Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [24]
9
In this country, if one dresses well, it matters little if her soul belongs to the devil.
—Ramla Al-Sadr, on American fashion
As I stepped out of the car a moment later, I tried Elaine’s phone. She answered on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?” Laney rarely bothered with salutations. We had something of a language of our own. But most of it involved old movies and young men. As far as I knew Laney could recite every single line from all five seasons of Scarecrow and Mrs. King.
“Did you talk to your friend about Ramla’s sister?”
“Ghazi? Not recently. Why?”
I skittered a worried glance to Rivera. He was still scowling. It’s nice to know some things don’t change.
“So he doesn’t know Aalia is in trouble?”
“Why?” The question was pointed now.
I gave her the details in a few brief sentences as we breezed through the airport’s automatic doors and into canned air.
“I left a message on his cell phone and his home phone after Ramla spoke to you last night,” Laney said. “But I think he may have been out of the country.”
“Does he have the kind of clout that would enable him to get a married woman out of Yemen without her husband’s consent?”
She paused for a moment, thinking. It never took long. “His surname is Saud.”
“Translate.”
“I think he may be a prince.”
“Like ‘He’s a real prince’ or—”
“A Saudi prince.”
“And he works as a prop master for Amazon Queen?”
“I believe there are a couple thousand extra princes left in his homeland to take care of any royal duties.”
“Really? How many are single?”
“Can we wrap this up?” Rivera asked.
I glanced at him and almost resisted grinning before a thought struck me. “How many times did he propose to you?” I asked.
Laney never hesitated. “Just twice.”
He wasn’t very serious, then. I had known men who would beg every single Sunday for most of a decade. “Does he hold out any hope?”
“I sent him a wedding invitation,” she said.
“Some guys aren’t easily discouraged.” At least where Laney was involved.
“I think his other wives will console him.”
“You wouldn’t be his numero uno?”
“Not even his numero dos.”
“So you’d be like … dessert?”
“Baklava.”
Rivera muttered a curse. I almost laughed.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re dead for my wedding I’ll never forgive you, and I’m a very forgiving person.”
“You are.”
“Don’t be dead.”
I smiled. “This is the first time in my life I’ve got a bridesmaid dress that doesn’t make me want to poke myself in the eye with a fork.”
“We did well on that, didn’t we?”
“It was a steal.”
“And perfect for you.”
“I do look kind of great in it.”
“Like a mermaid princess.”
“I was thinking of getting those sandals with the amber stones on the instep. What do you—”
“Remember anything about an abused Yemeni girl?” Rivera asked, and I felt a little guilty.
“Hey, Laney, when you spoke to Ghazi, did you mention my name?”
“No names. I just said Aalia was a friend of a friend.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Hey,” she said before I could hang up. “Arrive home alive tonight and I’ll treat you to ice cream.”
“Mocha Moose?”
“Your choice.”
“Can I get extra caramel?”
“We’ll buy an economy-sized jar.”
“And we won’t have to drink a green hair-slop chaser?”
“I don’t drink green hair slop.”
“Well, whatever that stuff is that’s supposed to make hair all glorious.”
“I don’t care if all your hair falls out.”
“I love you,” I said, and hung up.
Rivera was staring at me as we walked.
“What?” I said, but he just shook his head.
“Where are we going?”
“To pick up a friend of a friend,” I said.
“The wife of an abusive Yemeni oilman with ties to our government?”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” he said, then gripped my arm, forcing me to a halt. “But you’re staying here.”
“Really?” I loved the idea. It may have been the best idea I’d ever heard in my entire life. But the fact that it was a direct order from Rivera made my back go up like a pit bull’s hairy spine. “You bring your cuffs again, Rivera?”
A man glanced our way, but kept walking. I resisted flipping him off.