Mrs Fitzroy

by Rachael Wright

  Savva slammed the car door with a thud that echoed around the lot. He pulled his hand wearily over his face. Soon enough the brass would knock on his door, demanding answers and results. Just the threat, of such horror was enough to drive any good cop crazy.

  With a heavy sigh, he slunk towards the department, around the mass of minuscule cars and crinkled piles of leaves in lonely corners. He ran into her, his mind on the leaves, on anything at all but a visit from his boss and the threat of the Inspector General.

  "I knew I'd find you."

  Savva looked up, annoyance clouded his mind. Athena … again. "What can I do for you?"

  "I want to know when you'll arrest that woman."

  "Are you referring to Mrs. Fitzroy?"

  Here they were, going around the same set of crazy questions. Athena was the most ill tempered woman he'd ever met, and he took great pleasure in antagonizing her—conceivably more than he should.

  "Yes, I am," she spat.

  "I know it's difficult to comprehend, especially after a loss, but to arrest anyone, the police must have evidence that both a crime was committed and that our suspect is the person responsible."

  "And you don't have it?"

  "Not at the moment, which is as much as I'll comment."

  "I know you know it wasn't an accident."

  "And how, pray, do you know that."

  "People talk, and I work where people talk a lot," she said with relish.

  "How well do you know Mr. Fitzroy's business partner, Anthony Goldstein?" Savva said. He watched with pleasure as the pretentious, self-important smirk slid off her self-important face.

  "He's … I …”

  "Careful, Miss Carras. You wouldn't want to be caught out in a lie."

  "He's my father," she spat. "But he didn't marry my mom."

  "And are you close to your father?" Savva said, eyeing the Prada purse (a different style, a different color) swinging on her arm.

  "No. He wasn't around when I was little."

  "It must have been a shock when he bought the hotel with Mr. Fitzroy."

  "I was twelve when he bought the hotel. I wasn't working yet."

  "What do you know about their relationship?"

  "My … father," she said, with a sniff, "rarely talks to me. He buys me nice presents and asks favors when he wants to cash in."

  "What favors are those?"

  "Like I'd tell you," she said savagely.

  "Well, Miss Carras, it was a pleasure," he said and slipped by her.

  Athena whipped around as he walked away. "I loved him, you know. We were going to start a new life! He promised. John's life was hell, and I made him happy. She got jealous, can’t you see! She's jealous of what we had! Make her pay!" she said, screaming. She looked deranged.

  Savva sighed. "Miss Carras, you weren't the only woman he had an affair with."

  He fled the scene; sure he'd live to regret his outburst. But didn't she deserve a modicum of truth? He walked into the department, exhausted, and didn't even spare the time to glare and growl at the usual people. Apparently most of them saw this as a worsening development and slunk out of sight before he could unleash his pent-up anger on them.

  "Kalispera, Sir," Booras said, jauntily as Savva slouched into his office.

  "What are you so chipper about?"

  Stelios slouched, but kept his smile in place. "I saw you talking to Mistress Number Two."

  "I wasn't talking to her. She accosted me. Big difference."

  "What did she have to say?"

  "What have we done, switched roles? Is this twenty questions?"

  "No, Sir," Stelios said. "I wanted to share what I've learned."

  "Yes, and what is that? You didn't tell me who Athena Carras' father is. I had to find out from Ioannis Dukas," Savva spat. He leaned back in his chair and squinted at his sergeant. Booras was too chipper by far. "What's going on with you?"

  "What do you mean, Sir?"

  "This, whatever this is," Savva said, waving his hand.

  "It's nothing."

  "Try again."

  Stelios took a deep breath, which still didn't displace his strange grin. "I'm proposing to my girlfriend tonight."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm nervous. Everything is turning to jelly: my legs, my stomach, my brain."

  "That's normal," Savva said brusquely. "It'd go away if you'd focus on work."

  "Yes, Sir," Stelios said, swallowing hard.

