Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [57]
—WorldPal pamphlet
Chapter 9
HAWKERS AND HORSES
During the night while we slept, the Nile Lotus churned its way downstream sixty-five miles to the desert town of Edfu. Our wake-up call split the air and our eardrums at some ungodly hour, and Kyla and I dressed wordlessly and staggered down two flights of stairs to the dining room, looking and feeling a lot like zombies, only less alive. Three cups of coffee at breakfast revived us to an extent, enough anyway for Kyla to glare at me over the steam and say, “I’m never going on a tour again. Never.”
“Fine.”
“Really,” she said. “Never.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I answered.
“No, I really mean it. No one should have to wake up this early on vacation.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I answered.
She glared at me, annoyed. My third cup of coffee was kicking in, and I was starting to feel better. I eyed the buffet with growing interest, watching a cook in a crisp white jacket expertly flip an omelet from a skillet onto a plate and hand it to a woman with a smile.
“You don’t care.”
“Nope. Want an omelet?”
She followed my gaze. “Sure, what the hell. Bring me a bagel, too.”
The rest of the group appeared in twos and threes in varying states of alertness. Anni arrived looking refreshed and happy. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to win my bet with Kyla. If Anni hadn’t had a nervous breakdown or an explosion by this time, after two plane rides and two murders, she wasn’t going to have any trouble with the next few days. I had a good feeling. Nothing else could possibly go wrong and, besides that, nothing that had gone wrong over the past few days was any of my business. I would turn Millie’s bag over to Anni on our last day, and she could dole out the stolen items as she saw fit. And I would concentrate on relaxing and enjoying the rest of the trip.
We met in the lobby a half hour later. The early morning air was clear and surprisingly cool as we disembarked. The ship moored at a dock right beside the shore, and we had only to walk across a short gangway to reach the bank. The smell of horse sweat and stale urine wafted to us on the light breeze, strong and acrid in the crisp, bright air. At least twenty black carriages waited patiently along the landing, some with awnings, some open to the sky, all pulled by small dusty horses wearing blinders.
“Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick,” swore Jerry, taking one brief whiff and slapping a hand over his nose and mouth. “What a freaking shithole.”
Yvonne de Vance pursed her lips and gave him a cold stare from haughty eyes. Lydia Carpenter stepped around him as though avoiding a particularly foul dog deposit on the sidewalk. He noticed and gave her a mocking smile. I looked around. Ben and Lydia were here, once again flanking their niece Jane like bodyguards. I did not know what to make of it at all, but I gave a mental shrug and told myself it was none of my business. Which only had the effect of making it even more interesting. Maybe I could get Kyla to chat with Ben and Lydia later, since they had been avoiding my gaze since Abu Simbel.
I looked at the horses carefully—I’d read many travelers’ tales on the tourist Web sites bemoaning the treatment of the Edfu carriage horses. To my relief, the animals, although scrawny and ungroomed, did not appear to be either starving or mistreated. Anni arrived, spoke to the lead driver, and then herded us into an orderly line.
“Do not tip your driver until you get back here,” she warned. “He will wait for you while we tour the temple. And remember, the fee has already been paid. If you do wish to tip, you can give him two pounds. If he takes your picture, you can add a little more, but do not give more than five pounds. The drivers compare tips with each other and brag if they get a large tip. This causes some of them to start demanding money of their passengers.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “They are becoming very rude, and they sometimes frighten the tourists.”
It sounded exactly as though she was describing the bears at Yosemite. Don’t feed