A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  “Oh, Andie!” Allison groans. “Look!”

  There, on the floor between the two beds, is Farooq, motionless, his head twisted and lolling in an unnatural way.

  I suck in a long, hard breath. “Not again . . .”

  400

  Remember those essays way back in grade school: “What I Did on My Summer Vacation”? Yeah, you know. Most kids go to Disney. Me? I go to jail. In Kashmir.

  Trust me. Time in a Srinagar police holding pen is not something you want to do. Imagine five of us—plus Robert— in an eight-by-ten-foot cell: cozy.

  Not.

  Filth, stench, and nasty officers are about as good as it gets. It’s worse, much worse than being chased by angry government goons with guns drawn through the wilds of Myanmar. That time, at least we had a vehicle around us, and it was moving. Away from our hunters.

  Now, we’re sitting ducks. And until someone comes out and confesses to whacking poor Farooq, we’re stuck.

  Let’s face it; he had Allison’s backpack in his clutches when we found him. Even the somewhat dim cop doesn’t need too many mental lightbulbs to figure out Farooq got caught mid-theft and Allison took matters into her own hands—or broomstick, as the case may be. It looks like that’s what the killer used to choke the guy.

  Only problem is, Allison didn’t kill Farooq.

  She couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have.

  I know Allison.

  But how do you get foreign officials to listen when the evidence looks way clear?

  Oh! You want to know why they’ve locked up the rest of us too? Accomplices, they say. One delicate little woman couldn’t possibly have killed the “strong”—scrawny, if you ask me—male houseboy all by her weak self. We all took part in sticking a broomstick under his chin, pulling back, and asphyxiating him.

  Yeah, right.

  Hours float by.

  We pray.

  We try to lighten the mood with a couple of stories, tell jokes, but that goes nowhere. Even Aunt Weeby doesn’t have much to say. My one question, of course, is why, if we were supposed to be short-term missionaries, did we wind up in a glam floating palace where some guy went and got himself choked?

  You know I can’t ask Miss Mona that. Not while she’s scared, nervous, pale, and at times, green around the gills from the wretched stench. Instead, I put my arm around her, tell her I love her, pray with her, and remind both of us that even now our God is in control.

  I check my watch, but every time I do, it seems to have stopped working. Then I look again, and I realize it’s doing its thing, just way slower than I’d like. I’m dying to get out of this place. Time creeps by, hour after hour after hour . . .

  Around dawn, Aunt Weeby and I lean against each other and manage to snooze for a very brief while. But Kashmiri jails don’t exactly encourage rest and relaxation. Nor do they offer privacy for . . . ahem . . . bodily functions. At least not our sumptuous holding cell. The thought makes my skin crawl.

  But God is good, you know? Are we still in jail?

  Well, no. That was then. Now, midmorning, we’re in a limo.

  How’d we get out?

  Let me tell you. Miss Mona’s resourcefulness is a wondrous thing. Remember the political problems and all that stuff going on in this part of the world? Well, it’s not so much against us as against each other, not like the unpleasantness between us and Myanmar. We have a good embassy in Srinagar, and all it takes is Miss Mona’s call to get someone from the good old U.S. of A. to show up and plead our case.

  I don’t want to know if money changed hands.

  Unfortunately, our freedom means bad news for poor old Robert. He’s charged with Farooq’s untimely demise and will be held for trial—if one can really call it that in this part of the world.

  In the embassy limo, Allison shoves her brown curls from her forehead. “Could someone explain to me how things went from me killing Farooq because he was stealing my wallet to Robert killing him because they had a falling out over the loot?”

  I blow out a gust of pent-up air, and with it goes a ton of stress. “Maybe they have some kind of evidence on the guy? If that’s the case, he belongs in jail. If not . . .well, I don’t know if there’s anything anyone can do. We are where we are.” I shudder. “But I will praise God we’re not still there.”

  “D’y’all really think that nice Robert could’ve killed that poor little waiter?” Aunt Weeby asks, for about the fiftieth time since we got sprung. “And really, Allison, dear. Why’d you ever travel with all that loot in the first place?”

  “Loot?” our makeup diva cries. “All I had was twenty bucks. I keep my traveler’s checks in a pouch around my waist under my clothes.”

