The restitution of stolen art is a complex and somewhat subjective process. Huub Konijn and Bernice Dijkstra are often at odds over how the rules and procedures should be applied and followed. Who would you side with, Huub or Bernice? Why?
Does the author describe the intricacies of the claims and restitution processes well enough for you to understand them? Disregarding the plot twists in the second half of the novel, do you believe either Rita Brouwer or Karen O’Neil presented enough evidence to be considered the rightful owner of Irises?
Join the discussion on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.
Down and Out in Kathmandu
A Backpacker Mystery
Book One in the Adventures of Zelda Richardson series
“A book I’d like to mention to any readers thirsting for some armchair adventure.” – Beth Green of The Displaced Nation
"“Better than anything else I've read lately, this one was a joy to come back to daily."- Amazon VINE VOICE review
“The author brings Nepal to life. The descriptive detail leaves no doubt that she has been there and done that, and the vivid prose takes the reader along for the ride.” – Author Robert Krenzel
Zelda wants to teach children English and 'find herself' in Kathmandu. Ian wants to get stoned and trek the Himalayas. Tommy wants to get rich by smuggling diamonds.
How their stories collide will leave you on the edge of your seat!
Travel from the dusty, tout-filled streets and holy sites of Nepal to the sultry metropolises and picture-perfect beaches of Thailand, as Zelda and Ian try to outsmart the smugglers and escape Asia alive.
A fast-paced, thrilling travel mystery sure to captivate readers thirsty for some armchair adventure.
Similar to The Beach, Are You Experienced?, Losing Gemma and Backpack, Down and Out in Kathmandu: A Backpacker Mystery is the perfect book for lovers of backpacker fiction and (mis)adventure novels.
Available as paperback and eBook at your favorite online retailer.
Find direct links to buy Down and Out in Kathmandu at: http://www.JenniferSAlderson.com and https://www.facebook.com/DownandOutinKathmandu/.
Turn the page to read an exciting excerpt of Zelda Richardson’s first adventure to Nepal and Thailand...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Down and Out in Kathmandu: A Backpacker Mystery
“Piunu.” Zelda furrowed her brow in concentration, repeating the word to herself. “To eat?” She flipped the card over. To drink. “Damn it, I’m never going to remember all these words!” she screamed into her pillow. She’d made the stupid note cards in hopes of learning Nepali faster, but they didn’t seem to be helping one bit.
If only her family would converse with her in Nepali, then she would surely remember more. The Naga’s were nice people and all, but they were clearly more interested in practicing their English with her, than putting up with her halting Nepali. It was Parwati’s doing, Zelda suspected. With her children’s final exams coming up soon, they could certainly use the practice. But didn’t Parwati understand that she only had two weeks to learn basic Nepali? Otherwise how was she going to teach those cute little kiddies English if they couldn’t understand her? Zelda sighed deeply, staring at the flash cards on her nightstand. Just once more, come on, you can do it, she told herself, forcing her hand to pick up the thick pile and begin flipping through the verbs once more.
When the letters began to blur together, she flung the cards across her bed and trudged upstairs. The Naga’s were huddled around the television, curtains drawn. Only the father sat apart, leafing through an English language magazine, a stock market ticker tape featured prominently on the cover. Their big-screen television blasted out the high-pitched Hindi music so popular in Nepal. Only the lead singer and her video love interest were wearing traditional costumes. The background singers were dressed in Western clothes: pink tube tops, black leather micro skirts, fishnet stockings and silver platform heels. Zelda was amazed they could perform the intricate dances without falling over. Parwati sat perched on the edge of the couch, peering at the screen through finger slits.
“What’s wrong, Parwati?” Zelda asked.
“The clothes. Those girls must be so cold.”
Zelda started to laugh, but one look at the older woman’s face stopped her in her tracks.
Her Nepalese mother continued, “It is shameful that they dress so. I do not like it. These women are a bad influence on my daughter and nieces. And my son will think all women are whores. How can he not, if women dress and act like this?” she sniffled.
Zelda looked at Parwati’s daughter, dressed in dark trousers and a purple cotton blouse. Her son’s skin-tight T-shirt was tucked into his knock-off Levis. Parwati herself wore a sari every day, but her children looked as if they dressed at the Gap. Even her husband fancied Western-style three-piece suits. Since she’d entered their home, Zelda had made a point of wearing a traditional Kurthaa, loose-fitting trousers covered by a long, shapeless tunic. Although it felt as if she was walking around in pajamas all day long, she did it out of respect for the family. Yet after taking a closer look at her Nepalese siblings dancing and prancing around the living room floor, she wondered why she bothered.
A sudden commotion in the front yard sent the family racing to the window. Her father, Mahendra, threw back the thick curtains. The bright afternoon sun was blinding, it took Zelda’s eyes a few seconds to re-adjust. She could just make out an old man and a goat standing in the front courtyard. The stranger was waving at them. Mahendra clapped his hands in delight and ran downstairs, the rest of the family hot on his heels.
“What is it?” she asked. Their excitement was palpable.
Already halfway down the stairs, Nabim called back, “My father’s birthday present has arrived!”
