Free Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad Page B

for that. You can’t let men walk all over you. Am I right?”
    â€œYou’re right,” said Amy. Suddenly, she felt better than she had in days. Laila was not going to be a victim. This murder obsession was just a reaction to Amy’s last, very deadly escapade. As a result, she’d been seeing the shadow of murder everywhere. If she had done the second mystery road rally instead of this trip, it would have been the same, except there would be a different batch of prospective killers around each far-flung corner of the world.
    Her whole body relaxed. It was like a revelation, a switch being flipped, and she giggled like a kid, a sound that finally did get the attention of the Armenian family in front. The husband and wife and son all turned and stared. But so what? This was Amy’s moment. Either she had to forget about murder plots once and for all and learn to enjoy her job again or she had to find another. And she wasn’t ready to find another.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” came the announcement, a woman’s voice lilting over the intercom. “Please return to your seats. The captain is now making our initial approach into Istanbul.”

CHAPTER 10
    â€œH e said to go past the sandal street, past the old jewelry kiosk on the left, and then a right at the jewelry shop on the corner.”
    â€œThey’re all sandal streets and jewelry shops.” Barbara Corns looked down one long, confusing arm of the bazaar, then turned ninety degrees and looked down another. She did this once more and gave up.
    The couple was an island of red, ample flesh bobbing in a moving sea of modest suits and head scarves and dark dresses. The Corns couldn’t be called fat—they were, in fact, fairly athletic—but they were instantly recognizable as people of large appetites and passions. Typical Americans.
    Evan Corns took his wife by the elbow and led the way, showing more confidence than he felt. “You’re the one who forgot the alarm clock,” he reminded her. “I distinctly remember—”
    â€œI brought an alarm. I just didn’t realize you meant that one.” It had been less than a minute since that nice English-speaking man had come to their rescue and given them directions, and already she was disoriented. The sickening scent of two competing spice shops, one directly to her left and one to her right, didn’t help.
    â€œA digital? How are we supposed to do this with a digital clock?”
    â€œI thought you brought it. You were the one in charge of the bomb.”
    â€œShh.” Evan pulled her into an alcove, away from the jostling stream of humanity, where their words might not echo quite so loudly off the vaulted ceiling. “I don’t think it’s smart to say ‘Bomb’ in the middle of an Arab street. Do you think it’s smart to say ‘Bomb’? I don’t.”
    â€œYou just said it twice.”
    Istanbul’s grand bazaar was one of the largest and oldest in the world, a labyrinth of thousands of shops filling dozens of streets, all huddled under one roof, which could be seen from space, if anyone bothered to look. Back in Paris, after they’d discovered the missing clock, it had been Evan’s idea to come here to buy a replacement, something small, with hands.
    The bomb they were speaking of would be primitive. That was the point, to make it seem homemade and low tech. And the object wasn’t to kill, per se, just to obliterate two specific people from the face of the earth. Afterward, if the police could somehow trace the remains back to the point of sale, then, Evan figured, a crowded Arab market would be just the place.
    Evan and Barbara had tried to think up something other than a bomb. Nothing else seemed as easy or as final. They felt a little guilty about the prospect of setting off some kind of international incident. But who knew? If they got lucky and the bomb left no remains, the whole