Death of an Aegean Queen (25 page)

Our ship was nearing the dock when I walked out on the promenade deck. I pulled on the door to the library and it opened. Luc Girard and Sophie Antonakos were inside, Sophie reading from a sheet of notes as Girard checked the contents of a leather satchel.

We greeted each other and Sophie said, “Dr. Girard has a lecture today at the Archaeology Museum in Iráklion. Fortunately, most of the items he wants to use for illustration are already at the museum, so we’re just packing a few little things.”

“Are you going, too?” I asked her.

“Sophie gets the day off.” Girard looked up from his satchel. “Today’s lecture will be in English, so I can handle it by myself.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I want to go to the funeral for Nikos Papadakos, and I would love for Sophie to come with me.” I turned to her. “Could you please, please come with me? Otherwise I won’t be able to talk to anyone.”

Before Sophie could answer, Girard said, “Cool! Look for a man named Spyros Kontos. He owns a sort of hardware store there. I know, because I talked to him many times when I was working with Dieter Matt on the excavation I told you about. It was only a mile from Papadakos and Kontos’s village. I used to buy shovels and trowels from him.

“This guy Kontos, you dig, is one of those illegal excavators who sells whatever he finds to the smugglers. Mind you, I don’t know the names of any of the smugglers, but I certainly tried to get him to tell me. Maybe you and Sophie can turn on your charm and get something out of him.”

“Oh, I . . . I don’t think so,” Sophie stammered.

“I explained to him a million times why it’s wrong—what he’s doing—but I could never make him understand. As far as he’s concerned, whatever is buried in Crete belongs to Cretans, and he’s Cretan. So if he finds it, it belongs to him!”

“Sophie, will you come with me?” I asked again. I had to promise to pay for the taxi and to buy her lunch but she finally agreed.

* * * * *

Sophie and I snagged the very last taxi in line. At the front was a dark blue Mercedes station wagon, its hood covered with a large swag of white flowers. Six men, toting a black coffin from the ferry boat docked near our own ship, paused while another man opened the Mercedes’ hatch back to receive the casket. Sophie nodded at passengers in several of the cars as we walked toward the back of the line, mumbling things to me like, “That’s the maître d,” and, “She runs the gift shop.” I gathered that the first few cars carried family members who had come down from the village to meet the ferry.

In the fifth car back, Captain Tzedakis, wearing enough medals to sink the ship, sat stiffly beside another uniformed man who may have been his first mate. Agent Bondurant and Officer Villas, the policeman from Mykonos, stood beside a car about halfway down the line, obviously scrutinizing the attendees. Was Papadakos’s killer in this line?

When the line started to move, Sophie dashed toward a taxi that was maneuvering to back up and leave, having picked up no passengers. She halted the driver and waved at me to hurry up. As our car pulled out, I spied Brittany Benson on the promenade deck high above the dock. She was on her cell phone again, and waving her free hand in apparent frustration.

* * * * *

We rolled out of Iráklion and into rocky hills peppered with olive trees. A winding road narrowed to a single paved lane, and then the pavement gave out altogether as we climbed higher. Our taxi had to plow through the dust kicked up by all the cars ahead of us. Sophie and I alternated between rolling our windows up to keep out the dust and rolling them down to keep the back seat from overheating. At ten a.m. the sun was already beating mercilessly on the roof of our unair-conditioned cab. I fanned myself and Sophie held a scarf over her nose and mouth. In Greek, she asked our driver if he knew a man named Spyros Kontos and was met with a negative shake of the head.

“Do you speak English?” I asked him.

“
Ochi,
” he answered, meaning no, so I felt free to tell Sophie about my morning’s grilling in the security office, confident the driver wouldn’t understand what I was talking about.

“They know I snooped through Brittany’s stuff,” I said. “But I told the FBI man and Chief Letsos I stole your room key out of your purse, so they don’t know you had anything to do with it.”

“Thanks, but Brittany already knows how you got in. Did they accuse you of putting the watch in her closet?”

I stopped fanning myself and looked at her. “So you know about that, do you? Yes, they did.”

“How did the watch get there?”

“I have no idea.”

“Brittany thinks you put it there. I had to tell her everything, including the fact that it was I who let you in, and I had to tell her why.”

“Gulp! So Bondurant and Letsos knew I was lying about stealing the key from your purse.”

“Don’t worry about it. They can figure out for themselves that you were doing it to protect me.”

We both stared out our windows for a long time, in silence. The rocky slopes, I noticed, were pockmarked with holes, some of which were surrounded by rude scaffolding. Like the entrance to a cave or something.

“There was no watch in her closet when I was there,” I said.

“I certainly didn’t put it there.”

“So it must have been Brittany herself.”

“I don’t think so.” She looked at me hard, and then added, “I truly don’t think Brittany knew anything about it.”

I turned back to my window. By now, there was a thick layer of dust on everything including my denim jumper and my navy T-shirt. I studied the holes in the terrain, to get my mind off the chill that had suddenly come over us. I had an idea. “Sophie, do you think these holes are places where people have been digging for loot?”

“I’ll bet you’re right! I was wondering what they were.” Sophie rolled her window down a bit lower and coughed as more dust poured in. “I see a little village ahead of us.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Nikos Papadakos’s home town was straight out of
Zorba the Greek
. Narrow streets, whitewashed shanties with red tile roofs, sheep assuming the right of way wherever they happened to wander. The funeral procession stopped when, I assumed, the lead car reached the church. Since there was nothing resembling a place to park, the rest of the cars simply stopped and disgorged their passengers.

