Safari

by Parnell Hall

  “Of course he’s not gay.”

  “Are you sure? I can’t imagine any straight guy not being interested in you.”

  Alice came walking up.

  Victoria said, “Oh, my god! It’s your wife!” in an exaggerated stage whisper. “She caught us! Act natural!”

  Alice laughed. “Are you stealing my husband?”

  “I’m trying.”

  Alice shrugged. “Take him.”

  “Take my husband—please,” I said.

  “Stanley, she’s too young for Henny Youngman.”

  Apparently she wasn’t. “That’s take my wife—please,” Victoria said. “Take my husband—please would be Henrietta Youngman.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, pointing at Alice. I shouldn’t have. Siding with Victoria at Alice’s expense was a bad husband move only slightly worse than selling mommy’s firstborn child for crack.

  Amazingly, Alice took it well. “You certainly did,” she said. “But if you’re going to take him, pay attention to the medical disclaimers: ‘Persistent exposure may cause headaches, nausea, incredulity, frustration, uncontrollable rage, and divorce.’”

  “Sounds like quite a catch,” Victoria said.

  “You have no idea.”

  I was pleased and surprised by Alice’s tolerant reaction. It wasn’t until we were on our way to dinner that it hit me. Alice wasn’t angry about Victoria at all. Because Alice didn’t see Victoria as a threat. Alice saw Victoria as a young girl, so far my junior that any flirtation she might indulge in would be the totally platonic ribbing of a sweet, elderly man. And Victoria could kid about it in front of Alice because she saw it that way too. Alice and Victoria were sharing a joke in which I was the butt of their humor.

  That kind of spoiled my dinner.

  39

  EXTRADITION

  “STOP BY MY TENT,” CLEMSON said after dinner.

  “Where is it?”

  “Follow the river.”

  “Huh?”

  “Walk downstream. It’s right there.”

  “I can go out by myself after dark?”

  “Take a flashlight.”

  “What if there’s lions?”

  “Go around them.”

  At least I didn’t ask him which way was downstream.

  I went back to my tent, where Alice was getting ready for the shower. Our bathrooms didn’t have individual showers, we had a communal one like back in bush camp. A line was already forming for it. I got my headlight, started out of the tent.

  “You’re not taking a shower?” Alice said.

  “Clemson wants to see me.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “No kidding.”

  I had no problem finding Clemson’s tent. I went in, found him sitting on his cot wearing nothing but a bath towel. Without his safari outfit he looked particularly pudgy and unathletic. It was hard to believe this was the same guy who went crashing through the underbrush chasing lions.

  “I’m waiting for the shower,” he explained. “The staff bathes last. Just like everything else. The tourists are always first. You didn’t shower?”

  “I skipped mine to make this meeting.”

  “Talk to the boys on your way out. They’ll set you up.”

  “What did you want? Just a progress report? Because there really isn’t any.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

  “I thought you thought it was one of Daniel’s buddies.”

  “That would be nice.” He grimaced. “I don’t mean that. I mean it would be nice if it wasn’t one of us.”

  “But you think it is?”

  “I got the report from the lab.”

  “I thought you had it already. It was arsenic.”

  “That was the autopsy report. This is the lab analysis. They did tests to see how the arsenic was administered. They figured it was in the drinking water, which was how the staff would have done it. They filled the bottle. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t in her food either.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In her brandy.”

  “Brandy?”

  “She had a flask of brandy. In her tent. She had a snort at night before going to bed. Which certainly mucks things up. The staff wouldn’t have poisoned her flask. They didn’t know she had it, and wouldn’t have had time to look for it. If one of the staff wanted to poison her, he’d put it in the water bottle which was right in plain sight.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “The police think so too. So now it’s very likely the killer was one of us.”

  “Why did it take so long to get the report?”

  “I actually got it yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was killed three days ago. That’s still a long time.”

  Clemson said nothing.

  “You got the report before,” I said. “You just chose not to act on it.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “I didn’t get the report until we were on the river.”

  “You turned your cell phone off. That’s why you didn’t get the report. You turned your cell phone off until we were safely out of Zambia. That’s why Duke was running after us in the parking lot. He’d probably just heard.”

  A voice outside the tent called, “Shower ready.”

  “You guys go first, then fill it up again,” Clemson said.

  “So now the U.S Embassy will step in,” I said.

  “What U.S. Embassy?”

  “The Zambian one.”

  “We’re not in Zambia.”

  “The Zimbabwean U.S. Embassy.”

  “But no one’s been killed in Zimbabwe.”

  “Can’t Zambia extradite them?”

  “Who? You can’t extradite a tour group. You have to extradite a person. What person do you want to extradite? I have no idea who did it. You have no idea who did it. I’m sure they have no idea who did it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I said. “What happens when we go back to Zambia?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. As soon as we’re back in Zambia, the Embassy will step in. You’ll all be detained, the tour will be shut down, and I’ll be ruined. But never mind me. How happy are you going to be missing your flight back to the states?”

  “They can hold us?”

