Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [26]
When the waiter announced that our tables were ready, we all trooped dutifully through the ornate keyhole doorway to the restaurant, Kyla beside Alan, and me trailing behind, thinking hard. Maybe I did need a drink after all. The shock of learning that Millie’s death had not been accidental must be making me paranoid, because what else could explain why something sounded just a trifle false about Alan’s touching story.
* * *
After dinner, half the group trickled away to their beds while the other half headed purposefully downstairs to the beautiful Sultan Lounge across from the lobby. I joined Kyla and Alan, who were talking and laughing with Ben and Lydia Carpenter. Kyla gave me a half-rueful smile, and pulled me into the circle. I bumped her shoulder with mine and felt a little better.
In the lounge, a low hum of conversation and the clinking of ice in glasses filled the air. Windows hung with slender strings of golden beads stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a magnificent view of the pyramids. A huge bar with an exotic golden canopy sat in the center of the room and along the walls, blue and gold chairs clustered around small low tables. The bar was crowded, but Kyla spotted a free table in a corner and pounced. I took a quick look. Four chairs. This was my cue.
“I think I’ll go back to the room,” I announced.
“Don’t be silly,” said Kyla. “Alan can find you another chair. Look, there’s a free one at that table over there.”
Alan obediently started across the room, but I called him back.
“No, please don’t bother. I really am tired and I want to get packed since we’re leaving tomorrow.” I smiled at them all. “Good night.”
With their good nights ringing in my ears, I slipped away, crossed the brightly lit lobby, and escaped into the darkness outside with a sense of relief. I was feeling disappointed and didn’t think I could have hidden it for much longer. Petty, I suppose, but Kyla and I should have been laughing together about the amateurish belly dancers or about the whirling dervish who had fallen off the stage after tripping over Chris Peterson’s size 14 sneaker. I was dying to talk to her about snooty Kathy Morrison, who had managed to offend the waiter by speaking very loudly with an Egyptian accent when she ordered her food. And what about ditzy Fiona and Flora, who had apparently become lost on the way into the lounge and had to be escorted in by a grim-looking Mohammad. But instead of laughing with me over drinks or on our balcony, she was flirting and having fun with Alan. Which, if I were honest, brought up my second big problem. I wouldn’t have minded being separated from Kyla if I were the one chatting with Alan. I kicked a pebble on the path and watched it skitter through the shadows.
The wind had subsided to a gentle breeze, leaving the air cool and clear. Overhead, a full moon rode in a cloudless sky far above the glow from the city in the distance. To the south, strategic lights revealed the golden stone of the pyramid. By contrast, the grounds between the old hotel and the new wing seemed dark and mysterious. The asphalt path was lit by lamps at regular intervals, but their little pools of white light barely made a dent in the darkness. The date palms and shrubs rustled lightly and suddenly I felt just a little nervous. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. The grounds were walled, and I knew armed guards stood at the gates some distance away, although I could not see them. I quickened my pace, though, hurrying quietly along the path, my flats making only the softest patter against the pavement.
I heard a man’s voice as I rounded a bend near the pool, and because the voice was so strained and yet so obviously trying to keep quiet, I slowed and paused to listen.
“How could you? How could you?” whoever it was demanded angrily.
A brief pause and then, “You may have ruined everything. Of course they are asking questions! Of course. And they are not stupid. What am I supposed to do now? They will be watching us. We must cancel the whole thing.”
There was