“You might want some of that on the flight,” Roger said.
“I know,” I said, and told the flight attendant politely that they had forgotten to give me one. Roger glared at me. “They’re promotional. Believe me, we’re paying for it.”
I was about to check my client message line when they gave the announcement to turn off all electronic devices. And delivered free alcohol.
“To this, our second date.” I lifted my mini glass.
“Third date. I consider dinner with your family our second date.”
“Oh, God.”
He kissed me. I could feel the bubbles of the champagne mix with lust and almost paralyzing guilt. It was a heady combination. We were due for another malaria pill. Roger had packed his, so I gave him one of mine. Dr. Kevekian had warned us about the side effects, which included nausea, dizziness, hallucinations, and dementia, but if you paid attention to the possible side effects of drugs, you’d never take anything.
The captain turned on the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign and asked for flight attendants to prepare for takeoff. Roger watched me with some amusement, especially the part where I actually watched the entire safety film and checked for the flotation device under my seat. My stomach dropped to my heels as the plane shifted suddenly and we were airborne. I couldn’t breathe. I opened my Balenciaga handbag—it was expandable—and put my head inside.
“You have travel anxiety? That’s ironic. I could hypnotize you.”
“What?” I pulled my head out.
“I could hypnotize you. I do it with my clients all the time. I’m licensed.”
“Absolutely not. I may do a lot of stupid things, but I want to know I’m doing them and that they’re my fault.” He patted my hand, rhythmically.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
“Will you try some deep breathing at least?” Roger gave me the drill and by the time the flight attendants brought us the warm nuts and olives, I felt better. I pulled out my Tupperware and put half the olives in it.
“For emergencies. Nothing is going to squash your sandwich in one of these.” To prove my point, I put the container on the floor and tried to drive my heel into it.
“Well, I’m sold,” he said. “Is Tupperware recyclable?”
“Who would know? They never stop working. I’ve still got the pink sandwich box I took to first grade.” That made me think about Uncle Ray. I started folding the adorable salt and pepper shakers and teensy oil and vinegar bottles into my napkin and putting them in my purse. Roger took my hand.
“So, what’s the deal with your uncle?”
It was the first time I’d had a chance to talk about this without the risk of it getting back to my family, so I told him everything—about my dad, my uncle, and about how none of my brousins really took to the travel business, so I was honor-bound to carry it on. Then, he asked about Mrs. Barsky. I caught him up on the newest developments, which took us past Iceland.
“Any idea who killed her?”
“Well, I doubt it was anyone from the neighborhood. Anyone local would have just asked her for a discount on a parrot or something and that would probably have done the job. Anyway, my brousin Frank is a cop and he’s on it. The only thing I can do to help, really, is try to find her son—he’s her executor and he’s missing.”
When we stopped in London, I turned on my client cell phone, but got no reception. I told Roger I didn’t like being out of touch with my clients.
“I thought ninety-five percent of the time calls on the emergency line were nothing?”
“But five percent is a lot if someone’s in trouble.”
“It’s your uncle’s business, I’m sure he’ll handle it.” Yeah, and fire me. Well, what’s done was done. I ate an olive from my bag. I tried the phone one more time just as they were telling us to turn them off. Of course it worked then.
I was only able to retrieve one message. It was from my brousin Frank, who said he was calling in an “official kind of capacity.” I had to get down to the Precinct right away—I was the prime suspect in Mrs. Barsky’s murder.
Chapter Thirteen
Prime suspect? Come on. I wasn’t even subprime. Was he serious? Or was this a new low in my family’s obsession with keeping me in Bay Ridge? Before I could find out, we started down the runway and the flight attendant gave me a look worthy of Sister Mary Agatha. I hung up.
“What is it?” Roger said.
“Nothing.” I’m sure my face disagreed.
“Tell me about our trip.” Roger slipped his hand onto my thigh.
The plane lifted off. There was nothing I could do until I got to Tanzania. So I put on my best travel queen face and explained that for this package, we had partnered with Adventure Limited, an international company that specialized in offering help and expertise on the ground in exotic locations like Tanzania and Indonesia. Although normally I liked to organize everything myself, I had caved when they had offered me the free trip. By the time I’d gone through our itinerary—starting with a boat trip to Zanzibar, two days in Dar es Salaam, and five days on an eco-safari in the Ngorongoro Crater—and Roger and I had both dozed a bit, we’d begun our descent and could see the Tanzanian shoreline underneath the wing. The city itself came right down to the very edge of the Indian Ocean, the waves actually bumping the cafés and warehouses. I spotted the red-and-white spire of the Azania Front Lutheran Church, flanked by new high-rises and low tin roofs.
“Dar es Salaam,” I said. “‘Haven of Peace.’ Population 2.24 million.”
Roger and I were first in line for the jet door when it sucked open. I stopped at the top of the stairs to take in the landscape and let my four aspirin kick in, then promptly slipped on the metal steps and slid into the melting tarmac at the bottom. Still, I was here. I took in a deep breath of Africa, all cloves and diesel and rotting fruit, but no trace of tomato sauce or subway. I might be an international fugitive, but I was happy.
