A Steal of a Deal Read online

  “That, ladies and gentlemen,” I tell my fellow worshipers a month later, my smile warm and inviting, “is why Eastside Christian Fellowship’s putting together a number of missions teams to head out to help the victims of the October 2005 Kashmir earthquake.” I point to the back of the room. “Peggy is at the table, waiting to take names, addresses, and phone numbers of all those who want to join me.”

  What’s that? you ask. What’s all that “join me in Kashmir” thing? And from the woman who didn’t want Miss Mona to go nuts on the idea of a trip to . . . well, Kashmir?

  Let’s just say Laura Seward is one indomitable woman.

  No matter what, I’m not going to let Miss Mona bamboozle me into any kind of gemstone shopping foray while I’m in the sapphire-depleted, politically embattled nation. I don’t want to become acquainted with the Kashmiri authorities, not on the wrong side of their weaponry.

  Or the Taliban, either.

  Oh! You didn’t know? Well, yeah. Those guys are buds with the mountain tribesmen up between Kashmir and Pakistan. Near the mines.

  And you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that’d be my fate were I to succumb to Miss Mona’s efforts. I find enough trouble on my own. I don’t need her—or the Duo’s—help. Then there’s the Max factor (pun intended) to consider. Once I had decided to go, I came in for more than my fair share of teasing at the hand of Mr. Magnificent.

  “So you’re abandoning me to Danni’s tender mercies,” he had said as we watched the lingerie host do her thing right before the start of one of our shows.

  I smirked. “Serves you right.”

  “Why? Because I didn’t major in rockology in college?”

  “Maybe.” I winked. “And it’s gemology, you goof.”

  He scoffed. “I’m not that dumb, Andie. And you didn’t major in footballology or golfology either, but you don’t see me sticking you with a blond piranha in silk and acrylic nails.”

  Even though the description of our fellow employee was somewhat accurate, and even though I’ve been on the receiving end of her attacks a time or twelve, that day my conscience reared up its head. “Um . . . how about if we try to find one—just one—of Danni’s redeeming qualities?”

  “How about if you find it and then let me in on the secret?”

  I swatted his mile-wide shoulder. “Max! That’s mean.”

  He crossed his arms. “And some of your snitty comments about me aren’t?”

  “I haven’t been snitty—as you put it—in a loooong time.” I tipped up my chin. “I promised Miss Mona I’d play nice, and I have kept my promise.”

  Well, I’ve tried. How hard? Hmm . . . I don’t know. My success? Um . . . well, that’s up for interpretation. But I have my reasons. You know.

  Max made a major production of looking down his fine wool-clad legs, his arms and hands, twisting one of those arms around to pat his shoulders. “My puncture wounds argue otherwise.”

  The channel’s theme song blared out over the airwaves, saving me from further embarrassment. I do have a smart mouth. It’s my eternal downfall, and I try to work on it all the time. I pray about it, try to harness it, but don’t always succeed. And Max has been at the receiving end ever since he showed up at the network.

  He did come to his job unprepared. A meteorologist is no geologist, much less gemologist, so Max stepped in with no prior gemstone knowledge. But I did go overboard for a while. I’m reformed. Now.

  I believe.

  I trust.

  I pray.

  In any case, I hadn’t been giving him a whole lot of chances to stick his size 12s in his mouth of late. Especially not onscreen. Just to make sure, I asked, “You remember everything we went over for today’s show?”

  He waved an index card. “See my crib sheet? I’m ready.” Danni wafted up in a pungent cloud of MauraLee, the ultra-spicy fragrance from the S.T.U.D. channel’s signature cosmetics line. The smile she gave Max would’ve curled a lesser man’s toes. The glare she gave me would’ve curled a lesser woman’s lip.

  She then turned her back on me and put a claw . . . er . . . hand on Max’s chest. “I hear we’ll be sharing airtime again,” she cooed. “I just love it when Andie takes off on one of her vacations.”

  He stumbled back and hemmed and hawed inane nothings.

  Whoa! From the way she’d said that, someone not in the know would have thought I made it a habit to miss work. In the almost year I’ve worked for Miss Mona, I’ve only taken a handful of days off. My advance trip to Kashmir for the mission groups will be my first real vacation.

