Outside Eden

by Merry Jones

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Merry Jones

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Harold Clemmons Had ...

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Merry Jones

  The Harper Jennings Series

  SUMMER SESSION *

  BEHIND THE WALLS *

  WINTER BREAK *

  OUTSIDE EDEN *

  THE NANNY MURDERS

  THE RIVER KILLINGS

  THE DEADLY NEIGHBORS

  THE BORROWED AND BLUE MURDERS

  * available from Severn House

  OUTSIDE EDEN

  A Harper Jennings Mystery

  Merry Jones

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Merry Jones.

  The right of Merry Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Jones, Merry Bloch.

  Outside Eden. – (The Harper Jennings series ; 4)

  1. Jennings, Harper (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Evil eye–Fiction. 3. Women veterans–Fiction. 4. Iraq

  War, 2003–2011–Veterans–Fiction. 5. Tel Aviv (Israel)–

  Fiction. 6. Suspense fiction.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8264-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-417-1 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Robin, Baille and Neely

  Acknowledgements

  Deepest thanks to:

  Rebecca Strauss, my agent at McIntosh and Otis;

  the team at Severn House, especially Rachel Simpson Hutchens, my editor;

  Adi and Gal Ben Haim and the many other Israelis who helped me get a sense of life there,

  Robin, Baille and Neely, who helped me trek around Israel for research;

  Supportive fellow members of the Philadelphia Liars Club, including Jonathan Maberry, Gregory Frost, Solomon Jones, Jon McGoran, Kelly Simmons, Marie Lamba, Dennis Tafoya, Don Lafferty, Keith Strunk, Keith DeCandido, Ed Pettit, Steve Susco and Chuck Wendig;

  My encouraging friends and family, most of all, my first reader and beloved husband, Robin.

  Harold Clemmons had been cheated. Suckered. Scammed. Duped.

  Even worse: his wife had been the one to discover it. She’d gone online, totaling their credit card expenses, and boom – there it was. A charge for two hundred dollars. And he’d caught hell about it. Dot had kept him up the whole damned night, listing all the treasures she could have bought for the money if he hadn’t simply signed it away. Even now, as he approached the gate of the shuk, he could still hear her.

  ‘Didn’t you even look at the sales slip? You just signed? Genius. They could have put down ten times the amount – they could have put down anything they wanted. Why don’t you just wear a sign saying, “I’m a chump; cheat me. Take my money!”’ Dot’s voice had a piercing, nasal twang that jangled his skull, reverberated in his mind. ‘So where is it?’ She’d stared at him, her hands on her hips.

  It took a moment for him to realize that ‘it’ was the receipt for the purchase. He had no idea where the thing was, hadn’t paid attention. They’d been in a crowded street in the teeming marketplace of Jerusalem’s Old City, and she’d bought souvenirs for what amounted to less than twenty dollars. Was he supposed to have kept track of every receipt for every paltry purchase she made? How was he supposed to have known the guy was going to rip him off? Dutifully, to appease her, he’d gone through his wallet and miraculously he’d found the thing. Sixty-eight shekels.

  But Dot had been unrelenting. She’d gone on and on, calling him everything she could think of – irresponsible, careless, foolish, soft. Saying that he was an easy mark, that he all but invited people to take advantage of him, that it was the same back home. That he didn’t command respect, let alone fear. Sometime after two in the morning, he’d pretended to be asleep, while in reality he’d lain awake, simmering. Mad at the vendor, mad at Dot. Mad enough that, as soon as the sun came up, he’d gotten up and showered, gone downstairs to breakfast, leaving Dot asleep, mouth wide open, but at least silent.

  As soon as the shops opened, Harold entered the Jaffa Gate, passing through the tall white granite walls into the Old City. He hurried past security guards and busloads of tourists, rehearsing what he would say to the vendor, if he could find him. Practicing standing tall and looking fierce like a man not to be messed with. At some point he stopped, getting his bearings, not sure exactly where he was. He walked along a main street, saw endless rows of shops. Clusters of travelers and shoppers. Schoolgirls in plaid skirts – but wait. Their uniforms looked Catholic or maybe Greek Orthodox. Definitely not Muslim. So he must have wandered out of the Muslim section, away from his vendor.

  Harold changed direction, wandering the labyrinth of intersecting paths in the shuk, surrounded by booths displaying their wares. Sandals, jewelry, water pipes, scarves. Fragrant spices. Aromatic toasted nuts. Fresh fruits and flowers. Hundreds of booths, but not the booth he was looking for.

  The morning was warm, and Harold’s shirt was already damp. He went up an alleyway, around a corner, around another. Every display seemed familiar, identical. Vendors called to him: ‘Come, sir. Buy a gift for your wife.’

  ‘I have excellent souvenirs for you to bring home. Anything you like.’

  ‘Come in. Take a look – just for one minute.’

