Death on Tour by Janice Hamrick

talking into her cell phone in rapid Arabic and now closed it with a snap. “It is too windy to take a felucca,” she announced with regret. “We will have to travel to the gardens in a motor launch. I am very sorry, but as you can see, it would not be safe.”
    “Will we be getting a refund?” asked Jerry, thrusting out his jaw and stepping forward.
    Anni smiled and patted his shoulder. “No, but you can have an extra dessert at dinner.”
    Jerry glowered, lips parting to start some kind argument.
    From just behind him, Lydia said, “Sounds like someone needs a nap.” Ben laughed. Jerry continued to glower, but made no further protest.
    The motor launch was large, lined with wooden bench seats along the rails and covered with a striped blue-and-white canopy. Kyla and I boarded first and sat together in the middle of one side. As the others streamed on board, Alan followed Yvonne and Charlie. I looked away quickly, but not before noticing he was looking particularly fine in the afternoon sun. Kyla lifted her head and gave him an eager wave, which he acknowledged with a lift of his hand. But he stepped past her and sat beside me. I was sure it was out of politeness, moving to the rear of the boat to leave room for others, but I was pleased anyway.
    He wore jeans and a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I could see the sun-bleached hair on his tanned forearms. I was entirely too conscious that one of those arms rested on the railing behind my back and that a scant half inch of seat separated his thigh from mine.
    So I babbled. I’m not even sure what nonsense spouted from my mouth. The sun was on my face, the wind in my hair, I was seated by a fabulous man, and I was in Egypt, floating on the Nile. And I was happy. Happy in a way I had not been for several years. I felt young and free and wonderful.
    When we arrived at the island, Alan jumped up and helped position the gangplank from boat to shore. He then turned and took my hand to help me walk across. I felt his touch on my hand long after he released me. A special moment, it was ruined when he lingered to perform the same service for Kyla, and then Flora, and then every other woman on the tour. When he offered his hand to Ben, Ben just met his eye and said, “Watch it, mate,” and both men laughed.
    Kitchener’s Island was a jewel, an emerald haven of life and beauty guarded from the looming dunes by the azure waters of the Nile. We climbed a steep hill from the landing and found ourselves in a miniature paradise. Hundreds of beautiful trees formed a canopy sheltering paths lined with flowering shrubs. Brilliant red hibiscus with blossoms as big as my head competed with miniature orange trumpets that gracefully climbed a trellis arching over the path. The powerful Egyptian sun filtered gently through a green filigree of leaves and branches. It was a gardener’s triumph, a token finger raised defiantly in the face of the Sahara. For, of course, Kitchener’s Island was a human creation just as much as any sphinx or pyramid. The land itself might be a natural formation, but all the plants had been collected from around the world by Lord Kitchener at the turn of the last century and brought to this place solely to satisfy the longings of a gardener far from home. That it had been protected and maintained during the intervening decades was a testimony to its beauty and scientific value.
    A barefoot Egyptian boy waited at the top of the stair holding a packet of bookmarks made of papyrus and painted with colors that rivaled anything found in the garden. Out of long habit, we steeled ourselves to walk past without eye contact, but Anni unexpectedly stopped beside him and bought a set of bookmarks, then gestured to the rest of us.
    “These are very nice and a good price. They make very nice small presents. Haki is asking only five pounds.” Which was a dollar.
    We obligingly crowded around the boy, who grinned hugely, teeth white against his dark