Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  And Kalem liked the simple things in life and getting back to basics. I could picture my new life as sipping foamy ice coffee or strong espresso from those teeny cups in a sun-drenched harbour buzzing with life, while the tall palm trees filtered out the scorching sun on my back. I had visions of white sandy beaches with the calm roll of the glistening waves lulling me gently to sleep, and a modern country with cosmopolitan and designer shops, sophisticated people, and sunshine twenty-four-seven. I mean, he’d said North Cyprus was unspoiled and undiscovered. But I was a tad worried about exactly how unspoiled. If Kalem’s idea of being basic was reaching out of the kitchen window to pull a lemon off our tree for an early evening gin and tonic, then hey, I was all for basics. But somehow I didn’t think that was exactly what he meant. His vision was probably more like me as Felicity Kendall in The Good Life, living off the land, picking olives, mucking out chickens, and herding goats. And how was I supposed to do that in my favourite spikey-heeled boots?

  Since Kalem popped the question and told me about his new job offer in North Cyprus six months ago, everything had been a kind of whirlwind of activity and planning. It was only now, on the plane, as I finally stopped to think about it, that it did actually seem a bit scary.

  Oh, shut up, Helen. Stop worrying. What’s the worst that can happen? The most important thing is that you and Kalem are together. And you’re getting to do something that most people dream about but never get the chance to do. It will be a fantastic opportunity.

  ‘Ah, here comes the real surprise.’ Kalem glanced at another stewardess prancing down the aisle with a tray of something and a couple of bottles of red wine.

  ‘Oh, how sweet of you.’ I grinned at him.

  ‘Sorry, but there was a mix-up with your pre-ordered bottle of champagne and canapé selection.’ The stewardess waved a bottle of wine at me and glared accusingly.

  I could read her mind: The burka-clad woman is going to drink alcohol. Bad burka-clad woman.

  ‘We’ve only got bottles of red wine left,’ she said. Translation: May she rot in hypocritical burka hell! ‘And we have no canapés.’ Translation: She will have to starve the temptation of alcohol from within. ‘The only spare meal available onboard is the Ramadan menu from last September.’ Translation: Let me remind you, burka-clad woman, of your religious roots. You will be cast out as an infidel. No alcohol for you, ha-ha!

  ‘That sounds exciting.’ I smiled at her, thinking that I might as well start getting into the Turkish Cypriot culture as soon as possible. ‘What’s on the Ramadan menu?’ It sounded quite interesting, whatever it was.

  ‘This.’ She thrust a packet containing two shrink-wrapped olives and one date in my direction. Translation: Don’t you know that burka-clad women fast during Ramadan? You are a disgrace!

  It was a good job she didn’t know what I’d just been thinking about the chocolate body paint. I’d really be in trouble then.

  ‘Miss,’ the little boy behind us asked the stewardess as she was about to walk away. ‘Can I see the Captain’s cockpit?’

  Her lips pursed with annoyance. ‘Sorry, his cockpit is currently out of bounds, due to all the suicide bomber alerts lately.’ She glared at me when she said this.

  ‘What about his armpit, then?’ The boy sniggered behind me and promptly got told off by his parents.

  She ignored him and stomped back down the aisle.

  ‘Well, we won’t exactly get full up on that lot.’ I pulled a face at the minuscule offering. ‘But I made some sandwiches, so at least we won’t starve. Or I’ve got a packet of custard creams in here if you want some.’

  ‘No, a sandwich will be fine.’

  I delved into my bag and grabbed a now squashed and sweaty packet of cheese sandwiches and a packet of bacon, lettuce, and tomato ones as Kalem poured two glasses of wine.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I gasped as I tried to close the zipper on my bag again, and it broke. I peered at the now gaping open bag with disgust.

  Kalem handed me a plastic glass of wine. ‘Here you go. To a perfect wedding and a fantastic new life together.’ He kept his gaze firmly locked on mine and brought the glass slowly to his scrumptiously kissable lips.

  ‘To us.’ I had the glass midway to my lips when I realized that there are some things you just can’t do in a burka:

  1) Drink – Grumpy Stewardess would be pleased with this.

