Nigel Endicott bothered me. He had a British accent but he was from Vermont. No, he’d told me he was retiring to Vermont, but had he told me where he was retiring from? Somehow, I had the impression he was leaving a big city. I needed to look into that. Did Nigel Endicott and Kathryn know each other before this trip? If they did, they’d both lied to me from the beginning.
What motive could Nigel have had for killing Papadakos? I’d originally thought the photographer had been killed because he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. His position at the foot of the gangway at both embarkations and disembarkations made that a likely possibility. But now, I wondered if he, too, mightn’t have been tied up in smuggling.
The waiter walked by and I ordered another ouzo. My third.
Lettie had been sure Nigel’s backpack held something like a bloody shirt, and he was sneaking it off the boat, but it seemed to me it would be simpler to toss it overboard when no one was looking. Why go to the trouble of smuggling it off the ship? I now thought it was more likely the backpack contained stolen artifacts. The bracelet? How would Nigel have managed to get a key to the display case?
If I was on the right track it would mean that, of the men at the poker table the first night, only Ollie Osgood was uninvolved in the antiquities market. Weird. But which of the others were smugglers and which were honest buyers?
My third ouzo having hit my brain, I finally ventured into the thought territory I’d been avoiding. I made myself consider the possibility it was Ollie. Ollie was the last person known to have seen George Gaskill alive. He had motive. Perhaps not a sufficient motive in terms of the amount of money he’d lost to George, but he would’ve also been angry if he thought George had cheated. Where was he at the time of the murder? We had only Lettie’s statement that he was in bed with her, but a wife’s testimony is virtually useless. And the murder could have occurred before he came to their room and went to bed, unless Heather Ziegler was right about the liquidity of the blood pointing to a much later time. Ollie was in the vicinity when Papadakos was killed, but he hardly looked like the man the shop owner thought bought the knife. And how did the Mykonos police know the knife they found was the knife that killed Papadakos? It was found, Marco said, in shallow water, so both blood and fingerprints would have been washed off.
“Another, Madam?”
“Huh?”
“May I bring you another ouzo?”
“No, but I may need help getting back to my room.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I woke up with a thumping headache. My eyeballs shot darts of pain through my head as they scraped against the insides of my eyelids. I couldn’t bear to think of sitting up, so I lay in my bed, swearing never to touch ouzo again.
One of my first lucid thoughts, after finding a relatively comfortable position for my head, was about the main thing I’d intended to think about last night. That is, I needed to talk to Agent Bondurant and tell him—what? I had to decide. Should I confess I’d been snooping in Brittany Benson’s room? That Sophie had helped me? That a fake old bracelet now lay in the case where the real one had been until yesterday?
If George Gaskill’s watch had been on the floor of Brittany’s closet at the time I’d pulled those boxes out, how could I have failed to see it? I couldn’t have, so it hadn’t been there. Bondurant needed to know that, so I’d have to confess. Could I do it without getting Sophie in trouble? I decided I’d say I sneaked Sophie’s room key out of her purse when she was absorbed in her work in the library and sneaked it back in later without Sophie ever knowing.
If Bondurant had really been following Nigel Endicott yesterday, should I tell him what I’d seen through the porthole window last evening? I’d be ratting on Kathryn, but was that a problem? I had no moral obligation to support Kathryn, and if what I saw cast doubts on her truthfulness, so be it.
But if Bondurant confronted Kathryn and happened to mention me, I wouldn’t get any more information out of her.
I turned my head and opened my eyes to a swirling mass of bright spots. I forgot what I was thinking about. I tried to recall, knowing it was something important, and then realized I’d better check my blood sugar.
Stumbling to my dressing table, I found my glucose meter, did the test, and found my sugar level was so low that by rights I should be comatose. No time to dress and go to breakfast, I grabbed one of the little cartons of orange juice I always have with me, jabbed the straw through the foil hole, and sucked in a mouthful. Somehow, I managed to sit down and lean against the table until the juice kicked in and the room stopped spinning.
I was in the shower when I remembered what I’d been thinking about that was so important. I needed to tell Bondurant about the theft of the bracelet from the display case outside the dining room. According to Marco, the United States FBI was, along with Scotland Yard and the Italian Carabinieri, on the front line in the war against the black market in antiquities. Luc Girard had talked to Bondurant and Chief Letsos already, but that didn’t mean Bondurant was up to date on everything now.
My phone rang.