  “Isn’t it so sad,” Miss Mona says, her eyes tired and her face showing her age. “So many thieves lose their lives for so pitifully little. It just breaks your heart, you know?”

  What else is there to say? Miss Mona’s a pretty sharp cookie.

  When we pull up before a tall, brightly lit building, I turn to my sharp-cookie boss. “Where are we?”

  “The Hotel Broadway.” She sighs. “I didn’t think any of you would want to return to the houseboat after . . . well, after what happened. I sure didn’t.”

  I scramble out of the limo and give her a hug. “You think of everything. I hadn’t even considered that.”

  “Miss Andie, it scene of crime,” Xheng Xhi, our new escort says with an alarming amount of relish—and an intense look for me. “Police investigate. A lot.”

  “How about our things?” Glory asks. “I had a ton of camera and video equipment.”

  “Mr. Moffett at the embassy is pretty sure we’ll get everything back by the afternoon,” Miss Mona answers as she enters the lush lobby. “I think we can all make do without our things for a few hours.”

  Aunt Weeby perks up for the first time since the shrieking paddy-wagon-type van hauled us off to the pokey. “Betcha they have all those cute l’il soaps and lotions and shampoos at the front desk! And I’m gonna ask at the desk for a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, and shaving cream. Nice hotels hand ’em out like souvenirs.”

  My idea of souvenirs runs along the lines of the airport’s luscious leather handbags.

  We split up as before: Miss Mona in a single, Glory and Allison together, and Aunt Weeby and me, roomies again. I think of Robert’s fate: somewhere he has his own single—with iron bars—and his own problems if he did kill Farooq.

  I just don’t buy it. But who am I to say?

  The elevator spits us out on the tenth floor and we scatter down the hall. Aunt Weeby leads the way to our home away from home, her loot—as opposed to whatever loot Farooq imagined Allison had—clutched in her happy little fist. True, the rest of us asked for toothbrushes and paste too, but it didn’t mean much to anyone but her. Home comforts have always been important to my aunt, and I know how much this night has rattled her. So if dinky sample toiletries make her smile, bring ’em on!

  When we’re both ready for sleep, me still in my wrinkled Tazmanian Devil pajama pants and blue tank top and Aunt Weeby in her rose silk jammies, slightly worse for the wear in a Kashmiri jail, we kneel between the queen-sized beds and pray, tears of gratitude wetting our faces, our love and trust in God almost palpable.

  As the sun reaches the apex of the sky, we both crawl under the sheets, and in minutes, fall asleep.

  After an uneventful if exhausting evening, and now a hotel breakfast of very American eggs and toast, we’re treated to another Srinagar-style grilling by grim cops. When they finally give up on us, we head out to meet the missionaries who’ve been stationed here in Kashmir since a few weeks after the quake. The Sewards are still stateside, working to raise funds for and more interest in Kashmir’s lingering disaster. Wow! So much has happened, it seems as though we met them in another century.

  We meet our hosts, the Musgroves, outside the Anglican All Saints Church. Trevor Musgrove turns out to be a British man, tall, thin, and dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve
d, button-down plaid shirt. His wife, Emma, a tiny five feet— max—looks stunning in the most amazing green sari. She wears her blond hair coiled into a chignon at the base of her head, and her leather sandals peep out from under the swaths of fabric when she walks toward us.

  After quick introductions, Emma holds out her hands in a gesture of welcome. “We’re so happy to have you join us. Laura Seward has told us a great deal about you and your television network.”

  I take her hands and squeeze. “Laura told us about you and all you do for the kids.” The memory leaves me feeling awkward and inadequate. “You know? I love what I do, but it seems so . . . so inconsequential here.” I turn to Miss Mona. “Sorry.”

  She nods, a shadow of sadness in her eyes. “Don’t apologize, honey. I understand how you feel.”

  I turn back to our new friends. “How can I—we—help you? What’s the plan? I mean, I know we’re heading for the orphanage, but I don’t know any details.”

  “I’m glad you know about The Father’s Lambs orphanage already.” Trevor’s British accent clips his words and seems to give them extra importance. I listen up. “The quake left these children with nothing, and they had precious little to start with. This country was—and still is, after all this time— more devastated than I can begin to tell.”

