The group moved on, all, that is, except Chastity. She stood looking about her, then took a book of matches out of her bag and lit one. It burned as she watched her mother, now hanging on Emile's arm. With a little cry, she dropped the burning match and licked her fingers. The match sputtered and died in the sandy soil.
"That girl is disturbed," Jamila said that evening, taking the lid from a dish and inhaling the heavenly aroma. We were on the outdoor patio of Restaurant Les Oliviers, a lovely place at the edge of town, sharing a specialty called koucha, with fish, potatoes, lots of green olives, peppers, and onions in a spicy tomato sauce. I'd ducked my responsibilities of dinner with the gang to meet Jamila. Not that it wasn't legitimate. We were bringing the group to this same restaurant a day or two later, and we had arrangements to discuss. Still, it felt something akin to skipping classes or reading under the blankets with a flashlight long after I was supposed to be asleep. The restaurant was on four or five different levels, a series of outdoor terraces that cascaded down the side of the hill, with a terrific view of the harbor and the yachts and colorful fishing boats that shared the marina.
"She is. No wonder, though. Her mother is absolutely ignoring her."
"Marlene is spending time with Emile, I notice," Jamila said. "Or trying to, anyway."
"I don't know whether she's having much success there, but for sure Chastity is suffering because of it. I don't know what we can do about it."
"I think we both just have to spend as much time as we can with her. I don't like the idea of her lighting those matches. You don't think she had anything to do with that fire at the hotel, do you?"
"No," I said. "I don't. I talked to the policeman overseeing the investigation. The fire started in the mattress--they even found traces of the cigarette that had started it--and the fuel was simply lighter fluid. She may have spilled some. The smoke detector was disconnected. I think Kristi had herself to blame for that one."
We both enjoyed our food and wine for a while without speaking. "Isn't that a new ship in the harbor?" Jamila said, breaking the silence. "That big one, with all the lights. I wonder if it's someone's yacht. If so, I'd like to meet them."
"It does look nice," I said. "Maybe we could stow away on it. Leave the whole group behind."
"Tempting, I agree." She laughed.
"This restaurant is splendid, though," I said. "The food, the view, everything. I'm glad we did this, even if I shouldn't have."
"Me, too," Jamila said. "And we do have a reason for being here. We need to discuss the evening. I'm suggesting we make it a folkloric night. You know, belly dancers, snake charmers, that sort of thing."
"Yuk," I groaned.
"I know," she said. "But people like it. Have some more wine."
We talked for a while about how it would all work, and what it would cost, and finally got the details all nailed down. The owner joined us for a moment or two to close the deal.
"I guess this is not exactly your average tour, Jamila," I said. I'd been wondering how she felt about tourists dying every other day. "You're probably wondering what awful thing you did in a past life to deserve being the successful bidder on the land portion of this tour."
She shrugged. "Accidents happen," she said. "You've just been unlucky on this one. Both of these people were very careless, wouldn't you say? Diving like that, and if Kristi disconnected the smoke detector and then fell asleep, well, I'd have to agree with you that she brought it on herself."
I was tempted to tell her about my dream, and my conversation with Rob, both of which had convinced me that Rick's death was far from accidental. I held my tongue, though. I didn't know her well enough to confide in her, although I wished I did. It was strange being the group leader. I felt very responsible for everyone's welfare, but at the same time, I didn't feel I could be friends with any of them, except perhaps Emile, whom I'd known before.
"It's too bad about the publicity, though, for both of us," Jamila said. "We were hoping, and I'm sure you were, too, to have a good write-up in that American magazine."
"In that regard we may have been lucky, Jamila," I said. "I don't think Kristi was too keen on this tour, or this country."
"But she seemed very positive!" Jamila exclaimed. "I'm surprised."
"I was, too," I said. "But take my word for it. She thought the ruins were boring."
"Carthage? The tophet? How could she?" Jamila looked indignant at the criticism.
"Are you as surprised as I am that Aziza and Curtis haven't packed up and gone home now that's she's out of hospital?" I asked.
"Yes, I am," she said. "If I'd been the one pulled out of Kristi's room barely conscious, I'd have headed straight home as soon as they'd let me."
"Me, too, and I can't help thinking Aziza shares our feelings."
"It must be her husband who wants to stay," Jamila suggested. "What was she doing in that room anyway?"
"She was out for a stroll and noticed that the door was open, and went in to see if there was a problem, I guess. What do you hear from the rest of them?"
"Actually, other than the fact that people are dropping like flies, to use Curtis's expression, I think the tour is going quite well. People seem to be enjoying the sights, and everyone likes the hotel, despite what happened. Everyone has concluded that Rick and Kristi were . . . what's that Jimmy was always calling them?"
"Idiots," I said.
"Idiots," she agreed. "They seem to have almost forgotten all about it. They all seem very nice."
"Nice" wasn't the first word that now came to mind, although I didn't voice my disagreement. Before I could say anything, a loud burst of laughter caught our attention. I looked about for the source of the noise. The place was almost empty: It was just us; a bunch of giggling schoolgirls having soft drinks on the terrace above; a group of four businessmen, smoking the chicha on the terrace below; and, over at the far end of the main terrace where we were, a large group of what appeared to be Americans, about ten of them, enjoying a meal together. It was one of those occasions, apparently, that called for many toasts, and rounds of applause at regular intervals.
"Do you notice those people are all wearing the same blue shirts?" Jamila asked. "Do you think they're a sports team? The fellow sitting at the head of the table could be the coach, or something."
"Could be," I said. "I've got to go to the ladies. I'll have a look on the way by. Back in a minute."
One of the young women from the sports team table was brushing her long blond hair as I came in. We smiled at each other in the mirror.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I replied.
"American?" she asked.
"Canadian, actually, although I'm here with a group of Americans. How about you?"
"California," she replied. "I'm sort of here with a group as well. We're working in the area."
"I saw you on the terrace. Do the matching shirts have any significance? And that nice star logo on the pocket?"
"We're with an outfit called Star Salvage," she said. "I'm a diver. We're looking for an old shipwreck. I don't know if you can see the ship in the harbor, the big one, from where you're sitting, but that's ours."
"I did see it," I said. "It's lovely. I think I've heard of your company."
"Have you?" she said, looking pleased. "We've found some great shipwrecks in the Caribbean. There's one, the Margarita . . ."