One Way or Another: A Novel (4 page)

“I can e-mail someone I know at Cartier, if you like,” Martha suggested. “Explain how we came by the chain, tell them we would like to find who it belonged to so we can return it. I’ll ask if they have a record of it, perhaps they can identify it from the initials.”

“I don’t know why but I feel it must have belonged to the girl I saw drown,” Marco said. “What I’m asking myself is how it got off her neck into the water. You saw how difficult that lobster clasp was to unfasten. It could not have simply slipped off.”

“You mean you think someone took it off then threw it into the sea?”

“Perhaps it was the only item that could have identified her.”

“Apart from finding her body,” Martha reminded him. “Marco,” she protested, “you are simply pursuing an idea. There is no girl, there is no murder. Nothing happened, just someone diving off a boat for a swim.…”

Marco threw her a cold glance. “I may not be a detective,” he said, “but I know what I saw and I know she didn’t come back up. Somebody hit her, somebody wanted her dead.”

Marco recalled the girl running to the stern of the big black boat, turning with a hand held to her bloody skull to look behind her … and then her fall. He replayed it in his head, seeing her again and again, falling, her long copper hair a cloud floating above her. And him staring, waiting for her to come back up … diving in after her when she did not. And never finding her. He had been beginning to think perhaps Martha was right, except now he had the chain with its initials.
AM
.

5

It was a week later, and Martha had already left for New York. Marco was sitting alone under Costas’s ancient olive tree, stripped of its fruit, which Costas was now serving to his customers on thin wooden toothpicks, warning them to take care, the olives were so juicy they might squirt. And they did, as Marco knew from experience. Em too. She was fond of an olive every now and then, rolling it on her tongue, never quite sure what to make of it until she finally swallowed it whole and sat with imploring eyes asking for more. Two were the max for any dog, Marco decided; Em was better off with the mastodon bones. And he was better off with the braised goat which smelled delicious wafting past in a steaming dish straight out of the oven to a lucky couple on the terrace. They scarcely seemed even to notice, they were so busy looking into each other’s eyes.
The eyes of love,
Marco thought jealously.

Martha’s visit had been quick; she had left for New York the day before and he was bereft. Not only did he miss her physically, he missed talking to her; she was the only person who would ever understand that he was speaking the truth when he said he had seen a young woman murdered. Well, not actually
seen
the act, merely the end result. No one understood because apparently no such young woman ever existed.

Artemis served the couple and walked briskly back. Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore an embroidered white cotton peasant blouse that slid sexily off her shoulders, with a full red cotton skirt that swished sexily around her knees. On her feet were un-sexy flip-flops. Her toenails were painted a pale pink and her full mouth a glossier shade. Marco thought there was no doubt she was a lovely woman. He had already made many sketches and one day he meant to paint her portrait. Now, though, he had the red-haired girl on his mind.

“Artemis.” He caught her hand as she passed by. She turned, questioningly. “Do you have a minute? I need to ask you something.”

Intrigued, Artemis pulled up a chair. “Only a minute,” she said. “As you can see we are very busy.”

Café life swirled around them. The usual row of weathered old men were lined up against the wall as they were every day, with their caps and canes, elbows on tables, chairs facing out onto the street so they could see everyone that passed, and make comments in low tones. The day’s heat still lingered, the single streetlamp lent a dim glow and candles flickered in red and green glass holders left over from the previous Christmas.

“Marco?” Artemis’s eyes were wide, waiting for what he had to say.

“I’m looking for a red-haired young woman.”

“Martha has been gone only one day and already you are looking for another woman?”

“It’s not like that. This woman is dead.”

“Dear mother of God.”
Artemis quickly crossed herself. “I don’t know any dead young women. We are all still alive.”

“This one had red hair. I need to know if you ever saw her here in the café, or on a boat, at the jetty.”

Artemis’s eyes rolled back; she was thinking. “I saw that girl.” She remembered her now. “Clouds of long red wavy hair. She passed by once or twice but never came in here.”

Marco heard his own sigh of relief. He wasn’t imagining it; the girl did exist.

“You think the gold necklace belonged to her,” Artemis said, and Marco nodded.

