Murder With a View Read online

  Murder With a View

  A Lady Zhara Six Novel

  Gerry Belle

  Table of Contents

  1.Exhaustion

  2.Away!

  3.Arrival

  4.Relaxation

  5.Notable Guests

  6.Dead Sea Death

  7.Detective Jaber

  8.Mt. Nebo Iron Cross

  9.Petra Pile-Driver

  10.Whale Shark

  11.Acquaintances

  12.Snorkel Submersion

  13.The Circle of Vengeance

  14.Isolation Location

  15.Cannes

  16.Virus

  17.The Neighbors

  18.Murder Most Mundane

  Chapter One

  Exhaustion

  Lady Zhara Hope Six needed a vacation. You would think that a life of supposed ease in a swank Northern Virginia suburb of the nation’s capital, complete with a maid and chauffeur, would be the ultimate life of ease. That, unfortunately, was not necessarily the case. Money was nice, but it didn’t cure everything.

  There was one thing that held true if you were someone with money, a title, and any type of power or respect - other people wanted you to validate them. So, someone always wanted something. Usually, a whole lot of someones wanted a whole lot of somethings. It could get exhausting.

  Zhara had considered turning into a hermit, but then decided that would never do. What good was it to be fabulous if no one could see that you were fabulous? No, that wouldn’t do at all. She had to go out and do the things she enjoyed. That came with the requisite amount of head nodding, wide smiles and boat load of compliments to others yearning for Zhara to help them feel particularly good that day. After all, if Lady Zhara said they were wonderful, then they were, indeed, wonderful.

  That little bit of assurance was actually true. Zhara never told anyone they looked good or that their outfit was terrific unless it was true. She’d learned long ago that lying about things like that was simply too much effort. It was so much easier to just take a quick survey of people and then choose the one thing they had on or were doing that she liked.

  Sometimes there was simply nothing to say, so she didn’t. Usually, that greeting ended with her inquiring about their health, or that of their family. It never hurt to get caught up with people. Sometimes it even came in handy.

  That said, it took a lot of energy to inquire about things that you just really didn’t care about one way or the other. Of course, you couldn’t say that or act that way - it killed your currency in the larger world. Freaking world, always working on currency one way or the other.

  Look at poor Meghan Markle. She’d actually had the honesty to say she was struggling to fit into the whole “princess” thing and people vilified her. She was supposed to be happy and perfect because that was how princesses were supposed to be. What a load of crap.

  For the civilized world of the “me too” generation, this kind of female shaming should never have happened. But it did. Women were mean to other women because they had something they didn’t. Zhara could have assured anyone who bothered to ask that just because you had money or power or looks, it didn’t mean you were loved or valued for who you were.

  Nope, she really could attest to that. Zhara was a knock out beauty. She was smart, funny and had made her late husband’s career and life so much more successful than if he had been on his own. That didn’t mean he had stayed faithful or always treated her well. Often, it had meant he took her for granted and just expected her to always go along with whatever he decided. Carlton had been a successful U.S. diplomat and a self-centered, borderline psychopath. Zhara had been used to psychopaths. Her mother had been one too.

  Never underestimate how far charm and flirtation will go in covering up a multitude of sins. Zhara, as a child, hadn’t really realized her mother was a psychopath. A flirt who urged her children to use their wiles to get what they wanted, yes. The realization of how wrong that was, only came with maturity and age.

  When she’d gotten older and begun to trace the parallels between her mother and her husband, well, that had been an appalling awakening about the horrors of what humanity could do to each other. But that was another story. Both her mother and Carlton were dead now. She’d liked to have said it was sad, but in truth, her life had only gotten better now that they were gone. Confounding, but...nonetheless...true.

  Zhara hadn’t been wealthy when she was younger or after she’d married Carlton. Carlton had provided them with a good living and a glamorous lifestyle. Zhara became wealthy after Carlton’s death when he’d had the final good sense to leave her with a whopping, million-dollar life insurance policy. Zhara had taken that money to a broker in The Netherlands and he had proceeded to turn it into multi-millions in a very short amount of time. The Dutch were money wizards, Zhara had to give them that.

  In the process of finally making her life into what she wanted - not what her mother or her husband had wanted - Zhara had also become a titled lady. Her birth name wasn’t Lady Zhara Hope Six at all. She’d been born Gertrude Sue Dubbins. A horrifyingly plebeian name that she’d paid fifty-thousand euros to get rid of. In the dusty archives of the Dutch government, an obligingly shady bureaucrat had researched a selection of defunct royal titles that could be reinstated for a deposit into his private bank account.

  When Gertrude had seen the title, “Lady Sixtus”, among the available names in the list of defunct peerages she’d been given, she knew she had to have it. She’d added Zhara Hope as her first and last names and the dubiously slick, bureaucratic clerk had reinstated the title on the register of peers.

  Gertrude had already changed her name legally in the U.S. and was now, officially, Lady Zhara Hope Six, having shortened the Sixtus surname to Six, as many had done in centuries past. While the courts in the U.S. might think that Lady was simply a name - it was now also a real title, registered and validated in the Dutch courts.

