Missing Susan by Sharyn McCrumb Read Free Book Online Page A

remarkable coincidence after all, since they were both from southern California. The travel agency had quite naturally booked them on the same flight, albeit twenty rows apart. But she was nonetheless delighted to find an ally so soon.
    “I’ll hold your passport for you,” said Frances, as they waited in the nonresidents’ line for customs.
    “Thanks,” said Alice. “I hope we get through fast.” She indicated her paper cup. “My ice is melting.”
    “That would be a great way to smuggle diamonds into the country,” Frances remarked. “Burn your finger and hide the diamonds in the ice.”
    “You’re welcome to it,” Alice said. “After this experience, I wouldn’t burn my finger on purpose for all the diamonds in South Africa.”
    The customs official was cheerful, but brisk, and apparently unthreatened by a couple of middle-aged women with well-worn suitcases, one of whom had a finger immersed in a cup of ice. He was an expert on American eccentricities. He wished the ladies a pleasant stay in England and waved them through.
    Frances Coles glanced at her watch. “We still have four hours before the tour assembles. How is your finger feeling now?”
    Alice took a deep breath and eased her finger out of thepuddle of ice. She shut her eyes, waiting for the stab of pain. Instead there was only a mild twinge of discomfort. “It’s better,” she admitted.
    “Good. I think you should switch from ice to something else now. Aloe, if we can find any. Do you suppose there’s a drugstore in the airport?”
    “Bound to be,” said Alice. “I suppose we’d better change some money first.”
    Together they trundled off down the halls of Gatwick. The adventure had begun.
       At two-fifteen that afternoon a small group of travelers began to assemble in the ground-floor lobby of the airport: a married couple, an English-looking mother and daughter in tweeds and sensible shoes, a pretty young nurse, a Canadian doctor’s wife, a silver-haired lady from Berkeley, Frances Coles, and her new friend Alice MacKenzie, whose burned finger was now shiny with aloe ointment.
    Elizabeth MacPherson was the last to arrive, followed by the beautiful Susan Cohen, who had reached chapter thirty-one in the oral history of her life. “And then I got my
second
cat, Wilkie. He’s the tortoiseshell one with the yellow eyes. I have a picture of him somewhere—”
    “Oh look!” cried Elizabeth, more with relief than surprise. “This must be the rest of the tour!” She wondered hopefully if any of them were hard of hearing. “Mystery tour?” she asked, striding toward the group.
    Several of the travelers nodded.
    Elizabeth and Susan added their suitcases to the pile of luggage in the circle.
    “Is the guide here yet?” Elizabeth inquired.
    “Not yet,” said the tall silver-haired woman consulting her watch. “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s still on Berkeley time.”
    The rest of the tour members offered her local times rangingfrom two-twenty to two-forty. Elizabeth noticed that there was only one man in the group, a tanned and genial-looking gentleman with peppery hair. He wore a T-shirt that proclaimed ERIK BROADAXE RULES PRETTY GOOD . From this evidence, Elizabeth deduced that he was an American; that he had been to the Jorvik, the Norse exhibit at York (whence the T-shirt); and that he had a good sense of humor, always a pleasant discovery in a fellow traveler. His wife, who was half a head shorter than he, was blonde and smiling, and looked equally good-tempered.
    “Is everybody here from California?” asked Mrs. Broadaxe (as Elizabeth had begun to characterize her).
    “San Diego,” said the pretty, dark-eyed nurse.
    “So am I!” said Alice MacKenzie. “And Frances is from La Mesa, which amounts to the same thing.”
    “We’re from Colorado,” said the lady in tweeds. Her daughter nodded and smiled.
    “Vancouver.”
    “Berkeley,” said the silver-haired woman, eldest of the party.
    “I’m from