A Steal of a Deal (18 page)

That’s when things turn ugly. The armed soldiers march over to our table, and in seconds, we’re all sent off to our separate rooms. By the time I collapse on my sleeping bag, I’m shaking from head to toe.

So the rumors are true.

New sapphire veins have been found in the mountains of Kashmir. Understandably, the government wants to control what happens. Just to know for sure rocks me with shock waves. The thought of more exquisite Kashmir sapphires makes the gemologist in me drool in anticipation. The thought of how close we came to seeing new mining activity disappoints the TV show host in me.

The prime suspect in one, maybe two, Kashmiri citizens’ deaths? My thoughts are all about that certain hinky feeling I’m getting right about now. You know what I mean?

It’s got to do with connecting those dots.

The rest of our trip to Srinagar, all six-plus days of it, passes in almost complete silence. Each time any of us tries to talk about anything other than the mules, the time of day, the weather, or “pleases” and “thank-yous,” the soldiers wave their weapons to remind us we’re not on a guided tour of the countryside anymore.

What I do learn during these six days is that those who attend the swami’s gatherings can and do wander from his compound to meditate. What if a “participant” wanders off to dig not for inner gems but for—you got it—sapphires?

Rumors of new mines and possible sales by the Kashmiri government aren’t the only ones that have buzzed around for years now. Some have suggested that as much as billions of dollars’ worth of gemstones are smuggled out of the country each year.

Yeah. At one hundred thirty-five thousand dollars a carat, those billions add up fast, so we’re not talking huge production numbers here. A couple of stones here, a couple of stones there are pretty easy to smuggle for those who lean that way.

I’ve also heard that some of the more unfortunate smugglers are sharing an address these days—adjacent cells in some deep, dark prison at an undisclosed location. Dunno about you, but I don’t think it’s ever a beautiful day in that neighborhood.

Don’t want to move there,
capisce
?

Finally, we reach Srinagar. Because we’re such a large flock of Americans, and because of the potential international conflict and embarrassment, the embassy has been alerted to our arrival. They send someone to meet us, a Mr. Smith, who then drives us straight to a new hotel—no houseboat, which is fine by me and my bad memories. Room assignments are handed out—each room comes with an armed guard outside the door—while authorities from both countries sort out details of the upcoming interrogations.

What fun.

“Great,” I grumble as I close the door to the room Aunt Weeby and I will share. “Now our own government’s helping these people hold us hostage.”

“Now, now, sugarplum,” Aunt Weeby says, her voice serious, unusually serious. “They’re just trying to protect us. Would you rather stay here at a nice, clean hotel or go back to that dirty, stinky jail?”

I drop onto the nearest bed. There’s no question which of those two choices I prefer. Still . . .

“I’d rather be on an airplane on my way back home.”

So much for Andi-ana Jones’s spirit of adventure.

1100

By the time the authorities—American, Indian, and Kash-miri— are done grilling me the next day, I know I’ve had a close encounter of the smoldering barbecue briquette kind. Just call me Shish Kebab.

Mr. Smith from the U.S. embassy escorts me back to the hotel, by myself, and says little aside from letting me know I’m in for more of the same the next day. I’m not surprised.

“I realize it’s early yet,” he adds, “but would you care for dinner?”

I want to relax. “Thanks, but I should meet up with the rest of the folks from the S.T.U.D. Network in a little while. I’d like to go to my room first.”

He shrugs, then leads me to the elevator, walks me down the hall, greets the cop by the door, and waits until I’m inside before saying goodbye. I’m sure he thinks I’m the rudest life form around, but there’s just so much a girl can take.

Once he’s gone and I close the door, I collapse against the solid slab.

“You’re back!” Aunt Weeby cries, relief in her voice and on her pretty face.

“Of course, I’m back.” I drag my stress-sore, drained carcass farther into the room and make myself smile. “You couldn’t have been worried they’d keep me. You know I didn’t hurt Xheng Xhi.”

She opens her arms.

I walk into the hug.