  But why cast pearls before swine? I stepped toward the set. “Let’s get the show on the road,” I told Max through clenched teeth. “It’s cabochon day.”

  Our show went off well. Max only made one mistake . . . or two, but who was counting?

  “See ya tomorrow,” I told him as I walked out of the ladies’ room, where I’d stored the gemstones we showed our viewers in the studio’s vault. Yes, the ladies’ room. Miss Mona, in her unique wisdom, had installed the vault’s only door so that it opened from the ladies’ room. “I’m off to church.”

  As we headed for the lobby, Max gave me one of those looks of his. You know, the ones that see too much. The longer I know him, the better he gets at them. “This trip means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  “There are lots of people who need just about everything out there. I want to do something. Someone has to go and set up the program. It might as well be me, since I do want to help.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  I squirmed.

  He said, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with lingering guilt for not following in your parents’ footsteps, would it?”

  Did it? Nah . . . not really. “It’s about the Kashmiri people, Max. Not me, not my parents.”

  “And how about your friend Peggy? Is she going to Asia too?”

  “Didn’t you know? She just learned she’s pregnant again. She can’t go to a country where the disaster has left a rich stew of disease just under the surface.”

  “So it really is all about you.”

  “No! It’s not all about me. It’s all about Kashmir.”

  “Then why argue with Miss Mona? Why can’t she come with you? The two of you can take a side trip to check out the old mine sites, take some shots for the show, and she’ll be happy. That won’t stop you from doing your Mother Teresa thing.”

  Yuck! “What’s gotten under your skin?”

  He shrugged as he strode out of the building. “Maybe a zing or two from the expert. I do learn, you know. My college four-oh GPA wasn’t a fluke, even though it wasn’t in your vaunted gemology.”

  Ouch! I suppose I deserved that. I really was snotty when he first arrived. And he still sets my teeth on edge every once in a while. Especially when he’s at his most appealing. That’s when he wakes up all my self-preservation instincts. They, in turn, make me revert— Nuh-uh! No way. I refused to examine what that said about me. Or my feelings for Mr. Magnificent.

  All I knew was I really needed a vacation from Max. But I wouldn’t say it out loud even if the Spanish Inquisition’s master torturer got ahold of me.

  I plastered on a cheerful grin. “Gotta move, gotta groove, my man! Go ahead and talk to Danni about your upcoming shows. I’m sure she can’t wait to get you all to herself.”

  The look he gave me as I headed out the door didn’t bear description. Then I went to my meeting.

  Which is turning out to be a minefield of a different kind. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. The Daunting Duo are there, wacky minds made up.

  “Of course we’re coming,” Aunt Weeby chirps once we say our amens at the end of our closing prayer.

  “We wouldn’t dream of abandoning the poor folk of Kashmir in their time of need,” Miss Mona echoes.

  “And I’m the real, the one and only Queen Nefertiti!” I counter, waggling a hank of my red hair. “See? It’s jet black.”

  They give me pitying looks—the ones that
tell me they’re sure I’ve finally gone off the deep end.

  “Good! You get the picture. That’s how real you two sound. I’m not buying this story you’ve cooked up.”

  They swap guilty glances.

  “Oh, all right.” Aunt Weeby’s pout could’ve caught rain. “I missed out on all the excitement all y’all had in Myanmar. I’m not letting this chance pass me by. Besides, I’m your auntie. I have to look out for you.”

  I snort. “I’m thirty years old, for goodness’ sake. You’d think I’d be able to go around the world on my own when I want to, especially since that’s exactly what I did for my job all those years I worked in New York. Why are you two so determined to tag along? It’s not the easiest trip, you know. You’re no spring—”

  I see the error of my ways and cut off the comment before I plunge into even deeper waters. Good thing too, since arguing won’t get me anywhere. At least not with the Duo.

  “Why?” I ask again.

  Aunt Weeby’s eyes shoot off sparks. “For the adventure, of course. And see?” She raises her chartreuse-trousered leg. “It’s not in a cast anymore. I’m not grounded, sugarplum. Plus I graduated from that there physical therapy two and a half months ago.”