  “It’s a murder. So I need you to step up your investigation. Hell, I need you to make an investigation. I can’t see that you’re doing anything at all.”

  “We’re on the river.”

  “Not today, we weren’t. What did you do today?”

  “Watched a cheetah kill an impala.”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  “Yeah. One of the librarians. Pam.”

  “Did you initiate the conversation?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You didn’t, did you? She spoke to you. She spoke to everyone. She’s the one making the investigation.”

  “So why didn’t you invite her into your tent? Not dressed for it?”

  “It’s not funny. We’ve only got a day and a half on the river. I can stretch it out a day, but that’s it. We gotta go back. I need something by then.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “The wind’s dying down. Tomorrow we’ll be back on the river. When we stop for lunch, I’ll make the announcement. Tell them about the lab report. Then I’ll wander off on some pretext or other. That will get everyone talking. You’ll be able to talk to everybody because you’ll have a reason. Talk to the librarian particularly. See what she’s found out. Take her into your confidence. At least make her think you are. She have any ideas so far?”

  “She suspects Jason.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Moody, morose loner. Isn’t that how the neighbors always describe the killer?”

  “You read a lot of fiction?”

  “I read the newspapers. So she suspects Jason.”

  “It’s not that she suspects
him. She thinks Alice suspected him.”

  “Oh, she knew that, did she? Interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. Vague referent. By she I meant Pam, not Alice. Pam knew Alice suspected Jason.”

  “Never mind the linguistics. Are you saying you knew Alice suspected Jason too?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Duke told me.”

  “How did he know?”

  “From questioning the guests.”

  “But Pam didn’t tell him.”

  “He figured it out.”

  My opinion that it would be a wonder if Duke ever solved the crime was morphing into a wonder that he hadn’t solved it already.

  “If you knew Alice suspected Jason—”

  “Why didn’t I place him under surveillance and take away all sharp objects? Alice was not the authority on the crime. After she’s killed, her views take on more weight.”

  I wandered back to my tent. Nothing ate me. That was the good news.

  The bad news was I had to solve a murder and I didn’t have a clue.

  40

  ALARMS IN THE NIGHT

  I DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. NOT surprising after chasing a cheetah, being charged by an elephant, and asked to solve a murder in forty-eight hours or less. But what really kept me up was Malarone and our unflushable toilet.

  I needed water.

  Yes, I know it was the middle of the night. But our bathroom was small, our tent was small; they occupied basically the same space. I was going to flush that toilet if it killed me. Which, considering the wildlife I was apt to encounter late at night, was entirely likely.

  Nonetheless, I hauled my portable sink out to the bush shower, stood it under the shower head, and pulled, hoping more of the resulting water would go in the sink than on me.

  It didn’t. The shower was dry as a bone. Probably to be expected.

  All right. Plan B.

  I made my way down to the dining area. The big table was bare. So were the serving tables. The liquor had been put away, probably to keep the staff from getting drunk, or, more likely, the guests.

  There was a cooler underneath the table. It held soda and beer. If I was lucky, the ice in it would have melted.

  I wasn’t lucky. The soda and beer were gone, and the ice had been poured out.

  There was a metal pitcher. It sat on the table for the people mixing drinks. It was empty, of course, and it wouldn’t have been enough. But it was a pitcher.

  Plan C.

  I dragged the portable sink down to the bank, filled it by dipping the pitcher in the river. It worked fine. In no time at all the sink was full. Of course it was heavy and hard to carry with water sloshing around. I had to take the pitcher up to the table, come back for the sink. Even then I had trouble. Halfway back to the tent I considered pouring some of the water out. I also considered checking into a hospital, hitching myself up to an Imodium drip, and never taking Malarone again.

  It was about then it struck me that I was damn lucky my splashing about hadn’t attracted a croc.

  I finally got back to the tent. The trick now was to get through to the bathroom without waking Alice.

  The tent flap was a problem. It didn’t open wide enough to carry the sink straight in. I had to take it sideways. That aimed the light in Alice’s direction. I backed out, turned around, took the other side in first. It worked relatively well. Alice said “Mmmph,” turned over, and went back to sleep.

  I wrestled the sink into the bathroom, dumped the water into the toilet. I could practically hear the Hallelujah Chorus as it flushed.

  And I still had half a sink worth.

  I was a genius.

  Life was good.

  I lay down on my cot, switched off the light, basked in my victory.

  Until I remembered the pitcher.

  I’d left it on the serving table. Nothing wrong with that. Except I’d dipped it in the river. And no one knew it. They’d use it without washing it and poison the camp. I’d be Typhoid Mary. Or Typhoid Dengue. Or Typhoid Malaria. Or Typhoid Typhoid. Or whatever the hell you called whatever the hell you got from drinking river water. I didn’t mean Typhoid Malaria. What an idiot. I meant Malaria Mary. And—

  I sat up in bed, fumbled for my headlight, switched it on. I slipped my feet into my hiking boots, tied them off loosely without bothering to lace them all the way, and went out.

