Who By Water (Voices of the Dead Book 1)

by Victoria Raschke

  “It’s not that he isn’t successful. I know he’s your friend… he just comes off as shady.” Damn it. She hadn’t wanted to say it out loud.

  “I’d hardly call him a friend, but I’m surprised at you. You and I are in no position to judge a man’s personal life.”

  “No one I’m involved with has any delusions about my undying fidelity. You’ve been with Janez for two years and are head over heels in love, even if you can’t shout it from the castle tower.” She said it more testily than she had intended.

  “Do you honestly think Tomaž’s wife doesn’t know that he’s bedded every, well almost every, woman that works for him?” He looked at her like she was a child. He was the only person who could call her out on her bullshit and not make her want to kick him in the shins.

  “Still. I’d call that shady. They work for him. It’s asking for trouble.” She leaned over to straighten the strap on her sandal. She slept around, but she kept that shit away from work, despite Vesna’s teasing. Business was business, and anything else got complicated, fast.

  “Look. I’ll listen to the pitch – ” He raised his hand when she started to interrupt him, “And. And I promise I’ll talk to you before I make any decisions. In fact, why don’t you just talk to him with me?”

  She didn’t relish spending any time with Tomaž, but this was the best offer she was going to get from Gregor. “I’ll at least give you that.” She could talk him out of it later, if she saw legitimate reasons.

  They walked in silence to the museum. It was just around the corner. A few people were milling around in French Revolution Square, in front of Križanke with its ivy-covered façade. It was one of Jo’s favorite buildings in Ljubljana, especially in the fall, when the ivy that spilled down the front of the building turned crimson, setting off the green patina of the heavy bronze door with its raised cross.

  Further down the square, close to the courtyard entrance to Križanke, Tomaž stood, flanked by two women. On one side was his business manager, petite, dark-haired Olga, dressed like she’d come as Repressed Librarian, right down to her heavy, dark-rimmed glasses and the pinched look on her face. On the other was his wife, Katarina, taller than Tomaž in her Louboutin stilettos. A mass of dark curls hung to her shoulders, and her flawlessly light-handed makeup played up her dark almond-shaped eyes. The fit of her black bandage dress belied the fact she’d had three daughters, the oldest of them the same age as Faron. Why the hell Tomaž needed to cheat was beyond Jo’s understanding.

  Gregor started the introductions, or rather, reintroductions. It was rare for Jo not to have met someone in his circles. “Olga, Katarina, you remember Jo Wiley?”

  Olga shook hands and nodded curtly.

  Katarina took her hand. “Yes,” she said “Our two eldest spend time at your teahouse with friends.”

  Jo nodded, “Yes, I know Veronika and Ivanka through Faron, my son. I don’t think I’ve actually met your other daughter?” Jo couldn’t remember her name.

  “The baby is Ana. She is only 10. Ivanka speaks often of your cook, Frédéric, I believe. He helps her with her maths.”

  “Ah. Yes, our Fred is a man of many talents.” Jo smiled.

  Tomaž looked her up and down in a way that made her deeply uncomfortable. “I’m sure he is,” he said, “and lucky to have you as his boss.” He extended his hand to her. “Tomaž. But we have met?” He held her right hand in both of his warm, slightly damp ones. Dark and handsome, European artsy and expensively dressed, he was one of those charmers who looked attractive at a distance, but with a personality that oozed over everything up close. She’d run into enough Tomažes in her twenties to peg them for sleazes at “hello.” Maybe Katarina had been too young when she’d married him to see it. She certainly could have done better.

  Jo extricated her hand. “We have, yes. A few times. At Gregor’s New Year parties.”

  Tomaž nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  Of course he remembered. A number of New Years ago, she had “accidentally” dumped a drink in his lap when he ran a hand up the back of her leg as she walked by. Jerk.

  Gregor broke the tension before it built beyond her ability to be polite. “So tell me about this idea of yours.”

