The Divided Child (19 page)

           
I
would have given a great deal to hear what they were saying to each other, but
I was too far away to hear a thing.
 
I considered trying to sneak up on them, but the nave of the church
offered few places to hide.
 
I was
about to push the iconostasis door open further, to see if there was anywhere
closer to stand, when suddenly I heard someone cough.
 
I let the door go, and spun around in a panic.

           
I
was still alone in the sanctuary.
 
Belatedly I realized the sound had come from out in the church.
 
Slow, shuffling footsteps crossed
calmly from one side of the nave to the other.
 
I eased the door back open slightly to see who was there.

           
She
was small and swathed in black, and apparently she was there to clean the
church, for though she was old, with worn brown hands and great cloud of white
hair, she set a heavy bucket of soapy water down with ease and settled spryly
onto her hands and knees to begin scrubbing the floor.

           
Satisfied
that her attention was occupied by her cleaning, I opened the door wider.
 
I looked toward the candle-stand.
 
Helen and Geoffrey were gone.
 
No doubt they had slipped out of the
church when the cleaning woman had entered.
 
I realized it would do no good to question her.
 
She wouldn't have paid attention to two
worshippers leaving the church, especially if they had walked out casually.

           
Well,
if they could do it, so could I.

           
I
opened the door quietly, and stepped out in front of the iconostasis, minding
my footing so as not to knock over the red glass jars in which candles burned
before the icon of the church's patron saint.
 
For a moment I gazed up at the painted face which wore a
patient and long-suffering smile.
 
Sorry
for the intrusion
, I apologized silently.
 
I think it's in a good cause
.

           
As
if in reply, the cleaning woman turned around, her dark eyes regarding me
strangely.
 
"May the Lord send
his angels to watch over you," she said in the formal Greek of the
Liturgy, "and protect you from the evil one."
 
Her thumb and two fingers pressed
together and swept out the figure of the cross in my direction, then she turned
back to her scrubbing.
 
Startled, I
stared at her bent back, then turned and walked quietly out of the church.

           
Its
courtyard opened onto a small town square containing a fountain, trees, and
scattered groups of red wooden tables belonging to several outdoor cafés.
 
Strands of colored lights were draped
through the trees, and local men sat drinking coffee and arguing, while a group
of boys, with a young girl toddling excitedly after them, played soccer.

           
There
were few outsiders to be seen.
 
A
couple in brightly-colored swimsuits sat sipping beer at one of the cafés, and
a tall man with blond hair disappeared into a small souvenir shop just off the
square.

           
Walking
quickly, I started toward the shop, but suddenly a hand tapped me on the
shoulder.
 
Startled, I whipped
around.

           
"
Per
favore, Signorina
--" said a beautifully bronzed and amazingly
hairless young man in Italian.
 
He
was wearing a skimpy fuchsia speedo that left little of his anatomy to the
imagination.
 

           
"You
startled me," I complained, not distracted enough by his appearance to
forget my mission or forgive his interruption of it.

           
"Pardon
me," he said, switching to English and flashing me a smile bright enough
to melt ice.
 
"But please, you
take photo my girl and me?"
 
He held up a camera in one hand and motioned back at his companion, a
lithe young woman in a green one-piece who was straddling a bright red
moped.
 
The pose was a bit
reminiscent of a Playboy cover; with those colors, perhaps a Christmas issue.

           
"I'm
sorry," I said, starting to move away, "I’m in a hurry."

           
He
put a restraining hand on my arm.
 
"It will not take long -- one minute."
 
He held up a finger to emphasize the
point.
 
"Please, Miss!
 
A photo for souvenir."

           
"Sorry!
 
I don't have time."

           
"It
will take one minute only," he repeated stubbornly.
 
His hold on my arm was loose, but
intractable.
 
I could break away,
but it would mean making a scene.

           
"Oh,
all right," I said, exasperated.
 
I snatched the camera from his hand, relishing the look of irritation
that passed over his face.
 
"Go on, get over there."
 
I held the camera up, framing the shot around his girlfriend.
 
As I'd hoped, he released his hold on
me and rushed to her side.
 
I
clicked the button and then tossed the camera to him still whirring from the
automatic advance of the film.
 
Without waiting to see if he'd catch it, I turned and headed for the
shop, but as I drew close, I realized it was too late.

           
The
shop was empty save for the owner.
 
Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Nine

           
When
Maria stopped by my room again that evening with my clothes, I asked her if
Michael and Mrs. Redfield had returned.
 
She shook her head and told me the two would be dining in town.
 
"And Mr. Skouras?” I asked.
 
“Will he be having dinner here?"

           
"He
will not," Spiro replied from the doorway.
 
"Have you forgotten?
 
I am going to take you out this evening."

           
Maria
slammed the door of the large armoire shut.
 
"There, Thespinis, your dresses now are ready."

           
"Thank
you, Maria, for washing and ironing them for me."

           
"
Parakaló
,"
she murmured.

           
"Maria,
that will be all," Spiro said, dismissing her.

