A Bad Omen
“I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”
Mary Kingsley
There was a barrage of French words that had not been included in Meg’s language course as the taxi screeched to a halt. The driver turned around in his seat with an exaggerated gesture of throwing up his hands and implored, “You…you stop the heart…mad’-moiselle!”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry, but it suddenly occurred to me…”
Now, there was a blast of someone’s car horn from behind them, and while Meg turned to look out the back window at who was shouting, her driver stuck his hands and head out of his own window and hollered out an indignant reply. In more French she couldn’t understand. After a few moments of verbal sparring, several other cars began to honk, and the two combatants finally drew apart as the taxi eased over to the curb and the irate drivers behind them zoomed around.
During the time it took to turn back and head for the cafe, Meg had the vague sensation they were taking the long way. Under other circumstances she might have complained, but considering the incident she had already caused, she decided it best to be gracious. However, by the time they finally got there, it was only to discover that “her gentleman” and his lady friend had already left.
So, she rode the rest of the way to the airport, silently asking for another chance at divine appointments. Because the knack for recognizing them was clearly going to take more skill than she possessed at present. Still, the small loss left her with a rather melancholy feeling that somewhat dampened her enthusiasm for starting up conversations with her fellow tour participants. That is, until she first looked them all over carefully to see if she felt any “inklings” toward someone in particular.
Not a one.
And hardly a spark of interest in much of anything other than a new compulsion to look for men with mustaches. Of all things! She had definitely not spent nearly six month’s salary and flown halfway around the world to suddenly take up some oddly-inspired search for eligible men. For heaven’s sake, she had a job to do. Besides, she had fairly well given that idea up years ago, when the avid pursuit of her career seemed to drive most ordinary suitors away. It was a decision she came to reluctantly, after the rather disturbing realization that there was very little about herself that she could describe as ordinary.
So it was that she had made a conscious effort to throw herself into her work in the hopes that her peculiar talents might be more blessing than curse. That she might even be set aside for a certain destiny. But there had been quite the opposition over that philosophy, too. People were forever telling her that her entire focus would change when she finally met the right person.
It was love that was the secret (this from her own mother) because that was the very thing that could suddenly turn an ordinary somebody into the man of her dreams. Well, she had spent a lot of years waiting, and looking, and even praying that just such a thing would happen to her. Only it never had. What’s more, she had come away from it all with the growing impression that she had wasted far too much time trying to do what everyone else insisted were the practical ways to go about it.
Now, she had come to this.
Sitting alone in a crowded airport, with every intention of skipping out on most of a tour (for which she’d paid good money). Dressed in her black Victorian outfit (quite the comfortable thing, actually) that had the surprising effect of making her feel prettier than she had for a long time. Must be the feel of the smooth silk and lace of the old-fashioned undergarments beneath. She had gone to great lengths to make sure the mid-length costume was as authentic as it could possibly be. She had even traded modern suitcases for a single canvas duffel of the sort that Mary Kingsley, herself, had taken along on her first trip to West Africa.
Meg sighed heavily and meandered over to an empty seat to settle down for what she had learned would be another hour before boarding time. It was between two separate groups of people who seemed preoccupied enough with their own conversations that they paid little attention to any newcomers they didn’t know. Which would give Meg plenty of time to collect her thoughts and finish that bit of writing that had been interrupted by the rain.
Under normal circumstances, Megan wasn’t the type of person who made a habit of listening in on other people’s conversations. Only this was different. It was impossible not to hear what people were saying in such close quarters. And considering the fact that the human ear did not come equipped with an automatic shut-off when confronted with objectionable material, she must conclude that her only responsibility lay in what she did about it. Well, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
Meg sighed heavily, again. Then she withdrew her journal from the side pocket of her carry-all and began to thumb through the first few pages. When she came to the list of her own personal rules (the ones she had kept without fail for nearly ten years), she pulled her glasses down from the top of her head and began searching out one in particular.
There it was. Rule number sixteen stated, “I will not eavesdrop, tell other’s secrets, or participate in the spreading of gossip of any kind.” Then she reached for the lovely antique pen, but it wasn’t there. Bother! Left at the cafe, no doubt, in her rush to be off. So, she fished through all manner of things to finally come up with one of the common plastic variety. After which she made a note to herself, “Does not apply to airports.”
