A Steal of a Deal (16 page)

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, as if nothing had ever happened, he leans over, plunks another ball on his tee, then does the golfer’s wiggle again. He swings and whacks the ball . . . right at the nearest house’s back door, from where it boings off into the Kashmiri sunset.

In spite of the turmoil inside me, I grin. “Uh-oh!”

With a grimace, he yanks the tee from the ground, and his graceful lope takes him in the direction both balls disappeared. That’s why he’s not here when a bearded, turbaned gentleman throws open the door the ball just hit.

A blitz of angry Kashmiri dialect slaps me in the face. The home owner shakes a fist inches from the tip of my nose. Two more men, similarly haired and clothed, come out of neighboring houses and join the attack.

I step back.

They step forward.

“Sorry, but I didn’t do it!” I show them my empty hands. One of the men mimics Max’s golf style.

I take another step back.

They follow.

“Look, no golf club. No balls!” Where’s Xheng Xhi when I need him? For that matter, where’s Max to take responsibility for his jockiness?

The men complain some more. Then they come closer, surround me, and take turns getting in my face. Fear chills me.

Two of the men shake their fists. The third grabs my arm and squeezes—hard. I’ll probably have a bruise to go with my raging red panic. What can I do? How can I get away from them? What are they going to do to me?

I don’t want to find out, so I apologize even more.

Finally, they shake their heads in obvious, cross-lingual disgust, and go back home.

My feet can’t get me to the farmhouse fast enough. And I’m scared. Really scared. Which makes me mad.

Of course, the first person I see in the courtyard is Max. “Where’d you disappear to? I just had to face down an army of angry villagers back there because of your golf!”

Mr. Magnificent looks at me as though I’ve morphed into a yak. “What are you talking about?”

My hearbeat begins to slow—but not by much. The image of the angry men makes me shudder. “Don’t you remember?

You whacked that ball against someone’s home.”

Red blooms on his cheeks. “Someone got mad?”

“Someone?” I may never be able to get rid of the memory of those scary men. “It was a
bunch
of someones! And they weren’t mad, they were
furious
! I feared for my life.”

Well, that might be stretching the truth a bit. I try to corral my off-kilter emotions, without much success.

“You’re nuts, Andie.”

Upset? Sure. But nuts? “No, I’m not. You hit someone’s house, and then you ran off to get the ball. I was stuck having to try and pacify the angry natives—and I don’t speak their language! Trust me, I was scared.”

He studies me for a second . . . two. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No, Max, I’m not. Three Kashmiri men ran out of their houses, all yelling who-knows-what at me. One even grabbed and shook me. I don’t speak Kashmiri or Indian or . . . or whatever. I had no way to give them a decent apology—for you.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t leave you in the lurch on purpose.”

His apology drains the oomph from my fear. Still, his gear has been a pain—even though yesterday’s games with the kids did bless the little ones. “Did you ever check with Xheng Xhi? Maybe he could have come up with a better place to use as a golf course.”

Max starts up the stairs. “As soon as we delivered the supplies, he disappeared. I couldn’t find him for a friendly putting challenge.”

I follow him. “What’s up with the guy? First, I can’t get him to stop with his questions—his inquiring mind just
has
to know. Now no one can find him. Maybe he’s up here waiting for us to come back.”

“Maybe.” But Max doesn’t sound convinced.

I peek around him and, aside from our hostess who’s dressed in another glorious
salwar kameez
, this one a regal purple, the room is empty. “I think yesterday’s encounter with the gun-toting tribesmen spooked him. He’s gone.”

“Not much of a guide, is he?”

I give him a wry grin. “He’s better than one in jail.”

Max nods. “Or the dead houseboy.”

I shudder. “Did you have to remind me?”

He sits on the corner of the table, a foot on one of the benches. “How could you forget? Your four goons—your word, not mine—haven’t let us out of their sights since we left Srinagar.”

“They didn’t follow Glory and me today.”

He smirks. “That’s what you think. One of them did.”

“We never saw him.”

