Toured to Death Read Free Page A

room, but that wasn’t until three. Before she knew it, Amy had mentally re-created the to-do list.
    She’d barely traveled at all since Eddie’s murder. Could it be almost two years? Time had glided by in a haze of despair. It had all been so senseless, so random. Hundreds of times she had gone over—still went over—the events of that Saturday night in early November. If only they hadn’t had that fight. If only Eddie hadn’t gone out for a walk. If only he had stormed out five minutes earlier or later or hadn’t turned down Minetta Lane. All the millions of little forks in the road, the inconsequential moments you never gave a second thought to until they heartlessly, mechanically clicked into place and destroyed your world.
    Amy knew this was all part of not letting go. But how could she let go? It had been the beginning for them, a burgeoning world of inside jokes, of quiet, cuddly mornings, and little traditions. . . all gone in an instant.
    Amy tried to focus on the modest glories of the neighborhood, on the neat rows of window boxes, on the brass railings glowing richly in the sun. Which was worse? she wondered. Thinking about Eddie or obsessing over the game?
    This rally had been her brainchild, combining her two great loves, travel and mysteries. The idea had come to her fully formed after she’d read a New York Times article about a mystery event at the Guggenheim.
    Mystery parties were not new. They had been around for decades and usually consisted of a poorly written mystery, two hours of half-drunken role-playing in someone’s living room, and a disappointing solution that didn’t quite make sense.
    But what if you could make it bigger and better? What if you fully immersed the players, took them on a journey, and made the mystery last for weeks, not hours? This Otto Ingo, barely mentioned in the Times article, seemed to be just the kind of man to approach about her idea.
    Amy had assumed there were others like her, but with money: mystery lovers willing to pamper themselves to the tune of two weeks and many thousands of dollars. So she’d gone out on a limb, getting in touch with Otto, arranging the tour, creating the brochure and the Web site, all on her own. Well, not quite on her own. Her mother had been loyally at her side, to complain and tell her they were headed for disaster.
    The rally had filled up quickly, much to Fanny Abel’s amazement. If everything went right, the Monte Carlo to Rome Mystery Road Rally would put their little agency on the map, giving it a distinctive niche in the cutthroat travel market.
    If things went wrong . . . For a woman who hated risk, who had moved back in with her mother rather than live alone, Amy was taking the risk of a lifetime. She was painfully aware that there was no other tour operator sharing the downside. And that was the reason why she kept reviewing her mental checklist.
    Amy turned down a narrow pedestrian lane. The air was balmy, with that distinctive resort smell—coconut oil and citrus and aloe. Strolling in the welcome shade, she was jostled by the amiable tide, a couple here, a trio there, a small roadblock of Germans hovering around a particularly cheap postcard rack.
    This scent, so suggestive of languid, half-forgotten vacations, was it seeping out of the rows of plastic bottles in the souvenir shops or evaporating straight off the tourists? Perhaps it was part of the atmosphere, the result of so many decades of slathered, half-naked bodies leaning against porous limestone columns or dripping their fragrant sweat onto the cobblestones.
    The late summer sunlight met her at each corner, teasing her with its heat, only to retreat once she ventured on to the next block. Farther down, at the end of the block, Amy could see the shadows disappear, and knew that she was approaching a square. Good. She hadn’t forgotten.
    Dominick’s was one of several cafés that poured their tables and