Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [64]
The ship’s lounge was located on the same main level as the lobby, a large room, spanning almost a third of the length of the ship. A ten-by-ten-foot square of wood parquet, floating like an island in an ocean of blue carpet, formed a small dance floor in the middle of the room. At the far end, toward the ship’s bow, stood a bar manned by two crewmen in white jackets, who were busily handing out weak drinks to a small line of tourists. All around the edges of the room, attractive chairs and sofas were arranged in large horseshoes so tour groups could sit together comfortably. The design was an odd marriage of luxury hotel and airport boarding area.
And the place was packed. All of the horseshoes were occupied, mostly with strangers traveling with other tour groups. It took me a minute to spot our little group sitting on the right near the dance floor. I was actually pleased to see them, familiar faces who would welcome me and obligingly scoot down to make room on the couch. I started for them, but Kyla had other plans.
“Bar,” she said, steering me forward. I waved at Nimmi as we shot past.
When we reached the front of the line, I waited while Kyla requested a cosmopolitan and then provided the bartender step-by-step instructions to make what was probably the strongest drink he had ever seen. The splash of cranberry juice that she requested was barely enough to turn the vodka pink. She took a sip.
“Perfect. Or almost. The vodka’s not really cold enough, but it will do. Want one?”
“No, thanks. I want to remain conscious. Heineken, please.” I had seen the small green bottles on a shelf behind the bar, and I didn’t have to worry about tainted ice when drinking bottled beer.
“Make it two,” said a voice behind me, and I gave a little jump.
Alan Stratton had walked up behind us while we were watching the drink being made. He gave me a smile. Well, he probably gave us both a smile, but I pretended it was for me. At least I was included somehow. There was just something about the man. Whenever he stood within twenty feet of me, I was unable to remember my suspicions about him and could only stare at him dumbly with my tongue hanging out. Or worse, make inane conversation. I did it now.
“How did you like Edfu?” I asked, taking a sip of my beer.
“Very impressive,” he answered. He reached past me to accept the beer from the bartender. “I have to admit I know almost nothing about it. Never heard of it before this trip.”
“Me, too! I’m going to have a lot of research to do when I get back.”
Kyla snorted into her cosmo. “Research. Dear God, you are such a nerd.”
I flushed a little, then shrugged. Of course she was right.
Alan just laughed. “Glad I’m not the only one. I want to find out more, too.”
“You know, to my shame, I think the most fascinating part was the carriage ride through town. The slow pace, seeing the people at their everyday activities, hearing the hooves on the cobbles. It gave a taste of what it must have been like back in the twenties when Howard Carter and the rest were seeing all these ruins for the first time.”
“That’s exactly it!” answered Alan. “The ride going up to the temple—you’re right, it really seemed straight out of another era. I wonder if that could be done at other locations.”
Kyla looked at the two of us. “Probably, but why the hell would you want to? The tour is short enough as it is. Why waste time being hauled around by some poor horse?”
He looked a little deflated. “I suppose you’re right.”
“No she’s not,” I said. “I think it would be great. Have a sort of Howard Carter tour. Get some of those old 1920s Bentleys or whatever kind of cool cars they had back then at some of the sites and use camels or horses at others. The transportation could be as much a part of the experience as the actual monuments.”
Drinks in hand, we strolled back to where the group was sitting. An instrumental version of “Friends in Low Places” provided a surreal soundtrack for the scene. Alan and I glanced at each other.