Not that she was the type to meddle in things that were none of her business, either. Meg had no criticisms of those who did not think like she did. A distinct effort toward the practice of rule number nine: “Live and let live.” Of course, she was familiar with the Good Samaritan story, and would have known just what to do if some poor stranger lost their purse, or even if a person suddenly went into cardiac arrest and fell down in front of her. Crowded airport, or otherwise.
This didn’t exactly resemble one of those, but in Meg’s opinion, it definitely called for some sort of response. Because while Henry (who had occupied the seat next to her) was off in the men’s room, his wife Ethel (one seat away) was giving out a piece of disturbing information to Vidalia (two seats down).
“He knows something’s up! He was awake half the night trying to figure out where that money went. He even asked me what U.S.M., Inc. was. I had to tell him it was the company that fixed the furnace! Said he wants to see the receipts as soon as we get home.”
“Don’t worry, honey!” The dark-skinned woman with an even darker dapple of freckles across her large nose gave Ethel a comforting smack on the arm. “Less than a week it’ll all be over. You just make sure he takes that little side trip for photographers. Everything’s set up.”
“Oh, he’ll take it all right. It’s the only part of this tour he’s really excited about.” Ethel opened a dark red purse that matched her pantsuit and withdrew a tube of lipstick to refresh. “I only hope I can hold out until then. I feel like he can see right through me. I don’t know what’s come over me, lately...” She replaced the cap and returned it to her bag. “I used to have nerves of steel.”
“That’s why we’re partners, so’s we can help each other out. Just think about having your own money from now on. Here he comes back, now.” Vidalia reached into the pocket of her leopard print jacket and handed over a business card. “Better take this, like as if we just met.” Then she raised her voice as Henry returned to his chair. “Vidalia Harbin, gen-u-wine psychic. If you want a reading, you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Good lord, Ethel!” The heavyset man sat down and brushed a few spots of water from his Hawaiian print shirt, then made sure none had splashed onto the camera that hung from a strap around his neck. “What sort of claptrap are you getting into now?”
“Exactly how much do you usually charge for a reading, Vidalia?” asked Ethel.
“Oh, it varies, honey. Depending on…”
It was at that point Meg shoved her glasses back up on her head, tucked her journal away, picked up her carry-all and moved three rows down. The idea! She hoped she wouldn’t have to sit next to any of them when the flight finally boarded. She settled down again and then reached once more into the wide front pocket of her Bremen Tours carry-all (the only part of her outfit that wasn’t vintage but it was quite the handy, well-made thing) and took out a bundle of brochures. Now, where was that one about the Mole National Park that had such a wonderful map of the reserve? She pulled her reading glasses down into place, again. This might be just the time to take a few practice shots of it with her new camera.
Maybe she should take a still shot, instead. Even though the new video camera could zoom in and pan across each particular point of interest, she had read somewhere that stopping the action with a dramatic photo could present quite an effect. She might even do both and decide which one to use, later. She leaned forward to take both of the cameras out, and then set them momentarily on the empty chair next to her when she felt her slip catch on the laces of her leather riding boots (which she also thought would be perfect for walking through jungles).
As she discretely lifted the hem of her skirt to untangle it, she suddenly felt someone staring at her, again. Not that it mattered so much in this location. Everyone knew the most popular pastime for waiting in airports was people watching. She certainly did a fair share of it, herself. Which was why (with hardly a second thought) she looked up and flashed a friendly smile into another intense blue gaze. This time of an elderly gentleman with wavy white hair and a…a mustache! There she went with the mustache thing, again. But she didn’t feel bothered half so much at the moment, because this man was old enough to be her father. He was wearing a light-colored Panama suit and gave her a polite nod before she returned her attention to the cameras.
“What do you say, Gilbert?” She heard him speak quietly to a younger man seated next to him. “I think I’ve just seen a ghost. This calls for a drink!”
“Yeah? I say I’m not falling for any more of your tricks, Professor, no matter what you see.”
Meg glanced over the top of her glasses at the man sitting next to the older gentleman. Black slacks and a white silk shirt that was unbuttoned far enough down to reveal a flashy gold chain at his throat. He had a head full of thick black curls, a dark tan, and was unwrapping a piece of chewing gum as if he had just made a casual comment about the weather instead of insulting the professor.
