Murder in Mykonos ak-1

by Jeffrey Siger

  Things came to an abrupt stop at a four-way inter section with an even narrower road. It was the busiest corner in Mykonos, for this was the main portal to the island's 24/7 lifestyle. To the left, the road went up a hill toward the airport; to the right, to what the locals called the bus station.

  It wasn't really a bus station, just an area big enough for five buses and half-dozen taxis fifty yards into the old town. Buses going to and from the beaches, outlying hotels, and Ano Mera parked there. Crowds of rushing tourists funneling in and out of town were surrounded here by a bazaar of businesses catering to their holiday needs and fantasies: food shops for a fast meal and booze; kiosks selling cigarettes, postcards, phone cards, film, candy, gum, ice cream, condoms, and more; stands hawking last-minute souvenirs; motorbike and car rentals and ATM's. In quiet contrast to it all — unnoticed behind an unobtrusive wall on a eucalyptus-shaded knoll seventeen steps above the bustle — rested the recent, officially consecrated dead of Mykonos.

  The van turned left up the hill. Two hundred-fifty yards later the road turned sharply to the left, then back to the right. As if by magic, the sights and sounds of the bus station disappeared. There was still traffic — and roaring motorbikes — but the crowds were gone and the view was picture-postcard Mykonos. The van slowed as if to take it all in but instead darted to the right through an opening in a low, white-capped stone wall and jerked to a sudden stop. It had to, because the parking area wasn't much deeper than the van and ended flush with the front wall of the hotel. No wasted space here. Four cars were parked in a line along the white-capped wall. Annika noticed that one was a police car.

  She knew the hotel had two stories — the maximum allowed — but it was set down along the hillside and looked to be only one story from the road. Even in dim moonlight Annika made out bougainvillea and geraniums everywhere. She'd never been in the hotel, only seen it from the road, but she remembered the flowers and its view of sunsets over the bay by Little Venice, the area named for the dozen or so multicolored, three-story former pirate-captain homes on the northern side of the bay — the only such structures in all of Mykonos.

  The gray-haired man quickly jumped out of the driver's seat and slid open the rear door as he said, 'Welcome to Hotel Adlantis. My name is Ilias and I am your host.' He spoke in precise English. Annika realized he hadn't introduced himself before. The Greek couple responded in Greek. Annika said hello in English and reached for her backpack.

  'No, please, let me,' Ilias said in Dutch. He took her backpack and lifted the couple's two sizeable bags as if they were empty. 'This way, please.' He gestured with his head in the direction of the lobby and waited, holding all three bags, until his new guests passed in front of him. He followed with the luggage.

  The lobby was on the top, street-level floor and at the rear opened onto an open-air verandah overlooking the bay. The inside was unremarkable: standard-issue white stone floor, white walls with blue trim, and a few pieces of furniture upholstered in a coarse, matching blue fabric. A white marble countertop under a white arch on the south wall served as the reception desk. A painting of the hotel's exterior hung behind the counter. It looked like something painted by a guest in exchange for a free room.

  A man sitting behind the counter smiled and said 'hello' in English. Ilias put down the luggage and began talking to the man in Greek. Annika could tell from the other man's accent that he was Albanian. Ilias asked about the police car, and the man said that two cops were on the verandah. They wanted to talk to him. Ilias told the man to check everyone in 'by the book' and take the luggage to their rooms. He then excused himself from his guests and went out to the verandah.

  Annika gave the man her Dutch passport, paid cash in advance for her room for two nights, and waited for the Greek couple to do the same. She walked toward the verandah and saw Ilias in animated conversation with the police. He was looking at a piece of paper and shaking with his head. She decided not to go outside. Whatever the police wanted was no business of hers, and she didn't want to seem nosy. The man behind the counter said, 'Miss,' and she turned to see him holding her backpack and waving for her to follow him.

