In the bright early afternoon sunlight, every color showed true. Dots, dashes, spires, and blotches of green popped out against a richly earth-toned land deep into its seventh millennium of cultivation.
Roadsides boasted colorful flowers mixed with grasses, herbs, maquis, and gorse in among eucalyptus, fig, olive, oak, and other such hardy trees the ever-present rock and winds permitted.
Even the occasional concrete plant or marble quarry could not diminish the awe-inspiring majesty of the mountains’ natural beauty or the timeless charm of old stone villages nestled against their slopes.
“This is truly beautiful,” said Yianni, not taking his eyes off the view.
“I’m glad you like it,” smiled Popi.
“It’s hard not to. Do you live out this way?”
“I live south of here, by the Temple of Demeter.”
“What’s it like down there?”
“The temple sits on a hill with a view that every time I go by gives me more respect for the ancients’ uncanny ability at picking the perfect sites for their holiest of places. Many consider it the most significant archaeological site on Naxos.”
“Sounds like somewhere to take my girlfriend if she manages to get here this weekend.”
“What’s the lucky lady’s name? My husband’s is Mamas.”
“Toni. She lives on Mykonos. Plays piano in a bar. Not exactly Mamas’s biblical career, but it’s a living.”
“Speaking of intriguing, do you mind if I ask why we’re going to Siphones?”
“I assume Dimitri told you about the missing reporter. She met some farmers in Siphones who were pretty outspoken about big money trying to ruin the island.”
“They’re not alone in that feeling. Especially among Naxians living outside of Chora.”
“But aren’t they used to that? After all, between the emery mines and marble quarries, this island’s been getting sliced up for eons. And for much of the time, by foreigners.”
“True, but what locals fear this time is a new type of foreign conquest. One fueled by big-money investors making changes in a few brief few years that outstrip the sum of all that the island has experienced in the past six thousand years.”
“Sounds like the sort of fevered rhetoric that gets passions running high.”
“You better believe it.”
“Enough to kill someone?”
“I’m a cop; how could I ever rule that out?”
“What’s your instinct, based upon living here?”
“There’s a lot of tough, hard-thinking people on this island, and if they thought their way of life was under siege, I’ve no doubt they’d do what they felt they had to do to protect it.”
“So much for the pastoral life.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s consistent. It is, after all, the responsibility of the herder to protect his flock from wolves.”
Yianni stared at the side of Popi’s face. “Are you suggesting it’s reached the point where herders are going after the wolves?”
“No, I’m just answering your request for my instinctive opinion on what I believe could happen if those concerns aren’t addressed.”
Yianni looked straight ahead. What the hell have I walked into?
* * *
Just before the village of Moni, Popi turned left at a sign marked KERAMOTI-APOLLON. “We’re ten minutes away from Siphones.”
“I appreciated this brief chance at being a tourist. Thanks for driving.”
“No problem. As often as I’ve been up here, I’m still blown away every time I see the mountains. I miss the ones back home in the Peloponnese.”
She pulled off onto the side of the road just past a sign reading SIPHONES.
“Where’s the village?”
“On the other side of the road. It steps down the hillside in terraces still farmed to grow crops like potatoes, cabbages, onions, tomatoes, and eggplants.”
“How many old houses are here?”
“Hard to say, with so many in ruin, but I’d guess around thirty-five.”
“That many?”
“This used to be a vibrant community, with lots of kids, lots of grapes, and lots of wine.”
They walked across the road and stood at the edge of the hillside looking at the mountains to the south and west.
“They must get a hell of a sunset here.”
“This view always makes me wonder why everyone left and, more significantly, why no one has returned.”
Yianni nodded in the direction of a marble cross. “I assume that’s where I’ll find the plaque with the mysterious message.”
“Yes.”
He walked up the road to the cross and stared down at the remains of a broken plaque. Yianni knelt down to read the inscription. “It says precisely what you described.” He took out his notebook and began to write.
“It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
“That’s the downside of being a detective. We can’t resist a good mystery. But this time it’s only curiosity, not professional interest.” He stood up.
Popi pointed at a group of men gathered on one of the cultivated terraces. “Are those the ones you’re here to see?”
“I won’t know until I meet them. How do we get down there?”
“We walk under a bridge from the other side of the road. It’s a bit overgrown, but that’s the only way I know to get there.” She started out across the road.
Yianni followed. “What’s the snake situation on Naxos?”
“Ah, you’re a city boy.”
“As a matter of fact, my family is from your part of Greece, the Peloponnese.”
“Then don’t embarrass our roots by being afraid of snakes.”
“I’m not afraid, just asking.”
“Make a racket and watch where you step. They don’t like you any more than you like them.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like them.”