“Suit yourself, then.” The professor rose to his feet. “I’m off to find the nearest watering hole.”
Gilbert leapt up to follow. “For sure I’m not letting you outta my sight, again…I’ll tell you that much.”
“Well, don’t crowd me too close, boy, or I’ll fire you,” said the professor.
By the time the flight finally did begin to board, Meg had a fairly good understanding of most of the personalities seated around the gate area. There was a group of several middle-aged women who seemed to be in some sort of club. They were all dressed in rather similar looking safari outfits, complete with hats, and having a marvelous time together. Next to them was a young married couple, each tanned, blond, and athletic, dressed in khaki shorts, white shirts, and sturdy leather walking shoes. They both carried backpacks, and while they spoke English, there was a distinct Scandinavian accent that tinged their words.
The retired couple Meg stood behind in the line to go down the jet-way had an unusually accommodating relationship. The wife, a redhead sporting enough gold jewelry to draw attention, rattled a non-stop monologue of complaints punctuated by occasional questions directed at a husband who never answered. But he must not have been expected to because the woman didn’t seem to have any aversions to carrying on the entire discussion without him.
Once aboard, Meg was feeling rather delighted to have gotten a window seat (even though it was all the way back in row twenty-five and practically in the airplane’s tail), when she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her and realized that the unthinkable had happened. The genuine psychic was stuffing her leopard jacket in the overhead bin and getting ready to settle down right next to her. Of all things! But the feeling must have been mutual, because the first words out of the woman’s mouth when their eyes met, were, “Uh-oh. The mystery girl.”
“Hello,” said Meg.
“Looks like you just stepped outta one of those pictures in the museum we visited yesterday. Been with the tour since New York?”
“No. I only got into Paris this morning.”
“What about the orientation and the gala dinner? Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much. Ice cream sundae turned out to be nothing but a scoop of yogurt with melted jam on top.” She squeezed her ample form that was fairly bursting from a black, tight-fitting pantsuit, between the two armrests. “Look at this, here!” She lengthened one end of her seatbelt until it finally closed with a satisfying click. “Thing wouldn’t fit round a Barbie doll! Well...” —now she turned her full attentions to Meg— “We better call a truce.”
“What?”
“On account this is gonna be a long flight.”
Meg had thoughts of politely brushing things over, but what was the point? This woman obviously knew exactly where they stood with each other. Besides, she had enough work to do on this trip, herself, without having to put on airs or smooth over any unnecessary misunderstandings. Honesty was the best policy (rule number four). So, she held out her hand and said, “Deal.”
It was a mistake, but she didn’t realize that until too late.
Because Vidalia latched onto it with both of her own, closed her eyes, and murmured, “I got a feeling…”
“I imagine you do.” Meg tried to pull away. “Look, here…” What an absurd situation! “It’s been a long day for both of…”
All at once Vidalia gasped and let go as if Meg had suddenly turned into a viper. “Ooo… la! You got no interest in this tour…you’re following a dead woman!”
“Oh, honestly!” Meg tried to make light of the accusation even though a chill rippled through her. “I hope you’re not going to be like this for the whole trip, or you’ll give someone a nervous breakdown before we even get there!”
“I see danger all around you, girl!”
“Then you’d better keep a safe distance, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm! Seems a bad omen for me, all right. And I was just trying to be friendly. What’s a person like you doing on a tour like this, anyway?” She shoved the armrest between them up to allow a more comfortable space to spread out in.
Then she snapped open the large purse on her lap that sported the same leopard print as the filmy scarf wound round her neck, and Meg couldn’t help thinking they made the perfect accent to her personality. Which led her to watch the little ritual that followed with a rather absorbed fascination.
Vidalia peered into a pocket mirror at herself, noticed several wiry curls sprung loose from the large tight knot at the back of her neck and pulled out a black comb that had anchored it there. Like bedsprings suddenly freed from a mattress, a mass of black curls flew out in all directions. Only to be caught up again just as fast, swept back into place, and re-anchored snugly in one smooth motion. A movement so obviously habitual it had become fluid. That done, she reached into the leopard bag and unzipped a pocket inside. But here the routine was interrupted, because what she was after was lost. Which in turn led to an odd assortment of items being flung out onto the seat between them in order to find it.