  "Well, go on. What’d you find?"

  "I've done background on Miss Carras, she's had prior run-ins."

  "You're a horrible time waster, Booras. Don't dither this much over your proposal. WILL YOU MARRY ME? Nice and quick. Now get to the point."

  Stelios blinked and nodded. "Athena Carras had a restraining order filed against her by another man; another married man. They'd been having an affair—the usual. Well the man finally realized that he wanted to stay with his wife and work out their issues. The trouble was, he'd told Athena, at the start, that he planned on leaving his wife …”

  "He led her on, and then reneged," Savva interrupted.

  "He did. Well she didn't take it well and followed him around, spent nights watching his house, she even broke in."

  Savva raised his eyebrows. "Now that's interesting."

  "Thought you'd think so. The only reason she wasn't slapped with hefty charges was because her former lover and his wife took pity on her. They believed it was a moment of madness, and they were moving back to Athens and didn't see the need for further action."

  "So we have an obsessive mistress with a history of burglary,” Savva said, trailing off. "Then there's the matter of her father."

  "Her father?"

  "Anthony Goldstein. He likes to give his daughter expensive presents and also likes to ask favors."

  "Anthony Goldstein is her father?" Stelios asked, thunderstruck.

  "According to her, he wasn't a big part of her life until recently."

  "Could she have done it, Sir?"

  "Done what?"

  "Broken into the house; fiddled with Fitzroy's car?"

  "I'm glad we've got a police officer's word there was an intruder that night, even if he is a friend of our suspect. Would he lie?"

  "I don't believe so, Sir."

  "To answer your question, it is plausible that Athena Carras did it. That's the problem with this case. It's so convoluted. Ioannis Dukas, and his wife, too, have motive, means, and opportunity. They hated John Fitzroy."

  "And Davonna Fitzroy, herself."

  "Yes, but no one other than John's mistresses seem to think her capable of murdering her husband."

  "Athena was lied to again; maybe she snapped."

  "Why not take out her anger on Davonna? She's the one standing in their way, don't you think?" Savva mused.

  "I don't know, Sir. The previous time, she was furious with her lover. I don't think she even sees the wives as human; just little boxes men can set aside."

  "What else do we know about her?"

  "She has expensive taste. She was wearing Christian Louboutin stilettos today, and I noticed she had on a Chanel watch when she barged in here the first time."

  Savva stared. "I have, fortunately, been blessed with a wife who isn't chained to the whims of fashion, and therefore I understood none of what you just said."

  "The shoes cost almost 700 euro and the watch is 4,000."

  "Not to mention the purses. She can't afford any of it on her hotel salary," Savva said. "It's either from her father, or Fitzroy bought them."

  "Could be either, but we'd need to get a court order for Goldstein's financial details."

  "We need to get them anyways for the hotel."

  Savva leaned further back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Booras fell silent, and this gave Savva a moment to think. The case was tangled, and yet he was sure the answer was staring him in the face.

  "What's Athena's mental state?"

  Stelios sighed, tasting the question. "She seems
unstable. She's been hurt, and not for the first time."

  "Which begs the question: what is she capable of?"

  "Didn't Thanos say in his report it was a male intruder?" Booras asked, interrupting Savva’s thoughts

  "Athena Carras is tall, near Thanos' height. All you have to do is wear baggy pants and sweatshirts and no one's the wiser."

  "Why would she break in? Why would she kill him—hypothetically, that is?"

  "We need to ask different questions." Savva twirled his beard hair. "What would drive her to kill? What'd it get her?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Was she overcome in a moment of passion? She has a rich father, she wasn't in desperate need of money ... what was it?"

  "Her emotions got the best of her?" Booras offered.

  "She has a stable job, nice expensive trinkets, but she's lonely. She wants more. Wouldn't John be the answer? She'd be a more likely suspect if it was Davonna Fitzroy who was dead and not John."

  "The pair of them; they deserved each other."