“All I have to do now is find out her name.”

*   *   *

It was not easy; in fact it proved impossible. Nobody knew her. People came in and out on boats all the time: vacationers, backpackers, college kids on the loose. She could have been anybody.

Well, there it was, Marco thought, moodily, back in Costas’s bar, sipping a sweet wine that made him long for a glass of cool, clean, French sauvignon blanc. He eyed Em, lying with her head on his flip-flopped brown feet, ignoring the nightly bone. Even Em seemed to have lost her taste for this place. It was time to go. Leave the girl and the mystery of her death that maybe wasn’t such a mystery anyway; it was just him and his faulty memory. He needed to move on.

He went back to the simple white cottage, packed his old T-shirts and bathing shorts in his canvas duffel, fed Em the last of the chicken he’d bought the day before, threw out the jasmine blossoms he’d picked from the tree outside his door and which still smelled fragrant and sweet. He stood for a moment looking around his small home away from home. He loved this place, loved his solitude. This was the first time he had ever felt disturbed here. He did not like that feeling. Worried, he went and sat on the terrace. Em hunkered nervously next to him, paws neatly arranged.

He stretched out to stroke her head, such a small skull, so fragile … it brought him back again to the way the girl’s head had looked, smashed to the bone. There was no escaping the memory. He knew what he had seen. There was simply nothing he could do about it. It was time to go home.

Lightning lit the sky, another storm coming. It was that time of year. In the flickering light he caught sight of a boat making its way to the harbor. A large, black-hulled yacht. Of course there were other black-hulled yachts but somehow he knew this was the boat. Same cabin door from which she had emerged in her blue dress, the rail over which she had fallen as though dead. Which Marco believed she now was.

6

ANGIE

Am I dead? It’s a supposed fact that when you are dead you feel nothing. Then I must be. Yet I was aware of the wound to my head, I’d felt the sea licking at it, perhaps the salt water was medicinal. Or perhaps the wound was too deep for that. And if I’m dead, then it makes no difference anyway.

All I’d been aware of was the current pulling me, so fast I was helpless against it. Not that I could have saved myself, it was too late for that. I must be far from the spot where I’d fallen off the yacht, far from those people whose invited guest I was. Well, sort of a guest. Supposed to be anyhow, but it turned into something else. I was the dumb innocent who thought she was going to be a star in a hair commercial with her mane of long red wavy hair!

I am trying frantically to remember everything before it’s too late. I’m twenty-one years old, I remember that. I also remember my name. Angie. Raised by a single mom. I remember her too. In fact, I can see her in my mind’s eye, right now, her thin, always-worried face, her sweet expression when her glance lingered on me, which was not often enough since she had to work three jobs to keep us afloat. Afloat. Ironic, now that I am drowning. Drowning without you, Mom. Perhaps it’s my own fault.

Here’s how it began.

*   *   *

A month ago I was working as a hostess, a greeter at a well-known restaurant in Manhattan. Raised in Queens, I had traveled no farther than New York State in my life, never had the money, or perhaps even the ambition. Manhattan was it all, for me, and as an attractive young woman with my mane of red hair, always worn tied back when working, of course; a faintly freckled nose which I tried to cover with concealer; hazel eyes—greenish in some lights—and a slim, well-toned body from working out at the gym five mornings a week, I knew I looked good. No beauty, but certainly attractive enough to generate interest from diners at the expensive place that was really nothing but a glorified steakhouse faking out the menu with exotic French- and Italian-sounding dishes. Naturally, most people ordered the steak anyway, and the chunky fries. I could have written out their orders before they opened their mouths.

Not that I was the one taking their orders. I merely showed them to their tables, handed out menus, indicated the specials and the better bottles on the wine list, made sure the candle was lit so the women looked younger, smiled my professional smile and was gone in minutes. Except when an interesting man showed up, especially if he showed up alone. Which is how I met Ahmet Ghulbian and sealed my fate.

