Haltingly, as sap seeping from a tree, Davonna pulled herself from the hole.
At six-thirty Davonna poked her head out of her front door and scanned the drive. Her hand shook, and she clutched her small leather purse like a lifeline. The air was thick and warm and the thin cotton wrap dress stuck to her legs and arms. She hesitated, listening, tasting the air. A bystander might have mistaken her for a deer, her darting eyes and slow creeping movements, sniffing out danger.
She walked down the steps, the heavy door shut with a thud. The gravel crunched under her thin sandals. Out beyond the road, the sea stretched far into the horizon, its deep, blue waters calm. The coast of Turkey was just visible in the distance, as the waves broke upon the pebbles like a waltz.
Ioannis' gate appeared in the hedgerow, an intricate piece of curvaceous steel. The long drive swung upwards to the house like the curve of a lover's open arm. Davonna stopped and looked at her feet, which were thick with dust. She sighed, her shoulders slumped forward, and she trudged up the drive. The smell of Ioannis' garden, the bright gardenia and intoxicating orange blossoms, floated in a haze around her. It did not dissipate, as if a barrier kept it there, forever floating on the wind.
Before she could raise her hand to knock at the large double doors, they flew open and Ioannis stood there in a crisp white shirt and a broad grin. He pushed his dark wavy hair out of his eyes and grasped her by the shoulders.
"You look tired, Davonna. Come. Come in, out of the sun," he said, and pulled her into the cool house.
She looked around, sheepish. The walls were bright white and the floor-length shutters were all thrown open; it was hard to decide where the home ended and outside began.
"Davonna, you remember, my wife, Theodora."
"Yes, from town,” Davonna said, referencing when they would walk side-by-side, silent, into town.
Theodora walked through a side door and stood by Ioannis. It had been years since she'd stood this close to Theodora, and she hadn't changed. Theodora was tall, with lanky, carved-from-marble, legs. And though she was in her late sixties, Theodora had a young woman's figure with full hips and a small waist. And her eyes were the expressive probing instruments of a strong woman. They were deep and penetrating, and they weren't satisfied with just seeing; they read and learned and understood. Davonna dropped her gaze, unable to look over-long in their searching light.
"It's wonderful to see you again, and thank you so much for inviting me. I appreciate it. I haven't been out recently."
"How did you find Kostas?" Ioannis said, as Theodora led them, over shining wood floors, into the dining room.
"Oh, your gardener, yes, he's efficient. Fantastic."
"He said you'd done well, last week, on your own."
"Efharistó."
Theodora stood behind a chair at the head of a long table, burdened with platters of food and bottles of wine and flickering candles atop thin, gold candlesticks. A large, ornate chandelier hung above the table and cast slivers of undulating rainbows around the room. Davonna smiled in spite of herself. It was a room where one felt warm and welcome. A river of love ran through their home.
"Please, sit," Theodora said.
Ioannis and Theodora smiled, their bodies turned towards her as they moved dishes and platters around and plied her with wine.
"How are you, Davonna?" Ioannis said, after they had eaten much of the main course and the topic of olive harvests had been exhausted.
Davonna set down her fork with a clatter, "I'm well."
"Have the police treated you well?" Theodora said.
"In their own way. I don't think they like me."
"What do you mean?" Ioannis said, as he leaned over to pour more wine.
"The captain, he's curious—no, suspicious. But I'm sure it's nothing."
"Why?"
"He looks at me as though I've done something wrong."
"You don't have to worry about it. I drove by the site today; they got the car out of the water. Any day now they'll be able to confirm that it was accidental, and the Morgan went off the road."
"I've seen him drive that road countless times, and I never saw him drive recklessly. He babied that Morgan. What could have happened?" Theodora said.
"I'm not sure," said Davonna.
"What would he suspect you of?" Ioannis said.
Davonna didn't answer, looking beyond them, churning her napkin around her fingers. Ioannis and Theodora shared an invisible conversation, and though they tried to make small talk, Davonna looked away: feeling as though her clothes and skin were peeled away to show the shriveled thing underneath. After a chocolate raspberry tart for dessert, Theodora excused herself, pleading a headache.
