“Now that I’ve shown you how to tell the real from the fake, make certain, when you buy, you always buy the fake.”
The audience tittered.
“Because it’s illegal to take real antiquities out of the country,” he added. He picked up a reproduction red-figure vase, handed it to the woman nearest him, and told her to pass it around. He started a couple of other items around the room, then the white-ground lekythos. This made me nervous because it was the real McCoy. As they passed it along, everyone turned it upside down and looked at the black numbers, which pegged it as an authentic museum piece. The lekythos made the round of the room to the last man who sat near the door and about eight feet away from Sophie and me. He held it out toward Sophie, but the gap made it necessary for her to get up and lean over toward him. He passed it to her.
She dropped it.
If it had fallen straight to the carpet it might not have broken, but it fell onto a brass doorstop that had been pushed aside when they closed the door. Sophie cried out like a wounded kitten and ran from the room. By the time I got out to the deck, she was nowhere to be found. I returned to the library, not knowing what to say but knowing I had to say something. Girard was on his knees, slowly placing each piece of the broken lekythos on the seat of a nearby chair.
“Is there anything we can do to help, Dr. Girard?” an elderly man asked.
“There’s a tray behind the table,” he said softly. “Bring it to me.”
Someone handed him the tray and the rest filed quietly out. It was just him and me now. He moved the broken shards reverently from the chair seat to the tray. He lowered his head to the carpet and looked sideways, licked one finger to pick up a tiny sliver.
“I’m so very sorry this has happened, Dr. Girard. Sophie, the poor girl, I know she’s devastated. She admires you and your work so much.”
“Ask Sophie to see me at her earliest convenience.”
I promised I would.
* * * * *
Kathryn Gaskill opened her door, took my arm with her small, cold hand, and pulled me into her room. She obviously hadn’t allowed the staff in to clean because her bed was still unmade and a couple of bathroom towels lay on the floor. I stepped over them and seated myself at her dressing table. Now wearing a green wrap-around skirt and yellow blouse, she stood in the center of the room, her hands over her mouth, staring at the wall as if she had forgotten where she was and what she was doing.
I waited a full minute in silence before she turned and acknowledged my presence. “I came down about an hour ago, Kathryn, but you weren’t here.”
She said nothing.
“Any news?” I asked.
“I was up on the . . . other floor. In the security office. I was talking to the FBI men and those other men.” Kathryn was one question behind me.
“Any news?”
“No sign of George. They searched every inch of the ship while you were ashore and they’ve still got two helicopters and some little boats out looking for him. They said they’ll keep it up until dark, but it’s useless. I told them George is a poor swimmer. He can’t tread water for more than a few minutes, so even if he was conscious when he hit the water he wouldn’t have lasted long.”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“No.”
“Would you like to go to dinner with us? Or I could have them bring dinner to you.” I flashed on a picture of the five of us and one empty chair at the table, like last night but minus George. Not such a good idea, perhaps.
“I can have them bring meals to me anytime I want.” Kathryn glanced at the phone. “But I think I would like to go with you. I can’t stay in here forever.” She walked past me and into the bathroom. I heard water running. When she came out, holding a wet cloth to her face, she said, “They think Ollie Osgood did it. They think he killed George for the poker winnings he left the casino with.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He and Lettie are good friends of yours. Of course, you never want to think that someone you know . . .”
“Don’t even try that, Kathryn.” I felt my hackles rising. “Ollie Osgood is a successful building contractor. He makes more than five thousand dollars in a week.” As I said it, I realized my numbers were probably way off on the high side. I had no idea how much Ollie made, but I felt no inclination to soften the impact by making a correction. “You don’t kill somebody for less than two weeks’ pay!”
“He was the last person to see George alive.”
“There’s no way to know who was last. What about the others who were in the casino when George picked up his winnings? Who’s to say they didn’t follow him out and wait until Ollie went to his own room?”
“Everyone who was in the casino at the time has been questioned.” Kathryn gave me a steady stare. “They gave each other alibis. They swore nobody left for at least an hour after George and Ollie left.”
I counted to ten and changed the subject. “Is this the first cruise for you and George? I mean, why did you choose the Greek Isles? There are lots of cruises closer to home.”
“That’s exactly why we chose the Greek Isles. We wanted to go as far from home as possible.” She folded her arms across her stomach and sat on the edge of the bed that would have been George’s, the one that hadn’t been slept in. “Poor George has had such a rough time since he lost his principalship. I told you about his troubles, didn’t I?”
“You mentioned it. Tell me.” I kicked off my sandals and moved to the sofa, tucking my feet behind one cushion.