  Walking by one of the tents I heard a little half-moan half-cry. It was quickly stifled. Whose tent was that? I had no idea. But if that was what I thought it was, it must be Simon and Trish. Unless the librarians were lesbians. Or the guys were gay. Or Victoria was into her sister. But, no, it had to be Simon and Trish. Which wasn’t fair. Why should they be the married couple having all the fun? The guy didn’t even paddle well.

  I went back to the table. The pitcher was still sitting there. I should have brought a pen and paper to leave a note. I wasn’t going back to get it. I improvised. I took the pitcher, scooped up a little dirt with it, and lay it on the ground with the dirt half-in half-out. They’d have to wash it.

  I wondered if they’d wash it in the river.

  The tent was quiet on the way back. Clearly, Simon had no staying power. But he had gotten lucky. I wondered if I should wake Alice up, tell her about it. Point out such activity was permissible.

  I figured I’d have more luck with the crocodile.

  I kicked off my boots, snapped off the light, and got back into bed.

  I lay there in the dark and pretended I didn’t need to use the toilet.

  41

  RUDE AWAKENING

  I DREAMED CLEMSON WAS WRESTLING a crocodile. I was rooting for the crocodile because I had winners, and I didn’t want to wrestle Clemson. I think first prize was Victoria, or Annabel, or a threesome with the two of them. Victoria was rooting for Jason, which made no sense to me, and Alice was rooting for me, which did, only if I won she wasn’t going to let me keep the prize because it would have clashed with the other objects in her wall unit, which really made no sense because I wasn’t about to hang Victoria on the wall. And the losers had to dance with Duke, which I didn’t want to do because he could send them directly to jail. And Keith walked by making a Trish face just to mock me for not being allowed to paddle. I wanted to say something to him, except I was onstage in a play I’d never rehearsed and didn’t know the lines and I couldn’t wait for intermission because I really had to go to the bathroom only we were at our second river camp and they didn’t have bathrooms, just bedpans kept under the cots.

  I woke up to a bloodcurdling scream. I’ve heard the expression, but I think it was the first time I’d ever heard the scream. If my blood didn’t curdle, it must have been the drugs I was taking. I sprang out of bed and nearly collided with Alice, who had just come back from greeting the sunrise.

  I hopped into my safari pants and followed her out.

  People were emerging from their tents in various stages of undress. Keith was shirtless and proud of it, striking poses for anyone willing to look. No one was. They were all gathering in front of the tent where I’d heard Simon and Trish the night before. Something must have happened to one of them. I saw Simon in the crowd, so it had to be Trish. How could it possibly be Trish? You’d think she’d be immune from anything bad happening for making the Trish face.

  She was. I spotted her in the crowd. She was pushing forward, trying to see what was going on.

  I pushed past her, tried to reach the tent.

  I was prevented by Bono, who blocked my way and said “No, no,” just as if he were telling me not to paddle.

  I was having none of that. We were on land, not water. I ducked around him to the entrance of the tent, peered in.

  One cot was empty.

  Clemson knelt next to the other, hunched over the woman in it. He heard me and turned his head. His eyes were wild and crazed. He looked like he was making a Trish face.

  I saw why.

 
; The woman in the cot was Pam.

  Clemson’s hunting knife stuck out of her chest.

  42

  POSTMORTEM

  “THIS IS A DISASTER,” CLEMSON said.

  “No one really thinks you did it,” I assured him.

  “Of course I didn’t do it,” Clemson said irritably. “I mean it’s the end of my business.”

  “It’s also a little hard on Pam.”

  “How can this have happened?”

  Clemson looked as if his whole world had collapsed, which in effect it had. The tour was on hold and most likely canceled. All tour members were confined to their tents, with the exception of Edith, who had a corpse in hers. She had taken a sedative and was asleep on Clemson’s cot. A staff man was watching outside.

  No one was allowed to leave until the police got there, which they would. The actual police, not just the park ranger. A whole gaggle of officers and detectives along with various big shots from the U.S. Embassy eager to throw their weight around. This time it was the diplomatic trifecta, a murder of an American citizen in Zimbabwe, and the cast of Mandingo would be arriving en masse to rain on Clemson’s parade.

  Clemson and I were seated at the dining table. It had the advantage of being near the coffee urn, which still had some foul dark liquid in it.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” I told him.

  “It might as well be. This business is all I have. My wife left me, took the house, the car, and most of the cash. She had a hell of a lawyer. I had to pay him too. Never understood that.”

  I didn’t understand divorce law either.

  I was sure Alice did.

  “Hey, look. If the police clean this up quickly—”

  “Yeah, sure,” Clemson said. “It’s a triple homicide, only one of which took place in this country. How long do you think it’s going to take a government bureaucracy to sort through that?”

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “You know what losing my business does to my alimony? Absolutely nothing. I gotta keep paying it.”

  “How long until they get here?”

  “Four or five hours. Depends how long it takes to get their act together. They have to drive down from Harare. Probably start dribbling in around lunch.”

  “We’re having lunch?”