She sighs and holds me tight. “I know you, sugarplum, but they don’t, and I’ve told you that before. It was nasty, wasn’t it?”

Tears fill my eyes, and I can’t find the strength to pull away from my aunt. “Yeah,” I mumble into her slender shoulder. “It was pretty bad. Worse than what happened last year after the ruby vendor died. That time, a whole TV audience was watching me right when the man got killed.”

“But you were all alone the other day at the wrong time.” “I was all alone the other day at the wrong time.”

She looks confused. “That’s where you discombobulate me, sugarplum. Weren’t you supposed to be with Glory?”

The blush rushes all the way to the crown of my head—at least, that’s how it feels. “Uh . . . we split up once we got to the farmhouse.”

Aunt Weeby pulls back to look me in the eye. “Whaddaya mean, you split up? Where’d she go? And why’d you girls forget all about the buddy system? It still works real good, you know.”

Groan.
“I took her gear bag to our room and decided I wanted some alone time. I went for a walk, and that’s when I met up with Max and his golf gear, oh . . . about ten minutes later.”

My aunt’s no dummy. She gives me the evil eye. “What you hiding from me, Andrea Autumn Adams? If you don’t have a hankering to go rot in that there dirty, stinky jail a’ theirs, you’d best be talking ’bout what all you did and didn’t do.”

I gust out a breath. “It’s embarrassing, okay? We had a disagreement.” That’s the nice way to put it. “She said something I didn’t like, and so we . . . ah . . . came to a parting of the ways.”

“Now don’t you go playing me for some stump-dumb fool. Out with it, girl! What’d she say?”

I rub my hand over my face. When my fingers hit my lips, I murmur, “Shssstawskoolessss.”

“Say what?”

“You heard me. She said I was”—I lower my voice— “koolessss.”

“What kind of dirty word is that there koolessss? I never heard such a thing in all my born days.”

I roll my eyes. “All right, already. She said I was clueless, and she said Xheng Xhi had a crush on me.”

She clucks her disappointment. “Izzat it? That all she said?”

“You wanted more?”

“Well, sugarplum, she didn’t say nothing much new.” She walks to the dresser to check her updo in the mirror above. “Y’always have been kinda spacey, and that poor man did take hisself some shine to ya. Why, he followed you everywhere you went. What’s the big deal with that? You went and got your knickers in a twist for nothing much at all.”

“
I’m
kinda spacey?” There’s that pot and kettle thing again, but it won’t do me any good to bring it up.

She nods without noting the heavy dose of sarcasm.

Don’t ask why I feel such a need to defend myself. “I’m just a serious gemologist. I like what I do, and I spend a lot of time studying.”

Her nose tips up. “Much too much, I’m thinking.”

“But work’s not my whole life. I do go to church, and I hang out with Peg. I just don’t go around thinking about what men think of me every time I meet one of them.”

Aunt Weeby shakes her head, snags her handbag, and heads for the door. “Suppertime.”

I groan. “I’m beat. Can’t you give me a little while?”

“C’mon now, Andie. I’m so hungry my belly button’s been tickling my backbone for a while now.”

My grumble gets me nowhere.

She goes on. “And it just might be time for you to start thinking about those men who might just be thinking about you.”

“They’re just not that important to me—”

“They better get to getting important and all. You’re not getting any younger, you hear?”

I snag my backpack—my favorite Coach bag is now evidence— and follow her to the door. “As far as I’m concerned, when the good Lord’s ready for me to find a man, I will, and that’s all I have to say about it.”

“So now we know why you and Glory went and split up.” Just when I thought she’d forgotten about it.

She opens the door and tsk-tsks again. “Your temper plumb got the best of you, didn’t it? Again. And it’s all about Max.”

Before I’m forced to answer, I’m glad we do a face-to-face with our forbidding guard.

Aunt Weeby, however, is a woman on a mission. “Food.” She mimes fork-to-mouth. “I’m hungry, son. I’m going down to eat. And don’t you go getting no bright ideas here.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder in my direction. “She’s coming with me.

