Feta Attraction (5 page)

“Are you saying Spiro owes this group money?” This made no sense. As far as I knew, Spiro had plenty of money—he certainly spent plenty of it—and I hadn't noticed anything unusual in his activity lately. Why would he need to borrow money?

“I'm saying that he was one of the bankers.”

“You mean, like a loan shark?”

“Yes. The Sons are apparently missing a pretty good chunk of money—Spiro's capital, plus more—and now Spiro is gone.”

“How do you know all this?” Liza came into town only a couple of times a week, yet had far more information than I, who lived right in the middle of it all.

“People have a tendency to tell me things. And no, I don't generally repeat them, if you're worried about me revealing any of our conversations.” There was something so reassuring and innately trustworthy about Liza that I could well believe strangers on the street might confide in her.

“Who are these SODs? Anybody I know?”

“At this point I don't have any more information than what I've told you. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, though, and let you know if I find out anything else.”

She handed me a teacup containing a warm amber liquid, which she had prepared while we'd been talking. “This is my special, gentle pain relief and detoxification infusion.” I was a bit fuzzy due to the effects of the wine, but it came to me. “You mean, like a hangover preventer?”

“If you want to call it that,” she said, with just the slightest testy edge to her voice. I sometimes forgot that this was how she made her living, pampering and detoxifying people. I ought to be more sensitive. “I've given you the Clover Room, since I remember that's your favorite.”

“I thought you were booked for the rest of the summer. How's that room available?”

“It developed a sudden air-conditioning problem and its rather famous occupant couldn't take the heat. I've moved her and her entourage over to the Waldorf Suite, which I hadn't planned to use until it was redecorated this fall.” She rose elegantly. “Come, now, time for beddy-bye.”

I followed her up the fantastically carved dark wood staircase and down a long wallpapered hallway lit with flickering, candle-type electric sconces. The thickly padded carpet runner was bordered on each side by a strip of glowing, polished wood floor, the kind that could be found only in these huge Victorian homes.

We stopped at a heavy dark door carved with a four-leaf clover. The skeleton key was in the lock, and Liza turned it. The door swung open. The walls were the color of a field of lavender in the French countryside. A satiny white comforter covered the bed, which contained a pile of soft pillows in every conceivable shape. A crystal lamp with a silk shade edged in crystal beads glowed and shimmered on the small writing desk. My small overnight bag had been unpacked by some unseen attendant. My reverie slammed shut like a front door in a windstorm when I realized I had brought only an XXL shirt clearanced from the T-Shirt Emporium to sleep in. Not that anyone would see me in my jammies, of course, but somebody had been through my clothes and had handled the pathetic garment. Embarrassing.

“Good night. I'll get you up early, but not too early, for breakfast. I know you have to work tomorrow so I've scheduled the water taxi to be here at nine o'clock sharp.”

“Night, Li. Thanks for everything.”

“That's what friends are for.”

She turned at the doorway and said, firmly but not at all unkindly, “By the way, your ‘pajamas' were unacceptable for this establishment. Or for any self-respecting woman, for that matter, whether or not she has a companion at night. I've replaced them with something more suitable.”

The door closed and I turned to the closet, where I found a pink silk nightie hanging on a matching padded hanger. It was lovely, but it seemed like a waste to wear this when no one would see it. Had I even shaved this morning?

I used the toidy and brushed my teeth. The toothpaste tube was marked with the Valentine Island logo, the contents another of Liza's concoctions, judging by the unusual herbal taste.

What the hell,
I thought. Not that I had any choice. My nightshirt was gone. It was either the negligee or my birthday suit. I stripped and slipped the fluid fabric over my head. It ran down my body like a soft shower and settled down around my ankles. Was that a matching wrap on the adjacent hanger? Yes, of course it was. I put it on and did a twirl, the skirts flaring out around me. The only thing this outfit needed, I decided, was a pair of kitten-heeled mules with marabou feathers and I would look just like Barbara Stanwyck in one of her femme fatale roles. Except, I noticed, examining myself in the cheval mirror, that I needed to get my roots done. And that Pilates DVD would definitely improve things.
All in all, though, not too bad,
I thought, being kind to myself. I took off the wrapper and hung it back up on the padded satin hanger. Where I normally would have just flopped into bed and yanked up the covers, this time I neatly turned down the coverlet, lay down, and pulled the downy warmth up around me. The air-conditioning was working just fine, I noted.

I felt like someone else—someone I'd maybe like to meet again sometime—and fell asleep, dead body, treasure, and amorous boat-builders forgotten.

FOUR

I woke the next morning to a gentle, melodious chiming coming from a small box on the bedside table. “The time is seven thirty a.m.,” a mellifluous female voice intoned. I drew back the covers and slid off the bed with a lovely swishy sound. I dressed, now wishing I'd brought something a little nicer than jeans and a T-shirt, took one last appreciative look around the Clover Room, and closed the door behind me.