“I think that was the plan. They probably think they’re being subtle.”

“I guess even runaway rhinos can pull it off every once in a while.”

Surprise, surprise! The runaway rhinos march in. They nod at us, chat with our hostess, then take their places down one side of the table. Yes, the same table where Max has plopped his . . . umm . . . behind. He scrambles up, and Mrs. Xi La sets out a major spread of platters piled high with fragrant food. My stomach growls on cue.

The oldest goon grins and rattles off a string of jibberish.

Great.
Now I’m providing not just Max but also the goons with their entertainment. As I’m about to escape to my room, my hostess calls out my name. “Yes?”

She brings me one of those wonderful
sheermals
and a cup of green tea, a sweet smile on her lined face.

“Oh! Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She bows. “Wel-come.”

“You speak English!”

Mrs. Xi La shakes her head. “Thank you. Wel-come.” She shrugs.

My stomach growls again, so I take a bite of my sweet bread, and then, since it’s so delicious and she’s so sweet, and my day’s been so rotten until she made it better, I throw my arms around her. To my amazement, she hugs me back and smiles again. I’ve made a friend. Too cool.

Munching happily, I head for my room.

“That,” Max says when I find him still in the hall, “was a really nice thing.”

“Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

“Yes, but I meant you. I don’t think you saw it, but she had tears in her eyes when you hugged her. I’ll bet everyone takes her for granted, even though she works nonstop all day.”

“Really? Tears?”

He nods.

I shake my head. “That’s so wrong. She’s great, and I should make sure she knows.”

His eyes twinkle with mischief and something else. Could it be . . . approval? Certainly not admiration—I haven’t done much to admire. But I’ll take what I can get, and go with the approval.

He opens the door to his room. “See ya at dinner, Andi-ana Jones.”

“See ya, Mr. Ma—” I catch myself. There’s no way I’m letting him know I secretly call him Mr. Magnificent. No way. No how.

Nuh-uh.

“Mr. Matthews. You’ve got your moments too.”

My dreams hum with the luscious notes of “Stranger in Paradise” . . .

“. . . The sweetest thing . . . ,” Mr. Magnificent whispers.
“You’re the sweetest thing . . .”

A coy smile on her rosy lips, the lovely young woman with red
hair flutters her lashes. “And you’re the handsomest golfer.”

The brazen black-haired siren slithers up and separates
the happy couple. “Can I please collect your old tees, Mr.
Magnificent? Just as a marvelous memory of your magnificence.
Please?”

“No, ma’am.” Mr. Magnificent lays a strong, manly arm
around the lovely young woman with red hair. “My tees
belong to my lovely headache—”

“Mr. Magnificent!” the lovely young woman with the red
hair objects. “How could you?”

True remorse makes his handsome features droop. “Forgive
me, dear lady with the red hair. I meant my heart’s
delight—”

A scream of joy bursts from the lovely young lady, and
runaway rhinos stampede across the mountains, their hooves
pounding and pounding and pounding—
I bolt up into a sitting position, my heart beating hard against my ribs, my breathing sharp and shallow. No more
Stranger in Paradise
for me.

The pounding resumes. It’s a lot closer than the nearest Himalayan peak. A sense of déjà vu hits me. I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “No, please. Not again, Lord.”

I clutch my green fleece jacket tight across my chest. It’s too cold to sleep in only my cotton tank and cartoon pajama pants. Every millimeter of my body shrieks in protest, but I still get up. A faint spill of moonlight slices in through our small, high window. At my right and my left, Glory and Allison look confused, scared, and as disoriented as I feel.

More pounding assaults our door. “Andie!” Trevor Mus-grove calls out. “Allison, Glory! Ladies, there’s been . . . an incident. Please wake up.”

I start to cross the room, but Allison reaches out, grabs my hand, and scrambles to her feet. We walk to the door, Glory right on our heels.

“Don’t leave me behind,” she cries, her voice high-pitched and shaky.

When I meet Trevor’s gaze, fear tightens my gut, and nausea hits me hard. “Who?” I ask.