  Her room was on the lower level. It was small but neat, with glass doors that opened onto a private balcony with the promised magnificent view of a rippling silver sea against far-off shadow-black hillsides. In the distant midst of the bay she saw three towers of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame — or, if you preferred reality, the lit-up riggings of three closely anchored, otherwise invisible sloops. The outside view was far better than the inside. Another of those paintings hung in her blue-and-white room. The artist must have slept here a lot.

  The man pointed toward the balcony and said, 'Keep locked at night,' then showed her how to do it. She gave him a euro and, when he left, locked all the doors. She turned off the lights and fell onto the bed. From there, she could see through the glass doors to the sea. Her eyes started tearing. This was not a view she wanted to be seeing alone. She fell asleep.

  'Miss, miss.' She heard a man's voice in Dutch and quiet knocking. For an instant she wasn't sure where she was. It was still dark out. She looked at her watch. She'd only been sleeping a few minutes.

  'Who is it?' Her throat was slightly dry from sleep.

  'Ilias.'

  Her instinct was to be pissed, but it had only been a few minutes since she'd checked in, and how was he to know she'd fallen asleep? 'Just a minute.' She stood up, turned on a light, and looked quickly in the mirror before opening the door.

  He was holding a basket of fruit and a bottle of wine. 'I am sorry, I think I woke you up.'

  She forced a smile. 'That's okay, I didn't mean to go to sleep this early.'

  He handed her the items without trying to enter the room.

  She placed them on top of the dresser next to the door. 'Thank you, that's very thoughtful.' This time her smile was sincere.

  'I wanted to welcome you to Mykonos. Is this your first time here?'

  She decided to lie. 'Yes.'

  'Ah, then when does your boyfriend arrive?' He laughed.

  Even though she knew he was fishing, she was not going to lie about that. 'I have no boyfriend.' She realized that might have sounded as if she had a girlfriend and added, 'We just broke up.'

  'I'm so sorry to hear that.'

  Somehow she didn't think he was.

  He went on. 'So, do you have friends here?'

  'No, not yet.'

  'Well, now you do. Come, I make some dinner to properly welcome you to this island of my birth. I will answer all of your questions, and we will tell lies to each other of our lives and lovers.'

  He could be quite charming, but this was not how she wanted to spend her first night. 'Thank you, Ilias, but not tonight.'

  He smiled his usual smile. 'I understand. Perhaps tomorrow. Yiassou — excuse me, I mean good-bye.' He reached to shake her hand. She reached back out her hand and he held it. 'You are very beautiful girl, Annika Vanden Haag, do not be sad. Enjoy yourself.' He then kissed her hand and left.

  This is going to be an interesting few days, she thought. They're circling like flies and I haven't even tried to look hot. I wonder what would happen if I did? That's when she decided to go out for the evening. After all, it wasn't even two yet. She walked along the edge of the road, against the traffic, toward the bus station. Though dangerous, the other side was suicide, and besides, over there men could drive alongside her as she walked. As it was, she took hardly a step without hearing some comment. One man on a motorcycle did a U-turn wheelie trying to get her attention. A group of Italian boys walking into town caught up with her and tried getting her to talk. They wouldn't leave her alone but she ignored them and kept moving down the hill. She wasn't upset; after all, she was the one who chose to wear the form-fitting, sequined teal number Peter called her 'second skin.' He said he loved the way it 'fired up the blue in her eyes' and its spaghetti straps fell from her shoulders in a suggestion of more to come. This time there wasn't much more to come. S
he wore only a thong underneath.

  She'd learned that walking confidently — as if you know where you're going — is the best defense against hazing men. Once she passed through the bus station into the old town's maze of crowded lanes, they dropped away to pursue more willing, readily available targets.

  Annika knew where she was headed. It was a bar in the center of town. She'd never been there but heard it was 'upscale,' which meant the men hitting on you pretended to have money and/or sophistication. At least it had a chance of being more civilized than the raging, dance-naked-onthe-table places that catered to most people her age. Tonight, at least, she was looking for conversational companionship. She also knew she was far too vulnerable to drink much. This would be an early night. She'd be back at her hotel no later than four.

