A Steal of a Deal by Ginny Aiken Read Free Book Online Page B

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