I wrapped a towel around me, dripped across the carpet, and picked up the receiver. It was Agent Bondurant. “Mrs. Lamb? I need for you to come to the security office.”
“Now?” I looked at the clock. It was only 7:35.
“Yes, now.” His tone scared me.
* * * * *
Letsos and Bondurant were both there when I walked into the security office. Bondurant showed me to a chair in front of the desk, directly opposite Security Chief Letsos who sat and stared, stone-faced, at me as I took my seat. The whole atmosphere was icy.
Letsos spoke first. “We talked to Miss Benson about the watch soon after Mrs. Gaskill identified it as belonging to her late husband. We told her we’d found it in the bottom of her closet and asked her to explain how it got there.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you must have put it there. Did you?”
All the blood in my body rushed to my stomach, leaving my extremities cold. My first response, I think, was an incoherent bunch of syllables obliterated by the ringing in my ears. When I got control of myself, I said, “I did go to Brittany Benson’s room when she wasn’t there, but I did not put George Gaskill’s watch in her closet. I’d never seen that watch until yesterday and I had no idea it even existed.”
“Tell us why you went to her room when she wasn’t there.”
“Do you know Dr. Luc Girard? Of course you do, how silly of me.” I was still stumbling over my own words. “I teach ancient and medieval history back home in Virginia and because of that, I made Dr. Girard’s acquaintance soon after the cruise began. In fact, I introduced him to Sophie Antonakos who is now working as his assistant and who also happens to be Brittany’s roommate.
“So my friend Lettie Osgood and I discovered that one of the display case items, the Panathenaic amphora in the Zeus deck lounge, had been reported as stolen from a museum. We had a catalog of stolen antiquities Dr. Girard had given me. I told Dr. Girard and my friend Marco Quattrocchi about it, and I understand Dr. Girard reported it to you.”
Letsos fidgeted with a pencil, still glaring at me. Bondurant tilted his head a little to one side. Neither man said anything to help me along with my story.
“Well . . .” I stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m a rather nosy person, and I had already noticed Brittany had picked up a vase in Mykonos that Malcolm Stone, an antiques dealer from England . . .” I paused until I got a nod from Bondurant indicating he knew Stone and further identification wasn’t necessary. “Mr. Stone said was quite valuable. He and his friend, Mr. Leclercq, had both tried to buy it from her and had offered her a large sum, but she wouldn’t negotiate. I thought that was odd. I mean, especially with the other things we’d found out. And being the nosy person I am, I sneaked a room key out of Miss Antonakos’s purse while she was working in the library. I went to her room and looked through Brittany’s things. I found a couple of very interesting art
ifacts in cartons in the bottom of Brittany’s closet, but there was definitely no watch there.”
Bondurant said, “It defies all logic, Mrs. Lamb, to propose that you, who happen to be Mrs. Osgood’s best friend, also happen to break into Miss Benson’s room on the day after Mr. Osgood is questioned in the disappearance and murder of Mr. Gaskill, who also happens to be the man Miss Benson accused of raping her when she was in high school!”
When he put it like that, I had to agree.
“We know that you and Mrs. Osgood have taken several trips together, and that you booked this cruise together as well.”
“How did you find out I’d snooped in Brittany’s room?”
“Another staff member happened to see you leaving that afternoon. He recognized that you were a passenger, not staff, followed you to your room, and wrote down the number.”
“I see.”
“So here’s what it looks like to us,” Letsos leaned back in his chair and casually, almost insolently, threw his legs across the corner of his desk. “It looks very much as if Mr. Osgood gave you Mr. Gaskill’s watch and told you to deposit it among Brittany Benson’s things. Mr. Osgood killed Gaskill over the poker game in which he’d lost his shirt, and stole the poor man’s watch before tossing him overboard. He discovered there was someone else on board who harbored a grudge against Gaskill and, after we turned the heat on him, decided to use the watch to implicate Miss Benson.”
“Oh, you mustn’t think . . . I have to admit your theory makes sense, Chief Letsos, but I promise you, that watch was not in Brittany Benson’s closet two days ago.”
“So you said.” Bondurant’s tone told me he didn’t believe me.
“Can’t you look for fingerprints on the watch?” The suggestion popped, unbidden, out of my mouth. “I promise you won’t find my fingerprints on it.”
“Strangely enough, Mrs. Lamb, there are absolutely no fingerprints on the watch. It’s as if the last person who handled it wanted to remain anonymous.”
