Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [78]
“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