“George was a great history teacher. Students, faculty, administrators, everybody, respected and admired him. Kids used to come to him with their problems. Other faculty members asked his advice. They talked him into taking over as principal when the former one died and that’s when he found out about all the dirt, the petty squabbles, the politics, which had been under the surface all along, but which he’d never been aware of before. Certain factions on the faculty were trying to get him fired and others would come to him with all sorts of rumors and demand he take action. Well, you can’t fire somebody because somebody else says she’s getting too friendly with her students, can you?”
“Of course not. And I know what you’re talking about, Kathryn. My own college has those factions, those cliques, but I’ve learned to stay out of school politics.”
Kathryn gave me an impatient look and went on. “There was a certain young lady a teacher sent to George with a note charging her with cheating. The teacher had solid proof, so George suspended the girl. Her parents protested, because she was a graduating senior and a suspension would, they claimed, jeopardize her chances of getting into the college of her choice. I say ‘they claimed’ because her whole high school record made it unlikely she’d get into any decent school.
“She told her parents George had come on to her. Kissed her. Fondled her. Told her he knew she wasn’t really cheating but if she ratted on him, he’d suspend her. Totally ridiculous, of course, but parents will believe anything their little darlings tell them.” Kathryn’s upper lip curled on the word darlings. “She said she told George she would indeed tell all, and that’s why he suspended her.
“Somehow, the thing snowballed. George refused to back down on the suspension, and the girl embellished her story until it was, ‘He raped me.’ She got some of her friends to say George was always leering at them during cheerleading practice, that he gave unlimited hall passes to girls who ‘cooperated’ with him. And, of course, there were certain faculty members who were delighted to add fuel to the flames, any way they could. Oh, it was just awful!” Kathryn paused and turned her splotchy-red face toward the wall. When she went on, her voice was softer.
“It went to court. George was charged with taking indecent liberties with a minor, because the rape charge, they knew, would never stick. All the girl’s friends testified that . . . well, it seemed as if they were competing to see who could make up the most outlandish story! It got worse and worse. George resi
gned because he knew he couldn’t be an effective principal after all that, but it wasn’t good enough for them. They wanted blood.”
“And the verdict?”
“George was convicted but he was spared a prison term. He’s required to register as a sex offender everywhere he goes. Wherever we live, our neighbors always find out he’s a sex offender because all they have to do is go on the Internet.” Kathryn had been fiddling with a hairbrush as she talked, but now she wrung it in both hands, banged it on the edge of the bed, and flung it against the far wall. The brush ricocheted, landing back at her feet. “He can’t get a decent job. We have no friends. Even me, I know my co-workers talk about me behind my back. You know, ‘Kathryn’s husband is a sex offender!’ ”
The phone rang. Kathryn, still shaking, asked me to answer it for her. It was Marco and he was looking for me. I told him I’d meet him in the lounge as agreed, but I might be a few minutes late. I went to my own room and called the main number, asking them how I might get a message to a member of the staff. “For Sophie Antonakos. I don’t know her room, but she’s a dancer.”
“I’ll give her a message for you, Mrs. Lamb.”
“Tell her to call or come see me as soon as possible.
Chapter Nine
The lounge was jammed. As I edged my way around the room in search of Marco, bits of conversation flew past me and they all seemed to be about the twin tragedies. The disappearance of a guest from America and the chilling murder of the photographer. Of the two, it seemed the latter concerned them more. Quite natural, since the photographer was the one who had greeted and photographed every one of them. They had all heard his cheery “Say tsatziki!” at least once.
“He was stabbed! In the alley!”
“I can’t believe no one noticed a man running around with a bloody knife.”
“They said there was blood all over the deck back there.”
“I, for one, am about ready to ask for my money back.”
Marco, I saw, had been buttonholed by a dough-faced woman shaped like a butternut squash. She had him by the arm and was blinking something like Morse code at him with her eyelashes. Beside her was a younger woman, rather plain and wispy-looking. I got close enough to hear the older one twitter, “You simply must help them solve these cases. A Carabinieri captain! You simply must!”
Oh, barf.
At the far end of the lounge, Luc Girard and a man in a white dinner jacket held a large book between them while Girard ran his finger across the page. I turned sideways and ran a gauntlet of arms holding cocktails. Girard closed the book and handed it to the other man when he saw me coming his way.
“I left a message for Sophie to call me,” I said. “Remember? The girl who dropped the lekythos?”
“Of course, I remember.” He introduced me to the man holding the book. “We’ve been discussing the return of the Euphronios vase to Italy.”
“A Greek vase? To Italy?”
“It was dug up from an Etruscan tomb somewhere north of Rome so it belongs to Italy.”
“Of course.” Being something of an Etruscan enthusiast myself I was surprised I didn’t already know about it. “The Etruscans seem to have been enamored of Greek art and philosophy,” I said.
The dinner jacket man raised one eyebrow as if he was surprised to hear such a comment from a woman with an American accent.
