by Rick Copp
Laurette rang Dimetrius, a travel agent she used to represent in Hollywood who had recently moved back home to Greece. He had traveled to America to become the Greek Tom Cruise, but Laurette was only able to secure him one nonspeaking role as a Middle Eastern terrorist in a TV movie depicting the hijacking of a TWA flight in the eighties and starring Lindsay Wagner. He stayed in town another ten years holding out hope his fortunes might change before finally returning to Athens with his tail between his legs. Luckily he and Laurette had stayed in touch.
Dimetrius worked his magic and secured us two tickets for a hydrofoil departing Piraeus, the main port of Athens, to all the Cyclades islands (including Mykonos) through their domestic Minoan Lines. The ferry was scheduled to depart at nine o’clock, which was cutting it close since we were still maneuvering our way through customs at the Athens airport and it was already approaching seven.
Neither of us spoke Greek, nor understood a word of it other than “ouzo,” which is a famous Greek drink made of a precise combination of pressed grapes, herbs, and berries. Two shots of it and you’re on top of a rickety bar stool doing a striptease to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” in the divey but welcoming Alekos Island Bar in Kolonaki, Athens’s first gay bar. But enough about my past indiscretions. Because of our lack of local language skills, the alert driver pegged Laurette and me as suckers right away, and the taxi ride to the port of Piraeus wound up costing us over a hundred dollars in U.S. coin. Neither of us had the energy to fight the driver, so we cut our losses and headed on to the ferry.
Laurette was already feeling grungy and ragged and in desperate need of a shower. Neither of us had any luggage, since we had fled Akshay’s apartment and headed straight for the airport. I promised to buy us both some new threads the minute we arrived in Mykonos. The boarding passes were waiting for us at the Minoan ticket office per Dimetrius’s instructions, and soon Laurette and I were seated at the below-deck bar, sipping ouzo and splitting a bag of potato chips. They didn’t sell the Greek liquor onboard the ferry, but there was a gaggle of college-age Australian backpackers who had come well stocked and were more than happy to share their booty.
The ferry chortled and coughed to life and then slowly made its way out of the harbor toward the open sea before picking up speed and jetting across the Aegean Sea toward our destination of Mykonos.
I downed my second shot of ouzo. Luckily, there was neither a rickety bar stool within my reach nor any hint of Gloria Gaynor on a neighboring tourist’s boom box. My head was already spinning, and I had to grip the ugly orange Formica table I sat at with Laurette. She was already eyeing a plate of plastic-wrapped brownies on the snack bar counter after we made short work of our one measly bag of potato chips.
Laurette spun back around. “Got any euros? I have to have one of those brownies.”
I reached into my back pocket but lost my balance. I nearly toppled over to the floor before a hefty, bald German tourist passing by caught my arm and held me steady.
I offered the sturdy German a weak smile. “Thank you. I’m all right.”
He nodded, not quite believing me, and moved on. I handed what was left of my money to Laurette.
She leaned in to me. “Are you okay?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted her to know the devastating toll all of this drama was having on me. First my Oscar-winning costar in my first play keels over dead on opening night. Then my boyfriend vanishes without a trace. Then the police suspect me of murder. Then I get a phone call from Charlie informing me our long-term relationship is kaput. Now I’m on a boat, drunk on ouzo, heading to a Greek party island on the flimsiest of clues, hoping to find out how my life fell apart so fast and on such a grand scale. I wanted to scream, “No! No, I’m not okay!” But instead, I simply clasped Laurette’s hand and quietly whispered, “I’m fine.”
“You look pale. Maybe you should go up top and get some air. I’m going to buy one of those brownies.”
She was focused like a laser beam on that plate of brownies and shot out of her chair in an instant, barreling over to the snack bar with a fistful of my remaining euros.
