"How's the shop, Clive?" I asked, changing the subject before I got really riled.
"Great!" he said with enthusiasm. "We're reorganizing the place, giving it a whole new look."
"What's wrong with the old look?" I said, gritting my teeth.
"Nothing, really. But Moira has some neat ideas about making it look sleeker."
Sleeker! Why would anyone want an antiques shop to look sleek? And what was my friend Moira doing messing around with my store while I was out of the country? Now I was really steamed.
"I'd appreciate it if you and Moira wouldn't make that kind of decision when I'm not there," I snapped. "This is my shop, too."
"Lara, you really are in a mood. If you don't like it, we'll put it back the way it was."
"Goodbye, Clive," I said. He was right. I was feeling touchy, maybe even downright testy. I reminded myself that Clive and Moira had been thrown together because of me. I'd been in trouble, and worried about me, they'd taken to talking on the telephone, then in person, wondering if I was all right. And suddenly, I think, they realized there was something more. I was left to come to terms with their relationship. Eventually I'd agreed to get back in business with Clive, influenced by the fact that it was really important for Moira that Clive and I get along. What I hadn't expected was that she'd start having a say in what I still considered to be my, not our, store.
All in all it was not a happy conversation, but it was all sweetness and light compared to the one I'd have later in the evening with Briars Hatley minutes after he had returned to the auberge.
"Sabotage," he said. "In a word. Since you asked. And when I get my hands on the proof that sniveling little creep did it, his life won't be worth much." His face was flushed and he had one fist upraised. Tall as he was, it was not a pleasant sight, but I was too angry to be intimidated.
"I don't care about your problems," I snarled. "You were supposed to be at Kerkouane at two. You weren't, we were. And incidentally, we would have had a much better excuse than you do, if we hadn't shown up."
"And what big excuse might that be?" he asked.
"Oh, you think having a member of your tour party die wouldn't have been a good enough reason?"
"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed.
"Rick Reynolds is dead, that's what," I said. "In case you haven't heard."
"What do you mean, dead?" he said.
"I mean dead dead," I said. What part of the word dead did the men I was having to deal with that day not understand? "He dove into the shallow end of the pool."
"My God," Briars said, lowering his arm and taking a step back. "When?"
"Early this morning," I said. "Right about dawn, probably."
Briars slumped in a chair. He looked genuinely shocked. "My God," he said again.
"What do you say we start this conversation all over again?" I said, sitting opposite him. We were having this little altercation in one of the reading rooms upstairs, with the double doors closed so that we could say what we really thought. "I was asking you what you were arguing with Rick about last night, and why you hadn't shown up at Kerkouane to be our guide this afternoon as you promised you would. I may have sounded rather annoyed. I am sorry for that. My excuse, if I'm permitted one, is that last night I sprained my ankle, found out Kristi Ellingham was going to write awful things about the trip in her magazine; then, this morning, I found Rick face down in the swimming pool. After that I had a phone conversation with my business partner, Clive, who is also my ex-husband--don't ask!--who seemed to feel I should have made sure this drowning kind of thing didn't happen, and that furthermore, I should overhaul the entire Tunisian economy to get Kristi Ellingham a diet cola. It has been a rather stressful twenty-four hours, and it has made me, as Clive pointed out, rather touchy."
"I'm sorry, too," Briars said. "I really am. Your tour is very important to me, and I don't want to mess up here. God knows, we need the money, but it's more than that. I enjoy telling people about the archaeology of the area, and I want to do a good job. If I am to be permitted an excuse, it is that last night Hedi reported that two of our crew had quit to join a competitor, gone over to the dark side, as it were, and that the bank was getting nasty about the payroll. Then early this morning he came to tell me that he had discovered someone had gotten into the office and trashed the place, including some critical equipment. When I saw what had happened, I just lost it, I'm afraid. I went off to find the individual I think--I am quite certain--is responsible, a guy by the name of Peter Groves. He and I have been rivals for the last year or two, and he's the one who hired two of my people away from me. I found him down in Sousse, and I'm afraid I made something of an ass of myself, yelling at him, even worse than I've been shouting at you now. I have a bit of a temper. You may have noticed. He denied it, of course, and then some of his people threatened to call the cops, and I finally took off."
"I accept your apology," I said, "and hope you do mine. I have something of a temper, myself. Maybe I'm tired, but none of this is making any sense to me, Briars. You work on an archaeological project. Who is Peter Groves? An academic from another university? Is that what you're saying? You're going to hurl learned dissertations at one another? Why on earth would anyone be interested in trashing the office of an archaeology project?"
He looked puzzled for a moment. "Ah," he said at last. "I see what you thought. Obviously I have a lot to tell you," he went on, looking at his watch. "And it's time for dinner. We have to go and be charming for a few hours. Isn't tomorrow a rest day for the tour, a day to spend on the beach or whatever? The group doesn't need our help and wise counsel to do that, do they? How about we get together tomorrow at some point? I'll take you to the site, and we'll talk. I promise I'll explain everything. Agreed?"
"Agreed," I said. "I've had enough for one day."
But my day wasn't over yet.
I WAS STANDING high on a cliff above the sea, in an emerald-green bathing suit. Behind me the earth was in flames. I knew I must choose between the fire and the water, but I didn't know what to do. Around me there were voices: Briars saying, "It won't happen again, I promise you," and Curtis, "I told you to take care of it, you incompetent little twit." I turned and looked back to a burning city, then at the sea as it crashed against the shore below. Decision made, my arms stretched up above my head, palms facing out; my elbows, straight as can be, hugged my ears. My legs pushed off and out and I left the burning soil. The water rushed up to meet me. As I streaked toward it, I saw Rick Reynolds in the foam of the waves. A single strand of blood streamed from his head, and swirled with the motion of the water. Then I saw the rocks, huge ones, just below the surface. I knew I would be dashed to pieces. I pictured bone splintering, my skull smashed like a ripe melon thrown against a brick wall. I awoke gasping, my heart pounding. It took a second or two to get my bearings.
Then I realized I did smell fire, not in my dream, but there and then. I got out of bed and went out into the hall to find smoke seeping from under the door that led to Kristi Ellingham's suite. I tried the door but it was locked. I yelled as loudly as I could, and almost immediately heard footsteps behind me. Ben shouted, "Get out of the way," and then hurled himself against the door. Nothing happened.
"Together!" Cliff said, coming up behind us, and the two men, in unison, hit the door with their full weight. Mercifully the lock snapped, the door flew open, and Ben ran into a wall of smoke. Cliff tried to follow him, but Nora held him back.
"No, Cliff," she cried. "Your heart!"
I started into the room, but Cliff grabbed me. "Ben won't know where the bed is in that huge room," I said to Cliff. "I do." I wrenched myself free and dashed into the haze.