           
But
the housekeeper didn't seem quite ready to go.
 
She asked in Greek, "What am I to tell the mistress
when she returns?"

           
"About
what?"

           
"About
where you and the young lady have gone."

           
"That
is no business of yours -- or my sister's," he snapped.

           
She
shrugged.
 
"She will ask.
 
I only wish to know what I am to
say."

           
"Tell
her --" he bit off the words and drew a deep, angry breath.
 
He began again in a calmer tone.
 
"Tell her I am taking Miss Stewart
to dinner and then we are going to the Achilleon.
 
We may be late, I have a key, and no one need wait up.
 
Now, I think that is all you need to
know, so please leave us."

           
She
bobbed her head and left.
 
Spiro
watched her retreating back, then turned to me.
 
For the first time he seemed to notice my dusty and
disheveled appearance.
 
He frowned.

           
"Can
you be ready by nine o'clock?" he asked.
 
As it was only half-past seven, the doubt in his voice was
hardly flattering.
 
“The dress at
the Achilleon -- it is formal.
 
You
have something appropriate?"

           
I
crossed to the armoire and quickly scanned my dresses.
 
I pulled out my green silk.
 
Thanks to Maria, it was spotlessly
clean and perfectly pressed and looked a hundred-percent better than when I'd
worn it the night before to dinner with Geoffrey.

           
Spiro
was less than enthusiastic.
 
"I will find something of Demetra's and some jewelry as well, and
perhaps Aphrodite can do something with your hair."

           
I
bit down hard on my lip, suppressing an angry retort.
 
If I was going to be of use to Michael, I had to develop a
thicker skin.
 
"That will be
fine," I said.

           
"Good,"
replied Spiro, sounding unsure.
 
He
surveyed me once more, gave a faint shrug, and turned and left the room.
 
As his footsteps receded down the hall,
I sat down on the bed, feeling a bit like a melon that had been squeezed and
found wanting.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
Aphrodite
did do wonders with my hair.
 
She
plaited my unruly locks into an elegant French braid which she threaded with
gold ribbons that glittered in the light.
 
The ribbons were to match the elegant dress Spiro had extracted from his
sister’s closet for me to wear.
 
The shimmering gold gown was beautiful, and I felt an almost atavistic
thrill as Aphrodite slipped it over my shoulders, though the thrill was
tempered by dismay at the thought of squeezing my bountiful curves into a dress
belonging to a woman of much more fashionable and moderate lines.

           
Yet
in the end, I had to give Spiro credit.
 
He obviously knew women’s bodies, and he had guessed correctly in
thinking I might just fit into this particular dress of his sister’s.
 
For though the lovely beaded sheath
clung to my torso like a second skin, and the satin folds of the bodice dipped
into a deeper and more expansive décolletage than I had ever worn, and though
the flaring tulle skirt rode higher up my thigh than I suspect it was ever
intended to do by its designer, when I turned to gaze at my reflection in the
mirror, I felt magically transformed.

           
I
slipped on the exorbitantly expensive but highly fashionable gold sandals I'd
been foresighted enough to fall in love with in an Athens boutique, and Aphrodite
put the finishing touches on my coiffure.
 
She curled the

hard-to-manage hair at my temples
into loose ringlets and secured them in place with two gold combs encrusted
with emeralds (another unwitting loan from Demetra Redfield courtesy of her
brother.)
 
Aphrodite then draped
the matching necklace around my throat.
 
When she was done, she scanned me up and down, then kissed the tips of
her fingers in satisfaction.

           
Spiro
knocked on the door a few minutes later.
 
When Aphrodite stepped out of the way, his eyebrows flew up in pleased
surprise, but his only words were, "You are ready?"

           
"I
guess so," I said, reaching for my purse.

           
He
shook his head, and held out a gold satin clutch purse.

           
"Spiro,"
I protested, "I don't want to use any more of your sister's things."

           
He
crossed to me and put the purse in my hands.
 
"It looks much better with this," he said
impatiently, his hand briefly touching his sister's necklace.
 
It did seem silly to accept the loan of
a dress and such expensive jewelry and then demur at a purse, so I reluctantly
accepted the clutch and scooped the contents of my own bag into it.

           
As
Spiro took my arm and escorted me from the room, I sensed how keyed up he was,
but I had little time to wonder at the reason before I was distracted by a
figure standing in the shadow of the hallway, watching us.
 
With a start of recognition, I realized
it was Helen.
 
She stood there,
still and motionless, as we walked by, but her gaze bore into me with an intensity
that unnerved me.
 
For a moment, I
was tempted to emulate my grandmother and make the sign against the evil
eye.
 
Instead, I merely drew closer
to Spiro.
 

           
He
was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice my disquiet, but as the solid
oak front door closed soundly behind us, I felt better.
 
Spiro led the way to the garage where
his red Lamborghini was parked.
 
It
was an impressive-looking car with sleek lines that screamed money.
 
As he opened the door and helped me in
with practiced gallantry, I settled into the hand-crafted leather seat and
wondered just what my host did for a living.