A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  “Hello, ladies,” says a dark-haired gentleman in an ill-fitting brown suit. “For you trip in Kashmir, I you escort, Robert.”

  If you’re Robert, then I’m Bart Simpson. But I don’t tell him. I’ve seen lumps like the one under his crooked side seam before. In Myanmar.

  As Miss Mona steps forward to take the reins of the introductions, I step back and sigh. Here we go again.

  The Daunting Duo doesn’t need me to help land them in trouble. They’re experts at sinking-ship scenarios. And my love, as well as my need to help and protect them, has dragged me into their chaotic escapades a time or two. Like when Aunt Weeby went stall-mucking and wound up with a broken leg, in traction, in a hospital—that’s when I knew I had to come home and keep an eye on her. Then there was the time when a flea-market junket landed Miss Mona’s new Jaguar in the junkyard and Miss Mona in the hospital.

  You get the picture. I’ll just chill and wait for the arrival of this latest sinking ship, and come to their rescue when they need me.

  When “Robert” hails a waiting van, I’m thrilled to see it’s one that stands a chance of getting us to where we’re staying. Can’t say the same about other vehicles we pass on the way through what he calls the Old Town.

  We zip down a crooked spiderweb of roads in the deepening dark, where the ghosts of triple-decker buildings loom on either side of the street. The yellowed glow from scattered streetlights gives the ruddy brick walls an eerie blush. A bit farther along our route, the tables and booths in the abandoned bazaars wear shrouds for the night. Men and women in flowing traditional clothes scurry down the sidewalks. Goose bumps ripple my skin as I watch.

  In spite of the relative safety of the van and the apparent normalcy of the intriguing sights, I can’t shake the sense of danger that hit me the minute I set foot on this penthouse of the world.

  “This, ladies,” Robert says when we turn onto a road that runs along the bank of a wide river, “is the Jhelum. It very important for Srinagar. Once, commerce came and went on boats on this river, and this made Srinagar Kashmir’s most important commerce town.”

  Lights on the opposite shore hide and flash in between the unusual, squat buildings we drive past on our side of the water. At first, the structures’ proximity to the riverbank surprises me—I’d worry about erosion eating my backyard if I were the owner. But then, by the beam cast by a particularly bright streetlight, I recognize what I’m actually seeing.

  “Look!” I cry. “They’re houseboats. How cool is that?”

  Miss Mona chuckles. “That’s my surprise.”

  I tear my gaze away from the floating structures. “Your surprise?”

  She nods. Her excitement says it all.

  “Really?” I bite my tongue to keep from squealing—I’m more sophisticated than that. I think. “You mean we’re staying in a houseboat?”

  “Before I decided where we’d stay,” Miss Mona says, “I did me a little research. That’s how I learned that lots of tourists like to come to Srinagar and rent the houseboats. I’ve never stayed in one, so I made the reservation. Then I learned they come with all the conveniences of a luxury hotel.”

  I gape. Then I snap my mouth shut and peek out the window again. “Luxury? Here? I thought this country was war-torn and earthquake-rubbled.”

  “Yes, miss,” Robert says, his voice somber. “Our country have much problems, but it also have much beauty. The houseboats is something very special of Srinagar. You will very much like yours, I’m sure.”

  “I agree,” my canny boss says. “I was sent some lovely photos. Wait until you see the one where we’re staying. It has four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a living room they call a lounge, a dining room, a kitchen and big ol’ pantry—and it even comes with its own houseboy. Imagine that! I sure was surprised when I learned all this. Of course, I couldn’t pass up the chance.”

  Of course she couldn’t. She’s Miss Mona Latimer. A woman with a keen sense of adventure. And I’m one with a keen sense of smell. Remember that stink I thought I smelled?

  Well, I smell a rat too. Last I heard, this was supposed to be a mission trip, to check out an orphanage for kids who lost everything in the quake. Tourism agents and houseboats don’t add up to missions to me. They make me think of, well, tourism.

  Did Miss Mona lose her way?

  Or is she mixing faith with pleasure?

  And how about that keen business sense? Would she miss an opportunity?

  Doubt it. Remember Glory and Allison? Uh-huh. They’re in the van’s rear seat, each sporting a big tote bag full of gear.

