by Diana Renn
“What’s being robbed?” Mom asked.
“Museums, mostly,” said Aunt Jackie. “A few mosques. Turkish artifacts and Islamic art objects are being taken from storage facilities.”
Mom frowned. “That’s horrible.”
“I know. They’re not only blocking off roads, they’re inspecting all the boats here at the docks.”
“For stolen art?” I asked.
“Yes, and they’re looking at passenger manifests and passports, too,” said Aunt Jackie. “In case the thieves are looking to use the water as an escape route. We were just told to disembark for about ten minutes during the inspection.” She gestured toward the boat, which had three policemen and a coast guard official in it. One of the officers was talking to the captain, while another flipped through papers on a clipboard. I took a step backward and hid behind Mom. That old reflex again: See police. Hide.
“So I was trying to call and tell you to have your driver seek alternate routes,” Aunt Jackie went on. “Gosh, I wish you’d flown into Dalaman like I told you to. It’s much easier to get to Marmaris from that airport. Did the taxi driver from Bodrum rip you off?”
“Nope, I rented my own car,” said Mom, holding her head a little higher.
“Wait. You drove? Kitsie! I’m so impressed! Driving in Turkey’s not easy.”
“Thank you,” Mom said with a smile. “But enough about me. I want to know how you’re doing.”
Aunt Jackie shrugged. “Dealing. Trying, anyway,” she added. She took a deep, shuddery breath and blew it out long. Ginger-flavored, I noticed, as she’d been sucking on some kind of candy. Then she pressed her hands to her eyes and stood still, swaying slightly.
That’s when it really hit me: Aunt Jackie had lost her husband. Widows weren’t just creepy old ladies in fairy tales. She was a widow now. And the wound must still be fresh for her. It had only been six weeks since Uncle Berk had lost his footing while hiking in the Cappadocia region of Turkey. He’d gone off a marked trail, slipped on an eroded patch of ground on a cliff, and plummeted to his death. It was ruled a tragic accident, though Mom said Aunt Jackie was convinced there was foul play behind it.
That was actually one of the reasons Mom had dragged me here for the summer: she was sure her sister was losing it. I’d recently overheard her discussing the situation with Grandma and Grandpa. “The police investigation clearly showed that there was only one set of footprints there, and they belonged to Berk. They matched his shoes, right up to the place where the ground gave way. There was no sign of a scuffle. She’s having a terrible time accepting the truth.”
“Bring her home, Kitsie,” Grandma had said. “I’d go get her myself, if I were strong enough to travel that far.”
Watching Aunt Jackie brush tears from her eyes now, and Mom’s face twisting in sympathy, I probably should have felt more emotional about the whole thing. But the sharp twinge I felt was guilt, not sadness. Maybe I felt guilty about not feeling sad. The fact is, I never knew Uncle Berk that well. He was a quiet man, kind of intense, his nose usually buried in an archaeological journal or some paper he was editing. He always seemed to be working.
I actually didn’t know my aunt that well, either. She and Uncle Berk had met when they were both in grad school at Boston University. They’d gotten engaged on a trip to Turkey, married in Boston, and moved to Turkey permanently soon after, when Uncle Berk got a job at the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul. Aunt Jackie got hired to teach English at a high school. They visited us and my grandparents only once a year. For some reason, my family had never gone to Turkey to visit them. Until now, thanks to Aunt Jackie’s obsession with murder and cover-ups, my sudden notoriety in Boston, and Mom’s frantic need to get us out of the spotlight.
Mom patted Aunt Jackie on the back. “Hey. It will be okay. We’ll help you.”
Aunt Jackie shot her a skeptical look. I couldn’t blame her. How could Mom and my grandparents have left Aunt Jackie all alone to deal with her loss? No one in our family had flown out to Istanbul to attend the funeral, even though Aunt Jackie and Uncle Berk owned a boutique hotel and we could have stayed for free. How lame was that?
“We’re here now,” Mom reminded her, more firmly, as if reading my thoughts.
