if they swept the pieces into a trash can instead of collecting them for repair, I probably wouldn’t say anything to his mom.
Flora bent over to pick up one broken foreleg and burst into tears. Fiona stood by, patting her shoulder and looking frightened.
“It was an accident, really, it was an accident. She didn’t mean it,” she was saying over and over, just like a school kid fearing parental retribution. The oldest man present, whom I assumed was the owner, stepped over and gently ushered them to a couple of chairs behind a counter in the back. He gestured and a young woman hurried over with glasses of water.
I turned back to Alan, but he had moved away and was now leaning over the counter talking to the boy who stood behind it. The boy was nodding his head, gesturing at the ditz duo, then leaning in to listen to Alan. What in the world was that all about? And by the time he turned back to me, our time in the shop was up. It occurred to me that Mohammad wasn’t the only one who came and went and had mysterious conversations.
My arm was hurting a little and I felt oddly drained by the time we got back to the
Nile Lotus
. Kyla and I returned to our room, threw ourselves down on our beds, and heaved great sighs, almost in unison. Then we laughed.
“Party tonight, sleep in tomorrow. No getting up early for bus rides and crypts, right?” asked Kyla. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, this has been a blast. But I never want to see the inside of another bus as long as I live.”
“Yes, tomorrow is a day ‘at leisure,’ unless you want to get up early with the gang and go on the hot-air balloon ride.”
“Which I don’t.”
“No,” I said. “All I want is a nap.”
We both slept for a while and awoke feeling much better. A hot shower worked wonders, too, and except for getting my bandage soggy, I felt much better. Dinner was uneventful, and afterward we returned to the room to dress for the galabia party. I took the necklace out of the room safe and put it around my neck.
“That looks beautiful,” said Kyla admiringly.
And it did. The deep blue of the galabia set off the gold and lapis perfectly. The red carnelian pieces gleamed like drops of blood. I shook my hair from its usual ponytail and pinned it up into a French twist, then went to work with Kyla’s eyeliner pencil to outline my eyes in what I hoped was the Egyptian way. I stared at myself doubtfully in the mirror.
“What do you think?” I asked her. “Egyptian royalty or cheap hooker?”
Kyla came up behind me, fastening an earring. “You look fantastic,” she said earnestly. “You should wear your hair like that all the time. Alan won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”
I protested a little, but not too much. After all, I wanted to believe her. About the beautiful part anyway. And, okay, about the Alan part too. I still wasn’t sure I trusted him, but having him worship my beauty would be acceptable. Probably Kyla was right and I was just imagining things about him. He was just a take-charge kind of guy, and there weren’t any ulterior motives or clandestine activities going on. The few odd things that had occurred, well, it was a foreign country and there were such things as coincidences. And after all, here we were, on a cruise ship on the Nile. With a single, attractive, mysterious man and a party on the deck under the moonlight. If I couldn’t stir up a little romance tonight, I might as well pack it in forever.
* * *
The sundeck of the
Nile Lotus
was full that evening. Sometime during the day, the crew had moved all the sunning chairs against the railings and set up a small dance platform beside the bar in the center. Strings of white lights hung along the rails and around the bar, giving everything a festive look. Passengers streamed up from below, talking and laughing. Every member of our group wore a new colorful galabia, except Jerry, who wore pressed khakis and a sour expression.
“I overheard Anni talking to that other guide in the corner. They have some sort of contest between the group leaders to see how many of their passengers they can get to participate,” Lydia said as she joined us.
“Do you think they have a bet?” asked Kyla.
“I hope so. I’m pretty sure Anni has won hands down. I don’t know how she does it—she can get us all to do just about anything she wants. I would have bet money myself that you’d never get Ben into a dress, but there he is.” She was grinning with delight.
Ben toddled over, holding two martinis and looking sheepish. The galabias did look a bit like dresses, now that I thought about it. The other men wore their pants under the garment, but Ben’s white legs protruded under the hem like hairy little sticks for about six inches before vanishing into white socks and tennis shoes.
“You’re looking quite dashing tonight, my love,” Lydia told him fondly. Only the accent made it possible to say something so outrageous. I smiled at the two of them.
“Where’s Jane tonight?” I asked, looking around.
Ben and Lydia looked at each other. “She’s not feeling well again. We tried to encourage her to come up for a breath of air, but she preferred to stay below. This trip has been a bit of a washout for her, I’m afraid.”
Before the silence could become uncomfortable, Kyla broke the spell. “Those look good,” she said, eyeing the martinis. “I’m going to go get one. What do you want, Joss?”
“Bloody Mary if they’ve got tomato juice. Wine if they don’t.”
“They do.” Ben turned to me as Kyla left. “I saw the bartender mixing one a minute ago.” Then his eyes widened. “Smashing necklace, Jocelyn.”
Lydia turned to look and her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Well, well. That is a beautiful piece. May I?”
I nodded and she leaned in very close, lifting it to get a better look. She straightened and gave me an appraising look.
“That is exactly what I’ve been looking for myself. If you don’t mind, can you tell me where you got it?”
“Edfu. And it’s kind of a funny story.” I gave her a shortened version, but even that was strange enough.
“Bizarre,” she said when I’d finished. “They just handed it to you and shooed you out?”
“Basically. I guess because they’d scared me.”
“Well, you’re very lucky. It’s lovely.”
The atmosphere had changed subtly. The evening was still beautiful and clear. The breeze still blew gently. Lydia and Ben still sipped their drinks and smiled, but something was different. It crossed my mind that perhaps they didn’t believe me. I couldn’t really blame them. I almost didn’t believe it myself.
“Let’s go find a seat near the band,” said Ben, and they left.
I decided not to tell that story again.
I found Kyla, and we sat near the railing. Far below in the inky blackness of the Nile, we could see the golden lights of our ship reflecting on the still surface of the water. Now that we were away from Edfu, there were very few lights on the shore and it was impossible to tell where the water ended and the land began.
A band of Nubian drummers came running up the stairs from below, beating their drums as they came. The tour directors rose and began prodding their charges, and in a remarkably short time a conga line had formed. Kyla hopped up instantly and joined in. I sat, sipping my Bloody Mary. More alcohol was required before I’d feel up to dancing on deck, I thought.