  The thought of the children’s suffering makes my heart ache. “We’re headed for the mountains, aren’t we? That’s where most of the destruction happened.”

  He shrugs. “It’s quite hard to say what might be worse when we see ravaged villages and neighborhoods just about everywhere outside the few major cities.”

  I shudder. “Ouch. The Lord’s laid on my heart a real hunger to help. Can’t we get going?”

  Emma holds out her hand. I take the slender fingers in my much larger paw again and let her draw me toward the church. “We’re staying with the pastor. Let’s go meet him, pray, and then talk action.”

  “I like your style.”

  She cocks her head and studies me for a minute . . . two. “I’ve heard I’m going to like yours too.”

  A ripple runs through me, but I’m not sure if it’s from excitement, fear, or a motley mix of both. Lord? You brought me here, and I’m so glad you did. Thanks. I want to help, to do something more real than sell bling-bling on TV. Oh yeah! And please keep trouble far away from us while we try to be your hands and feet. We’ve had way more than enough of that already. We sure don’t need any more. And if Robert didn’t do the deed, help the cops find the guy who did.

  Introductions are brief. Then, once the formalities are over, Trevor holds out his hands; Miss Mona takes the right and Glory the left. I snag Aunt Weeby, and still holding onto Emma, I bow my head with everyone else.

  In his rich bass, Trevor says, “Father God . . .”

  After an emotional handful of hours, during which I hear more tales of pain, misery, and courage than I ever thought possible, we leave the Musgroves until the next day, aware that our efforts will change little in the greater scheme of things. Still, not one of us is about to quit before we do our part.

  “Sorry we came?” Miss Mona asks as we board our van.

  “Me?” I glance at the nondescript brown car that’s followed every step we’ve taken since Farooq’s demise. What can I say? They do have a dead body.

  Still . . . “Nuh-uh. I’m ready to get out there and do . . . whatever I can.” I settle in next to Glory. “I’m surprised you ask. Are you? Sorry, that is?”

  “No, honey. But I clocked in more than a few hours on the mission field in my day. I knew what to expect. But you . . . you’re younger, and more a New York City kinda girl than me.”

  “Whoa!” I roll my eyes. “Forgetful all of a sudden, huh? I’m the missionary kid here. You know Mom and Dad never saw the needy African tribe they didn’t want to help. And I was right there with them. I don’t know that I actually helped, but I did share my toys and books with the little girls.”

  “You probably did more’n you know, sugarplum,” Aunt Weeby says. “It’s not always the big things what make the difference. It’s more the loving and doing and being the bit a’ Jesus someone else is gonna see that does the doing for you.”

  At my side, Glory wriggles, shifts the big red bag of electronic whatzits she always has at the ready, then tucks a lock of gleaming black hair behind her ear.

  “Do you have enough room?” I ask.

  “I’m fine.”

  And I’m the Big Bad Wolf; she looks anything but fine. I don’t know for sure what’s bugged her. I have to wonder whether it’s the mission, the poverty, the tragedy, and the earthquake’s devastation, or whether it’s our faith talk that’s got her so uncomfortable. I slant a look her way and notice her downcast eyes.

  I know Miss Mona doesn’t make faith a job requirement, but most S.T.U.D. employees are strong believers. “What did you think of the Musgroves?” I ask, my tone light and my expression—I hope—none too nosy.

  Glory’s eyes pop open wide. “Me?”

  I nod.

  “I . . . I thought they were fine. They’re pretty committed to their work, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t think it’s their work they’re so committed to,” Aunt Weeby says. “They’re just about some a’ the most on-fire, obedient Christians I’ve ever met.” She turns to me. “Kinda like your mama and daddy, sugarplum.”

  I nod but keep my eyes on Glory, who looks at me with what feels more like curiosity, or maybe questions, than before. She must be one of Miss Mona’s rare nonbelievers.

  Allison, our makeup genius extraordinaire, pipes up. “Miss Weeby, anyone would have to go a whole lot farther than Kashmir to find a more real Christian than you.”

  I can just about feel Glory’s surprise. “Really?” she says. “Where’ve you been to . . .” She seems to want a word, a precise one. “To do the Musgroves’ thing?”