  "Fitzroy and Carras?"

  "She was carrying on with married men! He was no better, Athena's young enough to be his daughter."

  "We aren't the morality police, Booras."

  "I know we aren't, Sir, just a comment."

  Savva heaved a sigh. "I want to go home, get out of this sun-starved building."

  "Sun-starved, Sir?"

  "There aren't near enough windows. It makes me nauseous."

  "All the time?" Stelios asked, endeavoring to keep his expression neutral.

  "Yes, all the time!" Savva snapped. "Now here's what I want you to do: talk to some of Athena's friends and tell me if there's anything else suspicious, if she let any juicy nuggets fall about her affair with Fitzroy. I want the financials for the hotel and for Fitzroy. And don't make me wait long."

  Stelios took out the same thick, black notepad he'd used at the hotel and took notes. Savva stared beyond him and focused on the wall. It was most likely a wild goose chase, looking into Athena Carras. Then again, what was it about a woman scorned?

  An image of the two women popped into Savva's head: Athena with her expensive clothes and luscious hair and entitled attitude and Davonna with her sad eyes and quiet gliding movements.

  "Sir?" Stelios said.

  “What?”

  "I'll be off then."

  "Yes, go on," Savva said, waving him out of the office.

  Stelios bowed his head and walked back to his desk, leaving Savva to stare at the beige wall.

  With a start, Savva leapt from his chair. The phone on his desk went off like a twenty-one gun salute. "Savva," he barked into the phone.

  "Alexandros Savva, you'd better have a good reason for not answering my calls."

  Savva smiled at the warm, annoyed, voice of his wife. "I'm sorry, I got caught up in work."

  "Oh, you're still at the office, good, can you get a bottle of wine on the way home? An Albariño would do."

  "What are you making?" Savva asked. Flashbacks of the bouillabaisse tore through his mind. Perhaps he'd pick up a sandwich on the way home.

  "Calamari."

  "Delicious." No sandwich necessary.

  "Hmm. It'll be ready in twenty minutes."

  Savva said goodbye, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and locked his office door. The hallways and squad rooms were bathed in an orange half light and silence reined over the normally bustling floor. It might have been unsettling for anyone else, but for Savva, who spent much of his time in the darkened office searching for answers, it was easier to work in silence.

  He walked outside and took what felt like his first easy breath in weeks. The wind blew in from the sea and brought with it a faint coolness. In place of the overwhelming heat, there was now relief and calm. The streets were quiet; a Vespa passed by, the girl clinging to the black leather driver. It was as if the whole island relaxed with him.

  Savva walked up to his car, key in hand, but hesitated. Why waste time sitting in a car? He turned on his heel and started off down the street, striding towards the liquor store. The sounds of his footsteps echoed off the narrow streets and the colored signs advertising boat tours and barbers and seafood stalls.

  He paid for the wine, miraculously without being stopped to chat, and resumed his walk home. Two teenagers, rapping an American pop song, passed by. They hailed Savva with head jerks and smiles, and then strode by, tossing Coca-Cola bottles between them. Their happy conversation fell away as Savva walked on.

  When he turned down his own street, with its small, front gardens and pastel colored homes with chipping plaster, he wanted to turn around and walk more. The silence, the perfect lack of anyone needing anything, was as rejuvenating as fishing off a deserted pier. More so in fact—you didn't have to worry about coming home empty handed or bad weather or sunburn.

  But inside the pale green house, which blended strangely with the front garden, was a woman who shone like a lighthouse beacon. Every day for thirty-four years he looked forward to going home at night. It didn't matter if it was the easy years of early marriage, or the torrent of emotions and hardship when their daughter was young, or these older days when the house was quiet. Shayma was as devoted, as energetic, as beautiful as she had been all those years ago.

  "I'm home," he called out as he pushed open the white door. The paint flaked off in chunks, and it annoyed him.

  "In here, Alexandros," Shayma called out.