Sophie talked to our cabbie and told me he and the other drivers were going to take their vehicles out of town where they would wait for us until the service was over, then drop back around to pick us up. He showed her how the cardboard sign in his windshield would help us find him again, without which, of course, he couldn’t collect his fare.

I stepped to one side of the street and slapped a cloud of dust off my clothes. Some fifty yards ahead of us stood a small stucco church. From the car behind the hearse, a young woman in the black of deep mourning and a boy of about seven climbed out and were led off toward the church. The little boy looked back toward me before they led him away. Big dark eyes and a mouth that looked as if it had already been tightened by manhood thrust upon him too soon. He was, I assumed, Papadakos’s son, and he was now the man of the family.

Sophie took my arm and we headed up the street, following the crowd. “Nikos had two children. That’s his wife and son you were looking at. His baby daughter, I would imagine, is at home and being tended by another member of the family.”

“Did you know Nikos well?”

“I hardly knew him at all, but I live in the crew’s quarters, so I’ve heard the talk. There’s been talk of little else since he was killed.”

“Have you heard anything that would indicate a motive?”

“Nothing. Everyone who knew him liked him.”

It was the umpteenth time I’d heard that. How exceptional, I thought, for a man to work and live with these people for two years, and for everyone to still like him. Either Nikos Papadakos was a most amiable fellow, or somebody’s fibbing.

Sophie had covered her head with the scarf she’d been using to cover her nose earlier. I looked around and realized I was the only woman with a bare head. “Is there a shop or something nearby? I need to buy a scarf.”

We found a sort of tobacconist shop that also carried odds and ends. While I looked for something scarf-like, Sophie talked to the girl behind the counter. She learned today’s service for Nikos was not to be his only funeral. This one was for the foreigners, people from the ship, but another funeral, tomorrow, would be for the village. This close-knit community, hardly changed for hundreds of years, would suffer the indignities invariably inflicted on their church and their customs by the outsiders for an hour or two, saving their own mourning for later. Sophie also learned the location of Spyros Kontos’s store. It was about three blocks away.

My head now properly covered by a purple something with a Greek key border, I noted we were more than a block behind the end of the line heading to the church. “Sophie, let’s not go to the funeral. I’d rather look around and find that hardware store.”

“Okay. I’m only here because you promised to buy my lunch,” Sophie reminded me with a little grin.

We found the store, but we didn’t find Kontos. The store was being tended by a man who told Sophie that Kontos was at the funeral. I looked around the store, craning my neck to see around the counter and into their back room. Might it hold some of Kontos’s recent diggings? I tried to think of an excuse to go back there. I watched the attendant for a minute and saw that he was so completely absorbed in flirting with Sophie, he wouldn’t notice me if I stripped naked and danced on the counter. I simply walked into the back room and looked around. I saw nothing that looked the least bit incriminating. No artifacts. Nothing. When I returned to the front room of the store, I found Sophie edging her way toward the door and the attendant trying his best to keep her from leaving. I rescued her by calling out, “Let’s go, Sophie.”

Sophie exhaled loudly and rolled her eyes as she joined me outside the store. “Dotsy, why are we here? If you didn’t want to go to the funeral, why did you want to come here at all?”

“We’re here because I’m looking for a connection between the murders of George Gaskill and Nikos Papadakos. My best friend’s husband and your roommate are suspects in the former, and, other than a possible smuggling operation, no one has come up with a reasonable motive for the latter. But I believe they were connected.”

“The woman at the first store told me where Papadakos lived. Would you like to go there?”

“Sure, but only to walk by. I wouldn’t dare impose on them.”

Sophie led me off the main street and up a winding dirt lane that terminated in a cluster of tiny stone-and-stucco dwellings. “This is it,” she said, stopping in front of the one with green shutters.

From inside the hut came a baby’s cry. An old woman dressed in black wobbled by the open door, one hand on a quivering cane. She glanced out toward us, shielded her eyes with her free hand, and stopped.

“Kalimeŕa!” Sophie said, brightly.

The old woman said nothing, but she waved us in. The next thing I knew, we were inside Nikos Papadakos’s home talking to his mother, and Sophie was holding the crying baby, which the old woman had unceremoniously handed her, then tottered to a cane chair beside a spinning wheel. She seated herself with the utmost care, and swept one hand around toward a table loaded with nuts, bread, small glasses, and a bottle of Metaxa.

Sophie bounced the baby into silence. It made me a little nervous, knowing her tendency to drop things, but she shushed into the baby’s ear and the baby seemed happy enough. “She says, ‘Help yourself.’ The food on the table is the traditional funeral offering.”

Feeling like a terrible intruder, I grabbed a handful of peanuts, and smiled at the woman. She and Sophie lit into a long discussion of something, while I studied the simple room, its plain cement floor, smoke-stained hearth, and simple wood-framed windows. I didn’t know whether I should sit down or not so I stood quietly and ate my peanuts. My gaze fell on a stack of black pottery bowls on the floor. They looked exactly like something I’d seen in the back of the LAMBDA catalog of stolen antiquities. Stolen items painted shiny black to make them look like cheap tourist junk. They could be slipped through customs easily with officials never suspecting they were real artifacts. So Papadakos was a smuggler, after all! I must get one of those bowls. I faked a coughing fit as if I had peanuts stuck in my throat and walked out the door, still coughing.