Back at the Bonaparte House I opened the kitchen door to a blast of country music. Russ came in behind me lugging a box of organic romaine lettuce and tomatoes he'd just picked up from the Rossie hippies. He set the box delicately on the stainless steel counter. It had taken a long time to train him not to slam the boxes down, bruising the produce within. “Treat the veggies like beagle puppies, Russ,” I'd told him, and he got it after about a hundred reminders.

“Mornin',” he grunted. He must have been out late carousing. Easy enough to do that in Bonaparte Bay.

“Good morning, Russ.”

“I made you a cup of coffee, just the way you like it—cream and lots of sugar,” chimed a voice from behind the prep counter.

“Hi, Dolly. Thanks so much.” I'd already had a cup of delicious brew at the spa, but those little pink bone-china cups, so thin you could see a transparent rosy glow through them if you held them up to the light, did not hold anywhere near enough to fortify me for the morning. I accepted the cup gratefully and took a sip.

“It's my birthday today.”

“Happy Birthday! Any big plans?”

“Well, I have to work tonight.” She looked at me expectantly.

I considered. “Why don't you get the prep work done and then take the afternoon off? You can come back in around four o'clock and leave early tonight.” I'd have to run down to Kinney's, the drugstore on the corner, and get her a birthday card and a bottle of Shania Twain's perfume. Starlight, it was called.

“Thanks, boss!” She smiled, picked up a giant chef's knife, and went back to chopping onions at a pace that always left me concerned for the future of her fingers. For whatever reason, she didn't like to use the food processor and would just chop, chop, chop all morning until a giant mound of vegetables was reduced to the appropriate-sized cookable pieces. At least the worker's comp insurance premiums were paid up.

I didn't honestly think that Dolly thought she was putting one over on me by telling me it was her birthday. She just enjoyed celebrating her birthday twice a year, once in the summer so her coworkers could share in the gift giving, and once in late November when she was actually born. The summer date tended to change around a bit, so as not to fall on her day off. Sophie and I always played along, not wanting to spoil her fun.

Hmmm, where is Sophie?
I thought.

“Dolly, Russ, have you seen Sophie?”

“She called and asked me to have Russ go pick her up at her cousin's about ten,” Dolly said.

I turned to Russ. “Finish up putting away the produce, pull out the tomato sauce I made yesterday, and then head out. Better take Sophie's Lincoln, so she'll be comfortable,” I said. “And no smoking in the car,” I added.

“I ain't smoking anymore,” he said, puffing out his chest just a bit.

“That's terrific, Russ. I'm proud of you. Quitting must have been tough.”

“It wasn't so bad. I'm dipping now.”

I looked at Russ. There was a distinct unnatural bulge in his lower lip. Ick.

“No spitting in the Lincoln, then. Or out the window, either,” I added. “Get rid of it before you get in the car.” The thought of a big brown glob of tobacco juice blown by the morning breeze along the side of Sophie's immaculate white land yacht was enough to turn my stomach.

I took my coffee and walked through the hallway, down into the main dining rooms. There were three rooms we used to seat guests: two that had originally been parlors separated by beautifully grained native chestnut pocket doors, and the third the home's original dining room, which now served as the bar area. The other downstairs room had been the library, and was now my office. All four rooms were of a moderate size, and felt intimate despite their soaring twelve-foot ceilings. Because the house was octagonal, which was thought to promote the flow of good energy back in the days the place was built—a kind of French Empire feng shui—the rooms were a bit oddly shaped.

Sophie had decorated the tall narrow windows with heavy blue velvet drapes. Shiny gold ropes ending in long, fringy tassels tied them back. They were awfully formal, and a bit gaudy if you asked me, but the guests seemed to like them all right. One winter while she was in Greece and Cal was still in school, I had ripped out the carpet and had the underlying wood floors refinished, which lightened and modernized the whole place. Sophie hadn't been happy when she found out, but the floors were spectacular and were nearly always the first things customers commented on when they walked in. Second were the white marble fireplaces that graced each room, relics of the days when houses did not have central heating. The walls were still white with a stenciled blue Greek key border around the top. If it were my place, really my place, I'd paint everything red.

I toured around all the rooms and noted with satisfaction and relief that the ghost hunters from the night before did not seem to have disturbed anything or left any equipment lying around. I straightened up some of the oak chairs that were out of place, but otherwise everything looked pretty good. I'd have to see how the upstairs fared later.

I returned to my office and sat down at the desk. My laptop whirred to life as I pressed the
power
button and pulled up the file I'd made last year containing my notes and plans for Pirate Days, which would start soon. For two weekends in August, the Bay celebrated a two-hundred-year-old skirmish between some river pirates and British soldiers stationed on the Canadian side.

For the last decade or so a group of rebel reenactors had been sailing across the river and invading the village. They traipsed around in full pirate regalia, brandishing swords and large mustaches for the amusement of the tourists, many of whom dressed up as pirates themselves. There was music, dancing, magic shows, human chess games, and a whole lot of drinking.