  “Why, Andie!” Miss Mona clutches her chest. “You know me better than to question me.” She points to Aunt Weeby. “I can’t let Livvy go off to Asia . . . is it Major or Minor? Oh well, it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is I can’t let my dearest friend here hare off to the back of beyond without a sensible soul to look out for her. I have to come along. Besides, you and I are business partners, of sorts. Oh, and in adventure too.”

  Of course, her outrageous statements detonate a disagreement of monumental proportions. And it ends with the predetermined conclusion. I don’t know who argues more strenuously, Aunt Weeby against the idea of a cross-continental babysitter or me against any more Raiders-ofthe-Lost-Sanity-type adventures.

  “Oh, stop it right now, Andrea Autumn Adams!” Aunt Weeby says. “Who all died and made you queen? And don’t go blathering about no Egyptian pyramid woman, either— isn’t she the one with that funny black hair, all flat across the top like some peculiar hat?” She pauses and a quizzical glimmer strikes her eye. “How’d you think they got it to stay that way? Hair is hair, and it doesn’t rightly grow all stiff, you know.”

  The off-the-wall question makes me think she might’ve derailed her streak. I roll my eyes. “Duct tape comes to mind.”

  She purses her lips. “Now, don’t be silly. Besides, you can’t keep us here.”

  I think and think, trying to find another reason, and come up with an off-the-wall argument. “Hey! How about Rio? He needs you. Who’s going to take care of him if you leave?”

  She gives me a vague wave. “I’m sure we can find someone who’ll keep him, a friend, someone from church.” Her brow furrows, and my hopes for derailment rise. Then she smiles. “I have it! We’ll leave him with your friend Peggy. I’m sure her little ones will love having a parrot for a while. So there you have it, sugarplum.”

  Oh well. No derailment.

  She rises to her full five foot three inches. “All the fussing and moaning you come up with won’t change a thing. The Lord’s work needs doing, and Mona and I have us two hands apiece. We can pull up our sleeves and do our part. We’re coming, and that’s that.”

  Why did I even try?

  Miss Mona’s smile reeks of smugness. “I come armed with a nice, fat check too, honey.”

  I surrender to the inevitable and laugh. “You may be wacky, but you don’t ever hold back, do you?”

  “Hold back what?” Peggy says as she sails up, notebook in hand. “Did you see how many signed up? We have an army that wants to shuffle off to Kashmir with you, so you can lead the first group.” She gives me a sassy salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n Andie.”

  Do these things happen to anyone else?

  At least I won’t have to worry about the California gem-dunce surfer boy this time.

  300

  So much for Cap’n Andie and her missionary advance team. As soon as Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby bumped me off the mission team leader’s spot by virtue of their powerful personalities and family pecking order (I’m not about to invoke their superior seniority, you understand), the number of folks on the first team dwindled—dramatically. All the way down to the S.T.U.D. folks they’d signed up the night of that fateful meeting. Something reeks of rotten fish en route to Kashmir.

  Why, you ask? Let me tell you.

  Our “team” consists of Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, Glory Cargill, the newest camerawoman at the S.T.U.D., Allison Howard, our makeup artist, and moi. Yes, Glory has all her gadgets, and Allison her war paint. Get the picture?

  Okay. So I don’t have Mr. Magnificent with me. That’s a bonus. When it comes to Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s crazy schemes, I have to take what I can get.

  We ditch our plane at Srinagar’s airport—after we survived delays, hours of turbulence, hopping in and out of New Delhi, then Bombay—and make our way through immigration, customs, and finally reach the luggage pickup. Surprise, surprise! All our stuff’s here.

  “Whoo-ee!” Aunt Weeby says as we roll our suitcases to the sidewalk outside. “I wouldn’t ever have guessed it’d be this hard getting just five women to this here Kashmir.”

  I wink. “What? You’d rather have done a Star Trek Scottie-beam-us-up?”

  She returns my wink. “Wouldn’t that be fun? The beaming up, that is.”

  “All kidding aside, my dear auntie, I’m with you!” Then I laugh. “Okay. Here’s one for you. What day is it? Yesterday? Tomorrow?”

