Safari

by Parnell Hall

  I was not so distracted by my thoughts as not to notice Alice 2 managing to chat with various guests. She would get up, take her plate to the buffet, if one can use the term for a single folding table, make a show of adding some salad or vegetable to her plate, position herself next to someone else, and make a token show of eating it. Once I picked up on this behavior, I began clocking her movements. She spoke to Lolita, and she spoke to Lolita’s mother, each separately. It couldn’t have been easy. I wondered what she was asking them. I would have asked her, if she ever spoke to me, but she didn’t. I guess she figured I was the detective and above suspicion. Which wasn’t really logical if she was a murder mystery buff, where the detective as the surprise killer was always an option.

  At any rate, those were the only two I saw her question. She skipped me and Alice, which made four. She was the fifth. That left six members of our party, Keith and his traveling companion, the husband and wife, and the two Hells Angels. I don’t know which of those, if any, she questioned before I took notice. Another question I was going to ask her if she came over.

  But she didn’t. She skipped dessert, some sort of runny pudding I also passed on after an initial bite. I stepped up to the table to trade in my full bowl for a cup of coffee, and when I turned around she was gone.

  I suddenly had a wild premonition I would never see her again, that she would be the member of the party that disappears, stolen away in the night by a marauding band of second-cousin removers.

  I confided my fears to Alice once we were back in the confines of our tent, knowing that she would ground me in reality.

  “You’re wrong,” Alice said, which put things in their true perspective. It was a simple situation and I was reading too much into it.

  It took me a few moments to notice the discrepancy. “But you told me to investigate. This afternoon. Right in this very tent. You told me I had to look into it.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Come on. We had the whole discussion about the sausage fruit and the blow to the back of his head. I said the sausage fruit couldn’t have caused it, and you said I had to investigate.”

  “I didn’t say you had to.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Feel free.”

  “You said it had to be investigated.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I told you Duke wasn’t going to do it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t happy with that answer, were you?”

  “No.”

  “So I had to investigate.”

  “Ah. You volunteered your services. I thought so.”

  “And then you had to go tell people I was a private investigator.” I said “people” so I wouldn’t have to say “the hot teenage chick whose tits I saw through the mosquito netting peep show.”

  “You are a private investigator.”

  “You didn’t have to say so.”

  “You want me to call you a writer? My husband’s a famous screenwriter. Did the screenplay for the Jason Clairemont kung fu movie, Hands of Havoc, Flesh of Fire.”

  “Alice—”

  “I think it’s great that you found the murder weapon. Now Duke’s investigating. The odds that it’s one of us are rather poor. That’s good. It means he’s investigating the right people. If it weren’t for Alice talking about murder mysteries, you’d think so too.”

  It was strange hearing Alice talk about Alice. I was trapped between two Alices. The voice of reason, and the voice of mystery fiction.

  “Come on,” Alice said. “I want to take a shower.”

  “Great.”

  “Not together.”

  “You said come on.”

  “You can take one after me. Put the side flaps down.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re getting undressed. You want to give the other campers a thrill? Put the flaps down.”

  I went out of the tent, unrolled the side flaps. Some of the ties were snarled, so it wasn’t easy. By the time I got back inside, Alice was wearing a bath towel.

  “No fair,” I said. “You send me out and then change.”

  “Don’t be juvenile. Come on, get ready.”

  I pulled off my safari outfit, wrapped a bath towel around my waist.

  Alice was wearing one of the little headband flashlights. She handed me mine. “Here.”

  I put it on my forehead. “I feel like a miner.”

  “Just don’t lose it. Come on, let’s go.”

  The shower stall was a good twenty yards off to the side of the straight-drop toilet. It was a canvas structure quite like it, only taller. Instead of a hole in the ground, it had a slatted wooden platform. There was no running water, of course. Hot water was poured into a bag connected to a showerhead that hung just out of reach. You paraded to the shower in the threadbare towels provided by the camp, and, often as not, stood outside waiting your turn, since our schedule led to all of us needing to shower more or less at the same time, generally before or after dinner. No one showered before or after breakfast. You woke up and hit the road.

  Alice and I got lucky. There was someone in the shower, but no line. As we walked up, there came the sound of the water being shut off.

  “Well, that’s a stroke of luck,” Alice said.

  It was indeed. Moments later Lolita popped out, clad in a skimpy towel.

  “Good timing,” she said. “They just filled the bag.” She smiled mischievously. “Have fun!”

  “Yeah, right,” Alice said. “I’ll go first.”

  “Want me to turn on the water for you?” I offered.

  “I’ll manage,” Alice said, and slipped through the canvas flap.

  “Too bad,” Lolita said. “It’s more fun to shower with a pal.”

  Lolita’s towel was slipping. She untucked it, straightened it, retucked it. The move was incredibly erotic. It wasn’t revealing, just an amazing tease. The dance of the seven veils reimagined as the dance of the one frayed bath towel.

  I felt a rustling in my frayed bath towel unbecoming in a middle-aged married man.