  So, Zhara now had a title and a fortune, all due to the clever workings of the enterprising Dutch system. So much better than being Gertrude Sue Dubbins and having just about no investments left her by Carlton. His final act of apology for his ill-treatment of her had been getting the life insurance policy. He probably thought he could have it for a few years then cancel it and she’d be none the wiser. Unfortunately for him, he’d died sooner than he’d planned.

  Money changed nothing when it came to the emotions of life. People always had that wrong. It helped with the struggles of life. Everyone had emotions. Everyone had struggles. Money helped a person trade big struggles for smaller struggles. That was the crux of the thing. Life always had struggles. Money just made them easier to deal with. And that was an enormous boon.

  So, money she’d keep, and then make the effort to try to connect emotionally with people. That was, after all, what they all wanted - you just weren’t allowed that luxury if you already had money and power. Emotion, it appeared, was supposed to be reserved for the impoverished.

  That was why Lady Zhara Hope Six needed a vacation. She’d had her well of “how do you do todays” and “oh, my, what a lovely outfits” sucked completely dry. It was time to fill her own tank of love and self-appreciation, because - as Meghan Markle had learned the hard way - no one liked a whiner when it came to privilege.

  Lady Zhara lay on the secluded back patio of her McLean, Virginia, home trying to decide where she wanted to disappear to. It had to be sunny. The cold was beginning to creep into her bones now that the beautiful colors of the Virginia fall were fading. Zhara loved fall and now that its crisp air and spectacle of colors was on the wane, she began to notice the cold and damp. Yes, definitely time to retreat to an oasis of sun, peace, tranquility, excellent service, exquisite food and, hopefully, a
sublime spa.

  She’d pondered Italy for a while. Perhaps Lake Como. But then discarded that idea. Lake Como always had all those strange people who came to try and see George and Amal Clooney, or some other sunglasses-wearing actor. They craned their necks this way and that constantly, and the entire spectacle gave Zhara a headache.

  Finally, she’d decided on Jordan. Most people underestimated the fabulousness of the Jordanian possibilities. Not only did the hotels in the capital city of Amman have good service, you could then escape to the Dead Sea - which was spectacular in any light of day. The Dead Sea was rimmed to the East with several excellent hotels. Each with a view as delightful as any Zhara had ever seen. Somehow the light at dusk over the Dead Sea gave Zhara the most peaceful feeling of awe she’d ever experienced.

  Plus, a good soak in the salt waters of the sea never hurt either. Zhara usually only did it once for a few moments. That said, the spas offered a full range of stellar massages, salt rubs, mud wraps, and every type of bodily indulgence one could wish for.

  Then, when Zhara was good and relaxed, she’d travel on to the marvels of Petra and ride a donkey around the most amazing archeological site in the world in her opinion. No one knew her in Jordan. She didn’t have to act a certain way and no one bothered her as she trotted her donkey along the narrow, twisting paths of the ancient Nabatean city.

  Well, scratch that. Occasionally some sanctimonious American or Canandian would scold her for riding a donkey. Zhara, not under any burden to be nice as they didn’t know whom they were scolding, would always snort indelicately and then reprimand them tartly with a scathing denouncement of their stupidity. “Don’t be sanctimoniously idiotic! Christ rode a donkey! Donkeys have been carrying people for centuries! If you don’t ride the donkey, the donkey’s owner doesn’t make any money. Without money, he doesn’t eat, his family doesn’t eat, and the donkey doesn’t eat. Ride the damn donkeys!”

  This would all be shouted scornfully at the astounded upper-middle-class tourists as they sweated and panted trying to climb the half-mile upward trek to the High Place of Sacrifice or one of the other gruelingly out-of-the-way places at the site. Zhara would roll her eyes at them, pithily belt out these truisms and then trot spryly past them on her wily, four-legged beast of burden. If you wanted to see all of Petra without dying, the donkey was a necessity.

  This was always how it had been in Zhara’s days as a diplomat’s wife. Carlton was dead now, but they’d traveled the world and worked in over thirty-six countries. Fat cat politicians would often come, make a one day survey of the Embassy and then hand down money-saving budget cuts without ever really understanding what it was like to live and work in the very region they were trying to control. It was the way of the world. People with wealth and power thought they knew everything, even if they really knew nothing. Not even about donkeys, local economies, or the layouts of huge archeological sites.

  Sometimes she would see the more open-minded of the tourists go back down the trail and hire a donkey. Other times, she’d see the ones unwilling to let go of their point of view, simply give up - the site was far too large and too steep to see properly without a donkey. What a pity, she’d always think. Sanctimony and narrow-mindedness had stopped them from seeing the most fabulous of places. Thank heaven once she got to the top, there would be few of them to litter the absolutely soul-reviving splendors of the Nabatean wonders carved into the red stone cliffs.

  So yes, Jordan it would be. Zhara got up and went to have Beatriz, her Bolivian maid, pack her bags. Basilo Colque, Beatriz’s son and Zhara’s chauffeur-butler-gardener combination, would accompany them as well. In the Middle East it was always best to have a male chaperone, no matter how much Western conventions might chafe at the idea.