  Tomaž startled almost imperceptibly, as if Gregor’s voice had brought him back from a daydream. “Yes. The farm my parents owned near Tolmin is in some disrepair now. I hate to see it crumbling.”

  Gregor nodded and waited for Tomaž to continue. Jo loved to watch him work, especially with someone like Tomaž. Gregor never showed his hand and always insisted the other person speak first. They always found it flattering. Jo had seen how it gave Gregor the upper hand.

  “I like the idea of these destination restaurants such as Fäviken.” He stopped. “Miss Wiley, you must know of a Blackberry Farm in Tennessee. I believe that is where you are from?”

  “I’ve read about it, but I’ve never been. On the rare occasions I go back, I spend my time in Chattanooga.”

  “Of course.” Tomaž continued, addressing Gregor, “Given the popularity of these places, it would seem we could do well to turn my childhood home into such a destination. The setting is quite beautiful.”

  Gregor nodded. “It’s worth looking into. But why are you trying to interest me?”

  Leave it to Gregor to get right to the point.

  “Yes. Of course.” It was Tomaž’s turn to nod.

  Jo was convinced ninety percent of Tomaž’s vocabulary consisted of “of course.”

  He continued, “It would be a large undertaking. Renovation of the house and barn as a restaurant and inn and replanting the vegetable and herb gardens. Maybe bring in livestock… goats, chickens. This is more than the work for one person, or one person’s money.”

  Gregor did not nod. “I see. I would need to look at the property and discuss it with my associates before making any kind of decision.”

  “Of course.” Tomaž looked pointedly at Jo.

  She cringed inside, and started a tally of the times Tomaž said “of course” to distract herself from telling him what she thought he should do with his business idea.

  “Olga can arrange for you to go out to the property. I’m traveling later this week to Fäviken. And I hope soon to visit the U.S. to see Blackberry Farm and Blue Hill at Stone Barns in New York.” Tomaž looked again at Jo. “Perhaps, Miss Wiley, you can offer some recommendations for visiting Tennessee?”

  She wouldn’t embarrass Gregor by being rude. “I can email you a list or something.”

  “Of course. But I would like to see this teahouse of yours. Maybe I will come tomorrow to see you.”

  “We’re closed on Sundays.” She wanted to be sick. Tomaž was oilier than she remembered, and she had zero desire to spend one more second talking with him on the street, let alone to have him in her shop. Katarina and Olga had been silent through the whole conversation. Jo turned and looked up at Katarina. “Would you like to come on Monday instead? I can introduce you to Fred.”

  A flicker of annoyance flashed in Tomaž’s face. Katarina seemed surprised, but smiled. “I would enjoy that. Are you busy when you first open? We would hate to be a distraction.”

  Jo was relieved. “No. Things don’t really pick up until late. Let’s plan for four.” If she couldn’t find a solid reason to not go into business with Tomaž, she could at least cultivate an ally in his wife. Besides, Katarina seemed like she could use a friend.

  More people had gathered at the entrance of the museum. They were looking at their watches and finishing cigarettes. Gregor placed his hand in the small of Jo’s back and nudged her toward the museum. It was an unspoken signal between old friends that the conversation had ended.

  Tomaž and his companions disappeared into one of the many corners of the museum after they all walked in together. There were several faces she knew, some government types and business people she�
��d met through Gregor. There were also a few artists and writers she’d known for years, either from the university or the shop. Lots of polite nods were exchanged across the crowded rooms along with a few air kisses from some of Gregor’s admirers.

  The crowd murmured and buzzed around them. Glasses of champagne clinked on the trays carried by starched young servers. Gregor snagged two flutes from one and handed a glass to Jo. Over his shoulder, she caught the impression of a face that shouldn’t be there, but she couldn’t place it and she brushed the thought aside as the crowd began to hush and move into the interior courtyard of the museum. A small public address system crackled to life with the voice of the mayor of Ljubljana.