  Hells Angel #2 walked up, bursting her bath towel, just as Lolita left.

  “Someone’s in there?” she said.

  “My wife.”

  “Ah. And you’re a gentleman, letting her go first.”

  “Actually, I tried to pile in there with her. She was having none of it.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Naughty boy.”

  The water shut off and Alice came out. “You probably better wait,” she said. “The water’s almost gone.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll come fill it up. They know one bag’s not enough for the whole camp. Oh, here they are now.”

  Two of the staff emerged from the darkness, carrying the heavy bucket. I couldn’t recognize either of them. Which was awful. I’d seen them around camp, I just couldn’t distinguish one from another. They didn’t have any single function to identify them. Like a guide or a spotter or an apprentice. They didn’t look happy. I wondered if Duke had been interrogating them all afternoon.

  They untied a rope, lowered the bag with showerhead attached, filled it from the bucket, and pulled it back up again. The whole operation took less than a minute. They nodded, flashing a good deal of pearly teeth, and disappeared into the darkness. So much for the irritated and cranky theory. They were just straining from the weight of the water.

  For a moment I wondered if I should be a gentleman and let Hells Angel #2 go first. A brief moment. If I did, more women would show up and I’d wind up standing there all night.

  “Here goes,” I said.

  “Save me some water,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.”

  I slipped inside, took off my towel, hung it on the nail provided. I reached up, turned the water on. Just in time, I remembered the headlight. I hung it on the nail with my towel, and stepped under the shower. The flow was erratic, but the water was hot. I grabbed a bar of soap, lathered up
my armpits and nether regions, and twirled around in the spray, rinsing the soapsuds off. I didn’t wash my hair, just wet it. It wasn’t much of a shower. I probably broke the record of Speedy Gonzalez.

  I’d like to think I was being considerate and saving water. If the truth be known, I was also trying to get out of there before an amorous Hells Angel ripped the canvas aside and climbed in with me. Anyway, I hadn’t used much water and I figured she’d be grateful.

  I’m not sure she noticed. When I came out, she was deep in conversation with Keith. The young man was looking boyishly slim in his bath towel. I must say I resented every rippled muscle. The only consolation was, for Keith maturity surely would be a bitter disappointment.

  I switched on my headlight, made my way back to my tent.

  Alice, of course, was completely dried off and ready for bed. Her bed.

  I dropped my towel on the ground.

  “Stanley!”

  “What?”

  “Must you?”

  “Must I what?”

  “Put your clothes on. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Glad you noticed.”

  “Good thing the tent flaps are down. You’d be the talk of breakfast.”

  “You think I’m that spectacular?”

  “I think you’re that ridiculous. Why are you so sexed up? Did Victoria hit on you?”

  “Victoria?”

  “Yes. Her name’s Victoria. Her sister’s name is Annabel. Was she flirting with you?”

  “Victoria’s the young, horny one?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “Alice, I’m an old noncom. I’m lucky if I can guess a woman’s age within twenty years.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes. Yes, she’s the nymphomaniac. If she wasn’t hitting on you, you’re even older than you think.”

  “I’m much older than I think. No, she wasn’t. I think she has a crush on Keith.”

  “How could she not have a crush on Keith? He’s young and good-looking, Stanley.”

  I pulled on the T-shirt I sleep in and lay down in bed. I was not a happy camper. I was the oldest man on the planet. No one found me attractive.

  Not even Victoria, the amorous Hells Angel.

  19

  OVERSLEPT

  ALICE 2 WASN’T AT BREAKFAST. It took a while to notice because everyone drifted in. It began, as usual, with the sight of John and Mowangi grilling toast over the campfires while an assortment of murder suspects came and went, loading the buffet table with plates of food from wherever they were cooking it.

  I couldn’t eat a thing, but did, actually chewed my way through two large slabs of toast. I washed it down with particularly bitter coffee. I put sugar in it, something I never do. It immediately dissolved. No surprise there. It was a wonder it didn’t dissolve the spoon.

  Alice was up early. Alice 1, my Alice, the Alice of my eye. She couldn’t sleep, per usual, was up and out and greeting the dawn before I knew there was any dawn to greet.

  She wasn’t the first to breakfast, however. When we wandered over, the other married couple was already there. I still didn’t know their names, and I wasn’t about to learn them, because no one brought their water bottles to breakfast. The easy way would be to ask them, but at this phase of the trip not to know their names would be insulting. I figured the only thing to do was bluff it through until I stumbled on their names by accident.

  The Hells Angels wandered in right after me. I knew their names now. Victoria and Annabel. Keith walked in shortly after that with his traveling companion to be named later, followed by the other two women in the party. I didn’t know their names either, but it didn’t matter. To me they would always be Lolita and her mother.

  Alice was conferring with Clemson. I think it had something to do with camera settings. I tuned right out, considered having another piece of toast. I wasn’t about to risk whatever the other slop they were dishing out was. Not in my delicate Malarone condition.