"I wish you would tell me what I can do for you," Ioannis pleaded, after Theodora left.
"The dinner was perfect. It was just wonderful not to have to cook."
"You’re welcome as often as you like."
"Oh I couldn't impose, and John might think …" Davonna broke off.
"John's dead, Davonna, and I can't imagine he'd want you at home alone, to suffer in silence."
Davonna couldn't bring herself to look at Ioannis much less disabuse him of that notion.
"I only meant …"
"Was he harsh with you? Did he ever hit you?" Ioannis put his hand on her shoulder.
For a moment, it felt as if secrets would tumble out of her grasp, like a child holding too many wooden blocks. Her whole life wrenched open and Captain Savva would know why she didn't mourn John, as a good wife should.
"Oh, no! I'm in shock. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Ioannis, I must go." Davonna threw her napkin onto the table, fled the dining room, caught up her purse, and burst out of the front door.
Ioannis trailed her but paused at the open door. As she bolted from the property Theodora came up behind him.
"What was that about?"
"Nothing good."
Davonna turned down the lane and walked the short distance home. She pulled the heavy gate closed behind her and glared at the pink house, so forlorn, so empty. What was this? John's death ... what did it mean? What was there to do? She stopped and leaned against the gate as evening fell and the house became little more than a pink monolith. The wind changed, blowing from of the east.
VII
Ο κακός το πρωί, το βράδυ χειρότερος.
The bad of the morning, becomes worse at night.
Savva's morning was off to a poor start. The toaster went kaput in the night, and when he tried to broil bread in the oven; it turned into a slice of black tar in under a minute. Mumbling to himself about the unreliability of modern appliances, he pulled into John Fitzroy's hotel, as a silver Bentley was pulling out. It careened around the corner, screeching in the still air, and barely missed his bumper.
"Blasted menace," Savva growled.
Sergeant Stelios Booras, who sat typing on his phone in the passenger seat, inhaled and crossed himself. Savva drove up to the large and grand entrance and rolled his eyes at the uniformed men (or were they boys?) who stood at attention. One strode up to the car as Savva stepped out.
"Checking in, Sir?"
Savva scowled through bushy eyebrows. It was just a boy who stood before him; youthful roundness clung to his face above coat hanger shoulders.
"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department, young man. No, I am not ‘checking in.’”
"Ah, well, I'll park your car if you wish, Sir."
"You'll leave the damn car there," Savva said. He slammed the door, plunked the keys into his pocket, and strutted past the surprised valet. "Stop lagging, Booras."
Sergeant Stelios Booras was a tall thin man, all eyes and elbows, with dark skin and a strange middle part in his hair, which didn't suit him. It annoyed Savva. He wanted to shave it every time he looked at the man. But Booras was the least irritating of the sergeants at the department and so he was what Savva requisitioned.
"Are you checking in, Sir?"
Savva stopped
in front of the concierge desk. A young woman with garish blonde hair smiled blankly at him, her fingers poised over a hidden keyboard. Booras leaned ungainly against the counter; his legs dangled underneath him like uncooked spaghetti in a pot. Savva rolled his eyes.
"Captain Alexandros Savva, Lesvos Police and Sergeant Stelios Booras" he said, pulling out his warrant card. "We have an appointment with Mr. Goldstein."
The woman, her name card said 'Katerina' in both Greek and English, took a small step back, her eyes watered. "Mr. Fitzroy's business partner is here."
"Business partner? I thought Fitzroy was the manager here," Savva said. He ached to jab Booras in the side. How could his sergeant fail to tell him John Fitzroy owned the hotel?
"No, Mr. Fitzroy bought the hotel not long after he came here. Ten years ago, Sir," Katerina said.
"Fine. Good. Let's speak to this Goldstein."
Booras shifted against the counter and locked his considerable legs underneath him like a pair of car jacks.