  Sadness fills my aunt’s still pretty face. “Can’t say I’ve ever been any too far from Louisville. I did go to Jamaica many, many years ago, and helped make clothes while my late husband worked to rebuild a church that burned down.”

  Allison pats Aunt Weeby’s arm. “Foreign missions aren’t all God calls people to, and you know it, Miss Weeby. You’ve been teaching and living it all out for us to see right back in Louisville. We needed you—still do, you know. Remember when you taught my Sunday school class? I was six years old, and I’ve never forgotten Joseph and his coat of many colors.”

  Aunt Weeby’s laugh is full of mischief. “We sure did make us a good ol’ mess with all that fabric and glue, didn’t we?” “But we made an awesome coat out of those bits and pieces of rags,” Allison counters. “I thought it was the most beee-yoooo-teee-full thing I’d ever seen. Never forgot how Joseph lost his coat and everything else, thanks to his brothers’ jealousy.”

  “Is that all you learned?” Aunt Weeby asks, her voice rich with dismay. “Well, phooey, girl! I went and blew it, then.”

  “No way.” Allison shakes her brown mane for emphasis. “I got it all. The best part was when the drought came and Joseph had become the big man in town. His brothers knew who was who then.”

  Glory’s eyes, which had bounced from woman to woman, land back on me. “Did you do the same class?”

  “Nope. I’m too old. Allison’s a baby compared to me.”

  “Give me a break,” the baby says.

  I wink.

  Glory leans forward. “So Joseph’s not just some old show.”

  Before I can stop them, my eyebrows meet my hairline. “You didn’t know Joseph was real and lived in biblical times?”

  “I knew he was an old guy Donny Osmond played in an old musical.”

  Yikes! Joseph, an old musical guy . . . and Donny Os-mond?

  Aunt Weeby beats me to the punch. “Well then, Glory-girl, let me tell you what all you’ve been missing about Joseph and his coat . . .”

  By the time we get to the restaurant, a favorite with tourists (we’d rather skip Montezuma’s revenge a
nd don’t check out the quaint but not-necessarily-compatible-with-American-digestive-systems local feeding spots), we’ve all learned more about Joseph than we thought possible. He’s one of Aunt Weeby’s Bible faves—understandably so.

  But I digress. For dinner, we do some kind of banquet thing called a Wazawan—waza being what they call the chef. We have yakhni, a cream-colored meat dish with a curd base, and munji-hakh, kohlrabi—ever have kohlrabi?

  Neither had I, until now. Anyway, the Kashmiri delicacies are delicious, and my ever-empty stomach is happy as I chow down with zest. But then, as I close my mouth around some yakhni and white rice, I hear a rumble of whispers behind me, a bit to the right.

  I pick up my soupspoon, shine it on my napkin and, feeling rather Pink Panther-ish, if I do say so myself, use it to look over my shoulder.

  Groan.

  Aunt Weeby places her hand on my arm. “Sugarplum! Was that you? Are you feeling peckish all of a sudden? I bet it’s that nasty ol’ corroded gut a’ yours again. I did bring me a bottle a’ Great-Grandma Willetta’s cod liver oil with me. It’ll set you right in no time.”

  Perish the thought. As a kid, I was a victim of good ol’ Willetta’s favorite remedy many a time—gotta love my aunt Weeby. Don’t want to go there again.

  But Aunt Weeby’s not too far out in left field, either. During my time as a New York gemologist in the famous—or infamous, you choose—diamond district, I achieved a teeny-tiny ulcer problem (times three, but who’s counting?) that disappeared the minute I returned to Kentucky. Go figure. I wind up wrestling the mayhem wrought by two wacky seniors and a blundering cohost, and I heal.

  Only me, you know?

  Anyway, back to our exotic meal. I try to distract Aunt Weeby by shaking my head, smiling, and taking a bite of the munji-hakh that’s grown cold on my plate. Cold kohlrabi? Who’d a thunk?

  But eating foreign food does nothing to put a lid on the tide of murmurs to my rear. A tsunami’s about to wallop us.

  Thanks to my trusty spoon, I can see a slender woman in her late thirties elbow the older lady at her side. They put their heads together, and the older one points. The scene is repeated all around the eight people seated round the table. That’s when I hear the dreaded words.