  Miss Mona’s never missed the chance to turn even a business trip into an experience in every sense of the word. Not that I’m questioning Glory’s and Allison’s urge to serve at the mission.

  I knew going in who I was dealing with. I shouldn’t be surprised.

  At least the idea of staying in a floating house is a far cry from the reality of foreign government officials chasing us across a third-world country with weapons drawn. Yeah. Been there, done that. With Miss Mona, once was enough.

  Fifteen minutes later, the van stops in front of one of the houseboats. Inside lights shine through detailed carved wood trim to give the vessel an ethereal, lacy appearance.

  I’m charmed—what woman wouldn’t be? Smiling, I slam the mental door on the spooky feeling I’ve had since we left the plane.

  Dumb? Maybe.

  Out of the van, I stare. Can’t help myself. The houseboat is amazing. Then I catch sight of Aunt Weeby. She’s staring too. Speechless.

  Cool, huh? Aunt Weeby. Dumbstruck.

  Maybe I misread the whole Kashmir experience back at the airport. Maybe Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby are right. Maybe I do need to get myself an attitude adjustment when it comes to this glamorous place.

  Oh, okay. Maybe. So a little bit of mystery isn’t all bad. Right?

  “Can we go inside?” The breathy sound of my voice catches me by surprise. After all my years in New York, it takes a lot to enchant me. Guess what? Kashmir’s done it—and in the dark, no less. Can’t wait until I take a look at this strange new world in the daylight.

  “Yes, miss,” Robert says. “We care for your luggage. Go. Go in. You will like it.”

  I do, I do! The houseboat’s interior takes my breath away. A posh living room, its intricate walls made up of carved wooden panels, spreads out before me. It’s much bigger than I would’ve expected from the outside, bigger than Aunt Weeby’s parlor back home. Two half-moon sofas, overstuffed and cushy looking, wear ultrarich red wool upholstery and fill the two corners at the far end of the room, one on either side of the entrance to the dining room beyond. A cabriole-legged coffee table stands before each of the sofas, and all the furniture sits on a thick ivory carpet—no stains. Even on a boat.

  Wow!

  Then I look up. The ceiling is rich with more exquisite carvings that give it a texture like that of the quilted silk-satin bedding at Saks—out of my price range, that’s for sure.

  When I spot the pièce de résistance, I feel as though someone has just plunked me down into the set of The King and I. Suspended from that faboo ceiling hangs the most graceful chandelier I’ve ever seen—and I’ve lived in New York, capisce? Golden branches hold crystal lotus petals, lit from within, to form a cluster of perfect blossoms. Light dances over the delicate piece, but what most amazes me is how, in the heart of the flowers, tiny rainbows make the whole thing look like something out of a fairy tale.

  Maybe everything’s a fairy tale.

  Maybe I’m dreaming.

  I remember the times Max the Magnificent has caught me trying to convince myself crazy things really are as they appear. So I pinch myself again. Guess what? I don’t wake up. It’s not a dream, and the killer room doesn’t change. My great-aunt and her best friend are both still beside me, each as awestruck as I feel.

  And I miss Max.

  Uh-oh!

  Then my stomach growls—head-to-toe blush time.

 
Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona laugh.

  “Hungry?” Robert asks.

  Embarrassed, that’s what. Can you imagine? I come to this incredible place, and my very mundane, lowbrow belly decides to tell everyone I’m dying to stuff my face. Good grief.

  “Dinner should be ready,” he adds, as though I hadn’t broken every rule of etiquette known to mankind. “Go to dining room. You’ll like.”

  I’ll bet! So far, the only thing I haven’t liked about Kashmir is the wonky feeling I got when we first landed. I guess I can chalk that up to past experiences of the not-so-cool kind.

  I pause to take one more appreciative look at the lounge. Aunt Weeby marches up, stands square in front of me, sticks her fists on her still-slender hips, and sniffs.

  “Oh, come on, now, Andie.” She frowns from head to toe. “Don’t just stand there like a big ol’ stump. I’m hungry. What’s a woman got to do to get some food around you? You can come back out here after we’ve eaten and goggle around all you want. I want my dinner.”