“I know. And I’m really glad you came,” Aunt Jackie said. “But I’m starting to feel like going on a Blue Voyage cruise at this time was a really bad idea.”
“No, Jackie. It’s a good idea. You convinced me of it,” Mom said. “Look, I know it’s a busy time to leave your hotel for a few days, but you have a capable staff. And you’re going to finally have some closure, going on the archaeological cruise Berk was to lecture on, and revisiting the site where you two got engaged.”
Aunt Jackie nodded. “I know. You’re right,” she said, unconvincingly.
“And besides, it’s all been paid for,” Mom went on. “You were supposed to go with him anyway. He’d insist that you go.”
Aunt Jackie smiled sadly. “You’re probably right.” Then she glanced back at the Gulet Yasemin. “Here’s the thing, though. Everyone’s so disappointed that Berk isn’t giving the lecture.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “I thought they replaced him with another guest speaker.”
“They did. Right away. But that replacement went to the hospital last night. Appendicitis. They couldn’t get anyone else on short notice. And it was Berk the guests really wanted to hear.” Aunt Jackie sighed. “The Lycian Society sent a representative over to explain the situation and go through the itinerary for shore excursions with local guides, but it hasn’t gone over very well so far with the other passengers.”
I remembered that the Lycian Society was some kind of historical society. Mom had told me they also had an educational tourism office offering chartered archaeological boat tours of ancient sites in the Mediterranean.
“What do you mean it hasn’t gone over very well?” Mom asked. “Are they rioting?”
Aunt Jackie looked pained. “They’re drinking. They got into the wine right after they found out who I was. Erdem Tabak—that’s the tour office representative—had to insist, three times, that I wasn’t Berk’s replacement. Can you imagine? I’m not even an archaeologist.”
“Couldn’t you do some version of Uncle Berk’s lecture?” I asked. “From notes or something?”
She smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not. He never used lecture notes. He knew his subjects thoroughly. Besides, I’m an English teacher. I know remarkably little about his field. Anyway, the other passengers are nice enough to me, but their disappointment is obvious. This one Australian man keeps shooting me looks, and muttering to his wife about being gypped. Like it’s my fault or something.” She gave a sharp, strangled laugh. “I mean, I’m disappointed, too, right? Doesn’t he get that? I was supposed to be on this romantic cruise with my husband, watching him in his element, talking about topics that were close to his heart. I never dreamed he’d get killed.”
“Jackie. Berk fell. Careful what you say,” Mom whispered. “You don’t want to mislead people.”
Aunt Jackie’s eyes blazed. “He was killed, Kitsie. He was. We’ve talked about this.”
“Wait, how do you know?” I couldn’t help asking.
Aunt Jackie turned to me with an odd, eager look on her face, as if grateful to have a potential supporter. Mom pressed her hands to her temples and began rubbing them in slow circles. “You were pretty young,” said Aunt Jackie, “but do you remember when Berk broke his leg hiking five years ago?”
I nodded. They’d cancelled a Christmas visit to Boston because of that accident.
“Well, right after that he promised me—from his hospital bed—that he’d never hike alone again. Especially if he were going off the beaten path. So I’m positive he didn’t go on his own to the edge of that bluff where he fell. He had to have been coerced into going there.”
“By whom?” I asked
.
“That’s the great mystery,” she said. “But I have theories. I think—”
“Jackie. Men break their promises all the time,” Mom interrupted. “I should know.”
“Berk’s not like that. He’s always been a man of his word. And he died in an area where other hikers and mountain bikers have been robbed, assaulted, and, yes, even killed.” Aunt Jackie’s eyes grew wide. “This week, I dug up news reports of five suspicious deaths that have happened there in the past year.”
“The cave-ins, right?” Mom asked. “That made international news. Some of those old caves out there got damaged in last year’s earthquake, and some are beyond repair. I heard about some hikers getting buried alive.”
