by Gerry Belle
“Jill, when was the last time you saw Ahmed?” Zhara asked the young wife softly.
“Last night when he put me to bed,” she said, confusion causing her to cast her eyes frantically around the room. “Where is he? Has something happened?”
“Yes, it has,” Zhara affirmed. “Ahmed’s body was found this morning on the beach. It looks as though he slipped on the rocks after a swim and fell forward hitting his head on a boulder. I’m sorry, Jill. Ahmed is dead.”
Jill Aboud sat frozen, a look of gradual disbelief coming to fill the confusion that had previously blanketed her features. “What?” she asked. “No! No, he doesn’t like the salt-water. He says it’s slimy! He’d never go for a swim in that stuff! It’s all he can take to let them put the mud on him in the spa during a treatment!”
Well, that was interesting, Zhara thought. He didn’t like the Dead Sea waters and thought they were slimy. They actually were a bit slimy. Zhara had to admit that was one of the things that kept her from submerging herself in them more frequently. The dense salt-water did have a decidedly unctuous feel and the rocky shore was treacherous, as Ahmed Aboud had found out to his detriment.
“Nevertheless, Jill, Ahmed’s body was found at the shore. He had a severe head injury that caused his death. I’m so sorry,” Zhara said gently but firmly. There was never any use trying to soften terrible blows by lying. Ahmed was dead and Jill had to understand that.
“The hotel management has sequestered his body and the police have been called. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Is there anyone you want us to call?” Zhara asked the still immobile young woman. Silent tears had welled up and were coursing down her face, but she hadn’t uttered a sound.
Beatriz appeared with a tea tray and Zhara guided a cup of hot, sugared tea into Jill’s shaking hands. Making sure the young woman sipped it slowly, Zhara took her own cup and swigged down half the small cup in one go. Tea was always good for shock and, Jill’s shock aside, Zhara didn’t feel any too peppy herself. Seeing Ahmed’s strangely pale corpse and flopping arms hadn’t started her morning off in a good way either.
Half an hour later, having had another cup of tea and a piece of toast, Jill Aboud still looked as though a truck had run her over. The hotel manager had left, leaving Jill in Zhara and Beatriz’s hands as he scuttled off to meet the arriving police.
“Please,” Jill stammered, casting a worried eye towards the door. “Would you go get my passport out of Ahmed’s toiletries case?” she asked Zhara. “His father made him take it from me. I’d like it back before the police come. If Ahmed’s really dead, I don’t want to be held hostage here by his father and his dreadful family. I want to go home.” With that the young woman burst into tears again and sagged pathetically against Zhara’s chest. Beatriz hustled off, whipping the scarf from around her neck to use to protect her hands from contaminating the crime scene, she disappeared into the bathroom.
Within minutes the passport was located and secured in Jill’s purse, which was then locked in the hotel room safe. By the time the police arrived, the women were once again sitting on the pale blue velvet settees as Zhara gently rocked a sobbing Jill.
A brief knock was followed by the hotel room door swinging open to show the worried visage of Grant Westerly. He took one look at the tear-swollen face of Jill Aboud and stepped back quickly to clear the way for a uniformed police officer in the colors of the judicial police. The tall, thin man stepped into the room, took a look at the three women in various types of loungewear, and grimaced.
“Please dress and then we will discuss matters,” the man snapped at Zhara.
Zhara suppressing the urge to roll her eyes simply stared back at him and said, “That won’t be necessary. Jill will need to be sedated and return to bed as soon as possible. However, Beatriz will bring a couple of blankets so that you aren’t offended by our dress.”
The police officer’s mouth hardened into a grim line as Beatriz dashed into the bedroom and emerged seconds later with a blanket she draped around Zhara and Jill, enveloping them in its folds. Beatriz slung a chenille throw from the bed over her own robe and, as she was all of five foot, was covered completely. Sitting next to Zhara, the three women waited expectantly.