She was right. I needed fresh air. I was choking from claustrophobia and too much liquor. Too many crying babies and too much wafting smoke surrounded me. I needed vast, open space. I stood up carefully, gripping the edge of the table, and made my way to the stairs. I climbed up to the top deck, my head still spinning faster than Jeff Gordon speeding around a NASCAR racetrack. I thankfully sucked in a deep breath of the cool, misty ocean night breeze.
The deck was deserted, lit only by the glistening half-moon. I swayed to the railing, my arms outstretched to maintain balance, and grabbed the metal handrail. Behind me I heard someone cough. I turned around, but no one was there.
“Hello?” I said.
No answer. Just the roar of the ferry’s engine and a splashing sound as the bow of the boat cut through the waves.
I turned back and stared up at the moon. Charlie and I had spent many evenings over the course of our four years together gazing at the moon, from the sandy beaches of Rio de Janeiro to our own backyard in the Hollywood Hills. I had to wonder if we would ever have that opportunity again.
By the time I noticed a body coming up fast behind me, it was too late. I didn’t even have the chance to turn my head an inch to see my assailant before a strong arm hooked around my neck and squeezed the last gasps of air out of my throat. He yanked hard with his forearm, and I felt my windpipe about to crack. Was it one of the goons from Akshay’s apartment? Had they managed to follow us to Greece? I rocked back, trying to throw my attacker off balance, but he was like a pit bull and not about to let go.
I tugged violently at the gray wool sweater that covered his arm, but it was no use. His grip was too tight, and I was going to black out within seconds. I could only imagine what would happen if I passed out. He would probably lift my still form up over the rail and drop me into the deep, dark sea. I’d be left to the mercy of some taunting sharks that would circle around me for hours, nipping at my arm, my leg, until blood filled the water and the feeding frenzy began. I couldn’t let that happen. I was terrified of all water-related deaths like drowning and shark attacks. I couldn’t let my life end this way.
My only hope was a long-cancelled private eye show called Jake and the Fatman starring William Conrad (famously cast as TV’s Cannon in the seventies) and a hunky mid-eighties piece of beefcake called Joe Penny. I guest-starred in one episode as the Fatman’s inquisitive nephew, who ran afoul of some counterfeiters led by former M*A*S*H icon Wayne Rogers. At the show’s climax, an exchange was arranged. My precocious thirteen-year-old life for a couple of million in fake bills. We shot the scene at the Santa Monica pier on the famous indoor carousel. Rogers had me clasped to his chest, a thick forearm around my neck as we circled around on a brown plastic horse. William Conrad had the bag of money and a revolver pointed at Rogers’s head. It was a Mexican standoff. But in an earlier scene, Jake (Joe Penny) had taught me a few self-defense moves, much to the chagrin of my sweaty, overweight uncle. At just the appropriate moment, I threw up my hands, bending my fingers back, and gouged the eyes of my captor. During the second take I got a little too carried away and poked Wayne Rogers for real. He was rushed to the emergency room and never forgave me. The next day they used a short stunt double to stand in for me while they finished Rogers’s pick-ups because he refused to work with me anymore.
But all these years later, that nifty trick came back to help me. I threw up my hands, bent the fingers, and scored a direct hit. I felt the nooselike grip of my attacker loosen just a bit, allowing me the chance to nail his foot with the heel of my shoe and push away from him.
The man covered his face with his hands, howling in pain. He was big and muscular and I wasn’t about to wait for him to regain his composure. I bent over and plowed right into his stomach headfirst, knocking the wind out of him. He fell to the ground, and I leapt on top of him, straddling his chest, grasping his wrists and
forcing them down to the deck floor of the ferry.
I stared into the wild, enraged green eyes of Liam Killoran.
“What the—?”
The momentary shock bought him some precious seconds, and he took full advantage of it. He kneed me in the groin. The air escaped me with a whoosh, and before I knew it he was up on his knees and clocked me square across the chin. I felt a bottom tooth loosen from the impact and grabbed my face. He was on me like a flash and wrapped both of his big, callused hands around my throat.
“You thought you were going to get away with it, didn’t you?” he snarled.