  “Pfft!” She crosses her arms. “Ask one a’ them foreigners, not me. Normal folks wouldn’t go play with clocks like them time zone things. Tell me that’s not the most turned-around foolishness you’ve ever heard.”

  Do you want to discuss the merits of time zones with her? Me neither.

  I hitch my way-too-heavy backpack a little higher. “All I know is, we’re finally in Srinagar, a whole lot of hours after we left New York. Too bad it’s so late in the afternoon. The sun’s setting.”

  Miss Mona comes to us. “Isn’t it romantic? Dusk is my favorite time of day.”

  Romantic? Dunno about that.

  When I look around, which I’ve tried not to do after the first time I laid eyes on them, I see the dark peaks of the Himalayas outlined in the red of sunset. It’s one of the most breathtaking scenes I’ve ever seen, just not breathtaking as in “Oooooh! I want to move here!”

  No way.

  The mountains around the city, shadowed and foreboding, scream danger to me, especially in contrast to the russet-and-ink-stained evening sky. Those craggy sky-high barricades make me think of cell walls, and that thought crash-lands me right down to immediate reality.

  As Dorothy woulda said, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  Anything can, and very well might, happen here. As it did on our trip to Myanmar.

  Shudders rip through me.

  I silently pray for God’s protection, and then, as I hit my “amen,” Miss Mona lays an arm across my shoulders. “God is great, isn’t he?”

  “Mm-hm.” Totally true. And since silence is a virtue—sometimes— there’s no point infecting her with my wonky feeling until it’s time. Or at least until I have a better reason to do so than a weird reaction to a bunch of spooky mountains.

  “Wish I could draw like God,” Aunt Weeby says. “He didn’t go to no art school to make his perfect pictures. And, see? No black velvet, either. Isn’t that blue sky with a red bottom plum perfect?”

  That’s one way of describing an Asian sunset.

  While I wait for Glory and Allison to join us with their multitude of stuff, I check out the landscape again, but it still doesn’t give me any warm fuzzies. It’s exotic and beautiful, but with a heavy dose of woo-woo that makes me think of questions and riddles.

  I prefer answers to questions.

  The transportation Miss M
ona had arranged beforehand hasn’t shown up, so I soak in the sights at the airport terminal. A number of display cases throughout the cavernous building hold a variety of crafts, anything from intricately carved wooden sculptures to gleaming brass bowls and urns. Other booths are filled with leather handbags and belts and sandals and shoes, gorgeous golden pieces that make this power shopper want to do her thing. But I can’t stick another thread in my bags, much less shoes or belts. I’ll have to wait till we’re heading back.

  Even our fellow travelers offer a feast for the eye. We denim- and khaki-clad Americans pale in comparison to the glamorous Asians in gorgeous red, gold, green, and cobalt silks, cottons, and chiffons.

  Aunt Weeby doesn’t let my visual feast last long. “Didn’t you say some high muckety-muck from the Something-or-other a’ Tourism was coming for us?” she asks Miss Mona.

  Miss Mona shakes her head. “I told you more than that.”

  “Oh, I know you did.” Aunt Weeby grins. “But it wasn’t the most interesting stuff you ever said, so I didn’t bother to remember a whole lot. I reckoned whatever I needed to know, you or Andie would tell me when I needed it. So are they coming or not?”

  I shake my head too—happens a lot around the Duo.

  “One of the deputy directors of tourism may be coming to meet us,” Miss Mona tells her. “Someone from the TASK, the tourism agents group, told me they’d arrange for a director or one of the agents to take us to where we’re staying while in Srinagar. The folks at the TASK are the ones who’ll provide our guides for our whole trip.”

  That’s when I ditch subtlety—and silence. “The tourism group, huh? From the government. Sounds like incoming goons to me.”

  Miss Mona gives me one of her more serious looks—I know when I’m being scolded as well as the next girl.

  I hold my hands up, palm forward. “Hey! I object to that look. You know I’m right. You were there with me. You saw the Myanmar government goons’ weapons. You’ve got to figure with directors and agents and all that, it’ll be a gun-studded trip this time too.”

  “Now, Andie, dear,” my boss says. “It’s a different country, Kashmir is. You need to change your attitude. You don’t know that we’re going to have to have the same kind of supervision all the time—”