  “Dobrodošli in hvala lepa. The city of Ljubljana and the City Museum appreciate your attendance and your support of what has been a very successful exhibit and festival of the ancient history of Ljubljana, Emona.” He pronounced Ljubljana, Loo-blana, like a native to the city.

  The crowd clapped politely. Jo bet dollars to donuts not ten people in the room had seen the exhibit at the museum before this evening. No one plays tourists in their own town, including her. The mayor said a few more perfunctory sentences about supporting tourism and preserving Ljubljana’s past. There was more polite clapping. He seemed to be on board with brevity, and Jo was grateful.

  “Thank you all again. Please enjoy the exhibit, the music, and the champagne.”

  In the corner of the courtyard a quartet began to play. For a moment it sounded like the theme from M*A*S*H floating on the evening air, but it resolved into a chamber piece she wasn’t familiar with. Was this the song that had been stuck in her head all day? Where had it come from?

  More waiters swooped through the few candlelit tables scattered about the courtyard, collecting empty flutes and replacing them with full ones.

  She adjusted her shawl around her shoulders and looked up to see Helena standing in front of her with a bemused grin, draped in a cream-colored gown that suggested a toga without looking like a costume. Her dark hair was shining in the candlelight, the edges of her bob brushing her jaw line. In her expensive-looking heels, she towered over Jo, who stood a solid 5’7” flat-footed.

  “I’m not surprised to find him here.” Helena fluttered her hand in a wave at Gregor. “I am surprised to see you in something besides a Black Flag t-shirt.”

  “It does seem to surprise people I don’t live in an apron and clogs.” Jo smiled up into Helena’s angular face.

  “It suits you, this non-apron attire. It suits you quite well.” Helena arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow, her signature gesture for I’d like to fuck you right now, no please or thank you about it. “What are you doing after this?” Then to Gregor, “You aren’t dragging her off to some dreary afterparty are you?”

  Gregor smiled. “Maybe for a few minutes. Then she’s all yours.”

  Helena laughed. “Not quite.” She turned her gaze back to Jo.

  “What did you have in mind?” Jo wasn’t very good at playing coquette.

  “Hm. Find me before you leave and we can discuss.” Helena ran her hand down Jo’s arm, gently squeezing her fingers as she moved away to greet other friends.

  Gregor chuckled when she’d gone. “Jo: always full of surprises.”

  “Are you surprised?” She had told him she was seeing a woman; she hadn’t said who. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in hearing about the fleeting ones.

  “Not really. You’re attractive and exotically American. Helena’s a collector. It makes perfect sense, just don’t expect it to last.”

  “Spoken like a man of experience, but ‘exotically American’? Really. Maybe 20 years ago, but Ljubljana is crawling with Americans now.”

  “You aren’t a tourist. You live here. And I have known Helena a long time.”

  “Duly noted. And you don’t need to worry. My heart’s in no danger.”

  “Now that I do worry about.” Gregor turned to her with a more serious look.

  She sighed. “I’m perfectly happy. Things are as they should be.”

  “Things are as you think you want them. You’ve done an excellent job of leaving exactly no room for someone to fall in love with you or you with them.”

  “Exactly.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Too dangerous.” She didn’t want the lecture. Besides, she could recite it for herself verbatim by now.

  “Jo… ” He would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t too proper for such a thing. “But I didn’t invite you to lecture you.” He motioned her off. ”Go. Mingle. Do whatever.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a half-assed bowing salute, champagne glass in hand. “I think I’ll go upstairs and actually look at the exhibit.”

  Several attendees were waiting for the elevator. The stairs would be quicker. Near the stairs, Jo noticed that a small, glass case labeled “From the Well” had drawn a handful of attendees. Olga and Katarina stood among them, admiring the items in the case. Olga was, at least. She seemed transfixed by the display. Katarina seemed uncharacteristically fidgety, as if she couldn’t get away from the display fast enough. Jo couldn’t tell if the look on her face was fear or revulsion.

  Katarina succeeded in pulling Olga away and they walked together back toward the courtyard. Jo stopped at the case to see what had so disconcerted Katarina.

