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“Because she was deemed too western. Also, according to the book Laura was the only one of the Sheikh’s wives he actually was in love with.”

“He wasn’t in love with his other wives?” asked Brutus.

“No, he wasn’t. In Khemed the tradition is that families offer up one of their daughters to the Sheikh, and when he accepts, it brings great honor to the family.”

“So he collected wives like other people collect stamps?”

“More or less. Love doesn’t feature into the thing. It’s purely a business transaction.”

“Odd practice.”

“Odd?” said Harriet, peeved. “Medieval, you mean. In some countries people offer their best sheep or cow to the ruler, and in Khemed they offer women. It’s barbaric, that’s what it is.”

“Well, apparently this is all part of the tradition,” Marge continued. “At least it was until the Sheikh met Laura. According to the book he fell in love at first sight, and the feeling was mutual.”

“So a wedding out of love, huh? That’s better already,” said Harriet. “Though I don’t understand why she would marry a guy who already has ninety-eight other wives.”

“So what happened then?” asked Brutus.

“Well, the wedding was an amazing affair, it lasted ten days, and people came from all over the world to celebrate with the Sheikh and his wife.”

“Wives, plural,” said Harriet.

“And then things turned sour, right?” said Brutus. “The Sheikh locked her up and started treating her bad?”

“No, on the contrary. As the days passed, they grew ever closer together, and there was even talk that the Sheikh would send all of his other wives away, out of respect for Laura, which would have been revolutionary. She became pregnant very quickly, and gave birth to a lovely baby girl with curly golden hair, and it completed the happiness of the newlywed couple.”

“And then what happened?” asked Harriet eagerly.

“Then you came sneaking up on me from behind and told me to spy on the writer of the book,” said Marge with a smile.

“But you have to tell us how it ends!” said Harriet.

“Why don’t you ask that lady we’re following?” Brutus suggested. “I’m sure she’ll be able to tell you all about it—including why she took that diamond and what she’s planning to do with it.”

Loretta Gray had left the park, and was now walking along the sidewalk, Marge and her two cats still in tow, and gave no indication of being aware that she was being followed, which was just as well, as Marge was no professional detective, and she had the feeling that if Loretta just turned around, she would spot her immediately.

But lucky for her, the authoress just kept on walking, and soon was crossing the street. Marge decided to stay on her side of the street, and suddenly said,“I think I know where she’s going.”

“Where?” asked Harriet.

“The Star hotel.”

And lo and behold: the Star came into view, and as Marge had expected, Loretta entered the hotel.

“Do you think we should follow her in?” asked Brutus.

“If you want to, we can take it from here,” Harriet suggested.

“No, two cats will stand out like sore thumbs, no offense.”

“None taken,” said Harriet, though her expression told a different story. No one calls a Persian a sore thumb.

“What I mean is, everybody who sees you walk in can’t help but notice you, Harriet.”

“Oh, of course,” said Harriet, her tail, which had gone half-mast, now rising swiftly again.

“Maybe I better call my brother and tell him what we discovered.” But as Marge reached for her phone, suddenly she had a better idea.

26

Kenneth Cesseki may have lived in Boston once upon a time, but these days he had opted to move a little farther afield and now resided in lovely Thailand.

Odelia probably wouldn’t have minded going all the way to Thailand—she had, after all, fond memories of the time she’d participated as an undercover candidate on Passion Island, the well-known reality show—but thankfully modern technology made that unnecessary, and so we all sat in front of Odelia’s screen in her new home office, and found ourselves looking at Mr. Cesseki in person, dressed in a colorful T-shirt and ball cap, seated outside on what looked like a nice beach. There were even palm fronds waving at us from time to time, as if extending a formal invitation to visit soon.

Mr. Cesseki was a man of indefinite age. He could have been fifty, but he could also have been in his early seventies. He had one of those ruddy faces you get from spending half your life in hot climes with not a lot more in the form of protection against the sun’s rays than a hat and sunglasses. His skin had that leathery look that some crocodiles like to show off with.

“Hi there,” he said good-naturedly. “So you’re Odelia Poole? I’ve read your articles, Miss Poole.”

“Mrs. Poole,” Odelia corrected him with a smile. “I wasn’t aware I was famous all the way down to Thailand, Mr. Cesseki.”