“Follow me.”

Once in the great room, I count familiar faces. Max, Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, and Emma Musgrove are all there. So are Rich and Nori, Mr. and Mrs. Xi La, and the four goons. There are also two grim-faced, uniformed strangers, their weapons very much in plain sight.

Mrs. Xi La’s heartrending sobs break the silence in the room. Her husband holds her close, his hand gently patting her back, while he looks devastated.

Bad. The vibes I get are wicked bad.

When I scan the faces again, I know what’s wrong. I know who’s missing. And I no longer want to ask. I don’t want to hear.

But it doesn’t matter what I want.

One of the armed soldiers nods at Trevor. He clears his throat. “Andie, I’m sorry to say, but Xheng Xhi is no longer with us. Mrs. Xi La found him in the courtyard when she went to feed the chickens a short while ago. Because Xheng Xhi was . . . fond of you, these gentlemen will want to speak with you.”

Shivers turn to shudders, and a vise of pain tightens across my forehead. The two soldiers stare, and one takes a step closer.

To my surprise, Max comes to my side. “Are you going to be okay?”

I snort—oh yeah. How elegant of me. “I’m not okay, and I don’t know when I’ll ever be okay again. I can’t believe this is happening again.” I stop myself before I lose control. That tiny pause gives me some perspective. “But I’m way better off than poor—”

“Hush! Don’t say another word!” he hisses. “You don’t know how they’ll interpret whatever you say.”

The soldiers spit out a series of commands—I don’t need a translator to get their tone of voice. Trevor nods.

“Officer Mustafa wants everyone packed and ready to head back to Srinagar in fifteen minutes. Because of the—” he pauses, takes a deep breath “—earlier incident in the capital, the investigation will be handled by the Srinagar police.”

I gulp. “Investigation?”

“Yes, of course,” the Brit answers. “The investigation into—”

“Into the untimely death of Mr. Xheng Xhi,” I finish.

Allison’s hand spasms around mine. “First me, now you. This can’t be for real.”

Glory grips my shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll work out okay like before.”

Miss Mona sighs, shakes her head, but doesn’t speak.

Aunt Weeby says, “Oh, dear. Another one turns up dead. What’s the problem with this here Kashmir place? Don’t their guides know how to stay friends with folks? Everyone has to have enemies or something? No wonder they have themselves so many a’ them crazy wars.”

I turn to Max. “She’s the one you should keep quiet. Stuff like that could launch another skirmish.”

He shakes his head. “She can say anything she wants. She’s not the one in trouble.”

I have a bad feeling about this. I also have a good idea why the soldiers haven’t quit staring at me, but I want to hear it. Out loud. So everything’s out in the open. I plant my fists on my hips. “And I’m in trouble because . . . ?”

“Because everybody saw Mr. Xheng Xhi glued to your side. Because everyone knows he got on your nerves. Because he was last seen alive and kicking right around the time when you and Glory returned from the mine site. And because, for some reason, the guy had a death grip on your stupid Coach bag when they found his body in the chicken’s space. That’s why these gentlemen think you may have had something to do with Xheng Xhi’s death.”

I hear the clang of jailhouse doors come down around me. I’d much rather hear “Stranger in Paradise” as backdrop to my too-weird dream.

Why do these things happen to me?

“There was no reason for me to hurt Xheng Xhi. Yeah, sure. He almost drove me crazy with all his questions, but we needed him to translate so we could get to know the kids at the orphanage. Now we have to go back to Srinagar to answer more questions, and we won’t have the chance to do what we came here for. Common sense says he’s more valuable to me alive and bugging me than silent and dead.”

“First Myanmar,” Allison murmurs. “Now Kashmir. You’ve got some kind of luck, Andie.”

“She’s lucky enough,” Trevor says through tight lips, “that the soldiers find it quite conclusive that Xheng Xhi died hugging her Coach bag. They found signs of a struggle and feel an argument led to the death. Someone used the wooden handle of one of the barnyard rakes to choke him from behind.”