“Quite right.” Luc Girard went on. “It was traded under false pretenses and purchased by the Metropolitan Museum in New York where it has remained for some years. Its return to Italy is the result of an agreement between Italy and the Metropolitan Museum.”
“Perhaps this will set a pattern for the return of other antiquities,” the dinner jacket man said, nodding to me. Taking the book with him, he turned and left.
Girard told me the Greek red-figure vase—signed by the painter, Euphronios, and unearthed 2,500 years later—was a masterpiece and in pristine condition.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How is this buying and selling done? Surely the Metropolitan Museum wouldn’t have bought the vase with no provenance, no paper to prove where it came from.”
“These antiquities dealers have a hundred ways to falsify provenance. In this particular case, the vase came with papers that actually described a similar but much less valuable piece. This other piece has miraculously disappeared.” His mouth turned up a little on one side. “You dig?”
Sophie Antonakos appeared at the door to the lounge and waved at me. I made come-here motions with my own hand, but she shook her head.
“I see our little fumblefingers now,” I told Girard. “Shall I try to get her to come in?”
Girard shook his head. “Could we both meet with her in the library? It’s too noisy in here. How about after dinner? Are you free?”
I made my way to the door, glancing toward Marco as I went. He caught my eye and made a desperate sort of throat-cutting motion with his hand, a gesture I interpreted as meaning, “Please rescue me from this woman before I cut my own throat.” I pointed toward the door and kept walking.
Sophie had tucked herself discreetly behind the open door to the hall, pulling me aside as I stepped out. “I can’t come in, Mrs. Lamb. I’m not dressed properly.”
“You’re dressed fine, but Dr. Girard suggests we three meet in the library after dinner. Say about nine? Better make it nine-thirty,” I added, remembering that dinner last night had been a rather lengthy affair.
“What is he going to do to me?”
“Do to you?” I laughed. “He’s not going to do anything to you, Sophie. He’s quite harmless, I think. And by the way, call me Dotsy.”
I joined Marco, who by this time had shaken off the squash-shaped woman, and together we located Ollie and Lettie. Willem Leclercq and Malcolm Stone were talking to them.
Ollie took my elbow and turned me away from the conversation group. “I’ve asked Leclercq and Stone to join us for dinner. Is that okay?”
“Why ask me? I’m not the social director,” I said. “But Kathryn Gaskill says she might join us, too. Do you think it will be awkward?”
Ollie reddened. He paused for a minute. “She has as much right to that table as we do. We can’t ban her because her husband’s dead and she thinks I killed him. Either me or Leclercq or Stone. Wow. The victim’s widow and the three top suspects at the same table.” He paused and ran a hand over his bald head. “Maybe me and those two guys could take a different table. Make it seem like they invited me to their table.”
“That’s not necessary.” I felt as if I should give Kathryn and the men credit for having some couth. “We’ll simply stay off the subject of what’s happened to George.”
* * * * *
When we entered the dining room, I saw Kathryn was already sitting at the table we’d had the previous night. She was decked out in widow’s weeds: black dress, black shoes, black necklace, and a little black bow in her black hair. Our waiter quickly grabbed two more place settings from his little service bay, but I whispered to him that only one more setting was needed since Mrs. Gaskill’s husband would not be with us. The poor waiter, just grasping the situation, backed away so quickly he sent a tray on the portable stand behind him skittering across the carpet. I managed to get Marco and myself seated on either side of Kathryn. Sort of like insulation.
Since “How has your trip been so far?” and “What did you do today?” were forbidden topics, Lettie started us off with, “This is such a beautiful time of year to be in Greece. I’ve heard it’s horribly hot in mid-summer. I told Ollie, I said, ‘I’m glad you were able to take time off now,’ because he can’t leave town when he’s in the middle of a construction project.”
Kathryn said, “For us it was a matter of finding time between surgeries. George has been having dental work done—caps and things—and he’s scheduled for bypass surgery soon after we go home.” Kathryn was still referring to her husband in the present tense. “You never know, do you? George told me he wanted to take this trip before hi
s surgery because he’d always wanted to see the Greek islands and with heart surgery, you never know.” Kathryn’s napkin flew to her face as if she had just realized George wouldn’t be needing that operation after all.
Marco changed the subject and directed a question to Leclercq and Stone about their search for antiques. Leclercq reminded us this was a buying trip for him because he was looking for furnishings for a wealthy client’s new home, and Stone’s job was to advise him about the purchases he hoped to make. A nice, safe topic. Good job, Marco.
Lettie told us about Ollie’s buying every sponge on the island and Marco got us all laughing at his description of Lettie entering the urbane coffee house with a bag of sponges and two pelicans. The laughter sort of morphed into coughs and throat-clearings as everyone decided they should act, if not somber, at least sober.
Death on the Aegean Queen Page 7
