ensure no one was watching me, I stood, retrieved the bag, and quickly returned to my own seat. I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe I just needed a distraction from my own morbid thoughts, maybe my teacher-sense was on alert. Something about it seemed significant, and there was no reason I shouldn’t satisfy my curiosity. And I definitely wanted my lip balm back.
I held it for a moment, a small navy blue canvas bag with a mesh pouch on the outside for a water bottle and the WorldPal logo in one corner, thinking it was surprisingly heavy. We’d each received one with our information packets and itinerary, although Millie was the only one who brought hers on the bus. For one thing, they were really too small to be useful. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right to snoop through a dead woman’s bag, even for the noble cause of searching out a stolen lip balm. I reminded myself that Millie herself would not have hesitated, and besides, it wasn’t like I was stealing. That did it. My scruples evaporated in the face of such masterful rationalization.
I had to admit, unzipping that bag made me feel like a spy or a crime scene investigator. Or maybe just a common criminal. My heart beat a little faster, and my hands felt clammy. But it was well worth it, because inside was the oddest collection of objects I’d seen in a long time. My lip balm was only the first and least significant of the bunch, but it confirmed what I’d suspected. Millie Owens had been quite the little thief. I saw a silver cigarette lighter with the initials LC on the side, which must belong to Lydia Carpenter. A very nice gold pen that seemed unlikely to be Millie’s—probably Jerry’s if I were to hazard a guess, although there was nothing to identify it. A beaded coin purse I was almost positive I’d seen in Yvonne de Vance’s possession. A whole book of tear-out postcards. I paused. Well, she probably hadn’t stolen those. They were available in every gift shop and from every vendor on every corner in Cairo. A miniature red notebook complete with zippered case and miniature pen. Millie hadn’t just been a thief. She’d been a full-blown kleptomaniac.
I slipped the lip balm into my own pocket and unzipped the little notebook. Yes, it was wrong, but I hardly hesitated.
The first page or two was just what you would expect. Her own name and address, passport number, and then a list of phone numbers and addresses, beginning with one labeled “Mom.” I felt a little pang of pity. Somehow I hadn’t thought of Millie as having any family or friends. Yet she’d obviously planned on sending the postcards she’d bought. I flipped forward another page and froze. In Millie’s scratchy writing were the words:
Day 1
Meetings at hotel.
Subj. A:
Older than she says she is. Not a day under 45.
Obvious plastic surg.
Lying when she talks about their cars. IF they have them, then they are either leasing or owe more than they are worth. Certainly could not afford this trip.
Diamonds are real enough—how did she obtain them?
Shocked, I thought about the group. Who did she mean? It could be Dawn Kim, Lydia Carpenter, or Susan Peterson, I supposed. None of the other women were close to forty-five, at least as far as I could guess. But I hadn’t noticed any signs of plastic surgery and certainly no one looked as though they were living beyond their means. In fact, as far as I could tell, I was the poorest person on the trip. I wondered what she had seen or heard.
I turned the page and read:
Subj. B
Wants to be admired, but very rude.
Doesn’t like women much. Just a bully or something worse?
Hasn’t been to Paris, no matter what he says.
Is she really his daughter?
Well, that has to be Jerry Morrison. Pretty funny and pretty perceptive, at least about the wanting to be admired. I didn’t agree with the last assessment. No pretty young girl like Kathy Morrison would be hanging out with a creepy old man like Jerry, at least not on a G-rated
I held it for a moment, a small navy blue canvas bag with a mesh pouch on the outside for a water bottle and the WorldPal logo in one corner, thinking it was surprisingly heavy. We’d each received one with our information packets and itinerary, although Millie was the only one who brought hers on the bus. For one thing, they were really too small to be useful. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right to snoop through a dead woman’s bag, even for the noble cause of searching out a stolen lip balm. I reminded myself that Millie herself would not have hesitated, and besides, it wasn’t like I was stealing. That did it. My scruples evaporated in the face of such masterful rationalization.
I had to admit, unzipping that bag made me feel like a spy or a crime scene investigator. Or maybe just a common criminal. My heart beat a little faster, and my hands felt clammy. But it was well worth it, because inside was the oddest collection of objects I’d seen in a long time. My lip balm was only the first and least significant of the bunch, but it confirmed what I’d suspected. Millie Owens had been quite the little thief. I saw a silver cigarette lighter with the initials LC on the side, which must belong to Lydia Carpenter. A very nice gold pen that seemed unlikely to be Millie’s—probably Jerry’s if I were to hazard a guess, although there was nothing to identify it. A beaded coin purse I was almost positive I’d seen in Yvonne de Vance’s possession. A whole book of tear-out postcards. I paused. Well, she probably hadn’t stolen those. They were available in every gift shop and from every vendor on every corner in Cairo. A miniature red notebook complete with zippered case and miniature pen. Millie hadn’t just been a thief. She’d been a full-blown kleptomaniac.
I slipped the lip balm into my own pocket and unzipped the little notebook. Yes, it was wrong, but I hardly hesitated.
The first page or two was just what you would expect. Her own name and address, passport number, and then a list of phone numbers and addresses, beginning with one labeled “Mom.” I felt a little pang of pity. Somehow I hadn’t thought of Millie as having any family or friends. Yet she’d obviously planned on sending the postcards she’d bought. I flipped forward another page and froze. In Millie’s scratchy writing were the words:
Day 1
Meetings at hotel.
Subj. A:
Older than she says she is. Not a day under 45.
Obvious plastic surg.
Lying when she talks about their cars. IF they have them, then they are either leasing or owe more than they are worth. Certainly could not afford this trip.
Diamonds are real enough—how did she obtain them?
Shocked, I thought about the group. Who did she mean? It could be Dawn Kim, Lydia Carpenter, or Susan Peterson, I supposed. None of the other women were close to forty-five, at least as far as I could guess. But I hadn’t noticed any signs of plastic surgery and certainly no one looked as though they were living beyond their means. In fact, as far as I could tell, I was the poorest person on the trip. I wondered what she had seen or heard.
I turned the page and read:
Subj. B
Wants to be admired, but very rude.
Doesn’t like women much. Just a bully or something worse?
Hasn’t been to Paris, no matter what he says.
Is she really his daughter?
Well, that has to be Jerry Morrison. Pretty funny and pretty perceptive, at least about the wanting to be admired. I didn’t agree with the last assessment. No pretty young girl like Kathy Morrison would be hanging out with a creepy old man like Jerry, at least not on a G-rated
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