Sighing deeply, the officer sat gingerly on the settee facing them and began, “I am Detective Jaber of the Judicial Police. It is my duty to look into this death and make a ruling as to its nature. It looks at this point to be entirely accidental, but I need to question the three of you just the same.”
“When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Aboud?” the detective asked, starting with the same question Zhara had asked.
“Last night. I’ve been sleeping poorly and he gave me a sleeping pill and put me to bed. He was going to sleep in the other room so he wouldn’t disturb me.” This revelation once again started Jill’s tears and Zhara rocked her gently in consolation.
“Why have you been sleeping poorly?” Officer Jaber asked, his expression closed. “Were you and Mr. Aboud having any sorts of troubles?”
Jill hesitated, then sighed. “Well, not really. But sort of.” This non-answer was met by a stony silence. Seeing that Jaber wasn’t going to accept this for an answer, Jill continued. “We’ve been under a lot of pressure from his family to conform to their ideals of marriage. We came here to spend time together and loosen up a bit, but it was almost like the sight of people having fun made him angry. He was getting even more strict with me than usual. I wanted a piece of bacon off the breakfast buffet and he knocked it out of my hand and onto the floor. It was awful. He’s never really been physical before, but he was so angry that it made me afraid.”
“I take it your husband’s family are Muslim, not Christian?” Jaber asked quietly.
“Yes. Though frankly they don’t seem very devout at home, just more out in public. They wanted me to portray the very devout wife and it wasn’t what Ahmed and I had agreed upon when we were married. It was putting a lot of pressure on us that we didn’t want. I begged him to take me back to New York. We were happy there,” Jill moaned this so mournfully that everyone present looked down to allow her a moment’s privacy.
“So you have a reason to want your husband dead?” Officer Jaber stated coldly.
Zhara, Beatriz and Jill all gasped at the same time. “No! No!” Jill cried adamantly. I loved Ahmed and I believe we would have worked it out eventually. I would never leave him. You must believe me!”
Zhara did believe her. She’d seen too many women entranced by the good looks of men and knew that just because a woman was unhappy in a marriage, it didn’t mean she didn’t want the marriage. It was sad really, but that was the power of love. Zhara herself had stayed in an oddly dysfunctional relationship far longer than she ought to have. Even then, she’d only left it due to her husband’s death, so she had no higher ground when it came to the power of relationships.
After a few more minutes of repeated questions that bore no fruit,
Detective Jaber let Beatriz lead the crumpling Jill away. Zhara rose, faced him and said, “I’ll return to my room and dress. Shall I expect you in fifteen minutes?
A hard-faced Jaber nodded agreement and they both left the room, parting to go opposite directions in the hall.
In her suite, Zhara quickly threw on a light silk sheath, twisted her long, greying-blonde hair into an elegant chignon and slid the same sandals back on her feet and retreated to the bathroom to wash her hands and put on a dab of make-up. She was ready with only a moment to spare, as a brisk knock at the door came just as she finished swiping a pale, pink lip-gloss over her full lips.
Detective Jaber was accompanied by a young Jordanian woman who looked very smart in her police uniform. Zhara opened the door wider and then motioned for them to precede her into the adjoining sitting room. Collapsing onto one of the formal ivory-striped settees, Zhara asked, “How may I help you, Detective?”
“When was the last time you saw Ahmed Aboud?” The stony-visaged Jaber asked Zhara,
while the young woman began to scribble quickly in a small notebook.
“Last night at dinner, I believe,” Zhara said, letting her mind drift over the events of the day before. “Yes, last night,” she added, matter-of-factly.
“Did you notice any tension between the victim and his wife? Or anyone else for that matter?” The detective continued his questioning.
“Yes, of course. Everyone in the hotel could see that Jill was miserable in her hijab and burka. She’s not used to them and they were clearly weighing her down in the heat. She doesn’t appear to be the strongest young woman. Probably not suited to the heat, having been from New York,” Zhara added.