I was not the one actually to greet him; a coworker had that privilege, but I could tell right off he was important just from the way he strode into the place then stood silently taking in the softly lit room, the white linen tablecloths, the huge urn of flowers at the desk whose scent mingled with that of good food and excellent wine. He wore a dark suit I recognized was of European cut, narrow and fitted perfectly to his body, and he had the kind of thick dark hair I’d heard described as “luxuriant,” though it was conservatively cut; olive tan skin; clean shaven. Oddly, since this was a dark room, he wore tinted glasses which he kept on the entire time he was there.

There was just something about him that attracted me immediately and when my coworker hurried off to place his drink order, I moved in. Smoothing my short black pencil skirt over my thighs, adjusting the collar of my white shirt, I drifted casually past, throwing him a smile as I went.

“Everything okay?” I asked, hesitating for a moment, giving him an opportunity to eye me up and down, which of course he did.

“Better now you are here” was his reply, making me laugh.

“Corny,” I replied. “Hackneyed, if you want the truth. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that.”

He was silent, though still looking at me. I felt uncomfortable and made to move on, but he said, “Wait.”

I waited.

“Is your hair naturally that color?”

He could not have said anything that would have surprised me more. My hair was pulled straight back and firmly anchored with a clip, as per the rules of the house. No hairs in our food, no mane sweeping sexily over one shoulder, enticing men when you should have been selling them more wine. I said yes, cautiously, but with a professional smile, it was real. He was looking intently at me and I was uncomfortable. I wanted to leave but he said, again, to wait. He felt in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and took out a thin leather wallet from which he removed a card. He handed this to me.

“I have connections in advertising,” he said. “I know there’s a shoot coming up in Turkey and Greece. The model has to have red hair, your color hair. Unfortunately today, the girl they wanted fell and broke her ribs and has had to back out. What they are looking for is that great mane, not that they can’t add to it with extensions, but this is an outdoor, sea and sand, wind-blowing deal. The hair must be right.”

He paused, still looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye I caught my supervisor lifting a hand to call me back to my job. I palmed the card quickly and agreed to call him. Double-sealing my fate. Which is why I am now drowning in the cool, clear azure waters off the coast of Turkey.

7

It was Apollo Zacharias who saw her. He was the owner and proud captain of the fast black-hulled trading boat, the
Zeus,
a modified version of the Turkish twin-masted wooden gulet. He happened to be on the bridge, binoculars held to his eyes, scanning the sea and the storm clouds, when he spotted what looked to be seaweed, kelp or something like that, spiraling upward. Except the seaweed was attached to a woman’s body.
It was her hair he was looking at, floating above her
.

Yelling for help, he ran to the deck and leaned over the rail. His crew, three bare-chested men, arrived at a gallop.

“Turn the boat,” Apollo screamed. He was always at full throttle when excited. “There’s a woman in the water. Take care now, look out for her.”

He pushed back the gold-braided captain’s hat he always wore to ensure people knew his status, leaning anxiously over the side as the boat made its maneuver. He was a stocky man, Greek, a sailor all his life, but this was the first time he’d seen a woman’s body floating past his ship. Fifty years old, experienced, married with three children, owner of a retirement home north of Athens, he would rather not have seen her. It could only mean trouble. Now he had to do something about it.

“Throw down the net,” Zacharias ordered, worried because he could no longer see the hair. She might have gone too deep; the currents were treacherous, causing riptides that could suck you under in minutes. But no. There! He could see her now.

“Get in the water,” he yelled to his crew. “Catch her.” It was as though he was after a marlin.

The net was lowered, as well as an inflatable dinghy. Two of his men jumped after it, hitting the water with a thud. The engine was shut down. The only sound was the slap of waves against the black hull and the cry of seabirds overhead searching for prey. The gulet heaved silently on the swell.

Zacharias pushed his captain’s hat from his sunburned brow, leaning anxiously over the side. He had seen her, hadn’t he? That was red hair and not seaweed? The heat penetrated his shirt, layering his skin with sweat. Maybe he should have left well enough alone, not gotten himself into this situation. Finding bodies at sea meant a lot of explaining to police, a lot of paperwork, more angst when he should have been looking forward to a peaceful retirement. But that was a woman he had seen down there. Or a woman’s body. Who knew which? He would soon find out.