  I stick a finger in my ear, wiggle, stare. Did I miss something? “What do you mean, Aunt Weeby? I’m starved. You know, wasn’t it my stomach that growled?” But I wind up speaking to her rapidly disappearing back.

  What can I say? She’s wacky, but she’s my wacky aunt, and I love her. She can change a mood at the blink of an eye. Or in the turn of a loony phrase.

  We sit down to a meal that would make Rachael Ray weep. The large teak table is set for six, the Shop-Til-U-Drop contingent plus Robert. I wind up next to Glory on one side, and of course, Aunt Weeby on the other.

  A twenty-something Asian man walks into the dining room, bows, and then points to his chest. “I Farooq.”

  We greet him, he disappears, then shows up again seconds later with platter after steaming platter of food. The mountains of Asian delicacies scent the room with rich and exotic spices. And Farooq bows. Every time he walks into the room, he bows. He bows before he leaves. He bows when he returns. He even bows before and after he refills our teacups.

  Bet those bows keep his chiropractor in business.

  After Miss Mona’s blessing on the food, we pass dishes from one end of the table to the other, reviewing each morsel and bite.

  “You have to take some of this chicken,” Glory says. “I just snuck a little piece that fell off my fork, and it’s to die for.” I take the dish. “Is that spinach stuffing inside the chicken?

  I love spinach.”

  “It is, and you are going to flip! This is the best.”

  “No, it’s not,” Miss Mona says. “This is. Here”—she reaches a deep bowl across the table to me—“the mutton is so tender it falls apart when you try and serve it.”

  I plunk down the chicken platter to take the lamb. When I take a bite, my taste buds throw a party—oh, yum! Then I scope out another bowl. “Are those white chunks potato?” Miss Mona spears one on her fork, looks it over, then slips it into her mouth. “Nuh-uh,” she says once she’s swallowed. “I think it’s something like . . . oh, maybe turnips? But it’s good, very good, and cooked with some special spice. You’re going to love it.”

  I do love every mouthful—and I take plenty. Even the pots and pots of light, fragrant green tea we down during the multicourse meal taste especially good.

  “Okay,” I say a short while later. “Not even Thanksgiving compares. I’ve eaten more tonight than I ever have before. Who wants to roll me to my bed?”

  Everyone laughs, pats her middle, shakes her head.

  “Oh, all right, you guys.” I pretend to frown. “I’ll walk myself there.”

  “Ooof!” Allison says. “I can’t think of lying down right away. I’m too full.”

  “And too excited,” Glory adds.

  “Want to hang out with me in the lounge for a while?” our makeup guru asks our camera wizard.

  Glory stands. “Sure. I have to check my stuff to make sure nothing got too rattled during the flights. I’d love the company.”

  They go one way, Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, and I go the other.

  Farooq bows and bows and bows. “Rooms ready,” he adds, then bows again.

  “Sugarplum?” Aunt Weeby says as we head out of the dining room, her voice dreamy. “D’you think the bedroom’s gonna be something out of the Arabian Nights too?”

  I chuckle. “Different continent.” I take another peek over my shoulder at the posh table and chairs and beyond that, the movie-set living room. “Who knows? Maybe it’s even more . . . more.”

  My aunt, better known for brashness than meekness, finally tears her gaze from the carved blossoms on the teak sideboard by the door. “Oh, Andie! I can’t imagine much more.”

  When we reach our room, she doesn’t have to imagine a thing. The room we share is luxurious almost to the point of too much. Gold silk draperies at the windows shield us from any possible chill. The same fabric, in a lighter shade of gold, covers a duvet on each of the two large beds, and a spectacular black-and-ivory Persian rug spreads out almost wall to wall. A huge dresser, topped by an equally vast mirror in an ornate carved frame, matches the two nightstands, and in a corner, a pair of slipper chairs in a warmer gold than the draperies flank a round side table. A lamp draped in sparkling crystal teardrops helps give the room its over-the-top appeal.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” my great-aunt whispers. “Me neither.”

  That brings her back to the ground. “But you ain’t lived half as long as I have.”

  “So there you go. You’ve got me beat fair and square, so there’s nothing more to say. This is something else.”

  “That made no sense,” says one of the queens of nonsense.