She continued, “Ahmed was apparently under a lot of strain. He was quite rude to the young backpacker, Ralph Johnson. He also reprimanded the honeymooners - though they are a bit over-the-top when it comes to public displays of affection,” Zhara added, grinning a bit wickedly at the young female police officer. The young woman grinned back, blushing a bit as Jaber cast her a quelling look.
“Ahmed has been very short with everyone he disapproves of,” she said thoughtfully. “Truthfully, he’s been rude to everyone but me. He approves of wealth, attended by servants. Or, at least, that’s how it appears. I’ve seen him glare at the elderly couple from Iowa - the Wrights, snort in displeasure when Mrs. Nettlepoole tried to sit at a table near him and Jill, and disagree over pricing of menu items with the hotel manager, Mr. Westerly. Honestly, the man was wearing on everyone’s nerves. He was a mass of seething anger. Poor guy was a mess,” Zhara finished, shaking her head in pity for the deceased young man.
Perking up, Zhara looked at Detective Jaber and said, “Am I to assume you don’t think this was an accident? If you’re asking all these questions, you must think it was murder!”
“Don’t be absurd, Lady Six!” the detective snapped at her. “Of course it was an accident! The victim was fully dressed in a pair of shorts and a shirt, and those idiotic flip-flops. Anyone can trip over those and fall. Ridiculous shoes!”
“Everything is consistent with an accident!” he continued, eyeing Zhara disapprovingly.
“Except for the marble-size round mark on his back, sir,” the young police woman said softly, lifting her eyes to Zhara’s for a split second.
“He could have gotten that anywhere!” her superior snapped, glaring at the young cadet.
“Of course, sir,” the young woman whispered, lowering her eyes, obviously intimidated by her scowling senior officer.
“This case will be closed very soon as it was an unfortunate accident,” Detective Jaber said stubbornly to Zhara. “Please leave your itinerary with Officer Naihma in case we need to contact you again.” With that, the man stood and marched from the room, a submissive Officer Naihma trailing behind.
Chapter Eight
Mount Nebo Iron Cross
After a few days, the case was closed as an accidental death, and after giving their intended itineraries, the guests were allowed to leave the hotel. Zhara had arranged for a car to take them to Mount Nebo on their way to Petra and Beatriz and Basilio were busy packing things up as Zhara settled their account.
Mount Nebo was another simply beautiful vista out over the desert. It had a peaceful aura about it that Zhara loved, and though she wasn’t much of a Christian - having suffered terribly from many of those so-called “good people” - she still enjoyed the history and feeling of tranquility the Holy sites gave.
Leaving the driver in the parking lot at the base of the trail to the top of Mount Nebo, Zhara, Beatriz, and Basilio began the slow walk up the hill. They stopped along the way to look at an enormous, flat, upright round stone that the placard said was similar to that which was supposed to have closed the tomb of Christ. It was quite an interesting artifact and they all exclaimed over it with interest - Basilio leaned his weight against it to see if he could budge it and laughed helplessly as his efforts did absolutely nothing.
A tent-like building structure covered a preserved mosaic tile floor called the Diakonikon mosaic from A.D. 394. It showed an impressive array of animals inlaid into stone. Zhara loved the emu and zebras, but Beatriz oohed over the horses and soldiers. It was a magnificent relic of a long gone era.
Finally, reaching the top of the long upward walk they were able to rest on the open terrace and admire the view. A mounted sign engraved with other Holy Land sites, showed the viewer where each of the most important sites lay in the long, open vistas over the desert where they stood. One could almost imagine Moses looking out over the desert, his heart full of hope and glory. An intricate iron cross woven with serpents marked the spot where Moses stood awaiting his death and preaching fire and brimstone. Pope John Paul prayed in this same location in March of the year 2000 and even though Zhara did not hold deep religious beliefs, she could still feel the awe and respect they must have encountered. Looking out over the never-ending undulating hills of the desert and Jordan Valley was a mind-boggling experience.