Popi managed to maneuver through a patch of tall thistle, and down nine stone steps to the edge of an overgrown four-meter stretch that ended at the mouth of a dark culvert running under the bridge. An algae sludge grew where a trickle of water seeped into the culvert from the hillside behind her.
Yianni stopped at the top and stared at the culvert. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Don’t worry; it’s an old sluiceway for water running off the mountain. It’s the water that still makes this place so attractive to farmers.”
She picked up some stones and tossed a few into the weeds in front of her and the rest into the culvert. “That’s to scare away whatever might be in there. But don’t worry; I’ll lead.”
Yianni followed the path she’d made through the thistle and down the steps to where she’d stopped to throw her stones. “I take back what I said before about my having a lot in common with your husband.”
“Why’s that?” she asked from inside the culvert.
“Because the poor soul obviously has a lot more to contend with than I do.”
As Popi continued though the culvert, Yianni heard, “Snakes, snakes, come meet the nice detective.”
Chapter Seven
“Minister, I don’t know who’s pounding down your front door over this, but it’s been only a little more than a day since we learned the reporter might be missing.” Andreas switched the phone from his right hand to his left, picked up a pencil with his free hand, and began tapping the eraser end on his desktop.
“Detective Kouros is on Naxos conducting an investigation alongside the local police, and I’ll be joining him tomorrow. If we do what you say you’re being pushed to do and announce to the world that we believe she’s been abducted, it will most certainly draw a lot of media attention, but as I’ve said before—and it deserves repeating—that sort of attention could cause her abductor to panic and kill her. Let’
s not forget there’s been no ransom demand, so if there’s been a kidnapping, her captor’s motive is something other than ransom. If we can determine what that motive might be, it could be the lead we need to find her.”
Andreas listened to the minister.
“Minister, I’m not questioning your motives or the sincerity of your concern for the reporter’s safety. If I’m questioning anything, it’s the agenda of whoever is pounding on you to do something that we both know is premature at best and fatal for the victim at worst.”
He listened more.
“Of course there comes a time that alerting the media could be beneficial to a search, but we’re not there yet.”
And listened still more.
“By Sunday evening? That’s virtually impossible.”
Andreas and the minister argued back and forth on the date, but the most the minister would agree to was Monday at noon.
The minister hadn’t revealed who was pressuring him to go public, but Andreas felt certain it was Nikoletta’s publisher. What bothered Andreas was why her publisher was pushing so hard. Genuine concern for his reporter’s fate? A sincere belief in the power of the media to help police generate leads? Or to sell newspapers and promote his paper’s follow-up series on Nikoletta’s reporting.
Whatever the reason, Andreas had until Monday to find Nikoletta. After that, the story of her disappearance would be all over the media, along with a slew of finger pointing at his unit for not finding her.
The sooner I get to Naxos the better. Andreas sighed—and snapped the pencil in half.
* * *
Yianni made it through the culvert, cursing all the way.
“That’s certainly a novel way of clearing away critters,” said Popi.
“It’s the last time I’m doing something like that.”
“Sorry to tell you, but that’s the only way I know back to the truck.”
“You can’t be serious.” He waved his hand in the direction of three men on a terrace below them. “Just get me over there.”
They followed the sluiceway’s flagstone bed beneath a canopy of fig trees and climbed up onto a path running by a group of tumbledown homes.
“What’s that?” said Yianni, pointing at a dark pit.
“My guess is that’s where they once stomped grapes to make wine. They still grow grapes here,” she pointed at some vines, “but it doesn’t look like there’s much stomping going on anymore.”
As they approached, the three men stopped their work, stood up tall, and watched the visitors approach. All three appeared lean and fit, dressed in similar jeans, work boots, and long-sleeved cotton shirts. Their difference lay in their choice of hats. One wore a broad-brimmed straw, another a Greek fisherman’s hat, and the third an American-style ball cap bearing the symbol of an Asian tractor company.
Yianni waved as he stepped onto the terrace and approached the men. “Yiasas.”
The men did not return his wave or hello.
Yianni kept coming, smiling all the way. As he drew closer he noticed significant age differences in the men, accentuated by the varying years spent earning farmer tans on their faces, necks, and sinewy forearms.
He stopped in front of the man in the fisherman’s hat, clearly the oldest of the three. “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Yianni Kouros. I’m a detective, and this is my colleague Officer—”
“We know Popi,” said the man in the ball cap. “And don’t waste your time talking to my father; he’s not quite all there. Let him get back to his fieldwork before he gets upset and we have a hell of a time getting him home. He doesn’t take well to changes in his routine.”
Yianni looked at the one in the straw hat and nodded toward the old man. “Is he your grandfather?”
Straw hat looked at ball cap.