  2) Eat – Damn, I was pretty peckish by now.

  3) Snog – Well, it was our pre-honeymoon.

  But, ah ha! I had a cunning plan. Nothing was going to get in the way of me and my wine. I’d just ask Grumpy Stewardess for a straw.

  ****

  A bottle of wine later – I’d worked out how to manoeuvre the straw through the eye hole in the burka to my mouth without giving myself an eye-ectomy; difficult, but not impossible – I was feeling slightly tipsy.

  Kalem was flicking lazily through the in-flight magazine when he suddenly sucked in a breath.

  ‘What?’ I asked, gazing over his shoulder.

  He pointed to an article. It showed a big, posh hotel with lots of flamboyant purple and silver furnishings. Next to it was a picture of a middle-aged, dark-skinned man about fifty years old, wearing a friendly grin, and a picture of what looked like an old Egyptian sculpture of a queen’s head and shoulders. The Queen had oval eyes, a beaky nose, and a double chin. It looked like she had a bit of a moustache, as well. Maybe they weren’t into waxing in those days. On the side of the bust, a small picture of a regal looking cat had been carved.

  ‘That’s an Ancient Egyptian sculpture of Cleopatra made of solid gold.’ Kalem’s voice rose with excitement. ‘It’s the only one that was ever discovered in Cyprus. Wow, I can’t believe it. Listen to this: “The plush, seven-star Plaza Hotel will be hosting its extravaganza opening night on Friday.”’

  ‘Hey, that’s two days before our wedding day!’ I butted in.

  He carried on reading aloud. ‘“The multi-million pound, five-hundred roomed hotel includes a luxurious spa, a casino, and even a port for hotel guests to moor their yachts. The hotel will host a special opening concert, featuring international award-winning superstar singer Jayde, and the famous Queen Cleopatra sculpture will form part of an exclusive art exhibition on display for the occasion. The priceless sculpture is thought to be the only one in existence that was commissioned to celebrate Cleopatra’s wedding to Mark Antony in 37 BC.”’

  ‘Ooh, maybe it’s a sign that we’re going to have a fabtastic wedding day.’ I leaned forward to examine the picture of the sculpture more closely.

  Kalem carried on. ‘“Turkish Cypriot entrepreneur, Ibrahim Kaya, is the brains behind the Plaza Hotel. Kaya, best known for his international chain of twenty successful hotels and his property development businesses, also has international export companies that specialize in meat, fruit, and clothing. His rags-to-riches lifestyle has prompted many accusations of ruthless business practices and allegations of underworld connections, but Kaya maintains that he is a professional entrepreneur. Kaya is a self-confessed fitness fanatic who follows a strict diet and daily exercise regime. He credits his healthy mind and body with his business success and believes the disciplines of physical training prepared him for the business world. Known for his love of art, Kaya has one of the biggest private collections in the world. The Cleopatra statue was originally discovered by Kaya’s father, a renowned archaeologist, during an excavation at the ancient Greek city of Salamis, Cyprus, in 1952. The statue will be revealed in public for the first time to an audience of carefully selected politicians, stars, and high-rollers before the concerts begins.”’

  ‘What was Cleopatra doing in Cyprus?’ I asked.

  ‘Mark Antony gave the rule of Cyprus over to Cleopatra after their wedding. Then after that you had the Romans, the Byzantines, the Ottomans. Even the Knights Templar controlled Cyprus at one point.’ He carried on staring at the statue in awe. ‘I can’t believe this.’ He shook his head softly to himself. ‘I did my thesis on this
sculpture for my art degree. I’ve actually used it as one of the main examples in my Egyptology sculpture course. I always wanted to see it in real life.’ He had a wistful look on his face.

  ‘Why is there a cat on it?’

  ‘Well, cats were supposed to be lucky in Egyptian society.’ Kalem went back to the article, his eyes nearly popping out, like he couldn’t bear to turn his head away from the picture of the sculpture. ‘Wow! This is fascinating.’ He looked like he’d gone into a trance.

  Maybe the sculpture had one of those funny curses that I’d heard about before, where if you stared at it for too long, it made your brain explode or something. Yes, I’m sure I’d read about other weird curses where people had uncovered ancient Egyptian artefacts, and they’d all ended up dead.