“Liam . . . I . . .” My voice was gone, cut off by the strength of his squeezing hands. I couldn’t reason with him.
“You thought you could run off and disappear. That I’d never find you.”
I felt my knees give out. I was like a rag doll as the life slipped out of me.
And then, the Australian backpackers who had so generously shared their bottle of ouzo with Laurette and me wandered onto the deck to smoke some weed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a cute, curvy blond girl yelled as she and her friends rushed Liam.
Liam knew he was outnumbered and didn’t stand a chance against the young hard bodies who were racing to my rescue. He jumped to his feet and scampered off into the darkness.
The Australians knelt down beside me. One of the strikingly handsome young men lifted my head in the crux of his arm and whispered in my ear that everything was going to be okay while another sandy-haired muscle boy gently held my hand. The perky blond girl poured me another shot of ouzo. Maybe Liam had succeeded. Maybe he had choked the life out of me and this was the gateway to heaven. It sure as hell felt like it. I could have lain there for hours being attended to by these magnificent angels from down under. But as the cold night air slapped my face awake and Laurette’s high-pitched, drunken scream at my condition snapped me back to reality, I knew that Liam Killoran was somewhere loose aboard this ferry with the single-minded mission to avenge the death of his true love by slaughtering me.
Chapter 23
The Australians wasted no time in alerting the captain of the ship about the attack, and he immediately dispatched his crew to search the entire ferry. Liam was nowhere to be found. He was either hiding someplace they had overlooked or had jumped overboard. I knew he wouldn’t try to assault me again since I was now surrounded and protected by the Australian backpacker brigade. They were pumped up and overflowing with machismo from heroically saving my life and were itching to flex their muscles again if need be.
The stress of the situation forced Laurette to buy the entire plate of brownies from the snack bar and we sat at our favorite orange Formica table and devoured them with the gusto of two castaways rescued from a deserted island after two weeks without food.
“Do you think this Irish guy is somehow connected to the two guys we saw ransacking Akshay’s apartment?” Laurette said as she carefully picked the walnuts out of her brownie due to her own nut allergy, much like Claire’s.
“Beats me.” I shrugged. “There’s so much weird stuff going on, I don’t know what’s what. There seems to be a lot of people looking for something.”
“Like what?”
“Well, right after Claire died, I caught a guy in a red ski mask searching her dressing room. Liam noticed that her Academy Award was missing and of course accused me of taking it. But anybody could have made off with it, even before she collapsed on stage.”
“Maybe somebody else did steal it before the guy in the ski mask had a chance to break in and snatch it for himself. Maybe it was Akshay. He could have swiped it while Claire was onstage, and that’s what those two guys were looking for at his apartment.”
I rolled this theory over in my mind. It was possible. But who were all these thieves? Where did they come from? And why was one best actress Oscar from a tepid, overrated farm film of the eighties worth so much effort to get? And was it even related to Claire’s mysterious death?
However, the fact remained I was less concerned with clearing my name and solving Claire’s murder than I was with finding Charlie.
As dawn broke, the Minoan ferry moved toward the sandy shores and chalk white beauty of one of the most vibrant Greek islands, Mykonos. Once we docked, the passengers filed off to explore the breathtaking vistas, to stroll up and down the whitewashed streets of the town center, or to browse the glorious golden and diamond-studded rings, bracelets, and necklaces displayed in the windows of the jewelry artists of Mykonos. The island has always been a striking dichotomy. On the one hand, there are the street peddlers selling from their donkey stands, women sweeping the streets in traditional Greek black dresses and head scarves, church bells tolling all over the island. It’s from another time. But contrasting that traditional image is a far more hedonistic aspect of Mykonos. There is the fashionable jet set that dines at the opulent gourmet restaurants. Then there are the wild, partying tourists who dance at the trendy clubs until the wee hours of the morning, when they sneak away with their designated paramours back to the privacy of their hotels for a little passionate lovemaking before the inevitable hangover starts its reign of terror. There is no other place in the world that comes close to the originality and escapism of Mykonos.