Ball cap nodded. “Answer the man, son.”
“Yeah, we’re all family.”
The old man wandered away, and no one tried to stop him.
“He’ll be okay,” said ball cap. “He’s like an old burro. Knows every inch of his land blindfolded.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt your work,” said Yianni, “but if you could spare us a few minutes of your time, I’d appreciate it.”
“The police chief said you wanted to know about that reporter who was nosing about here a few days ago.”
“That’s right.”
“Why do you want to know about her?”
“She wrote a newspaper article about a man she met in Chora, and we’re following up on that.”
“You mean the computer guy?” said the son.
Yianni nodded. “We’re looking for leads on who he might be.”
That was the best cover story he could think of to hold off speculation over why cops were running all around the island asking questions about the reporter.
“Why don’t you ask her?” said the son.
Yianni liked it better when the son was quiet. “Reporters like to protect their sources, so we have to go at it differently. I’m sure you aren’t interested in protecting a criminal.”
“What do you want to know?” said the father.
“What you talked about with her.”
“How’s that going help you find your man?” the son asked.
The kid was getting on Yianni’s nerves.
Popi put her arm around the son. “Come, let’s go find your grandfather and let your father and the detective talk.”
He seemed reluctant to leave, but his father nodded, and he went with Popi.
“The reporter came here looking for dirt on how we felt about the growth of tourism on the island.”
“What sort of dirt?”
“Who’s corrupt, who are the big players behind development efforts, and what sorts of things they’re doing to get their way. She also wanted to know about anyone I knew who was against development and what they were willing to do to stop it.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. There’s corruption all across Greece. This place is better than most. Same thing with development. Places change; people move on. Just look around you.” He waved his hand. “Grandfather was born here, but everyone’s moved away. This place died, a new place somewhere else was born. It’s part of the cycle of life.”
Yianni stared at the man. “What’s your name?”
“People call me Junior.”
“Mine’s Yianni. The thing is, Junior, I’ve heard you’re not too happy with what’s happening on your island. That foreign investors are coming to ruin Naxos, and you’re all in for doing whatever it takes to see that doesn’t happen.”
Junior shrugged. “I don’t know who’d have told you that, but I’m just a simple farmer. What do I know about foreign investors?”
“You live on an island where for millennia its people have lived under the domination and control of foreigners. Everywhere you look are reminders of that history. So, please don’t bullshit me by saying you have no opinion on foreign investors threatening to occupy your island.”
Junior glared and clenched his fists. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Yianni looked him straight in the eyes. “No, I’m calling you a bullshitter.”
For an instant neither man moved or blinked.
Junior smiled. “Okay, that name I can accept.”
Yianni returned the smile. “So, what did you tell her?”
“What I thought would impress her.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Look, let’s be realistic. I’m a bit old to be running around with those revolutionary types on the mainland tossing Molotov cocktails at what they see as symbols of their enemies. But I could tell she was looking for just that sort of angle for some story she was writing about farmers versus developers. So I made myself seem like a revolutionary.”
“But
why would you do that?”
“I may be too old to run around with revolutionaries but not too old to want to get into their pants.”
Yianni felt certain his jaw had dropped. “Are you saying you slept with the reporter?”
Junior gestured no. “I tried my best routine—even tossed in a line about how the European Union with its memoranda has been occupying our country for a decade. But none of that worked. She took my story and took off. Didn’t even accept my offer of sharing a bottle of homemade wine.”
Nikoletta had left that bit about her afternoon out of her notebook. Perhaps because as a Greek woman she was used to that sort of approach from the men she met.
“But I heard that a group of you told her you’d burn down the foreigners’ projects if necessary.”
Junior smiled. “You heard right. More Molotov cocktail talk. The group you heard about was me, my son, and my father. I’ll let you decide whether Grandpa could have agreed on anything. As for my son, he’s bright for sure, but as you’ve seen, he goes along with what his father says.”
Yianni burst out laughing. “What is it about Greek men that leads them to think they have a chance with every woman?”
“I don’t know, but why do you think my son wandered off with Popi when he was having such a good time tormenting you?”
Yianni turned to look for Popi. She was nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t worry. She’s in no danger. Aside from her having a gun and a husband who could lift a bull, my son’s a gentleman. It’s just the thought of the possibility that makes men vulnerable to a woman’s charms.”
Yianni yelled out her name.
“Besides, Popi was raised on a farm among four brothers and learned how to handle men by watching them grow up making fools of themselves. Something we all seem to do from time to time.”
Yianni saw Popi walking toward them with son and Grandpa in tow.
“See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
Yianni hesitated. “Perhaps you could answer another question for me?”
“I’ll try.”
A Deadly Twist Page 8