The Julius Nyeyere International Airport, named after Tanzania’s first president, had the sweeping, optimistic roof of a California diner. Inside, concrete columns, papered with ads, pointed us to the Customs line. I pulled out my phone to call Frank back about this whole prime suspect nonsense.
Roger touched my shoulder. “You can’t use your phone until we’re through Customs.” Damn.
The Customs area had the tangy smell of overheated bodies and melting rubber. I had decided the olives in my bag were an appetizer, not a vegetable, so I wasn’t lying when they asked me if I was bringing produce into the country. As we exited the restricted area, I looked up our luggage carousel and hurried toward it, trying to get a signal on my phone as I moved.
“Miss Redondo! Miss Redondo!”
Behind a large sign reading “Miss Cyd Redondo REDONDO TRAVEL AMERICA” was a tiny African man with knobby cheekbones in a neon pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, pressed Gap jeans, and shiny brown Oxford shoes, pushing through the crowd.
He arrived, breathless and smiling, and held out his free hand. “Karibu. Welcome. You are even more beautiful than your passport photograph,” he said. The lighting and makeup artist had paid off.
“I am Akida Nyondo, from Adventures Limited, your contact, liaison, and host in our beautiful country of Tanzania. I trust you are well. How was your journey?”
“Asanta Sana, Akida. Habari. Mzuri,” I said, ignoring Roger’s look. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Cyd and this is Roger Claymore.”
Akida reached up to shake Roger’s hand. “Mr. Claymore. Enchanted.” He turned back to me. “Cyd Redondo, your Swahili is excellent, but of course I expected no less from such a travel agent as yourself. I have heard about your ability to get upgrades from a stone. I am delighted to meet you both. I trust your family is well?”
I had read that Tanzanians always had a long buffer of courtesies before they could get to the poi
nt so I tried to be culturally sensitive, even though I was dying to use the phone and retrieve our luggage. I approached the carousel, hoping we could trade civilities en route. I heard my phone beep on. Akida continued speaking over the brief siren and clunk of machinery that meant the bags were coming.
“I am hoping to learn much from you during your stay,” Akida said. “It is my dream to travel the world and help others do so. I hope someday that you will show me your native land of Brooklyn and tell me your preference of CRS programs for booking internationally.”
“I’d be delighted, anytime, Akida.”
He proceeded to tell us about his family.
Roger saw the crease growing on my forehead. “Perhaps we should look for our luggage?” he said. I shot him a look of gratitude.
“Most certainly, most certainly. Please, after you. May I carry your bag?”
“Thank you. How is everyone else? The Andersons and the Giannis?”
He looked down. “I did leave several messages about that.”
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get reception on the plane. They’re all fine, right?” He was about to answer when we arrived at Carousel B. Just at that moment, the rubber panels shuddered. The carousel ground to a stop, empty except for a rotating goat in a large tub. I looked up the chute, just to make sure nothing was stuck.
“I don’t believe this,” I said. “I should have at least four trips before this happens.”
“They’ll come on the next plane,” Roger said.
“The next plane is in four days. And you checked your carry-on. Your malaria pills were in there. You could die.”
“I’m not going to die.”
Akida offered to inquire.
“I’m sure he’ll sort it out. He seems very enthusiastic,” Roger said.
“So far. But anyone’s only as good as their next emergency.”
“Cyd, don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ll turn up. It’s not a big deal.” It was a big deal if I had to head back on the next plane.
“I booked your vacation. I want it to be perfect.”
Akida came back, head low. “It appears yours and Mr. Claymore’s bags have been lost. I apologize, sincerely. Unfortunately, this happens. With frequency. Most travelers recover their belongings eventually. It happened to the Andersons as well. They are lovely people.”
“The Andersons’ luggage got lost? Why didn’t they call me?”
“That’s more than eighteen percent. That’s actually a hundred percent,” Roger said.
“Roger, all I can do is stay on top of my most recent published figures. How was I supposed to know there’d been a spike?” I turned to Akida. “Did they get it back?”
“Not as yet, but the airline says it will arrive tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? They’re leaving tomorrow. God, they must be furious.” I started dialing the Andersons.
“I’m afraid they will not be able to answer the call.”
“And why is that?”
“They are in jail.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Jail!” My legs gave out. I slumped into a hard plastic chair the color of vomit. Visions of Midnight Express flew through my head as I plugged in my charger. This was my punishment for running away. Or for not running away soon enough.
I hadn’t even left the airport and I was already in over my head. I tried to breathe. What was it Mrs. Barsky’s mynah bird always used to say? “Fake it ’til you make it! Fake it ’til you make it!” Right. Well I was going to have to fake it, for Roger’s sake, as well as the Andersons’.
Jack and Barb Anderson, Bay Ridge dry cleaning magnates, had been the first couple to sign up for the package. Jack was a bit of a hypochondriac and Barb had serious osteoporosis. I could only imagine the imaginary diseases Jack had contracted overnight or what a jail toilet might do to Barb’s fragile hipbones.