  Harold kept moving, grinding his teeth, determined to find the culprit. Turning left, then right, he found himself in a dank and shadowy passageway that came to a dead end. Harold stopped. He was wet with sweat, breathing too hard. Needed to slow down, cool down. Wiping his brow, he retraced his steps to the wider alley and continued searching the booths, hearing the clamor, seeing the monotony of trinkets, T-shirts, brass camels, brocade elephants, wallets, candlesticks, sun hats, harem pants. How was he to find the vendor he was looking for?

  In fact, he almost didn’t. He walked right by it, probably more than once, but finally, he saw them: Big brown eyes, too big for their bony face. Dark hair clipped almost to his scalp.

  The thieving vendor.

  Harold pushed past a hanging carpet, bumped a rack of dresses, and entered the tiny shop.

  The vendor smiled broadly as if he’d never seen him before. ‘May I help you?’

  Harold stood at the small wooden board that served as a counter, shoved a display of beaded necklaces and charm bracelets to the side, dumping out his sack of key chains and scarves. He stood up tall and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m returni
ng these . . .’

  ‘Sorry?’ The vendor’s eyes widened, his hands raised, palms up.

  ‘I bought these from you yesterday . . .’

  ‘I don’t know. I see many customers.’

  ‘Well, I know. You sold me this stuff.’ Harold’s voice sounded thin. His pulse pounded, face sweltered. Sweat rolled down his back. ‘And you overcharged my—’

  ‘But why would you return these things?’ The vendor picked up a key chain, examining it. ‘Nothing is wrong with the merchandise.’

  ‘Seriously? It’s crap—’

  ‘Crap?’

  ‘And you charged me sixty-eight shekels for it, but you billed my credit card—’

  ‘Only sixty-eight shekel? For all this? Well, you must have bargained well. That was an excellent price—’

  ‘No – that’s not the point.’ Harold felt flustered, wiped his forehead. ‘Point is you overcharged me—’

  ‘But all our sales are final. So what I can do for you, because I want you to be happy, is to let you exchange this—’

  ‘No, I don’t want to exchange anything. I want my money back.’ Harold sensed people standing behind him, watching. Fine. He’d let others know what was going on in this place. ‘You charged my credit card two hundred American dollars – that’s a lot more that sixty-eight shekels.’

  The vendor looked astonished. ‘This is not possible – show me the paperwork.’ The vendor scowled, crossed his arms.

  Harold presented his receipt.

  ‘This says sixty-eight shekels.’ The vendor pointed to the number.

  ‘And I was charged six hundred and eighty.’

  ‘No, sixty-eight. See?’

  ‘But you charged my credit card—’

  ‘How can I be sure?’

  Harold took his phone out, began punching up the credit card information his wife had obtained the day before. He heard the people behind him moving, watching, listening. Good. If he embarrassed the vendor enough, maybe he’d get his refund.

  The vendor didn’t wait. He waved his hands. ‘Either way, it’s between you and your credit card company. It doesn’t involve me. Anyway, we don’t give refunds. I’ll tell you what; look around. Find something you like. I’ll give you a good price . . .’

  ‘Nothing doing.’ Harold squared his shoulders, trying to look powerful. ‘I want you to refund my credit card!’

  ‘Is there a problem, Ahmed?’ Someone bumped Harold from behind; someone else stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

  Harold turned. Three beefy men with dark shining eyes stood in an arc around him.

  ‘No, no problem,’ the vendor said. ‘This man simply can’t make up his mind what to buy.’

  Harold was surrounded. The vendor in front of him, a man to his side, two others blocking his exit.

  ‘What will it be?’ The vendor smiled, gestured at the wall of brass figurines. ‘How about a lovely chimpanzee? Only six hundred and eighty shekel.’ He lifted one, held it out.

  Harold turned slowly, facing the three newcomers, looking from one to the other. Finally, head down, he stepped toward them. They didn’t move. He was alone, outnumbered in the crowded, cubby-holed shuk. If they wanted to, they could make him disappear, never to be seen again. Never return to the hotel; never again see Dot or his mother in Ohio.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He turned to leave, managing to look the largest one in the eye.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ahmed, the vendor. ‘You forgot your chimpanzee.’

  Harold looked at him, at the brass ape, then at the men blocking his way.

  ‘Only six hundred and eighty shekel.’ Ahmed began wrapping the thing up.

  Harold’s face burned; blood roared in his head. He was trapped. He reached into his pocket, took out his credit card. Handed it to Ahmed, who processed the purchase and handed the package to Harold, smiling. ‘Enjoy your ape.’

  Harold turned to go, faced a wall of large, smirking men.

  The biggest one waited a beat, then stepped back, clearing the way. Harold rushed out of the booth, down the passageway. At the corner, he looked back, saw the men following him. He kept going, hurrying. Pushing past shoppers, going deeper and deeper into the shuk, becoming completely lost. Sweat poured down his face; he didn’t bother to wipe it away. It trickled down his nose, off the tip. He kept moving, trying to get away, running up a staircase, down a narrow lane, around shoppers, through a small courtyard. Finally, rounding a corner, he came to a shadowy, abandoned area where the booths were all shuttered. He stopped, looked back, didn’t see the men. He stepped back, peeked around the corner. Saw nobody. He’d lost them. Probably they were back with Ahmed, laughing at him, dividing up the money from the dumb American they’d chased away and ripped off. Twice.

