A Steal of a Deal (19 page)

Aunt Weeby tsk-tsks. “Toldja you weren’t supposed to flap your trap.”

“Miss Andie?” the older Mr. Russell says. “I like you, and I don’t think you killed that man. So I’m going to tell you what I got from my interview. The officers were awfully interested in the swami and his men. I told them I wouldn’t trust that fake one bit.”

“Oh, Grandpa!” Delia cries. “That’s so not fair. The swami’s way cool.”

“It was his guys who followed us almost all the way back to town,” her grandfather counters. “What kind of religious men spend all their time following followers? And with serious guns strapped on their backs!”

I suck in a breath. “Do you mean the terrorists were part of the swami’s cult?”

“Terrorists?” Delia looks thrilled.

“Terrorists?” Her grandfather looks horrified.

“Well . . . yeah. The ones with the beards and the turbans and the guns. They look a whole lot like the ones on the evening news back home, don’t you think?”

Delia’s grandmother gives me a pitying look—I might have just lost a major customer for the S.T.U.D. “Those were the swami’s guards. They’re not terrorists, Andrea.”

I scratch my head, run my fingers through my hair. “Why would a swami need armed guards?”

Mr. Russell shakes his head. “Why would they follow us?” “Did you say anything to Mr. Smith about the guards?” Miss Mona asks. “He might make more sense than the Kash-miri cops.”

He shrugs. “The man sat in on my interview, and I asked him what was going on, but he didn’t have much to say.”

The conversation’s going nowhere, and my eyelids start to droop. “Well, folks,” I say. “I’m in for another dose of grilling tomorrow, and I’m ready to turn in now. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m heading to bed.”

Aunt Weeby stands. “Me too, sugarplum. Let’s go.”

Our cop joins us, and the three of us ride the elevator in silence. Once she and I are alone in the room again, I turn to my aunt. “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”

Aunt Weeby starts pulling pins from her updo. “I was thinking the hotel kitchen uses way too much a’ that curry stuff too. I’m so glad you agree. It can’t do a body good. Why, I’m thinking it’s about time to break out Great-Grandma Willetta’s cod liver oil.”

No way!
Anything
but
Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s tonic. “I love the curry!”

“
Pffft!
I can’t wait to get back to real food. First thing I’m fixing to do when I get home is buy me a Whopper and fries.” She’s of the same persuasion as Xheng Xhi. Which brings me back to my original point. I seriously doubt she didn’t get what I meant. She does this dizzy-ditz bit when it suits her oddball purposes. I wouldn’t normally try to get her back on track, but this matters.

“Come on, Aunt Weeby. Something really strange is going on. Where does Farooq come into the picture? What’s his connection to Xheng Xhi? How about Robert? And who are the Russells, really?”

“Ooooh, Andie!” She claps. “I just knew it! You’re gonna do some more of that investigating you did last year. But this time, sugarplum, I hope you don’t go digging through ladies’ purses.” She wags a finger at me. “We get a mite tetchy ’bout our bags, you know.”

I shudder at the memory. The day I decided to play Pink Panther, thanks to Aunt Weeby’s urging, mind you, I proved just that subtle, especially when I went digging in a retired army veteran’s diaper bag.

Not something you want to do. Trust me.

“No handbags will be harmed in this operation. Not by me, at any rate.”

Something’s still tickling my mind, but I really don’t want to go there. Not with Aunt Weeby. Her nutty imagination needs no encouragement. But what choice do I have? She really is a sharp cookie, even though she does enjoy her nuttier side—and keeping everyone on their toes.

I do know to pray for courage in the face of Aunt Weebi-ness. “What’s the one element all these strange things have in common?”

She gives her long, champagne blond hair—at her age, bottle blond, of course—a final go with her brush, then points the bristles at me. “You.”

“That wasn’t the answer I was going for.”

“I know, sugarplum, but that’s the one that fits.”

She might have a point. Remember, she’s sharp, if a bit wacky. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you mean?”

