Death on Tour by Janice Hamrick Read Free Book Online Page B

tour like this one, unless he was really her dad.
    I flipped the page again and gave a little gasp.
    Subj. C and D
    Sisters? There’s a superficial resemblance if you get past the makeup.
    Probably lesbian.
    The older one is hiding something. Must check her purse to see what she got at the hotel.
    Lip balm! It was a lip balm, you old bat, I thought, torn between amusement and outrage. The same tube you stole from me. Who’d have thought that a lip balm from the hotel gift shop would be such a subject of interest to anyone. I hadn’t even noticed that Millie’d been around when I went in. I thought about it for a moment, trying to picture the scene. As far as I could remember, there’d been no one but the clerk and myself in the shop, and I hadn’t seen anyone from the tour in the lobby, either before or after I went in. I pictured Millie hiding behind one of the potted ferns like a character in a bad movie. And why was I the “older one”? I wished Millie were still alive just so I could give her a piece of my mind.
    The sound of voices just outside my window gave me a start. I thrust the items back into the bag as quickly as I could, but the door of the bus swung open and I had no chance to replace it, even if I wanted to. I certainly didn’t want anyone to know I’d been snooping through Millie’s belongings and extras. Hastily I stuffed the entire thing into my backpack. I’d leave it on the bus at the end of the day, I thought. No one else knew it was there anyway, and it wouldn’t be missed. Achmed would find it when he took the bus away to be cleaned, and he could turn it over to Anni.

 
    Chapter 3
    MUMMIES AND MISHAPS
    We arrived at the Egyptian Museum at about four o’clock, as the brilliant light was finally softening into a mellow afternoon and the shadows yawned and stretched gracefully across the lawns like tired cats. The red brick of the museum darkened to the color of dried blood, contrasting with the white stone columns and carvings that accented the massive front doors. A miniature weathered sphinx waited patiently in the courtyard, surrounded by tourists and palm trees. As the bus rolled to a stop with a squeak of brakes and a loud whoosh of hydraulics, we rose eagerly, but Anni waved us back and picked up the microphone.
    “Just a few instructions before we disembark. This is very important. You cannot take your cameras into the museum, not even inside your purses. They are very strict about that here. We will be going through metal detectors and if you have a camera, the guards will make you go back outside to put it on the bus. Achmed cannot park here, so the bus will be gone. You will have to wait for the rest of us here in the courtyard, all alone. Your cameras and anything else you want to leave here will be completely safe because Achmed will stay with the bus the whole time. Do you all understand?” She spoke as though we were children, and not bright children at that.
    However, we all nodded obediently and stashed our cameras in our packs or on the seats before following Anni off the bus. After taking so many pictures, the thought of leaving my camera for an hour or two came almost as a relief. I was tired of the distraction of examining each artifact and site more for good photo angles than for its historic interest. I thought of the old days when tourists in white linen suits sat for hours at the base of a monument, sketching curves and angles because there was no other way to capture the image and because time was a commodity in abundant supply. Not like the seven-day dash we were on now.
    The grounds of the museum were crowded at this hour. Tired tourists sat on the stone benches lining the walkway and rested aching feet. A few children ran about the fountain, dodging the older pedestrians and laughing. Counting aloud, a harried male tour guide circled a small group, brows creased with concentration. We watched through the bars of the ornate iron gates while Anni bought our