Letsos glanced toward the door. “Did you find any other stolen items in our display cases, Mrs. Lamb?”
“Yes. Didn’t Dr. Girard tell you?”
“We’d like to hear it from you.”
That was strange. Didn’t they trust Luc Girard’s information? They certainly didn’t trust me, so why did they want to hear it from me? Nevertheless, I told them we’d identified four stolen items and several that had been bought from reputable dealers. “So they aren’t all stolen. I guess that’s the good news. However, there was a bracelet in the case outside the dining room that’s been swiped in the last twenty-four hours and replaced with a copy.”
“Is that a fact?” Bondurant said in a tone of feigned interest. I searched his face, expecting to see a sarcastic smirk, but all I saw was a dead-pan look that required me to go on with my story.
“Yes. Miss Antonakos pointed it out to me last evening. The authentic bracelet had blue inset stones and the new one has green stones. So you see what that means, don’t you? Someone on the ship is stealing things right now. This isn’t about something that happened when the ship was furnished years ago, it involves someone or ones on this cruise. Whether this last theft was for the purpose of smuggling the bracelet to a buyer or to keep you guys from tracking down who put it there to begin with, I don’t know.”
Bondurant and Letsos looked at each other. Why were they asking me these things? Surely they could get better information from Dr. Girard. The light dawned. They were stalling for time.
“Tell us what you found in Brittany Benson’s closet,” Letsos said.
I heard a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Ollie Osgood’s big burly frame filled the doorway. “My wife said you wanted to talk to me.”
So that was it. They had made sure I had no chance to fill Ollie in on what I’d told them by keeping me here until he arrived. Now I knew how Ollie felt.
* * * * *
I had to get some solid food in me soon but I was still without makeup or brushed hair, so I sneaked through the breakfast buffet line at the outdoor pool on the Poseidon deck and into a table along the rail. As I sat down, I glimpsed the north shore of Crete, coming up on our port side. I’d have given anything to stay in the security office and find out what they were saying to Ollie, but Bondurant had ushered me out before I could even give Ollie a nod. Someone had left a copy of this morning’s “Oracle” bulletin on my table so I looked it over while I ate.
It said we would be asked to wait on board for a brief time after we docked in the Iráklion harbor of Crete to allow time for the formation of a funeral cortege for Nikos Papadakos. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me to even wonder where his body was being held. Had they kept it on our ship since we left Mykonos? I thought not. In fact, I was pretty sure Marco had told us the body was still in Mykonos, awaiting autopsy, after we left. Perhaps they had transported it by ferry from Mykonos to Crete.
One whole column of today’s “Oracle” was set off by a black border. Inside the border, a photo of Nikos, the smiling baby-faced photographer, and this announcement:
Many members of our staff and crew and, perhaps, some of our guests will want to attend the funeral service, which will be held in our dear friend Nikos Papadakos’s village today at 11:00 a.m. A cortege of hired vehicles will form near the dock and make the 13 km trip to the church. Local taxi services have been notified and all have agreed to make the round trip and to wait near the church until after the service, for a flat fee of 50 € per vehicle. Up to four passengers may share one vehicle. If you wish to attend, please wait at the dock until a vehicle is made available to you. Please do not telephone the taxi companies as they are already prepared for this event.
The family and friends of Nikos Papadakos request that you respect the traditions of Cretan village life by dressing conservatively and remember their grief with appropriate conduct and decorum.
* * * * *
I finished my coffee and trekked downstairs to my room. My wet towel still lay on the floor where I had dropped it after Bondurant’s phone call. I smeared on some makeup and changed clothes, now donning the somberest clothes I had with me, a navy T-shirt and a denim jumper.
I couldn’t find my water glass until I looked at the top of the TV and remembered I’d dropped the little glassy disc into it yesterday. Pouring out the water through my fingers into the sink, I trapped the thing, which had become more like a jellyfish after sitting in water all night. It was, as I had suspected, a contact lens. Now, why would a single contact lens have been stuck to the side of that sink in the bathroom at the back end of the hall? It might be one of those disposable lenses, so whoever lost it might have thought it not worth the effort of looking for it. Someone with dust in his or her eyes had probably popped in, used the mirror and the sink to rectify the problem, and lost a lens. Big deal. He or she probably had extras. I stuck the lens back on top of my TV, this time without water.
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 k
now, 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?
Death of an Aegean Queen Page 16