I don’t know if the man understands a word, but I’m sure he gets every bit of the determination in her voice and her face. He lets us by, then follows us not more than two steps behind. In the dining room, he has the decency to sit, not with us, but at the nearest table to our right.

Miss Mona walks in as my butt hits the chair. “There you are! I was going stir-crazy all by myself in that room. At least the two of you have each other.”

“I’m so totally glad to see you.” I pull out a chair for her. “Since you’re here, and you’ve been all locked up, I bet you’re just as hungry as we are.”

She winks. “I could eat me one of those yaks.”

In the end, we don’t eat yak, but we do have a nice lamb dinner. Every few minutes, I check the doorway, expecting Allison, Glory, and Max to join us. But none of them show up. Finally, when my nosiness quotient gets the better of me, I ask, “Where’s the rest of our crew?”

Miss Mona looks surprised. “Didn’t Livvy tell you?”

I look at my aunt. “What did you not tell me?”

Aunt Weeby gives me one of her vague waves. “The cops reckoned he didn’t have nothing to do with nothing much, so they told Max he could go. He took hisself an early flight home.”

I can’t have heard what I think I’ve heard. I stick a pinky in my right ear, wiggle good, and try again. “What was that I know Aunt Weeby
didn’t
say?”

“She just told you, Andie,” my boss says. “Max was sent home. Farooq died in Glory and Allison’s room, and Xheng Xhi was head over heels over you. I wouldn’t leave you for the world, and Livvy . . . well, honey. Livvy’s Livvy.”

I don’t know what’s worse: the sense of betrayal or the rage I feel. I let the rage take over, since I can’t deal with the other emotion right now.

“That louse!” I really am madder than mad. “That rotten, lousy, miserable rat! How could he just up and go home while I’m still here?”

Miss Mona slants me a look. “Would you stay if they said you could go?”

I hesitate the teensiest fraction of a second. “Yes! Yes, I would.” I feel oh, so virtuous. “I wouldn’t leave friends behind.” I really wouldn’t.

Would I?

Miss Mona arches an elegant brow. “I’m not so sure you’re being honest with yourself. Or fair to Max.”

I slump and look away. Why does she have to know me so well? Maybe better than I know myself. And that’s something I don’t expect. At all.

“Well,” I say a couple of uncomfortable minutes later. “That’s that.” I take a sip of water, count to ten. I turn to Aunt Weeby. “So what did the cops tell you?”

“Tell me?” she says. “They didn’t tell me much. They did all the asking, and I did all the telling. They wanted to know what I heard the night that Farooq boy died. But when I told ’em I sleep with them earplugs a’ mine, they lost all interest in what all I had to say.”

Believe it or not, she looks offended. I should be so lucky.

“How about you, Miss Mona? Did you find out anything from anyone?”

“About what? I don’t know what you wanted me to find out. They’re the ones who want to get to the bottom of what happened.”

What’s wrong with this picture? “Me too! I want to know what happened.” I blow on the loose strand of hair tickling my nose. “That’s what I want to find out. If you’ve forgotten already, they think I killed one or maybe even two people. I want to know who did the killing, and why.”

That’s when the Russells walk in, none of them looking happy, their cop as serious as ours.

“Hi, y’all!” Aunt Weeby calls out. “Let’s pull up another table, be hospitable and all.”

Once the Russells join us, the conversation turns to less intense topics. Eventually, though, we come back to the matter at hand.

“I’ve never been investigated before,” Delia says. “It was
fierce
!”

“Oh, I agree,” Aunt Weeby says. “They’re tigers, those cops. They chew and chew and chew at you with more questions than a body can stand.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think she means fierce the way you mean fierce.”

Delia sniffs. “Fierce is fierce. Wicked cool. What’s so hard about that?”

I’m not prepared to explain the generation gap and communication issues to her. “What did they say about the crimes?”

“Crimes?” Delia’s mom asks. “There’s more than one?”

Miss Mona shakes her head.