“Well, Andie, my girl. It’s simple. You’re our team leader.” She ticks a finger with her brush. “You’re the one what knows all about them Kashmir sapphires.” Another finger. “You’re the one what knew about them mines.” A third digit goes up. “You’re the one l’il Miss Delia recognized, and you’re the one Xheng Xhi liked.”

A full-hand waggle makes her point.

Time for me to make mine. “There’s something else that ties it all together.”

“I didn’t want to say nothing ’bout it.”

“How come?”

“On account of you might say I was letting my imagination run wild.”

I laugh. “So when’d you start worrying about things like that?”

She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Since last year and your awful trip to Burma.”

“Myanmar.”

“Doesn’t make no never mind, and you know it too. It’s all the same, sugarplum. You say something don’t smell right to you, and I say it’s all about sin and greed and those pretty blue stones.”

That’s the little tickle in the back of my mind. “Sapphire smugglers.”

“Sounds just about right to me.”

Strange. Aunt Weeby doesn’t sound so wacky anymore.

After another day of questions, I return to the hotel and Aunt Weeby. We call Miss Mona and head down to the restaurant.

“I haven’t seen Allison or Glory since day before yesterday,” I comment. “Are they okay?”

Miss Mona unfurls her napkin and sets it on her lap. “Allison’s on her way down. She doesn’t want room service tonight.”

I’m not crazy about having dinner with my brunette nemesis, but I can’t not ask. “How about Glory?”

My boss stares down at her empty plate. “She went home.”

I must not have heard right. “Say what?”

She sighs, and when her eyes meet mine, I read sympathy in their depths. “Yes, dear. She gave the embassy her address, her fingerprints, answered all the questions everybody asked her, and they said she could leave. She’s gone home.”

Her answer launches an internal battle, but I don’t know which side’s going to win. On the one hand, I’m so mad, I see red. On the other, the green-eyed monster’s leapt to life again. Mix ’em together, and the colors make brown, the same shade of mud I’m trying to see my way through these days. “Did someone forget she was sharing the room where Farooq was killed with Allison? How come she gets to go home, but Allison and I don’t?”

“Hi, Andie,” Allison says as she pulls out a chair to join us at the table. “Glory got to go home because Farooq had his hand in my stuff. The police don’t think she would care enough about my wallet to kill the guy. As if I would kill for twenty bucks.”

She looks about as worn as the saddle on the mule I rode. Come to think of it, that’s pretty close to how I’ve begun to feel.

I scan the room and notice another absence. “Don’t tell me they let the Russells go home too.”

“The Russells didn’t get to go home.” Miss Mona takes a long drink of green tea. “They’re being held over for another day. The police want them to look at some pictures tomorrow.”

Am I surprised? “And would those pictures include bearded, turbaned terrorists pretending to guard some phony-baloney guru?”

She smiles. “I think they might.”

I try to inject some humor into the situation. “Hey! I wanna look at pictures and go home too!” Lame, lame, lame. “Seriously, though. How’s anybody going to identify those men? Put a beard and a turban on the next Kashmiri guy, and who can tell what he looked like before? It’s the perfect disguise, you know.”

Allison leans forward, lowers her voice. “I can see those scary men killing Xheng Xhi.”

No joke. “I can see them stealing rough from the mines.”

“But, sugarplum, why’d they want to kill that nice Xheng Xhi or Farooq?”

It’s time to try out my looniest theory so far. “What if Xheng Xhi and Farooq were part of the smuggling ring?”

Miss Mona chokes on her water.

Allison drops her fork.

Aunt Weeby “oooohs!”

I go on. “What if the terrorists gave the stones to Xheng Xhi to get them down the mountain? What if Xheng Xhi gave them to Farooq to pass along?”

A look around the table tells me everyone’s on board. I nod. “That gorgeous houseboat sees a whole lot of foreign traffic. Anyone can play tourist and take the stones out of Kashmir.”

My auntie coos again. “You’re so good, sugarplum. You’ve solved the crimes. The smugglers must’ve had themselves some kinda nasty fight, and then,
poof
! The guys with the turbans killed the other two. Case closed.”