“That’s true,” said Aunt Jackie, tapping her foot. “And tragic. But I’m talking about deaths that weren’t accidental. There have been cases that get superficially investigated and then dropped. Why?” She looked at me, as if I could possibly know the answer, and I shrugged. “Because someone’s paying someone off to cover up the crimes out there. They need the tourist business.”
I watched Aunt Jackie carefully. She had a wild look in her eyes. Dad always referred to her as “the crazy one.” But was it crazy to think criminal cases could get buried by people with money?
Aunt Jackie was talking a mile a minute now, almost babbling. “There are warning signs about crimes in every parking lot in every national park in Cappadocia,” she said. “And still the police want to call this an accident. You really want to help me out, Kitsie? Help me find the monster who took my husband’s life. Help me convince the government that the investigation should not have closed after only two weeks. They’re putting in all this effort to find robbers on the coast, but meanwhile innocent people are getting killed in Cappadocia!”
Several passersby turned to look at us. One woman ushered her small children away.
“Jackie.” Mom laid a hand gently on Aunt Jackie’s arm. “I’m happy to listen to anything you want to say. But I think now isn’t the time or place.”
The policemen came down the gangway of our boat, glancing at us and then—to my relief—moving on. The captain waved us on board. Six other people came up the dock, pushed past us, and boarded, followed by an anxious-looking man in a blue polo shirt with a Lycian Tours logo on the pocket.
“So.” Mom flashed a tight smile and went into her work-mode voice, chirpy and efficient. “Looks like we’ve got the all-clear. Shall we get on this vessel before it sails?”
Aunt Jackie took the handles of our suitcases, which we’d set down on the dock, and managed a small smile. “Of course. I’m sorry. You two must be exhausted, running around with those bags in this heat.” And even though she looked so fragile, she dragged both our suitcases up the gangway and onto the boat, when two men dressed in khaki shorts and white polo shirts rushed forward to collect them from her.
On board, a smiling, gray-haired gentleman named Captain Mehmet took our tickets and apologized for the inconvenience of the police inspection. He introduced his small crew, just two other men: his first mate, Selim, and the galley cook, Orhan. Then we met the other six passengers. They were lounging on the gleaming teak deck beneath the blue awning, sitting on bolsters and wicker-backed chairs. They were drinking wine and sampling appetizers, which they told us were called meze. The meze—stuffed grape leaves, hummus, yogurt, cold cuts, white cheese, and stuffed vegetables—were spread out in a tempting array on the table. My stomach rumbled appreciatively.
Friendly and tipsy, the passengers introduced themselves in a variety of accents: British, Australian, Norwegian. There was no one else from Massachusetts, thank God. No one who knew our pathetic story.
As for people my age? Zero. The first mate, Selim, a skinny guy with close-cropped hair and acne scars, was the youngest of the crew. But he looked to be in his late twenties and was definitely not hot. The next up in age was the galley cook, Orhan. He was easier on the eyes, with olive skin, thick but shapely eyebrows, and dark, wavy hair. He wore tight black jeans and a fitted polo shirt that accentuated his muscles. He looked more like a fitness trainer than a cook, and acted like one, too—from all the banging around we could hear in the kitchen, and the way he set everything down a little too hard on the table, he seemed too big for the space. Too big for the boat, even. But he also looked to be in his mid-thirties. Ancient.
This was the geezer cruise. I hadn’t talked to someone my age in so long, it would have been nice if there were just one person on this boat I could hang with. But no.
We all gathered around the long table and sampled the meze, except for Aunt Jackie, who said she wasn’t hungry, though I saw her pop open a little tin from her canvas bag and eat a couple more ginger-scented candies. Captain Mehmet and first mate Selim went over basic safety rules on the boat. Some of the passengers weren’t listening, though. Mom, Aunt Jackie, and I sat down on some cushioned seats at starboard. I could see passengers shooting dark looks at Erdem Tabak, the tense-looking tour representative, while he filled out meal vouchers for restaurants at our ports of call. I could hear two of the passengers near us, an Australian couple, muttering about how disappointing the cruise was going to be.