Meg gasped (she couldn’t help it) when some strange-looking thing made of burlap and a tuft of black hair rolled over and bumped up against her thigh. Her hand involuntarily froze in mid-air during an automatic reflex to hand it back. It had a crudely-painted face with pins sticking out all over. Vidalia giggled at her startled expression and then picked it up herself.
“It’s my husband.” She returned him to his pocket and then gave Meg a confidential thump on the arm. “Don’t worry, honey. I been at it for over a year, now, and the worst I ever give him was a headache. I’ll tell you what, though. You ain’t gonna last long on this trip if the sight of a little something like that is all it takes to scare you. What’d you even sign up for?”
“I’m beginning to…”
“Don’t tell me.” She paused a few seconds, as if listening, and then pronounced, “Big misunderstanding with that man of yours. I can see it plain as day.”
“I don’t happen to have any man in my life,” said Meg. “Nor do I live in a museum.”
“Hmm! I see a man, all right. Dark and mysterious. Tell you something else...” She traced the line of her mouth in a deft red slash before replacing the lid on the finally found tube, pursing her lips together in a satisfying smack and then stuffing all her things back in the purse, again. “I don’t have to guess to know what you do for a living. It’s as plain as…”
“No thanks,” Meg stopped the flow of words with an upraised hand for emphasis. “I’m not the least bit interested in fortune-telling, bad omens, warnings of impending doom, or especially any of the sort of advice you gave Ethel while we were waiting back at the gate.”
“I never give warnings lest there’s something can be done about it, and I never give bad advice, either. Don’t believe in it.”
“Well, at the very least it was meddling.” Meg reached for the paperback version of Learning French the Easy Way she had stashed in the seat pocket ahead of her and flipped it open to where her boarding pass was holding the place.
“It wasn’t meddling, it was helping. Woman’s gonna need all the help she can get when that monster husband of hers finds out…”
“Would you be good enough…” Meg thumped the book closed in her lap without replacing the marker and leveled one of her sternest no-nonsense stares at the boisterous woman she was being forced to spend the next several hours with. “To keep your opinions and predictions to yourself? We agreed to call a truce.”
“That was before I realized we got so much in common.”
“In common…what on earth!”
“I avoid your type, usually. But when I seen you comb your hair the same as me...we even got the same freckles!”
Meg’s hand self-consciously found its way to the five faint freckles across the bridge of her nose as if they had somehow betrayed her, and Vidalia laughed. It suddenly occurred to Meg that she had made a grave mistake. What on earth had she been thinking? She had been so convinced that traveling with such activities wasn’t the same as actually taking part in them. And the amount of money she had spent just to do it!
Even if she could manage to avoid Vidalia for the ten days (which would be tricky since she had booked for double occupancy, and the two of them had already been linked by their seat assignments). The same situation would probably happen all over again. Because the majority of people who signed up for a tour by the name of Voodoo Relics of the Dark Continent, would undoubtedly be voodoo enthusiasts.
It had attracted Meg because it was a budget tour. The only one which covered the places she needed to go that would not require a small loan just to be able to afford. The truth was, she was not the least bit interested in voodoo, and never had been. At the time, the reasonable price had seemed like an answer to prayer. She had dismissed that first temptation (she actually called it a temptation) not to go simply because the itinerary followed a trail through the “Dark Continent” in search of dark relics.
After all, everything about Africa seemed dark, if you were to look at it that way. If it wasn’t voodoo it was slaves, or the white man’s graveyard, or tracking wild animals through dangerous places. She could have stuck with the bird watching tours, but they tended to be along the coasts or lake-shores with overly expensive resorts and boat rides one had to pay extra for. Meg certainly wasn’t interested in any of that. Now, here she was with a job to do and a major “thorn in the flesh” before she even got started. Following her destiny wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought it would be. That is, if she really had one.
But what if she didn’t?
Surely, this whole trip couldn’t be a mistake. It couldn’t be! But even if it was, and the very thought made her murmur a heartfelt “Oh, dear Lord!” and turn her face toward the window, what in the world could she possibly do about it, now?