  Agh! Don’t look at the picture. Don’t look at the picture! I pulled the magazine away, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

  ‘Well, you’re acting all funny.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ He grabbed the magazine back.

  Don’t look at the picture!

  ‘It might have a curse,’ I said. ‘I don’t want a curse. I have enough weird things happen to me as it is without having a curse on top of it.’

  Kalem laughed. ‘It’s not cursed! I really have to see this up close. It’s such a rare piece. You know, this sculpture is probably worth around five million pounds. Amazing, huh?’

  I could think of better things to spend five million on, like a luxury yacht or a hundred bedroomed mansion in the Bahamas, but there you go.

  I snatched the magazine back off him and thrust my OK! Magazine in his hand instead.

  ‘There, read about Angelina and Brad’s love life instead of cursed sculptures.’

  Kalem stared into space, all glassy-eyed. ‘Mmm, five-million. What would you do with five-million pounds?’

  He was definitely going a bit funny. Kalem liked the simple things in life. He had a battered old Land Rover and a habit of wearing clothes until they had more holes than a bumper pack of donuts. Not that he was stingy or anything. He just wasn’t really into material things. So it was très bizarre now that he kept mumbling on about money.

  ‘Well, we’re hardly going to get an invite to the opening party, so maybe you should just forget about the statue.’ Yes, forget about it before if fries your brain and jinxes us! I tried to slowly prise the magazine away from his vice-like grip on it as the plane started descending.

  ****

  We stood with the rest of the horde of new arrivals, waiting for my luggage to emerge and go round the conveyor belt. Kalem had already got his suitcase, but mine was taking forever. It was honestly amazing the things that actually appeared. I felt like I was on one of those game shows, trying to memorize objects: A set of skis, a giant cuddly teddy bear wearing an I Love You T-shirt – oops, its arm just got caught in the ramp and ripped off – a plunger, a half open hold-all stuffed full of a black paint, and a bike with no wheels. Well, someone was in for a strange holiday, that was for sure. I watched the skis go round, wondering if there was someone out there in some freezy-ass country watching a surfboard going around and around on an endless, unclaimed loop.

  I was sandwiched in between Kalem and an impatient ferrety looking man with field-mouse coloured hair and beard and a pointy nose and chin. I kept getting a whiff of lemon cologne and cigarettes, making me feel slightly nauseous under the stifling warmth of the burka.

  From out of nowhere a fluffy looking German Shepherd with a white harness jumped on the conveyor belt and trampled over all the luggage.

  ‘Oh, look! A poor blind person’s lost their guide dog.’ I pointed at it, looking around for someone with a white stick, so I could reunite them.

  The dog was in a little world of its own as it pranced around the luggage conveyor, dribbling and wagging its tail. Then it jumped off the conveyor, ran around the room sniffing people’s crutches – particularly women, for some reason, I might add.

  Kalem chuckled. ‘It’s a drug sniffer dog, not a guide dog.’

  ‘Well, where’s its handler then?’ I glanced around.

  Kalem shrugged.

  Ferret Face’s eye started twitching as he reached to pull his case off the conveyor. Maybe he was allergic to dogs.

  ‘Ah, here’s my case.’ I was nearer to it than Kalem, so I pulled it towards me.

  And that’s when the cute little doggy jumped on me, sending me slamming right into Ferret Face.

  ‘Agh!’ I fell on top of Ferret Face, squashing him and knocking over both of our suitcases in the process. Not a nice experience, really. I mean, what if he had conjunctivitis?

  The dog’s nose dived into my handbag, grabbed my uneaten packets of sandwiches, and then it ran off. Can you believe it? I was going to eat those when I got to the hotel!

  ‘Are you OK?’ Kalem helped me struggle to my feet.

  I dusted myself off, avoiding the stares of the other people. ‘I don’t know. Am I? Did I just imagine that?’ My arm throbbed from where I’d banged it on the suitcase. I gave it a tentative rub.

  Oh, God. The curse of Queen Cleopatra had begun.