  His face got red again. He could feel it, hot and pulsing. But never mind. All he wanted now was to get back to his hotel. He thought of Dot, what she’d do when she found out he hadn’t gotten a refund – that, instead, he’d dropped another 680 shekels. Harold gathered his breath, trying to figure out what to tell her, and realized that he’d have to find his way out of the tangled paths of the shuk before he could tell her anything. Why had he ever set foot in the cursed place? He should have left it alone, let Dot rant and scold. But no, he’d had to be a hero, had to show her what a tough guy he was. How he could fix it. He regarded the package in his hand.

  The chimpanzee was an insult, a symbol of his humiliation. He looked for a trash can to throw it away, then saw two people approaching. They looked American; one wore a T-shirt and jeans, the other a plastic raincoat. Odd, since it was hot and there was no chance of rain. But Harold was elated; the two would help him find his way out of this godforsaken maze. He walked toward them, and they smiled, came closer.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Are you American?’

  ‘Yep.’ The shorter one grinned, and the one in the raincoat walked right up to him. Invading his space.

  By the time he saw the knife, it was too late. The shorter one stood back, blocking his escape. The taller one raised the knife and ran the blade across his throat. Harold collapsed. Falling, bleeding, he had three final thoughts.

  The first was that he was about to die.

  The second was that he had no idea who these people were or why they were killing him.

  The third was that he wouldn’t have to tell Dot about the extra charge on the credit card.

  All around her, women prayed, their heads bowed and covered. Some stuffed pieces of paper into small cracks and crevices between rocks. Harper Jennings stood at the Western Wall of the Old City in Jerusalem, holding her hand flat against a stone block in the structure. It felt rough, sturdy, solid. Ancient. It had kept its place for over two thousand years, outlasting invaders, empires, cultures, gods. Harper pressed her fingers against it, less interested in the bustling women around her than in the inanimate wall, its past. Who had cut the stone, hauled it, placed it there? And what had it seen – worshippers, warriors, centuries of change? How many other hands had touched it? Millions? Her hand on the stone, Harper felt connected to all of them, a chain of hands and shadows of hands, linked by a rock through ages.

  But Harper couldn’t linger. Hagit had the baby, and she didn’t know Hagit very well. Following the practice of the other women, she moved away from the wall without turning her back to it, a sign of respect. When she was sufficiently distant, she looked around and saw Hagit and Chloe, holding hands, waiting for her.

  Harper went to them, swept Chloe up, got a joyous squeal.

  ‘Did you put in a prayer?’ Hagit nodded at the wall.

  ‘A prayer?’

  ‘In the cracks. Didn’t you see? People put prayers on paper and leave them in the wall.’

  ‘I saw them.’ Harper tussled Chloe’s curls. Kissed her warm round cheek.

  ‘I’ll wait.’ Hagit held out a pen and scrap of paper. ‘Go – put it between the stones. Write down a prayer and leave it there. It’s supposed to be like a . . . a what do you call it? A mailbox?
No – like FedEx for God.’

  Harper laughed.

  ‘Even if you’re not religious, it wouldn’t hurt . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Harper looked back at the wall, the women gathered against it, the divider between them and the men on the other side. The men were praying, their shoulders covered with shawls, their heads with kippahs or black wide-brimmed hats.

  Hagit watched her, disapproving. Shorter than Harper, she was plump, probably fifty, her unruly hennaed hair struggling to get free of a silver barrette. Harper wasn’t sure who’d hired her. Maybe the organizers of Hank’s symposium; maybe the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs. But someone had hired her, for the moment they’d checked into their hotel, exhausted from the almost twelve-hour flight with a baby who’d had no desire to sit still or be quiet or sleep, Hagit had shown up with credentials and taken charge, telling Hank and Harper to rest, that she’d watch little Chloe. From then on, for the last two days, while Hank, Trent Manning and their international colleagues attended their meetings, Hagit had been Harper’s helper, babysitter, tour guide and constant companion.

  ‘Down, Mama.’

  Chloe was restless, wanted to move. Harper sat on a ledge at the edge of the courtyard and set her down. As soon as her little feet hit the ground, Chloe took off, demonstrating her recently acquired ability to scurry. Hagit at her side, Chloe forged ahead, crashing into a gaggle of women before wobbling and grabbing a hemline to steady herself.

  Harper ran over to apologize, but the owner of the hem was already crouching, chatting with Chloe. ‘Aren’t you a big girl, running all by yourself?’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ One of the hem owner’s friends grinned at Hagit. ‘What’s her name?’

  Hagit frowned, shook her head, no.

  ‘Her name’s Chloe.’ Harper stooped to open Chloe’s fist and free the fabric of the skirt. ‘Let go, honey. Sorry – she’s not interested in walking, only in running. And she doesn’t have good brakes.’ She helped Chloe to her feet.