  Chapter Two

  Away!

  Beatriz had packed Zhara’s suitcase in record time. Both she and Basilio were very excited about the trip. Lady Zhara had called for a car and booked their one-way flights on Marquis Jets. Marquis was Zhara’s jet-share flying plan and departed from the small, private jet terminal at Dulles Airport. It left in just under four hours. When her Ladyship was ready to go someplace, you just had to go with the flow because it was usually a fast decision. Zhara didn’t ho-hum around.

  Zhara knew that most people thought having a jet-share was an incredible luxury. While it was a luxury, it wasn’t as much of one as people would think. A first class, round-trip ticket on Air France from Washington D.C. to Amman, Jordan was $17,737. For the three of them that came to a whopping $53,500 if rounded off. Should one decide to look at life in a critical fashion, flying commercial simply did not make sense.

  Life was short. Crap quality life was everywhere. As far as Zhara was concerned, crap quality life was the entire experience of flying commercial. A jet share cost $125,000 for twenty-five hours - no matter how many people you booked into the cabin. So while it took a third of her twenty-five hour share to fly to Jordan (it was so much faster to fly direct in a jet!) and another third to fly back, that came to about $83,000 of jet share cost.

  As far as Zhara was concerned, the extra approximately $29,000 was so worth it to avoid the airport and its trial by human lunacy.

  So, if she was going to try to mitigate the crap quality of commercial flying, she would have to buy three round trip tickets on a large carrier in the first class cabins. Even then, you would have to wile away at least an hour in the lounge - and while it was nice to have the lounge - you had to GET there.

  Getting there usually consisted of a mad dash through the airport with people running over your toes with bulky wheeled bags, whacking you in the gut with their bulging totes, and then enduring the stolid rudeness of entitled jack-ass businessmen who thought women really shouldn’t exist in their privileged world of warmed-up beef stew and endless soda fountain drinks. It was - awful.

  With a jet share, their limousine pulled through the guarded gate after a simple security check and then a valet rushed out to meet the car. They were whisked into the terminal, plied with champagne and their luggage simply disappeared never to be seen again until it was deposited in their car at the other end of the journey.

  The plane itself had sumptuous leather seats, endless drinks, excellent gourmet food, wonderful service, and - best of all - no other passengers. So, in Lady Zhara’s mind, losing a half a day of one’s life while enduring the torturous experience of a large airport and the multitudes of rude people, ruder airline staff and endless winding corridors, was simply not worth the expense of $29,000 or so. A private jet was ever so much more civilized.

  Beatriz and Basilio never got tired of the wonders of flying in a private jet to far off places around the world. They even got waited on hand and foot by the jet steward who brought them steaks and drinks whenever they wanted. Her Ladyship slept through most of it, but Beatriz and Basilio were always determined to get the most out of the experience and were usually too excited to sleep anyway.

  Chapter Three

  Arrival

  When the flight landed at Queen Alia International Airport, the private jet was met by an equally luxurious private car. The bags were once again whisked away and the three of them were comfortably ensconced into a white Audi sedan, ladies in back and Basilio up front with the driver. Zhara had once taken an acquaintance on a tour of Jordan that had ended their friendship. One never really knew someone until they’d traveled with them.

  The trip with her former friend had been an unmitigated disaster, except of course, that the beauties of Jordan could never be ruined - even by a weirdo who refused to accept local customs. The woman had insisted on sitting in the front seat of the car with the driver. No matter how many different ways Zhara had tried to explain that a woman sitting in front with a man who was not related, or her husband, was a rude and ill-mannered thing for her to do. The woman insisted on ignoring her host country’s customs and inelegantly plunked herself into the front passenger seat next to her male driver, oblivious to his incredulous stares and ob
vious discomfort.

  Even if she didn’t believe in the custom, it made the local driver uncomfortable. In Zhara’s opinion, it is not a tourist’s place to impose their own beliefs on the country they’re visiting. They were guests in the country not evangelical missionaries. That’s why travel is mind expanding. You have to learn about new cultures and customs.

  The trip had gone downhill from there. The woman kept exclaiming that there must be gold in the desert as the sun shone on the bits of mica scattered through the sand. Again, no matter how much Zhara explained about mica, the woman just would not believe it wasn’t gold.

  She also thought the Bedouin habit of stacking stones to mark routes in the desert - much the way hobos and gypsies left signs in the States and Europe for others in their way of life - were funeral piers. Again, no amount of explanation would dissuade her and she went on and on about how eco-friendly and earth-conscious these death markers were. Zhara almost whacked her over the head to shut her up. It was no use, she was firmly in the grip of delusions that her mundane mind assigned to things she’d never seen before.

  On top of this, she kept telling their driver to slow down, the hot pavement could cause the tires of the car to expand and explode. Her very real fear was accompanied by mad grabs for the overhead grip bar and gasps of terror. It was a most un-relaxing trip. Not to mention that no matter how Zhara tried to comfort the woman with assurances of their driver’s knowledge of his car and country, as he was a professional driver, nothing could stop the woman’s out and out disrespect for their driver’s competence - or, in her mind, lack thereof.