“Mind you, we mean no offense,” the Australian man, Milton, whispered to Aunt Jackie.
“And we’re very sorry for your loss,” his wife, Maeve, added, more kindly. “We just want to get our money’s worth. We’ve come from the other side of the world to see this, you know. And Milton’s not sure that the local guides at the ports of call will give the detailed explanations we’d expect from a Lycian Tours guest speaker.”
“I understand perfectly,” said Aunt Jackie. “I wish there was something I could do for you all.”
Orhan, the cook, came out of the kitchen carrying two fresh bottles of wine. While Orhan uncorked the wine bottles, the Lycian Tours rep stood up and passed out the restaurant vouchers. “Please enjoy some complimentary meals at your ports of call,” he said. “And know that you will not be lacking in any experiences or information on your Blue Voyage. We have a network of excellent local guides ready to give you the best Turkish experience possible. Your smooth transfers at all shore excursions are taken care of for you. You should have no worries.”
Milton cleared his throat. “What about the police presence around here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we be worried about that?”
Erdem Tabak smiled. “Not at all,” he said. “This is only a standard safety precaution. Let me also assure you that Lycian Tours partners with the very best cruise operators in this region. You are in very good hands on this boat.”
“What about a partial reimbursement?” demanded an older British woman. “Meal vouchers and buses are nice, but we paid for a speaker on board that we’re not getting now.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Erdem Tabak stroked his thick mustache and looked almost longingly toward the boat’s railing, as if he’d like to leap overboard. “I have put in a request at the head office, and am waiting for authorization. I will check in with you again at Fethiye, which is your final port of call, and I will let you know the result.”
The passengers continued to grumble and whisper among themselves.
“Meanwhile, will you happily enjoy some more wine?” he said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.
These magic words stopped the grumbling. The old folks lined up with their glasses, and Orhan cheerfully filled them. He even filled an extra one and handed it to me.
I reached for it, but Mom practically knocked the glass out of his hand with the look she shot him. Then she took the glass for herself. “My daughter is only sixteen,” she said. “No wine for her.” As Orhan slunk off toward the kitchen, she whispered, “Remember, your party days are over. Alcohol flows freely on cruises, but not for you. You are drying out. And I am watching you.”
My cheeks burned. I could feel the curious stares of some of the other passe
ngers as we sat down across from each other at the end of the table.
“Why don’t you just lock me in a room below deck, then,” I muttered. “Might as well. Since I have no freedom.”
“You think eating appetizers on a yacht on the Turkish Riviera is no freedom?” Mom snapped. “How about sitting in a four-by-six cell in juvie? Because that’s where you could be!”
I looked down at my feet, shifting, feeling the strangers’ stares glance off my skin.
“I need to know where you are at all times,” Mom continued, “thanks to your record of extremely poor decision-making. So guess what? I don’t have freedom, either.”
I met her eyes again. My breath came fast as we sat there glaring at each other. “Dad’s the criminal here,” I said. “We wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for what he’d done.”
“Don’t offload all the blame on him,” she snapped. “You’re old enough to be responsible for your behavior. And face it. The only reason you don’t have more of a record is because he intervened. Bargaining with those stores, cutting deals, just to protect your name.”
“He didn’t do it to protect my name. He did it to protect himself! And why are you suddenly defending him? Why are you on his side now?”
“It’s not about sides. I know you’re angry at him right now, but he’s still your father. And your situation could be a hell of a lot worse if—” Mom bit her lip and fell silent as Orhan cautiously approached us again, this time with a basket of pita bread.
“Perhaps you would enjoy some pita?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.
Mom took a slice. “How did you guess. Thank you.”
Orhan held the basket out to me. “You’ll have to ask my mother,” I said. “She makes all my decisions for me now.”
Orhan looked at Mom questioningly.
Mom sighed, reached into the basket, and handed me a pita.
We chewed in silence for a moment. The pita was probably the best I had ever tasted, incredibly light and soft. But it failed to smooth out the tension between me and Mom.