Sophie initially thought her establishment was too sophisticated to allow the rowdies in, but eventually she realized that Big Dom was sucking in cash by the boatload by opening up his bar, and she followed suit. “It's only for two weekends,” she said, counting tens and twenties as she spoke.

We would have seafood specials all week, with discounts on rum cocktails as well. I'd found a recipe for a lovely rum cake, which we'd serve with a big dollop of vanilla ice cream. The waitstaff could dress up (no big billowy sleeves, though, to drag across the entrees; some cleavage would be okay) and I'd allow them to be pert and saucy with the customers to increase their tips.

I made some notes and e-mailed the next day's orders to our suppliers. In the background Dolly was singing “Stand By Your Man” along with Tammy Wynette. Dolly was horribly off-key but passionate. She loved the classic country station on the satellite radio. By this time she would have finished slicing the eggplant for the moussaka. Next would be the half bushel of heirloom Baldwin apples to be peeled and cooked into a chunky applesauce, redolent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove, dark and syrupy with cooked brown sugar. It would make a perfect accompaniment to tonight's American special of pork tenderloin medallions sautéed in butter and sweet onions.

I began to sort through the mail, which Russ had brought in and dropped into the wire mesh basket that served as my in-box. The circulars and flyers went into the recycling box without a second look. A couple of bills that would need to go to the accountant to pay. My personal bank statement and my retirement account statement, neither of which was likely to inspire more than the basic satisfaction that they existed. I had a decent nest egg saved from my manager's salary, but I wished there were more. If I had to start over somewhere on my own, I would need a stake.

I set those aside and reached for a note from the ghost hunters saying they would contact me in a few days, after they reviewed the material they had recorded. Next in the stack was a white number ten envelope with no return address, no stamp, and no postal cancelation. The envelope was addressed to “Georgie,” with no surname and no address, in odd blocky handwriting I did not recognize.

I took a swig of my still-warm-enough coffee, and opened the envelope. A single piece of lined notebook paper fell out. The edges were yellowed and frayed as though the paper had been sitting around in bright sunlight for a few years. Printed in the same strangely square lettering was:

BRING IT TO ME AND I WON'T HERT HIM. WAIT FOR INSTRUCTIONS.

What the hell?
As if vague, misspelled e-mails weren't enough. Him? Who was “him”? I sat up straighter. Spiro. Could he have been . . . kidnapped? The thought was ridiculous, yet it was starting to make some sense in light of his disappearance and the fact that he didn't have his cell phone. Liza had said he might be mixed up in something shady. But this was Bonaparte Bay, for Pete's sake, not New York City three hundred and fifty miles to the south. Not that we didn't have our share of petty crime, being so close to the Canadian border. But people just didn't get kidnapped around here.

People don't get murdered, either,
a voice piped up from somewhere in my brain. My thoughts turned back to Big Dom. Nobody had said anything about murder. It had looked like an accident to my untrained eye. He'd been drinking, most likely out on a boat. He'd fallen and hit his head, then toppled overboard.
But if that's true, where's the boat?
I frowned. If he'd been alone, the boat should have been found nearby if he'd dropped the anchor, or farther downriver if he hadn't. And if there'd been somebody with him, why hadn't his companion come forward? Well, maybe he—or she—had, and I just hadn't heard about it. Liza might have, though, and I made a mental note to call her later.

As for Spiro, all evidence pointed to the fact that he was off somewhere and had either forgotten his phone or was planning to buy a new one and had just left the old one here. He'd always come back before, and I was pretty sure he would this time as well. The e-mails and the note I'd just read still felt like somebody's idea of a bad joke, though who would be sending me such things was still an unanswered question. I couldn't think of anyone who might have a grudge against me.

But first things first. It was time to start looking for Spiro. I reached for my purse to retrieve his phone. Maybe there was something in his call records or voice mails that could tell me something. The landline rang. I turned, banging my knee on the side of the desk. An ugly bruise would no doubt grace my knee by nightfall.

“Bonaparte House, this is Georgie.”

“Mrs. Nik-Nik—” The voice faltered.

“Just call me Georgie. What can I do for you?” Whoever this was, I needed to get rid of him so I could look at Spiro's phone and decide whether I needed to go to the police. State police, I amended. The local cops were more or less good guys, but they were a lot better at busting up bar fights than investigating real crimes.

“This is Captain Jack Conway from the Coast Guard station,” he said in a smooth baritone, apparently relieved of the burden of attempting to pronounce my name.

“Yes? Would you like a reservation for this evening?” I picked up a pen and tapped it impatiently on the desk.

“No. I would like to come by and speak to you later this morning, if I may. It's about the body you and Mr. Morgan found yesterday.” The voice was beautiful, deep, and oddly compelling. I felt a little flutter in my stomach and wondered what the rest of that package would look like. I was more or less married, for now, but not dead. I sighed when I realized the caller would no doubt have a face for radio. And I had much more important things to be thinking about right now.