“Present?” Zelda knew it was Mahendra’s birthday today. The whole family had been in the temple most of the morning getting blessed. Because Zelda wasn’t Hindu, she wasn’t allowed to join them. She figured she’d missed out on some amazing ritual, but apparently there was more to the birthday celebration than prayer. She sprinted down the last flight of stairs into the courtyard, excited to finally be a part of a traditional Nepalese rite.
A fat, brown-haired goat was chomping on the family’s hedge. Zelda expected Parwati to start scolding the animal or push it away, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. She and Mahendra were engaged in a furiously fast-paced conversation with the old man, negotiations clearly underway. Zelda held back, trying to work out what was happening.
The old man was wrapped in an enormous white linen cloth that covered his legs like a diaper, then wrapped around his torso. A worn-out red jacket completed the ensemble. A huge kukhuri – a curved knife, its blade easily a foot long and eight inches wide – hung loosely from his waist on a thick leather belt. Zelda could hardly believe the man could stand with it on, let alone lift the thing.
After a few minutes of heated exchanges, they’d apparently come to some sort of agreement. Mahendra clasped the old man on the shoulders and called for tea. The stranger took a flat stone from his jacket pocket and sat on the ground, cross-legged. He drew his impressive knife and began sliding the stone across the blade’s edge, sharpening it.
“Nabim, what’s going on?” Zelda asked.
The boy’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “You’ll see, it is a surprise!”
She squatted down next to him, sipping her drink, waiting.
After a while the man rose and re-sheathed his knife. Slowly he approached the goat – now chewing up Parwati’s hibiscus plant – singing to it. He caressed its head, massaging its neck. Zelda was entranced. The goat stopped chewing, letting the man lead it into the middle of the courtyard.
Mahendra whispered something into Nabim’s ear. The boy sprung up and ran back inside, returning moments later with the biggest cooking pan in the house. The family watched intently as the old man calmly walked around to one side of the animal, continually massaging the animal’s neck as he mov
ed.
The man began singing harder, louder. The rhythm was mesmerizing, his broken voice transfixing. Zelda felt her body swaying in time and her eyelids growing heavy. Before her eyes closed completely, the goat let out a last bleat, then WHAP! In one smooth motion the old man unsheathed his knife and brought it down hard, precisely in the middle of the goat’s neck. He raised and lowered it again quickly, severing the last vertebrates. The goat’s head fell with a thump onto the ground, blood spouting profusely out if its neck. Nabim ran towards the goat’s flailing body, holding the pan under its severed neck until the animal’s knees gave way.
As her family began cheering, Zelda felt faint, grabbing at the grass for support. Her brain refused to acknowledge her retina’s last transmission. Yet there were specks of red on her green tunic. Zelda started to wipe them off, but stopped short of touching the fresh blood. Her stomach was doing summersaults. Do not puke, do not puke, became her mantra. The rest of the family was still clapping and singing, her father beaming with pride.
Zelda felt as if walls were closing in on her, she had to get away from this gruesome scene. She tried to stand but her legs weren’t cooperating.
Her sister Ranjana laughed heartily, poking her in the ribs. “Are you hungry, Zelda?”
She could feel herself turning green as realization sunk in. Zelda clutched at her stomach as she tore upstairs, reaching the family’s western-style toilet just in time.
*
“Zelda, are you in there?”
Zelda lay on her bed with a cold cloth over her forehead. She had never seen a real, live animal killed before, and certainly not for food. It was far more gruesome and disturbing than she could have imagined. Less than an hour ago that cute goat had been in her courtyard, eating her mother’s flowers, and now it was being hacked into bits on her rooftop patio. The whole house shook with every swipe of the blade. How in God’s name was she supposed to eat that poor animal tonight? The thought made her want to become a vegetarian.
“Yeah, I’m in here.” she called out wearily.
Nabim and Ranjana peeked into her room. “We want to show you the surprise. But maybe now is not a good time, if you are not feeling well?”
Another surprise? Good Lord, what next. “Okay. I guess now is fine.” Zelda laid the wet cloth on the bedside table and sat up.
“It’s my father’s birthday cake!” Nabim announced joyously. He held back the curtain to her room, revealing Kreepa the servant girl, holding a pan. The same pan Nabim ran to get before they killed the goat. Now it was filled with blood; thick, dark and congealing.
Zelda could feel the vomit rising. “That is disgusting!” she shrieked, covering her mouth in horror.
Her Nepalese siblings looked crestfallen. “But this is a very rare delicacy. My father is most pleased with his present.”
“But I thought the goat was the present. Oh right. Oh God.” She wanted to burst into tears but was too shocked to even do that. A rare delicacy? They were kidding, right? She studied Nabim and Ranjana’s faces for glimpses of mischievousness. They seemed to be serious. Zelda gulped. She had promised herself before coming to Nepal that she would eat and drink whatever was put in front of her. If it was good enough for the locals then it was good enough for her. But there had to be limits.
Behind the curtain she could hear her mother gasping in shock. “What are you doing?” Parwati yelled.
Finally, Zelda thought, we’ll get to the bottom of this practical joke.
