Free The Illusion of Murder by Carol McCleary Page A

smile, she observed my garments and shoes. Since my entire luggage consists of a single valise that’s capable of holding only the barest necessities for a journey that will take close to three months, I don’t have the luxury to change outfits several times a day like her ladyship and her snooty female friends who waddle down the deck like geese in a pecking order. Each one of these women came aboard followed by a long line of porters shouldering trunks.
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    C OMING TO THE TOP OF A RIDGE , the desert unfolds before us as a purple-gray carpet in the dull light. The road is a stony dirt track hard enough to support the carriage wheels. Far beyond, like a desert mirage, is a vast expanse of water.
    “Lake Manzala,” Von Reich says, “the eastern delta of the Nile. Tanis and our rendezvous with the sheikh are on the other side at a tributary of the Nile.”
    “It looks as big as a sea,” I say.
    “It’s quite large. The Suez Canal actually runs through the east edge of it.”
    A caravan of camels moves across the sands, their long, slender necks flowing in unison with their rocking gait. They give an exotic air to the desert and I cheer up a bit, reminding myself I am away from murderous mobs and the face in the porthole.
    Von Reich purchases dates from a cameleer whose animals are laden with them. It’s my first taste of the oval-shaped desert fruit and I find them sweet and mushy.
    A shadow passes over the sands as a falcon gracefully glides above us, blue-gray feathers glistening in the sunlight. He slants his body to the left and dives. Just before he appears certain to crash into the ground, his claws come out and grab something from the sand. When he soars back up into the sky a rodent is struggling in his grip. I’m in awe that the raptor has spotted such a small thing in this vast ocean of sand, yet at the same time I feel pity for the little critter.
    The two Bedouins riding as our escort to the rear had also watched the falcon and smiled when it captured its prey. With their head cloths around their faces, leaving only a narrow slit for vision, the men appear unfazed by the cloud of dust kicked up by the carriage.
    In their desert robes, mounted on camels that appear clumsy yet seem to move with the grace of the wind itself, these desert warriors are romantic figures to a young woman.
    “My brothers and I against my cousins … my brothers, cousins, and I against the world,” Von Reich says.
    His comment catches me by surprise. “Excuse me?”
    “The Bedouins have a view of the world that is narrowly restricted to their own families, which is the meaning of the phrase. It’s often spoken by them as the code they live by. It’s said that a Bedouin owns only three things—his clothes, his animals, and his women.”
    “What do the women own?” pops out before I can control my tongue.
    “A lifetime of misery.”
    Lady Warton gives our escorts a frown. “Bathing water is definitely not on their list of possessions. They smell worse than their camels.”
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    W E BOARD A SMALL STEAM LAUNCH that huffs and chugs across the lake. I would prefer a sailboat, but Von Reich says the steam launch is faster and we don’t have the time to spare.
    With my practical traveling cap attached securely on my head, I have a hard time not laughing as Lady Warton struggles to keep her dainty canary feather hat attached to her head with a veil as winds skipping across the water pummel us. I’m envious of the pith helmets the men wear, smartly secured with a chin strap. The lightweight hats made of a corklike material provide shade and holes for heat to escape.
    In their pith helmets and white linen suits, the two men look very much like white colonials coming to do their duty as masters. Lady Warton also wears white, an unfortunate color for all of them since the damp wood seats leave a brown patch on an unmentionable area.
    When the sun comes up, they glow like snowballs.
    Our boat passes a