Sun-baked and weary, the three of them descended to the car, stopped at a roadside cafe in town and enjoyed a long drink, light lunch and a congenial atmosphere. Sun, sand and soul-shatteringly beautiful vistas always made Zhara feel ready to open herself to other people and enjoy the camaraderie of humanity. The cafe was full of local patrons and she chatted and joked with those who spoke English. It was a testament to the power of the Holy Sites to bring people together.
It took several hours to drive onwards to Petra and the views out both sides of the car were profoundly beautiful as the sleek Audi made its way south.
At the end of a long day, the car pulled into the hotel she’d chosen above Petra, and Zhara retired to the lounge to watch the sun set, have a bite of mezza - a mixed plate of Middle Eastern delicacies - and enjoy a cocktail as the world turned to a pink, blue and lavender wonder above spiky rock formations and impressive ravines. It was breathtaking.
That night she slept well, her patio door thrown open to the desert as she listened to the call of a distant muezzin - the holy men who sang out the Muslim call to prayer at the designated five times per day. It was magical and she was so glad to be there once again.
Chapter Nine
Petra Pile Driver
The next morning Zhara was up bright and early.
Even at breakfast Zhara had a way of making everyone else stop and stare. As a guest that earned special care, and backed it up with impeccable manners, respect for the staff, and generous tips, Zhara was seated at a secluded table with a view of the strangely beautiful, orange-red, cone-shaped hills that rolled into infinity beyond the breakfast room. Her morning tea came on a silver tray graced with a sumptuous set of matching Phillip Deshoulieres china in a pattern called “d’Orsay” after the famous Paris museum.
Delicate egg cups held her three soft-poached, in-the-shell eggs and tiny sterling-silver spoons accompanied both the eggs and the tea - no ungainly metal alloy flatware for her! A teapot, cup and saucer also graced the tray, completed with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. In the time that most of the guests had wolfed down a variety of glutinous sweet rolls, Zhara was still savoring her tea and delicately spooning small bites of perfectly cooked egg into her mouth. Breakfast was the start of the day and it should be beautiful, savory and savored, that was her motto and the hotel understood completely. Lady Zhara really was - a lady.
After an hour of letting breakfast settle and doing her daily journaling and meditation, Zhara headed for “the Siq”, or in English, “the shaft”, a long passage that led into the archeological site. She loved walking its long length and gazing overhead at the sharply-cut red cliffs. Underfoot, the ancient cobblestones were worn smooth and in places, rutted by thousands of years of wheeled carts rolling over their weathered surfaces. Zhara could imagine the tramp of ancient sandals and the clop of donkey hooves and the rattle of carts loaded with goods for market as they traversed the narrow, echoing street.
Along the way, carvings in the narrow walls gave the visitor an inkling of wha
t was to come. At the end of the Siq, the first glimpse of the Treasury - which had nothing to do with money and was actually a tomb - always took Zhara’s breath away. It was a soaring, columned glory of classical architecture. Zhara always got a kick out of historians who went on and on about the birth of classical architecture being the Roman and Grecian eras from the third to fifth centuries. Petra was a roaring center of trade between 500 B.C. and 105 A.D., long before Rome or Greece ever thought of adding columns to their buildings. So where had classical architecture really begun? Zhara thought that might need a little more research on the historians' part.
Zhara quickly negotiated with a young man in a bright red baseball cap to furnish her, Beatriz, and Basilio with donkeys. He trotted off as they marveled at the Treasury and peered into its one small room. Years before, Zhara had been able to walk inside the room, now the increasing tide of tourists had forced the tomb to be cordoned off to prevent damage to its structure.
Only ten or fifteen minutes passed before the young man trotted back with four donkeys in tow. Now dressed in a dark blue, hand-dyed tunic and turban, he was the image of a postcard ready Bedouin tribesman - from jeans and a baseball cap, to tourist icon in no time flat. Zhara grinned at him and he grinned back. The young man knew she wouldn’t be taking his picture, but maybe someone renting his other donkey would pay for the right. He looked quite dashing!