Toyota Land Cruiser was parked at the center near the well.
As she was standing there, Charlotte suddenly became aware of a faint noise coming from the vicinity of a small tent set some distance away from the others, which from its position overlooking the valley she assumed to be Larry’s. It sounded like the high-pitched beep of a household smoke alarm. Nearby was a tiny tent whose size and shape identified it as the latrine.
Using nature’s call as an excuse, she set off down the hill to investigate where the noise was coming from.
As she approached the tent that she thought was Larry’s, the beeping grew louder. On the other side, she suddenly came upon an elegant little tableau. A small table covered with a linen tablecloth held a silver tray with a crystal decanter of brandy and a brandy snifter. Next to the table were a canvas chair and a camp stove on which stood a pot of espresso. Finally, there was a telescope mounted on a stand for gazing at the desert sky. There’s nothing like a brandy and a cigar under the desert stars , Bert had said as he reminisced about past digs with Larry.
But, it suddenly struck her, it was now almost ten o’clock. The tableau should have included coffee and croissants, not brandy and a telescope. All at once, she had a sense that something was very wrong. Bert had said that Larry had a cook and several retainers. Where were they? Then she noticed that some papers which must have come from one of the tables in the work tent had blown away and were scattered all over the campsite. If the retainers had been here, they should have picked them up. Also, an animal of some kind had gotten into the garbage.
The camp looked deserted, not just empty.
And why were the flaps of Larry’s tent drawn? In this heat, it must have been stifling inside. The flaps of the other tents were all rolled up.
“Hello,” she said, drawing closer. The beeping was coming from inside. No one answered. After a minute, she repeated herself. “Hello,” she said again, this time a little louder. “Mr. Fiske?” Still no answer. Hesitantly, she opened the tent flap a crack. But it was too dark inside to see. Finally she drew it all the way back. The first thing she noticed was the white veil of a mosquito net draped over the cot. A necessity, she thought, as she waved away the mosquitoes that whined annoyingly around her head. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized that she wasn’t alone: a man was lying face-up on the cot under the mosquito netting. Moving closer, she took in his elegant silk paisley pajamas, like those the movie stars of her era used to wear for lounging around their elegant on-screen apartments. Then her horrified eyes unwillingly registered the rest: the man was Larry, and he was dead. His mouth was open and his face was contorted in a gruesome expression, like those of the gargoyles that adorned the roof ridges of Chinese temples. He must have been stabbed in the chest. The gold silk of his pajama top had a dark red bloodstain in the center. The smell of the fresh blood was metallic, like the end of a freshly sheared copper pipe.
Suddenly, the air in the tent felt unbearably close and hot. She recognized the feeling: it was the same one that still sometimes overcame her on stage, the feeling that turned her legs into mush and her voice into a feeble croak. There it was called stage fright; here it was just plain panic. Time to get out of here . A second later, she was standing outside the tent, hanging onto the tent pole and gasping for breath.
Beep, beep, beep, beep .
It was the travel alarm clock on Larry’s bedside table. Taking a deep breath, she went back into the tent, and pushed the alarm button down. The beeping stopped. There, that was better. Much better . Next to the clock on the bedside table lay a wallet made of alligator hide. Only the finest: “eat well, dress well, sleep well” was his motto. Sticking out of the wallet was a thick wad of Chinese
As she was standing there, Charlotte suddenly became aware of a faint noise coming from the vicinity of a small tent set some distance away from the others, which from its position overlooking the valley she assumed to be Larry’s. It sounded like the high-pitched beep of a household smoke alarm. Nearby was a tiny tent whose size and shape identified it as the latrine.
Using nature’s call as an excuse, she set off down the hill to investigate where the noise was coming from.
As she approached the tent that she thought was Larry’s, the beeping grew louder. On the other side, she suddenly came upon an elegant little tableau. A small table covered with a linen tablecloth held a silver tray with a crystal decanter of brandy and a brandy snifter. Next to the table were a canvas chair and a camp stove on which stood a pot of espresso. Finally, there was a telescope mounted on a stand for gazing at the desert sky. There’s nothing like a brandy and a cigar under the desert stars , Bert had said as he reminisced about past digs with Larry.
But, it suddenly struck her, it was now almost ten o’clock. The tableau should have included coffee and croissants, not brandy and a telescope. All at once, she had a sense that something was very wrong. Bert had said that Larry had a cook and several retainers. Where were they? Then she noticed that some papers which must have come from one of the tables in the work tent had blown away and were scattered all over the campsite. If the retainers had been here, they should have picked them up. Also, an animal of some kind had gotten into the garbage.
The camp looked deserted, not just empty.
And why were the flaps of Larry’s tent drawn? In this heat, it must have been stifling inside. The flaps of the other tents were all rolled up.
“Hello,” she said, drawing closer. The beeping was coming from inside. No one answered. After a minute, she repeated herself. “Hello,” she said again, this time a little louder. “Mr. Fiske?” Still no answer. Hesitantly, she opened the tent flap a crack. But it was too dark inside to see. Finally she drew it all the way back. The first thing she noticed was the white veil of a mosquito net draped over the cot. A necessity, she thought, as she waved away the mosquitoes that whined annoyingly around her head. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized that she wasn’t alone: a man was lying face-up on the cot under the mosquito netting. Moving closer, she took in his elegant silk paisley pajamas, like those the movie stars of her era used to wear for lounging around their elegant on-screen apartments. Then her horrified eyes unwillingly registered the rest: the man was Larry, and he was dead. His mouth was open and his face was contorted in a gruesome expression, like those of the gargoyles that adorned the roof ridges of Chinese temples. He must have been stabbed in the chest. The gold silk of his pajama top had a dark red bloodstain in the center. The smell of the fresh blood was metallic, like the end of a freshly sheared copper pipe.
Suddenly, the air in the tent felt unbearably close and hot. She recognized the feeling: it was the same one that still sometimes overcame her on stage, the feeling that turned her legs into mush and her voice into a feeble croak. There it was called stage fright; here it was just plain panic. Time to get out of here . A second later, she was standing outside the tent, hanging onto the tent pole and gasping for breath.
Beep, beep, beep, beep .
It was the travel alarm clock on Larry’s bedside table. Taking a deep breath, she went back into the tent, and pushed the alarm button down. The beeping stopped. There, that was better. Much better . Next to the clock on the bedside table lay a wallet made of alligator hide. Only the finest: “eat well, dress well, sleep well” was his motto. Sticking out of the wallet was a thick wad of Chinese
Similar Books