  Hells Angel #2 sat down next to me. I realized I knew her name. Before I could use it, she spotted Keith, bounced up and skittered on amorous Hells Angel feet across the campsite to continue the conversation they’d been having the night before. Assuming they hadn’t hooked up in the meantime. She didn’t seem like Keith’s type, but then I didn’t know what Keith’s type was. Yes, I did. Lolita.

  Alice dropped into the chair next to me long enough to stash her backpack and admonish me to keep an eye on it, a lose-lose proposition. In addition to being responsible for the whereabouts of the backpack, I was now responsible for its contents, as in, “Are the tissues in my backpack?” “I have no idea.” “Well, you had it.” And off she went to the buffet table, inspecting every last item as if she had a cast-iron stomach. She in fact does not, though she was reacting to the Malarone far better than I.

  Breakfast progressed. Food was consumed, conversation resumed. It all related to the events of the coming day. There was no talk of the death of Daniel.

  By the end of breakfast, Alice had drifted off god knows where, and I was sweating out the guardianship of the backpack. Should I sit here and mind it until she came back, or did I assume she had gone to the tent and take it there? If I went to the tent, Alice would demand to know why I’d abandoned my post at the campfire. And if I stayed at my appointed spot, Alice would demand to know if I was a moron who intended to stay there all day.

  While this was going on, I noticed Clemson summon one of the breakfast-cooking, hot-water-for-showers-toting staff men over and engage in a whispered conversation, whereupon the young man took off in the direction of the tourists’ tents.

  To increase my dilemma, Clemson announced that the walks would be taking off in ten minutes. I wasn’t walking anywhere without consulting the straight-drop toilet, in my opinion the ultimate authority on hiking. I glanced covetously in its direction and saw Alice returning from it. Excellent. I waved to her, but she veered off in the direction of our tent.

  It was too much. Alice was going to stay in the tent until the last minute, and when she came back I’d have to run off to the straight-drop toilet and hold up the hike. And Alice would blame me for it.

  As I sat there in helpless frustration, Hells Angel #2 brought her backpack and sat down next to me. Under the circumstances Alice wouldn’t hold it against me if I passed the buck. Surely I could ask Hells Angel #2 for a favor. It would be easy since I knew her name.

  I looked over at her. “Victoria?”

  She didn’t respond.

  I raised my voice. “Victoria?”

  She looked. “Were you talking to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s not Victoria.”

  I blinked. Wrong again. “Oh,” I said. “That’s your sister.”

  “My sister?”

  “Yes. Your sister’s Victoria.”

  “I haven’t got a sister.”

  “The woman you’re traveling with. She’s not your sister?”

  She laughed. “Goodness, no. We barely know each other. We’re librarians. Met on Dorothyl.”

  “Dorothy El?”

  “It’s a list-serve. For mystery readers.”

  “List-serve?”

  She laughed. “You don’t use the computer much. Dorothyl is an on-line discussion group named after Dorothy L. Sayers. You know who that is?”

  “Did she write The Daughter of Time?”

  “That’s Josephine Tey. But you’re in the ballpark. Anyway, we met online discussing Lawrence Block. He had a new Burglar book out after years, and we’re both huge fans. Anyway, she mentioned going to Zambia and her husband doesn’t travel and it turns out it’s much more expensive if you go as a single. My husband’s not much of a traveler either, and—”

  She kept rambling on, but I barely heard. My head was spinning.

  The Hells Angels weren’t sisters. And they weren’t Hells Angels. They were married librarians. And they weren’t named Victoria and Annabel. The woman was talking to me, and I still didn’t know
who she was. I just knew who she wasn’t.

  So if the Hells Angels weren’t the sisters named Victoria and Annabel, who were? The only other women in the party were Alice 2, who was traveling alone, the woman who was traveling with her husband, and Lolita and her mother.

  My eyes widened. My stomach felt hollow as layer after layer of reality slipped out from under me.

  Lolita and her mother?

  At that moment, the staff man ran up jabbering hysterically in dialect and pointing toward the tents.

  Clemson sprang up and ran off in that direction.

  I was right on his heels.

  I was halfway to the tents before I realized I’d abandoned my backpack.

  I kept going.

  Clemson and the staff man reached a tent. The staff man lifted the flap and Clemson ducked inside.

  I tried to follow, but the staff man put up his hand. I didn’t push by him, but I didn’t back up either. I stood my ground, looked around him.

  Alice 2 was lying on her cot. Clemson was trying to rouse her.

  From her glassy-eyed stare and the froth on her lips, I could tell he wasn’t going to have any luck.

  20

  MURDER?

  “SHE DIED IN HER SLEEP.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to think that.”

  “I think that,” Clemson said, “because that’s what she did. She went to bed and she didn’t wake up.”

  “How do you know? Are you a doctor?”

  “It doesn’t take a doctor to know she’s dead.”

  “It takes a doctor to know why. Did you see the saliva on her chin? That doesn’t look like she died peacefully in her sleep. That looks like she was poisoned.”