  The bar was at the end of a narrow alleyway filled with the sort of places she was trying to avoid. In keeping with Mykonos tradition — and a town ordinance — the alley's gray flagstones should have been outlined in glossy white paint, but here there were only shadows of an outline. Just before its front door the alley widened to accommodate a few cafe tables and chairs. She felt the eyes of the men at the tables but heard no comments. So far, so good.

  From where she stopped it was two steps down into a wide open doorway. She could see that the room was only twice as wide as the alley, but beyond that was a larger room that looked to be a garden restaurant. A dark, well-worn wooden bar ran along the right side of the front room. Potted plants and hanging Chinese lanterns were everywhere. A dozen patrons of mixed ages sat at the bar, another twenty or so at the row of small tables across from it. All were well dressed and looked great in the complimentary dim lighting. The space between the bar and tables was crowded but not so much so as to make it uncomfortable for her to pass through, if she chose to.

  She stood looking in and wondered what the hell she was thinking. This was not a smart thing to be doing alone. She should go right home to bed and call her mother first thing in the morning. She took a deep breath and mouthed silently to herself, 'To stay or not to stay, that is the question.' As if she'd spoken her question aloud, it was answered in welcoming English by a roly-poly, older Greek man seated on the single stool at the blunt end of the bar, closest to the door.

  'Don't think, my dear, just come in. I need the business.' He pushed someone who must have been a friend off the stool closest to him and waved her inside. 'Come, my darling, you're in Mykonos. Jump in.'

  And so she did.

  6

  The man at the end of the bar extended his hand, 'My name is Panos and welcome to Panos' Place — the best place in all of Mykonos for making friends.' A small crowd of middle-aged men around him parted as she moved toward the empty stool to his left.

  'Thank you.' She was about to add 'sir' but caught herself. She sensed he'd be insulted if a young woman treated him with the respect due an elder.

  'Would you like something to drink?' He waved to a very hot-looking young Greek behind the bar. He was about her age, tall with dark hair, dark eyes, a dark, well-toned body — she pulled her eyes off him. No need to inflame her need any further, especially since she was about to start drinking.

  'As…' She caught herself about to say 'aspro krasi — 'white wine' in Greek — 'my friends back home would say, "Wine would be fine" — white please.'

  'And where's home?' Panos' piercing blue eyes didn't fit his trusty, hound-dog face. His hair seemed just as confusedly located. Pirate-style, cascading dark brown curls should not share the same head with bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows and a drooping, even grayer, walrus mustache. Overall, Annika saw walrus.

  'The Netherlands.'

  The men around them had been quietly listening but now exploded in Greek.

  'Damn he's good. How's he do it?'

  'I owe him another fifty euros. I'd have sworn she was American.'

  'My money was on Swedish.'

  'Panos always goes for the Dutch girls. He has a thing about them. He can smell them a mile away.'

  That brought out a few comments she wished she didn't understand.

  Panos swung around on his stool to face the chorus. He held up his hands and cocked his head. 'Never challenge the master,' he said in Greek. Then he turned back to Annika and winked. 'We have a little ritual here. When a pretty woman comes to the door, we try to guess where she's from. I won.' He spoke to her in English.

  She admired his honesty. 'Am I that obvious?'

  'No, that beautiful.' He smiled at her.

  It never changes, she thought. Greek males start learning to seduce as children and keep up with it to their graves. You have to admire them — unless, of course, you're married to one. She decided to subtly point out their age difference, though she doubted that would deter him. 'So, how long have you been in business?'

  'I was born here, but moved to Athens when I was a boy and started working there.'

  That was not what she meant but she realized he'd been drinking a lot longer than she. 'No, I mean this place. How long have you owned it?'