Just because Aunt Weeby likes my theory doesn’t mean it flies. “What do you think, Miss Mona?”

“It makes a lot of sense, Andie, my dear.” She takes another minute to think things through. “I suspect we all just happened to be in that age-ol’ wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Even the Russells,” Aunt Weeby says.

I slant her a look. “I detect a touch of disappointment.”

She waves. “Don’t pay me no never mind. My ol’ imagination plumb loves the idea of international intrigue and Interpol and the FBI. You know. So exciting. Like last—”

“Don’t go there! That was
not
exciting. It was awful. It’s way better to solve the problem right here in the Kashmiris’ backyard. Now I just have to convince the cops to let me go.”

That’s exactly what I do the next day. By noon, Mr. Smith brings me back to the hotel, I grab my backpack, my great-aunt, my boss, my makeup artist, and my Coach bag. An hour later, the four of us walk into the airport, rush the airline counter, and flash ID in relief.

“The nightmare’s really over,” I say on my way down the airliner’s aisle. “We’re going home.”

But you know it isn’t that easy. At the insistence of the Kashmiri authorities, I sign a sworn affidavit affirming my understanding that, should they deem it necessary, I will return for prosecution. If I try to dodge, Interpol will come chase me down. To arrest me, you understand.

I’m still a wanted woman.

1200

The trip home is a blur of airports and airplanes. Everyone sleeps on the flights; everyone, that is, but me. I’d hoped to let the exhaustion take over, and my body’s more than willing, but my mind refuses to get with the program.

I’m glad I’m no longer under the spotlight that shines on the prime suspect in a pair of murders, but I am the prime suspect in a case of self-deception.

My emotional response to Max’s flight makes me face truths I’d rather avoid. I don’t just find him attractive. He’s not just good-looking. And he doesn’t just drive me nuts because he’s dumb, since he’s really not so dumb at all.

It’s all about those “justs.” If I
just
found him attractive; if he were
just
good-looking; if he
just
irritated me, then I’d have no problem.

My problem is that I find him attractive, appealing, intriguing, and even charming—at times. He’s good-looking, decent, determined, and hardworking—not just at sports. And he drives me nuts because . . . well, just because he does. You see, I’m really and truly falling for the surfer boy.

Who’d a thunk?

My not-so-cool jealousy toward Glory springs from my feelings for Max, especially because I’m so scared of getting hurt again. I’ve avoided dating for years, ever since a disastrous experience in college. Back then I thought my boyfriend felt the same way I did. It turns out, my knack for science and math meant more to his grades than I did to his heart. My inability to tell the difference before I let my heart get in too deep is what scares me most.

No one wants to be used. Been there, done that. Not going there again.

What does all this have to do with Max? Max wants to work at the S.T.U.D. And that’s the thing. Would he go so far as to romance me to keep his job?

That’s what I don’t want to face.

How mature of me!

Am I ready to . . . fall in love?
Could
I fall in love with Max?

Yes. And yes.

A better question might be whether this is the Lord’s plan for my life or not. I have to believe God’s brought us together for a reason. Coincidence isn’t something I buy into.

I’m scared to put my heart on the line. Is my faith strong enough to let go of my jokes and snipes and superficial and totally false sense of control? Do I trust God enough to let him work in my heart? And Max’s?

Do I trust him enough to catch me and patch me up again if Max breaks my heart?

And here I thought I’d faced the trust thing awhile back.

Lord? When am I going to grow up for real? I left the
baby-Christian stage behind years ago, at least that’s what
I thought. But now . . . this Max thing has shown me some
nasty bits I haven’t dealt with. Is this what it means to run
the long “race” you want us to run? I guess growing up is a
process that goes on forever, not something a person achieves
one day.

I try—again—to find a comfortable fit in my uncomfortable airplane seat. Coming home to Kentucky hasn’t turned out the way I expected. I figured I was heading for a simpler life, not so many demands, and fewer challenges. Instead, my life’s more complicated than ever, and God continues to make me face things I would much rather continue to dodge for the rest of my life.