  “That’s because it’s way past our bedtime—by maybe two or three time zones’ worth of days.” I plop onto the nearest bed. “I call this one!”

  “I’m not picky. I’m so tired, I’m gonna sleep like a hibernating sloth. Oh! Do sloths hibernate?”

  “Beats me. I know they’re slow and sleep a lot . . .” I wrinkle my nose. “Wait! Can’t you come up with something nicer than a sloth? Even Rip Van Winkle would do.”

  Aunt Weeby unzips her suitcase, her small, well-shaped nose high in the air. “I like me my sloths, sugarplum. And if you don’t mind, I’ll be brushing my teeth first.”

  Briefly, very briefly, I wonder if she even knows what a sloth looks like. Not exactly GQ cover material, get my drift?

  Before long, we’re both under the covers. We pray together, whisper our good nights. Then, in that same hushed tone, Aunt Weeby adds, “Glad you came back home, Andie?”

  “I don’t have to think about it. I was glad when I came home, and I’m gladder now. Good night.”

  “God bless you, sweet sugarplum.”

  “The Lord bless you too.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Nightmare . . .

  I fight it.

  A woman’s scream . . . pounding footsteps.

  Bad nightmare.

  More screams . . . knocking on a door. Garbled voices, male and female.

  “Andie! Wake up, sugarplum.”

  I roll to my right side, pull the pillow over my head.

  “. . . She sleeps like a rock, I tell ya,” Aunt Weeby says, her voice shaky.

  “But at a time like this!” Miss Mona counters, a hitch in her voice.

  “How’s she to know, Mona Latimer?”

  Aunt Weeby? Wailing?

  I fight the cobwebs of sleep but don’t get too far. I’m beat. “That, Livvy, is why you have to wake her up!”

  I want to sleep. And they want to wake me up. This is no dream. Might be a nightmare. It is the Daunting Duo I hear.

  Then it hits me: shaky voice, hiccuplike hitch, wailing—a scream? I bolt up. “Why’d you yell?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Someone screamed.” I rub my sleep-foggy eyes, but nothing changes. Aunt Weeby’s still in her rose silk pajamas, and Miss Mona’s in a flowing, flowered nightgown. Trust
me. You don’t want to know about the hair situation.

  When I look at the ladies again, I notice the fear in their eyes, the worry in their expressions, the lack of color in their cheeks.

  I leap out of bed. “What happened? Are you okay? Is everyone else all right? Did the government goons with the guns come get us?”

  Aunt Weeby gives a tight shake of the head. “Not yet.”

  Yet? My trouble-o-meter starts its deafening wee-uh, wee-uh, wee-uh. “Tell me what’s going on. Now!”

  Miss Mona reaches for my hand. “I’m afraid, honey, it’s worse than government officials and all that. Glory and Allison stayed in the lounge for a while after we went to bed. Then they went to their room. And that’s . . . that’s when they found . . . it. Him.”

  She sways, and for a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to faint. I run to her side, wrap my arm around her waist. “It’s okay, Miss Mona. Whatever they found, it’s going to be okay. Just breathe, breathe slow and easy—”

  “Sugarplum! A’ course she can’t breathe at a time like this. What are you thinking? Come on, now. Let’s go. You gotta get to getting.”

  “But if she doesn’t breathe, she’ll pass out and won’t get any-where—” I catch myself. Why am I trying logic on Aunt Weeby in the middle of the night? “Okay. Let’s go . . . wherever.”

  “To Glory and Allison’s room.”

  Here we go again. I’m resigned to my fate. “Lead the way.”

  But Miss Mona’s reluctance speaks volumes. Something’s really wrong here. This isn’t one of the Duo’s usual escapades. My heartbeat speeds up. The chill I feel doesn’t come from a breeze behind any silk draperies. I don’t think Glory’s found a mouse or a spider in her room.

  With every step I take, I shiver more. That’s when I start to pray. “Please, Lord . . . Father, help us. Keep us safe . . .”

  The door to the bedroom is open, but neither Miss Mona nor Aunt Weeby will go in. I look from one to the other. Each shakes her head. I close my eyes, call out to the Lord again, and take that final step over the threshold.