Laurette whipped out a scrap of paper from her purse and studied it. Back in London she had quickly jotted down the address of the Andromeda Residence where Akshay had made a reservation.
“Lakka Square Rohari. It’s somewhere in the town center,” she said, looking around, confused and lost.
After asking an elderly Greek woman with silver hair and a black scarf tied around her head for directions, we were promptly sent up a steep incline of cobblestone steps toward a row of hotels and condos. It would be impossible to work with a physical description of the property, since almost all of the structures on the entire island were painted white and adorned with blue trim and shutters.
The sun was blazing and both Laurette and I were sweating as we reached a wrought-iron gate. The entrance was unassuming, and we would have missed it if I hadn’t asked a Japanese woman in a thong who was passing by if she knew where we could find the Andromeda Residence. She pointed at the gate to our right. We had no idea we were standing right outside the entrance.
As we entered the hotel grounds, I was struck by the beauty of the multicolored gardens of red and yellow flowers, the glistening, gorgeous blue swimming pool, and the immaculately kept, freshly painted condos.
Laurette, the consummate hotel queen, was duly impressed. She charged toward the registration office, and I followed closely on her heels. A lovely young woman with jet-black hair, clear, perfect olive skin, and kind brown eyes greeted us. She wore a red print wrap over a blue bathing suit and reached out to shake our hands.
“Welcome to Mykonos,” she said with a big, electric smile. “I’m Delphina.”
After introducing ourselves, Laurette handed Delphina a confirmation number for the reservation she had made while we were waiting for our Athens flight to leave from Heathrow. Delphina smiled, took our credit card information, and within seconds, handed us over the keys to a two-bedroom suite. She offered to help us with our bags, but we told her we didn’t have any with us and would be buying clothes here on the island.
She lit up and laughed. “Now that’s the way to travel,” she said in perfect English with a flavorful Greek accent that bespoke her heritage.
As we turned to go, I thanked her, and then said, “Oh, by the way, one of the reasons we chose this hotel—besides its obvious beauty—is because we heard through the grapevine that one of our favorite actors in the world is staying here. Akshay Kapoor. We’re huge Bollywood fans!”
Laurette, quick to join in, added, “If I could get his autograph, I could die happy.”
Delphina smiled and then leaned in conspiratorially. “Yes. He is indeed staying here.”
Laurette squealed with delight.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “We won’t bother
him . . . too much.”
Delphina laughed heartily. “He’s a very nice man. But keeps to himself. He’s spent most of his stay here in his room. It’s such a shame. We’ve had such lovely weather.”
“Is he in his room now?” I said.
“No. Today was the first day he’s actually gone out.”
“Do you know where?” Laurette said.
Delphina nodded. “Super Paradise Beach. He asked me to write directions on how to get there. He took a bus and then a taxi boat.”
“What’s so super about Paradise Beach?” Laurette said.
“It’s the gay nudist beach,” I said, having been there one or two times myself.
“I’m not taking my top off. I’ll tell you that right now,” Laurette said.
“What’s the big deal? You already flashed the taxi driver in London,” I said, smiling.
Once Laurette and I checked out our nicely appointed, spacious room, we dashed to a nearby clothing shop for some beach wear and then hustled down to the town center to grab a taxicab to Super Paradise Beach. We didn’t want to risk missing Akshay, so we ruled out the bus ride and taxi boat, which would eat up far too much time.
The ride to the other side of the island was harrowing and nail-biting. Our driver swerved around lumbering donkeys and reckless tourists on mopeds before whipping along a steep, narrow cliffside access road with nary a guardrail before skidding to a stop at a rocky cove. Laurette, her eyes bugged out in a state of shock from the death-defying journey, hurled some euros at the driver and climbed out of the car. I offered a weak thank-you before I followed her out, resisting the urge to drop to my knees and kiss the ground.
