Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [70]
Everyone turned to him in surprise. Other than his brief impassioned outburst at the Temple of Horus, it was the first time Keith had volunteered anything more than a quiet good morning. And he’d been to Egypt three times? Very interesting, although I was wondering why anyone would do the same tour more than once. Surely there were other things to do in Egypt.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “You see something new every visit. I had a different guide last time, and let me tell you, Anni is better by far. Much more knowledgeable, and better organized. Last time we had a British man named Raymond. I’m pretty sure he was reciting from a guidebook half the time, and just making up things the rest.” He shook his head. “Friendly, though. And he did know where all the bars were.” He smiled at the memory.
Dawn lifted one perfectly waxed eyebrow above icy eyes. “Yes, do tell us more about your honeymoon with your first wife. I’m sure we’re all fascinated.”
Keith froze and then went beet red. For a moment, an awful silence descended on the table, and then DJ exploded into a loud guffaw and slapped Keith on the back.
“Oh man, you have done it now. Run. Run while you can,” he shouted. Heads at other tables turned in our direction.
We all howled with laughter, even Dawn, although I wasn’t convinced she was as amused as the rest of us. And it was a good cue to leave to get ready for the day. But I couldn’t help glancing back at the table where Jane still sat with Ben and Lydia. Their heads were together and they were talking earnestly. And they were not smiling.
* * *
To my surprise, the repairman was in our room when we popped up after breakfast. He was just closing the door to the closet.
“Ah, good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I have just fixed the safe. It was only the backup battery. Sometimes they go out.”
“Fabulous,” said Kyla.
“Thank you very much,” I added.
We hastily filled the tiny space with our passports and valuables—including the necklace—and then ran back to join the group in the lobby. For once, everyone appeared more or less on time, even Flora and Fiona.
The drive to the Valley of the Kings took less than an hour. On the way, we saw the house that Howard Carter built during the years that he was excavating the tomb of King Tut, a sand-colored building on a hill, its domes and arched windows making it look very exotic. A couple of stunted trees stood near the walls, monuments to someone’s stubborn efforts with a watering can. No other vegetation could be seen anywhere in the relentless barrenness. I knew the British used to, and in fact still did, abandon Egypt in the summer months when the desert heat became unbearable. Even now, in late March, the temperatures were already rising and reflecting off the rock. Someone local must be keeping the trees alive.
I was almost beside myself with excitement as the white hills rose up on either side of us until they became low cliffs. Holes and doors dotted the chalky white rock, evidence of unlikely habitation in that parched land. Were they storage caves or dwellings, I wondered, nose pressed almost onto the glass of my window. Inside the bus, a faint air-conditioned breeze streamed over us, laden with the smell of upholstery and rubber and bus. Our insulated little world, traveling in our tourist bubble to the unimaginable past of pharaohs and mummies and death.
Or not. The bubble part was real enough, but the Valley of the Kings was firmly anchored in the twenty-first century. A huge parking lot, already half filled with tour buses, guarded the entrance of the valley; it was followed closely by a large modern visitor center, complete with queues of fat, sunburned German tourists and the usual phalanx of vendors with their depressingly vast and cheap assortment of crap. The same crap we’d seen at every single monument we’d visited. If it weren’t impossible, I’d have bet the same twenty or