Katerina picked up the phone. "Mr. Goldstein, two police officers have arrived to speak with you," she paused. "Yes, Sir," she said and turned back to Savva. "Mr. Goldstein asked me to take you back to his office."
She walked around the counter and motioned them to follow. Savva threw Booras a look of waspish irritation. Down a short corridor Katerina pushed open a door, painted to blend into the wall. Beyond they found themselves in a hallway portioned off into what looked like a break room with half-drunk coffee in white cups sitting on a Formica table. Four offices filled with a variety of disturbingly large giant split-leaf philodendrons in half-ton pots, extended in a line from the break room.
"Through there," Katerina said, pointing to the office at the end.
"Thanks," Booras said.
Katerina blinked and smiled before opening the door and heading back to her post.
"Yes, thank you," Savva said. He rolled his eyes at Booras. "Follow my lead or I'll have every single one of your stripes."
"Yes, Sir."
"Right," Savva said, and pounded on the door.
"Come in," a crisp voice said.
Savva opened the door to a large room. In it were an ornate conference table, a couch, two tufted leather chairs, and sitting center stage, the desk. He wondered whether it could be called a desk. It looked like a good copy of Louis XIV's roll-top writing desk at Versailles, which he'd seen in person during the year he spent at the Université de París. The wood panels covered by ornate gilded filigrees, were an array of caramel and honey. The desk shone with an effeminate refinement, burnished and glowing in the morning sun.
A man rose from behind the desk. “Anthony Goldstein.”
He was unmistakably a decade younger than Savva, with slicked salt and pepper hair. He was trim and wore a well-tailored black suit. His steel, grey eyes shone out of a face as lined as a neglected Renaissance painting.
"Captain Savva and Sergeant Booras from the Lesvos Police Department." Savva shook Goldstein's proffered hand.
He held it a moment longer and started at Anthony Goldstein's face. There was ... a tug or a prickle of memory in the back of his mind. But he couldn't place it. Had they met?
"I can't say it's a pleasure, meeting you under the circumstances, Captain. John Fitzroy was an excellent business partner, and good friend."
Savva nodded; there was a rustling at his right. Booras was fishing out a notebook and pen and flipping to a blank page.
"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled.
Savva looked back at Goldstein. "How long have you known Mr. Fitzroy?"
"Over nine years. The former owners were selling. They wanted to move to Provence and retire. John and I bought the hotel, and he managed it. I'm rarely here. I'm based in Athens and run my other interests from there. But we talk at least three times a week, and I'm out here three or four times a year so John and I can meet. John was brilliant. He was at the Royal Horseguards Hotel before he took the job here."
"What are your other interests in Athens?"
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I own a construction company, a few apartment complexes, even a few bookstores," Goldstein said, as though books were a purity that absolved him.
"How was your relationship with John? Any problems or disagreements?"
"Not one. John is reliable and works miracles with our guests. He is, was, quick to suggest any improvement the hotel might make to better serve our guests. He worked above and beyond what was expected. His service was impeccable."
"Have you had the occasion to meet his wife, Davonna?"
Goldstein leaned back. "No, I can't say I have. I invited them to my home when they were next in Athens, but they never made the trip. John didn't talk about his private life. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, just curious, Mr. Goldstein," Savva said. "Had you noticed any change in Mr. Fitzroy? Temperament, habits, work?"
"No, I didn't. He was impeccable as always. John was in London for a week right before he died. Did something happen there?"
"You didn't notice a change?"
"No. He was in good form. He looked forward to being back in London for a while. He mentioned he missed it."
"I see. Well, we won't take much of your time, but we would like to interview the staff that John worked with regularly. To get a better picture of him if you will."
"Yes. Why don't you stay here, in the office? There's more space in here, it's private, and I have work to do at any rate. I'll round them up and send them in one at a time," Goldstein said, rising from his chair. Savva stared at it. It was an ugly thing, all steel and black leather. "What happened to him?"
"I can't speak to that, it's an ongoing investigation,” Savva answered, looking up from the chair.