  It contained some Roman coins, a bone toothpick, a few potsherds, a small makeup or perfume container made of pottery, and a child’s doll. Dated from the time of Emona, the pieces were carefully arranged on black museum velvet and neatly labeled with small white cards in both Slovenian and English. They’d all been uncovered during the excavation and preservation of the Roman well in the basement of the building. Maybe that doll was the thing that had unnerved Katarina. About half the height of a modern fashion doll, its individual pottery pieces were held together with wire to reconstruct what it must have looked like. It was finished with the kind of black and red glazes seen on Roman vases. Its worn face had been carved to reveal the lighter clay underneath, and the light gave a malevolent cast to its eyes.

  It was not a doll she would have enjoyed as a child. Despite the simplicity of its etched-in face, the doll’s eyes seemed to follow her as she walked around the case. Once she’d really seen it, Jo couldn’t get away from it fast enough either.

  She walked up the stairs behind two stocky men in suits discussing the EU’s economic woes, and was grateful not to be part of that conversation. She was very much interested in politics and the impact of globalization, but her opinion would probably not be welcome, and tonight she wanted to just enjoy the parade of Ljubljana’s pretty people and the company of her “date,” wherever he’d gotten to.

  The conversation with Tomaž continued to bother her. He got under her skin and she couldn’t shake the feeling it was a very bad idea for Gregor to get into bed with him. Poor choice of words. But still. She didn’t usually put much faith in hunches. When it came to business decisions, she preferred a logical balancing of pros and cons. Business this might be, but Gregor was family, and Tomaž nauseated her.

  She strolled through the gallery distractedly, glancing at the dioramas and artifacts and reading the placards in Slovenian and English. After the first room, she was absorbed by the displays and read every card. A red carpet leading from room to room was emblazoned with the names of Roman gods and goddesses, an especially nice touch. Excellent lighting against a great deal of black drapery highlighted pieces of statues and vessels from every era of Ljubljana and told the story of a place tied to the river. A stone head of an ancient river god loomed in the last corner as she exited the exhibit.

  A part of the head was missing at an angle toward the nose but one stern eye looked out from the marble. It was part of a statue of Achelous, a river deity of Greece. Early Roman worshippers had brought him to their new outpost on the edges of the empire. The story of Achelous was presented in bold type over a
washed-out, handwritten version of France Prešeren’s 19th century poem “The Water Man.” She’d memorized part of the poem when she was learning Slovenian, mostly to impress Gregor, who knew by heart more poems, in both their languages, than she had ever read. The Water Man carried the woman who would dance with no one but him, the handsome stranger, into a whirlpool and was never seen again.

  Gregor found her just as she got back to the bottom of the stairs. An hour had passed and he was ready to stroll to the smaller gathering at the visitor’s building and overlook at the Emona House excavation.

  “Have you seen Helena?” Jo looked around him and over his shoulder at the thinning crowd.

  “She went outside earlier. Maybe she’s also going to the reception at the excavation.”

  They walked back out onto French Revolution Square. A few older guests and women wearing impractical shoes for walking were boarding a small bus.

  Gregor looked down at her feet. “Are those walking shoes?”

  “They are. Not quite as comfortable as boots, but walkable.”

  He offered her his arm. She took it and nestled up to him for warmth against the chill and the rising damp from the river. Vesna was her soul sister and partner in crime, but Gregor was the much cooler, older brother she’d wanted when she was a child. He looked out for her, but always took her seriously, even when she’d first arrived in Ljubljana. He later told her that he hadn’t been sure what she was running from but it had been clear she was running.

  He had protected her in his way ever since that first night at the club. He was also the closest thing Faron had to a father. If not for Gregor, and more of his interventions than she would like to admit, she would not have been able to stay in Slovenia, or have the life she had now. Like an older brother, he had a way of needling her in the places she’d prefer to keep private.

  Gregor interrupted her thoughts. “What I said earlier, about worrying about you…”