  Savva kicked off his shoes and nudged them into the hallway closet, hanging his coat on a hook by the door.

  "I got the wine," he said, producing the bottle with a smile.

  "I didn't hear your car, " Shayma Savva said, standing in the kitchen, pulling out plates and silverware, her back to him.

  He smiled at the sight of her straining on tiptoe; her blue dress pulled up over her knees, ending at the raised outlines of horizontal scars on the back of her thighs. She set two crystal wine goblets on the kitchen island and motioned for Savva to pour. Her hips swayed as she set down the glasses, she wiped her hands on her flowery apron, and walked back to the kitchen, her long, braided, black hair swinging from side to side.

  "I walked."

  "Are you going to mind walking in the morning?"

  "I don't mind."

  "Sit, you've had a long day."

  Savva put an arm around her, squeezed her shoulders, and went to the table. The kitchen table overlooked the back garden, and the evening light poured in like sweet nectar.

  "How did it go last night?"

  "Oh," she said with a sigh, "not much happened. There weren't any boats. But we had our hands full with meals."

  Shayma brought over platters of food and set them on the table. Savva balked. Somehow, after she started helping with the refugees, she had forgotten that only two of them ate dinner. There was enough calamari for ten.

  "You don't have to eat it all," she said. She dished out calamari, her long tapered fingers clutching the wooden spoon. "Whatever's leftover, I'll take with me for a midnight snack for the girls and I."

  "Are you holding up?" Savva asked as she heaped food on her plate. He watched with a frown, the way her she winced as she bent over, and at the deep, dark bags under her eyes, which never left.

  "I'm fine."

  "Are you sleeping eight hours?"

  "Just eat."

  Savva did as he was told, tearing a piece of pita in two and loading it with calamari. It melted in his mouth in a burst of buttery warmth. He slumped back in his chair; from the corner of his eye he could see Shayma smiling.

  "What's going on with the case?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

  "Nothing, it's utter confusion," he said morosely, setting his fork down with a sigh.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  Savva took a long drink of wine. He twirled the stem between his fingers, and contemplated the long legs snaking down the glass.

  "It's not clear cut … how's that?"

  "What do you mean?"

&nbs
p; "Half the island could have had a motive to kill him, but half the island didn't kill him. One person did, or maybe two."

  "Haven't you always told me the most obvious answer is usually the right one?"

  "Yes, but it doesn't hold for this case. Imagine for a moment: John Fitzroy; serial philanderer, successful hotel owner, rich ex-pat. The only people I spoke with that liked him were his business partner, who may or may not have connections to the Greek mafía, and a few young women at the hotel. Booras says most of our own constables don't even like him—thought he was too standoffish, the typical foreigner who comes here, takes jobs away from hardworking Greeks, and then thinks himself too good to socialize with them."

  Shayma patted his hand. It reminded him sharply of what she used to do with their daughter. He choked back a sob.

  "You can't read into whether someone was disliked," she said sagely.

  "That's not what I meant," Savva shot back. "I mean he was almost universally disliked—and not just disliked, it bordered on hatred. Certainly for the Fitzroy's neighbors, Ioannis Dukas and his wife."

  "The Dukas' are wonderful people, Alexandros. They contribute hundreds of thousands of euros to the island's refugee work. They always hire local carpenters and gardeners and craftsmen to work on their home or properties, and Theodora was a successful psychiatrist."

  Savva rose, went to the sink and filled a tall glass with water from the tap. He drained it and filled it again before returning to the table. Shayma looked at him, expectantly.

  "Just because someone is liked doesn't mean they’re good."

  "I meant; why would they give up so much, threaten their way of life, to kill John Fitzroy?"

  "Because of what they'd seen—or thought they'd seen. They were on good terms with Davonna Fitzroy. I questioned Ioannis about it, and he admitted that she’d worked herself almost to death the week Fitzroy was in London. I think the Dukas' knew or suspected Fitzroy was abusive and wanted to protect Davonna."