"But you are investigating," Goldstein ploughed on.
"We investigate every suspicious death. Sometimes they are what they appear to be and other times they are not. Hence the investigation."
Goldstein bristled. Booras looked from Savva to the frustrated hotel owner. But Savva sat, unruffled.
"Gentlemen," he said, excusing himself.
"He's not happy with you, Sir," Booras said as he closed the door.
"First rule of policing: it doesn't (usually) matter one jot whether an interviewee is 'happy' with you."
"Usually?"
"Well if you need something from them, it's not constructive to antagonize them."
"And Goldstein?"
"In his case, I couldn't resist. He's holding something back," Savva said. He stroked the beard hairs under his bottom lip. "Make sure you take good notes-name, address, mobile number, how long they've worked here, etc."
"Yes, Sir."
Savva moved over to the conference table and sat in an uncomfortable chair. His eyes were again drawn to the hideous chair behind the baroque desk. The pieces clashed obscenely with each other: like the breaking waves of modernity against the perceived nobility of the past.
"Oh and Booras, I want you to check on this Anthony Goldstein. Why did he go into business with Fitzroy? What are their financials like? With the recession and Syrian refugees, how often is the hotel filled?"
"Ok."
"I want to know these two inside and out."
"Do you think he was like Goldstein said?"
"What do you mean?"
"The model partner who took initiative and "worked miracles with the guests?'"
"Maybe. Perhaps that's what Goldstein saw."
"Sir?"
"What?"
"I've heard the lads ... in the squad room …"
"Get to the point, Booras."
"They've only ever seen John Fitzroy when he's leaving the island. Maybe twice down at the shops. He had that flashy car, it wasn't hard to miss."
"What do you mean?"
"He didn't like to mix, unlike his wife. I've seen her dozens of times. She always buys local. Thanos knows her."
"Thanos?"
"Yeah, he's another sergeant."
"So what? She's nice?"
&
nbsp; "She seems to be. Thanos said she's always polite, well-spoken."
"I'm not sure it's relevant, but I'll keep it in mind."
There was a knock on the door behind them. In walked a middle-aged man. The day manager.
"Let's start with your name, mobile, address, and how long you've worked here," Booras said.
The day manager was portly. The buttons on his pinstripe vest and white shirt were under immense strain, most likely from recent weight gain. The day manager had little to say about John Fitzroy. John was professional, courteous, always willing to cover. The night manager had a pre-existing condition; fibromyalgia, which made it difficult to stand for long periods of time and John wouldn't hesitate to come in when he couldn't work.
Savva dismissed the day manager with a heavy sigh. Booras wisely didn't say another word. The employees passed through the office-turned-interview-room like a droning metronome. The next three were women. The social media and human resources manager spoke well of John. Two concierges were near tears. John was kind and attentive and always ready to answer questions. He drove them home when their car was in the shop. Savva dismissed both with a growl. Booras stared at the wall and prayed for a quick release from the stifling room.
The head valet came in next: an older man with a proud bearing. He stood erect, as Savva slouched in the chair, and extended his hand as though he was being introduced to The Queen. He had another story altogether to tell.
"John Fitzroy was a devil."
Booras blinked. He hadn't even managed opened his mouth to ask for contact information. Savva leaned forward with a devilish grin on his face.
"Please go on, Mr. …"
"Just Giorgos," the valet said. "I've worked at this hotel for almost three decades. I've seen everything. I understand it better than my own home. John Fitzroy sauntered into this hotel like a prima donna. Every single boy who works under me was subjected to cruel remarks, like they were dim or unworthy of the job or lacking in decorum. Now I'm not blind, they're boys, you can't expect them to be perfect all the time, but they do a decent job."
Booras stepped in. "Before we proceed, could I have your contact details?"
Giorgos frowned but gave them. Savva studied the man as he related the necessary information. He was disdainful of Fitzroy, to be sure, but he wasn't incensed. Just frustrated. Upset at the treatment of those whom he managed.
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