  ‘No, I think I’ll live. Come on. Let’s go before it comes back.’ I looked at Ferret Face who was grabbing his suitcase again. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked him. He looked a bit flustered, but he nodded he was all right.

  I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and wheeled it towards the customs office and the exit beyond with Kalem swiftly following.

  Ferret Face mumbled something, hurrying after us. He smiled, as if he wanted to apologize. Then he seemed to think better of it as the customs officer called us over to his desk, and he rushed past us and out into the crowded Arrivals area.

  I groaned. What now? I’d had enough of customs men to last a lifetime.

  ‘What sandwiches did you have?’ The customs officer peered at me.

  Well, I didn’t want to say bacon, just in case I upset him. Even though Kalem and Ayshe ate bacon, I knew that most Muslims still didn’t eat pork, and I couldn’t do with any more upsets today. ‘Er…cheese.’ I frowned, confused. What did that have to do with anything?

  ‘Hmm.’ He thought about this for a while. ‘I think that’s the problem. The dog just loves cheese.’ He waved us on. ‘It’s OK, you can go.’

  Chapter 3

  We stepped outside and the warm night air seeped into our skin.

  I sniffed. It was heady holiday air that made your skin prickle with the excitement of arriving in a foreign country for the first time: a mixture of jet fuel, heat, and some kind of plant that I couldn’t distinguish. I took a big gulp of it and glanced up at the stars. Wow! There was hardly any light pollution so it was like looking up at my own personal planetarium.

  ‘Aren’t your mum and dad or Charlie picking us up?’ I asked.

  There were plenty of people milling around, but I couldn’t see Yasmin or Deniz, or, for that matter, our own personal wedding planner, Charlie. I could, however, see a man who looked suspiciously like a Mexican bandit, waving at us so hard I thought his arm might pop out of its socket. He was about fifty years old with a bandit moustache, bushy black eyebrows, and moist dark eyes, a bit like a spaniel’s.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked Kalem.

  Kalem squinted at the man, trying to place him. ‘I think it’s Dad’s cousin, Osman.’ Kalem waved back. ‘I haven’t actually ever met him before, but I recognize him from some photos that Dad showed me.’

  Osman rushed towards us and kissed Kalem on both cheeks, Turkish style. ‘Kalem! We finally meet!’ He then gave me a bear hug. ‘So, this must be Helen. Why are you wearing a burka?’ He pulled back, examining me with interest before settling on a puzzled look.

  Kalem rattled off something to Osman in Turkish. Osman raised his eyebrows, which seemed to have a life of their own, and chuckled.

  ‘Your dad said you were always a practical joker – even when you were a little boy.’ Osman smiled. ‘Come, come. I’ve got the c
ar waiting with my mother in it. She’s dying to meet you too. Yasmin and Deniz wanted to come as well, but there’s not enough room in the car with the sheep.’ He herded us towards an ancient Renault – probably the same era as the Cleopatra statue – that looked like it was about to fall to pieces. I think it used to be grey, but it was quite hard to tell underneath all the rust patches. It had a roof rack made out of bits of old scaffolding held together with some dodgy looking frayed rope. A threadbare armchair was tied precariously to the top.

  ‘Er…did he say there’s a sheep in the car?’ I whispered to Kalem.

  Oh, my God. What have I let myself in for? Is this what Kalem meant about the simple life? I didn’t want to be rude or anything, but…no, he had to be joking about the sheep. A big, smelly, hairy sheep. In the car?

  Osman’s mum, a wrinkly woman with bright, shiny eyes, opened the car door and repeated the kissing, talking quickly in Turkish to us.

  ‘She can’t speak English,’ Osman said, shoe-horning the suitcases in the boot of the car.

  So I nodded and said ‘yes’ a lot to her. I hoped she wasn’t asking me if I was a suicide bomber.

  Osman motioned for us to get in the car, and that’s when I saw the sheep, curled up on the backseat.

  Right. So maybe not a joke, then.

  I slid in next to the sheep. It made a bleating noise and suckled the arm of my burka.

  ‘Agh! It’s so sweet,’ I cooed.

  ‘She’s called Kuzu.’ Osman beamed at me.