  Like many repeatedly asked the same question — and who drink too much — he responded with a stock answer not quite tailored to what was asked but that gives the requested information. 'Oh, it's been thirty-five years since I moved back here. My family had a farm out there.' He pointed over his shoulder in some vague direction away from the sea and took another sip from his drink. 'Still does. I never much liked farming, so I opened this place. Last year was thirty years. Yamas!' He raised his glass and clinked on hers. Everyone around them did the same.

  He ordered food brought to the bar and introduced her to the crowd standing around him, making clear to his friends that he was in charge of her attentions. Around three in the morning, dancing to a deejay began in the back room. The party was just getting under way. He ordered a round of tequila shots for everyone to bolt down together. A Mykonos tradition, he said. Then someone else ordered a round. And someone else did the same. She had a pretty good idea where this tradition was headed, so she did what she'd learned from her years at Yale: dump it on the floor and fake a chug.

  The bar was packed and the back room was jumping. She was enjoying herself and getting buzzed from all the action, not the booze. She started moving to the music on her bar stool. Another round of shots. She'd lost track. She thought by now all the tequila at her feet must be marinating her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Better them than me. Someone from one of the tables came over and handed her another shot. She took it and smiled, but before she could fake her chug a hand grabbed her arm.

  It was the man on the bar stool next to her. 'I wouldn't do that, miss.' He sounded serious. He looked about sixty, with blue eyes and neatly trimmed brown hair slightly graying at the temples. Handsome for his age, tanned, and if his grip was any indication, quite strong.

  'I beg your pardon.' She meant it. Who the hell was he to tell her not to dump her drinks?

  'Sorry,' he said, but he didn't let go. He reached over with his free hand, took the shot glass out of hers, and put it on the bar.

  'I know that was very rude of me, but in Mykonos it's very dangerous taking drinks from strangers. You can't tell what may be in them if they don't come from behind the bar.'

  Of course the man was right, and obviously he hadn't noticed she'd been dumping her drinks. How nice of him.

  'Thank you. That was very considerate. I'll remember that.'

  The man nodded and went back to his drink.

  'Annika, Annika Vanden Haag, sir,' she said to him. It seemed appropriate and not offending to use 'sir' with him.

  'Tom. Tom Daly. Pleased to meet you.' They shook hands. He didn't say more and kept his body facing the bar.

  'So, Mr Daly, where are you from?'

  'The United States. New York. And you?' He only turned his head to look at her when he was speaking. Otherwise, he kept his eyes on his drink.

  'The Hague.'

  'Ah, we may be distant cousins. My mother's side was Dutch — really Afrikaner D
utch. Part Greek, too, if you go back far enough.'

  'I'm only half Dutch myself.' She didn't mention her own Greek roots.

  'I guess that makes us two more in this world's litter of mutts.' He laughed.

  She smiled. 'Are you here on holiday?'

  'Sort of. I'm a painter and come for inspiration.'

  'Really? Should I know your work?' She realized the question was unintentionally insulting. She probably had had too much to drink, but the man didn't seem offended.

  'I don't know. One of my pieces hangs in here.'

  She looked behind the bar. My God, she thought, it's one of those awful paintings from the hotel.

  He must have noticed the look on her face, for he lifted his eyes to see where she was looking. He burst out laughing. 'No, not that one — lord no — that one.' He pointed behind him to a large oil painting in a place of prominence on the rear wall.

  She didn't recognize his work but somehow thought she should. It was filled with nymphs and color and ancient ruins.

  She decided to compliment him. 'You're him?'

  'Whoever "him" is, yes.' He nodded appreciatively.

  'It's an honor to meet you, sir.'

  He turned his body and put up one hand. 'Okay, Annika, don't bury me yet. Please call me Tom or else I'll never hear the end of it from all these youngsters at the bar.' He smiled and pointed toward Panos and his crowd.

  'Is he giving you that "Don't take drinks from strangers" pitch again?' Panos asked with a wink. 'He tells that to all the pretty girls. Our watchdog of virtue, we call him.' Everybody laughed.