My phone beeped on to a host of new messages, including two from Uncle Ray. The rest were from the 68th Precinct. I turned to Akida.
“What happened?”
“I believe they were apprehended for photographing the military.”
“Dammit. I told them not to do that. It was in their instructions.”
“You send instructions?” Roger asked.
“Of course I send instructions. For exactly this reason,” I said. “When did it happen?”
“We received a call yesterday afternoon.”
“They spent the night in jail? They’re eighty.”
“We are, of course, making inquiries.”
“Inquiries?” I saw my sunset-drenched Zanzibar bungalow slipping away. Even Frank and Bobby Barsky would have to wait. I turned to Roger and looked at my watch. “You can still catch the ferry to Zanzibar. Go ahead, I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you.”
“I’ll be fine. Really. This is not your problem.”
He shook his head and sat down. I have to say, despite my brave front, I was relieved. I decided on a strategy. Obviously, I had to get to the embassy and to the jail, but I also had to file a claim for our luggage before I left the airport or British Airways wouldn’t be liable. I decided to multi-task and get in the claim line while I made calls. I pulled up my Uncle Ray’s number.
“Hold my hand,” I said to Roger, then hit call.
This was going to be even harder than telling the Feragamos their Yorkie had been eaten by a Rottweiler in the cargo hold.
“Uncle Ray?” I said. There was a long silence.
“Where are you, Cyd? We’ve had the whole Precinct out looking for you. Your mother is worried sick. Well?”
I admit, I considered lying. “Dar es Salaam.” I could hear his blood pressure rise.
“Fricking Africa? Are you crazy? What about the computer upgrade? And you know the Precinct wants to question you about Mrs. Barsky. Your fingerprints are all over the damn place. There are papers missing. You have to get on the next plane and come home. Right now.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can. I’ll fix the ticket from here.”
“No, I can’t. The Andersons were arrested. I have to get them out of jail. I was just leaving for the embassy.”
“That’s what Adventure Limited is for. Taking care of things on the ground.”
“They haven’t had any luck. Plus, they don’t know our clients and our clients don’t know them. Look, you’re always telling me that customer service is the cornerstone of our business. If I’m here, I can get them out and serve as a liaison for the other clients who are on their way. If we don’t handle this right, everyone else will cancel. It could ruin our reputation. And you know damn well that I didn’t kill Mrs. Barsky. And so does Frank. If you want to fix something, fix that. I’ll be fine.” I hesitated. “Roger’s here with me.”
“Roger? That nincompoop from the Internet? I don’t trust that guy, Cyd. There’s something off about him.”
“In your opinion, there’s something off about everyone.” We were almost at the front of the line.
“What do I tell Frank?” he said. “The detectives are pressuring him not to give you special treatment. He’s up for a promotion, you know that.”
“Tell him I’ll call him as soon as I sort this out, but in the meantime they should look for the actual killer.”
He was quiet for a minute. “All right. Be careful, Cyd. Really careful. It’s not the neighborhood.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I’m always here if you need me.”
“I know. Love you, bye.” Roger and I finally made the counter.
The agent was in Muslim garb, so I was glad I’d dressed conservatively in a navy miniskirt and a silk blouse with matching polka dots, topped by a white chiffon scarf. I wrapped my scarf around my head and after learning the details of how Agent Ha
sari had dislocated his collarbone, I had a copy of the claim receipt and we were headed for the parking lot.
Akida bowed in front of the most battered Toyota minivan I had ever seen. At some point, it might have been white, but now rust was chewing through every surface, all the wheels had lost their hubcaps, and by the looks of it, the axle was the next to go. The front bumper had a dent the size of a baby. Akida explained that by night he was a daladala driver and that at twenty-five cents a ride, it was by far the least expensive way to get around Dar. I tried to imagine the Andersons’ bony behinds on the wooden benches in the back and winced, holding on tight to my Balenciaga and my carry-on, since they now held everything I owned.
Akida drove like a sprinter, stopping for long intervals of rest, then shooting forward for a few feet at eighty miles an hour, the entire vehicle vibrating with exertion. At least I was traveling with a chiropractor, I thought, as the van swerved onto two wheels.
“Akida could drop me at the jail while you go to the embassy. It might speed things up,” Roger said.
“It will help me more if you’re there for moral support. I’ve never talked to an ambassador. And some people don’t take women seriously.”
“At their peril,” Roger said. He was quiet after that.
The traffic finally opened up and the van kangarooed forward with a particularly nauseating crunch. We headed down the Bagamoyo Road, north of downtown, the sea on our right. Akida explained that this embassy had been built after the original U.S. building had been bombed in the nineties. Of course—the U.S. Embassy bombings. I was still training then; we’d had a lot of cancelled safaris.
As the van passed locals bicycling on the roads and green-painted stalls spilling fruit, Akida chattered on: the new embassy had been built on the site of an old drive-in cinema—he had seen Die Hard for the first three times there. “It is my favorite film. Except for The Breakfast Club.”
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