Her mother whipped back the thin curtain, her face a mask of pure rage. “Put that back in the kitchen at once! Your father will kill you if you spill even a single drop. Go upstairs and help with the goat. Now!” She turned to Zelda, her expression softening slightly, shaking her head. “Children.”
Zelda’s face fell. Her brother and sister weren’t kidding around. She gulped hard, returned the cloth to her forehead and lay back onto the bed, trying desperately to think her way out of eating goat’s blood cake for dessert.
* * *
Available as paperback and eBook at your favorite online retailer.
Find direct links to buy Down and Out in Kathmandu at: http://www.JenniferSAlderson.com.
Rituals of the Dead
An Artifact Mystery
Book Three in the Adventures of Zelda Richardson series
Zelda Richardson’s back and embroiled in another exciting art mystery. This time she’s working at the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam on an exhibition of bis poles from the Asmat region of Papua New Guinea – the same area where a famous American anthropologist disappeared in 1962. When his journals are found inside one of the bis poles, Zelda is tasked with finding out about the man’s last days and his connection to these ritual objects.
Zelda finds herself pulled into a world of shady anthropologists, missionaries, art collectors, gallery owners, and smugglers, where the only certainty is that sins of the past are never fully erased.
Join Zelda on her next quest as she grapples with the anthropologist’s mysterious disappearance fifty years earlier, and a present-day murderer who will do everything to prevent her from discovering the truth.
Art, religion, and anthropology collide in Alderson’s upcoming art mystery thriller, Rituals of the Dead, Book Three of the Adventures of Zelda Richardson series.
Order Rituals of the Dead now via your favorite retailer.
For direct buy links, and to find out more about Rituals of the Dead: An Artifact Mystery, visit: http://www.JenniferSAlderson.com and
https://www.facebook.com/RitualsoftheDead/.
CHAPTER ONE
Rituals of the Dead: An Artifact Mystery
August 17, 1962
“Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour. Dip, scoop, pour.” Nick Mayfield’s dried lips cracked open as he repeated his mantra. Just a few more inches, then she’ll float as the survival guide had explained. He leaned against the t-shirt and bits of plank filling the gashes in the sides of the canoe, willing the stream of seawater to stop pouring in faster than he could scoop it out.
The sun was slowly descending, growing in size as it neared the horizon. Bands of pink and orange streaked across the sky, intensifying in color by the second. The new moon was barely a sliver. In an hour’s time, he would be plunged into darkness. By then, he should be able to paddle back, he reckoned.
Nick squinted to orient himself, thankful he could see an emerald belt of jungle rising in the distance. He must be in Flamingo Bay, he reckoned, and not too far from land. Still, the expanse of blue-green water between him and the shore was vast. A strong wind tried to push him sea bound. Only the weight of the water and a few crates of barter goods still filling its hull kept the canoe in sight of land. Nick sighed. He was in for a long paddle back once his boat was seaworthy again.
Nick stopped scooping to reposition the jeans tied to his head, arranging the legs so that they covered most of his sunburned back. His thoughts turned to the eight rowers who had jumped overboard hours ago. Had they already made it to shore? Nick wondered for the hundredth time if he should have abandoned ship and swum back with them. Though his faith in his survival guide was unwavering, the water was rushing in extremely fast. The holes were too large to plug completely.
Nick gazed again toward the shoreline. He was a strong swimmer. He knew he could still make it to land if he had to, yet he wouldn’t leave his boat unless there were no other options. His guide made clear you should never abandon ship until all attempts to save it have failed. It was the captain’s code. Okay, the real captain had jumped overboard hours ago, but still. It was Nick’s collection trip that went amiss and his supplies now bobbing in the waves close to his crippled watercraft.
Nick shook his head in disdain, certain the locals had given up too quickly. They all sprung into the water and began swimming as soon as they had discovered the first leak. If only they hadn’t moved that bag of beads. Then the water wouldn’t have filled the hull so quickly. Nick bashed his coffee tin onto the bottom of the canoe as he sc
ooped, his irritation manifesting itself as Albert Schenk entered his mind. That Dutchman should be here helping me, Nick thought. His fever couldn’t have come at a worse moment.
A few feet away, a gurgling noise made him jump. The second canoe finally took on more water than it could handle. As soon as the holes in both were found, he’d cut it loose along with the makeshift platform connecting them together like a catamaran. Nick’s face paled as he watched its stern slowly rise until the canoe was perpendicular to the water’s surface. The platform hung off it like a starched flag. Nick watched in fascination as it stood stock-still seemingly frozen in space and time before suddenly disappearing into the sea. Several large air bubbles broke on the surface, the only sign the boat ever existed.
Nick gazed down into the dark water and redoubled his efforts.
Inexplicably, a can of tobacco soon rose from where the canoe had gone under, and it bobbed next to him. Its airtight container would make a useful floatation device, Nick thought, resolving to keep it in sight. Almost all of his supplies had gone under as soon as he cut the second canoe loose. The rest he had thrown into the sea in hopes of making his boat light enough that the two holes in the stern would rise above the water’s surface. Not that he had to worry about wasting supplies. He had plenty more stored in Agats. Losing these trading goods was a minor delay, not a setback.
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