who looked like the young woman—California Girl—from the dining room, ran around pulling black burqas off Yemeni women to see if one of them was Miss Taylor, now Mrs. Weston. Tossing and turning on the thin mattress, barely covered with a short and narrow sheet, I felt the night would never end.
My only comfort was my own Mrs. Weston, her fur soft beside me.
Bright morning sun poked insistently at my eyes through flimsy curtains. Loud voices echoed in the hall, accompanied by footsteps that thudded and clicked down the tile-covered floor. At first, I thought I might doze through it. Not possible. I rose, then tied my Travel Smith robe over my nightgown, turned the key in the lock, and peeked out the door.
A mass of turbans, futhas, and wiry bodies crowded the end of the hall where the Brit entered a room last night. Among them were a few white-suited hotel employees, calling in vain for order.
I retreated, splashed cold water on my face, donned sandals, jeans, and long-tailed shirt, and automatically finger-fluffed my hair as I sailed into the hall.
As the only woman in the group, I benefited from the natural chivalry of Yemenis. They made way for me. I took one look and gasped. Nearly gagged.
Michael Petrovich still wore the dust-laden, expensive clothes he’d had on last night, but his gray eyes had lost their intent, ambiguous look. They’d lost any look whatsoever.
The man who’d shared my plane ride, with whom I’d laughed and joked, with whom I’d had lunch, had stopped laughing forever and would never invite anyone to lunch again. Michael lay on a rattan mat on the floor, a jambiya sticking out of his midsection. A sticky pool of blood spread under his body. Piles of vomit gave the room an even more unpleasant odor.
I felt a doomsday thud in my own midsection and fought off nausea. An inconsequential thought almost made me laugh: The ugly rust-colored stains didn’t go with his stylish shirt.
CHAPTER 21
“Oh, no,” said he, “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma! Emma is not strong…”
Jane Austen, Emma
I was pushed, gently and politely but unmistakably, by my fellow voyeurs so they could see better. Death is always interesting. Always mysterious. Yesterday a man was in the hotel; he spoke, he walked, he thought, and he ate breakfast with one woman, dinner with another. Today, a body exists, lifeless, its soul departed. The roomful of Yemeni hotel employees stood quiet for a moment.
I had a surrealistic memory of Michael’s even white teeth, his smile, his charm. One day there. The next, not. The combination of vomit and blood on the rattan carpet caused a wave of nausea. A strong mint smell that might have been pleasant at other times couldn’t compete with the stench of bodily fluids.
At such moments, it matters not who the person was. That person is no longer. We all think of ourselves. Somehow, somewhere, we will end like this, more or less. Death unites us. But when it’s someone we know, even slightly, who has left life without warning, the impact is numbing.
I ran back to my room, grabbed a notebook, straightened my shoulders, and reluctantly returned to the murder room. I hadn’t been sent to cover murder, but if it occurred right outside my room, I had to report on it. Those are instincts and duties that don’t go away.
With my return, the group of hotel employees’ chatter subsided into hushed awe. They’d seen me at a breakfast table with this man. I’d known the victim. I had become as interesting as the corpse.
My window of opportunity to stay on the scene would soon close. I pushed my way back into the room. Knowing Michael Petrovich made this hard to do. I rather hoped that the scene I’d glanced at a few minutes earlier had been a mirage, that Michael wouldn’t be dead, after all.
He was, though. He lay there, pale and wasted, eyes open, face twisted. And a couple of flies had started buzzing around some highly unappetizing vomit. An interesting, if disgusting, combination of smells. Blood, of course. Vomit. Something else—mothballs, maybe? Minty. And left-over alcohol. I walked over and gently closed the wide-open eyes, getting approving looks from the Yemenis. A tea cup lay tossed behind the bed. It still had mint leaves in it. Probably cardamom, too. Don’t touch.
I swallowed and focused on a check-list. First, the murder weapon. Was Michael killed with the jambiya? How much blood that would involve? Surely more than this. Would the curve make the knife more deadly? Would it reduce the amount of blood? Could this be a murder by someone known and trusted? Did he die here or was he moved? Was the jambiya evidence of a Yemeni perpetrator? A message to someone? A complete red herring?
It didn’t make sense. A Yemeni jambiya left in a Westerner’s body disturbed the natural order. Jambiyas are revered, passed from father to son. In the normal course of life, jambiyas are used only for dancing at weddings, honor killings in case someone from another tribe offends your women or family, or self defense. Cold-blooded murder doesn’t fall into those categories.
Rather desperately, I tried not to think of this man’s charming smile and teasing on the plane. Oh, for more medical knowledge!
I glanced around the room again. One drinking glass on the little table beside a Black Label whiskey bottle. Empty. Normal water glass? I reached for it. No. Fingerprints.
In the distance, sirens warned that my time in the room was limited.
The hotel employees watched as I checked the scene, their faces showing their surprise and admiration (or disgust?) that a female would remain with a dead body. Yet because I acted purposefully, they treated me as their leader.
A small contingent of police strode into the room, scattering the Yemeni employees. They looked no-nonsense.
Memories of three years ago gave me a jolt to the solar plexus. That dark day I had very nearly disappeared into the depths of a Yemeni jail, or possibly just disappeared. I’d learned there are good cops and bad cops. And I’d learned there are far worse things than being ignored in a male-dominated society. You can be taken seriously as a woman—especially if you are reporting inconvenient truths.
They gestured for me to leave, but then one hesitated and pulled me aside. He spoke some English and carried a notebook.
“You are who, please?” The policeman’s tone was hard, but his eyes held something like regret. Perhaps because he had to question a woman. His suspicious looks alone made me feel guilty.
“My name is Elizabeth Darcy. I am a guest in the hotel.”
“And you, you knew this man?”
Not much use to lie. “I met him on the plane two days ago as we both arrived.”
“And why you are here now?” Suspicion deepened on his face.
“I heard noises and came to see.” I sounded unconvincing. But the combined shock of seeing Michael’s murdered body and of being questioned by Yemeni police unnerved me.
“You will be here today?” It wasn’t really a question.
I nodded. “I will not leave Sana’a. May I leave the hotel?”
“We talk to you first. In one hour. Be here. Please.” Again, this wasn’t a request, but I appreciated the policeman’s politeness.
Shaking, I
