Read Online Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 by Dell Magazines - Free Book Online
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I'd tried very hard not to answer questions asked by the other
tourists, and tried to be respectful of the tour leader when she lectured. She
smiled and continued her talk. No harm done.
As we carefully picked our way down the steep, scree-covered slope, the sun
burning and glaring so the buff stone was nearly white, I asked, "How is Steve
Osborne feeling? Has anyone seen him today?"
Randy hadn't been the only one suffering from a change in water and diet.
Jack shrugged. "I heard he was definitely happier after he decided to stay at the
hotel today. I think he'll be okay by tomorrow. Shame he's missing all this." He
held out a hand to indicate the vista, the brightly caparisoned donkeys, the
sheer scale of it all.
"But he's been on this tour before? I seem to recall he said so."
"No, but he'd been on another tour with Lale, and they visited this region too.
That's why he wanted to come back. She was a good guide, he fell in love with
the country." He shrugged. "The country's pretty enough, and the sites too, but
the food!" He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed them. "That's what
brought me: cuisine."
We walked over to the Western Terrace and viewed the rest of the statues, which
seemed like a jumbled afterthought. When you've already carved a tomb out of a
mountain, then covered it with a fifty-meter-high mound of buff-colored stone
chips from sculpting a row of thirty-foot-tall sculptures, a collection of heads
and reliefs lying around had to seem a bit of a letdown.
It was hotter than body temperature. I was covered in sweat and a brand of
ancient dust I'd never encountered in New England. I pretended all I could smell
was sunblock, baking rock chips, and camel and donkey dung, instead of me.
"So what do you think those big stone heads would go for?" Eugene Tollund asked
me as we began our descent. "I mean, on the open market?" Eugene was the oldest
member of our group, and I'd been impressed by his energy and enthusiasm.
Eventually, however, I realized he seemed only to care about the monetary value
of things, instead of their intellectual or artistic importance.
"I honestly have no idea. Probably a lot, because it would have to be on the
black market. You couldn't sell something like that legally."
"I thought you said you were an archaeologist?" he said.
"I am." I ignored the derisive tone of his words. "Doesn't mean I know how much
everything I dig up is worth. Mostly it's small fragments of pottery and bone. I
don't do a lot of work studying the antiquities trade, so—"
But Eugene was already on to his next victim, posing questions no one knew the
answers to, so he could prove his astuteness in asking.
An hour later, we were visiting the caves and inscriptions at a nearby site. It
was on our way back down yet another steep slope that I saw Rose Ashmore,
Randy's wife, moving off the trail.
I held my breath. It wasn't for me to say anything. I wasn't her teacher, I
wasn't her mommy. But when she bent over, moved a rock aside, and picked
something up, something that shone in the sunlight, I couldn't
not
speak up.
"Um, Rose?"
She waved at me as she clambered up the hill. A few dark, fly-away curls blew in
the warm wind, and she brushed them from her face. If her husband was like a
short, stubby mushroom, she was more like a stalk of asparagus, thin, tall,
awkward. "I'm fine."
I tried to find a nice way to put it, then finally didn't bother. "You found
something? Picked it up?"
"No." She shook her head, her brown eyes wide. She licked her lips.
She was lying.
"Well, I'm sure you know you should leave anything you see on the ground. These
are protected sites."
"Uh-huh."
It was all I could do. I didn't have any authority, just the
obligation—and that self-imposed—of speaking up.
But maybe my seeing her had nudged her conscience, or she was afraid I'd tell on
her, because I saw Rose huddled with our guide Lale at the next
tourists, and tried to be respectful of the tour leader when she lectured. She
smiled and continued her talk. No harm done.
As we carefully picked our way down the steep, scree-covered slope, the sun
burning and glaring so the buff stone was nearly white, I asked, "How is Steve
Osborne feeling? Has anyone seen him today?"
Randy hadn't been the only one suffering from a change in water and diet.
Jack shrugged. "I heard he was definitely happier after he decided to stay at the
hotel today. I think he'll be okay by tomorrow. Shame he's missing all this." He
held out a hand to indicate the vista, the brightly caparisoned donkeys, the
sheer scale of it all.
"But he's been on this tour before? I seem to recall he said so."
"No, but he'd been on another tour with Lale, and they visited this region too.
That's why he wanted to come back. She was a good guide, he fell in love with
the country." He shrugged. "The country's pretty enough, and the sites too, but
the food!" He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed them. "That's what
brought me: cuisine."
We walked over to the Western Terrace and viewed the rest of the statues, which
seemed like a jumbled afterthought. When you've already carved a tomb out of a
mountain, then covered it with a fifty-meter-high mound of buff-colored stone
chips from sculpting a row of thirty-foot-tall sculptures, a collection of heads
and reliefs lying around had to seem a bit of a letdown.
It was hotter than body temperature. I was covered in sweat and a brand of
ancient dust I'd never encountered in New England. I pretended all I could smell
was sunblock, baking rock chips, and camel and donkey dung, instead of me.
"So what do you think those big stone heads would go for?" Eugene Tollund asked
me as we began our descent. "I mean, on the open market?" Eugene was the oldest
member of our group, and I'd been impressed by his energy and enthusiasm.
Eventually, however, I realized he seemed only to care about the monetary value
of things, instead of their intellectual or artistic importance.
"I honestly have no idea. Probably a lot, because it would have to be on the
black market. You couldn't sell something like that legally."
"I thought you said you were an archaeologist?" he said.
"I am." I ignored the derisive tone of his words. "Doesn't mean I know how much
everything I dig up is worth. Mostly it's small fragments of pottery and bone. I
don't do a lot of work studying the antiquities trade, so—"
But Eugene was already on to his next victim, posing questions no one knew the
answers to, so he could prove his astuteness in asking.
An hour later, we were visiting the caves and inscriptions at a nearby site. It
was on our way back down yet another steep slope that I saw Rose Ashmore,
Randy's wife, moving off the trail.
I held my breath. It wasn't for me to say anything. I wasn't her teacher, I
wasn't her mommy. But when she bent over, moved a rock aside, and picked
something up, something that shone in the sunlight, I couldn't
not
speak up.
"Um, Rose?"
She waved at me as she clambered up the hill. A few dark, fly-away curls blew in
the warm wind, and she brushed them from her face. If her husband was like a
short, stubby mushroom, she was more like a stalk of asparagus, thin, tall,
awkward. "I'm fine."
I tried to find a nice way to put it, then finally didn't bother. "You found
something? Picked it up?"
"No." She shook her head, her brown eyes wide. She licked her lips.
She was lying.
"Well, I'm sure you know you should leave anything you see on the ground. These
are protected sites."
"Uh-huh."
It was all I could do. I didn't have any authority, just the
obligation—and that self-imposed—of speaking up.
But maybe my seeing her had nudged her conscience, or she was afraid I'd tell on
her, because I saw Rose huddled with our guide Lale at the next
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