The Divided Child (33 page)

           
"How
have things been at the Villa," he asked.
 
“Quiet?”

           
I
considered telling him my fears about the drugged chocolates, but worried he
might think me foolish, or worse, paranoid.
 
While Geoffrey was out of town, Robert was my only ally, and
I couldn’t afford to have him stop taking me seriously.

           
“Quiet
enough, I guess,” I said reluctantly.

           
“You
know, with the way things have settled down,” he said, “it’s difficult to
justify my remaining on Corfu much longer.
 
Yet I hate to leave when Geoffrey isn’t around to keep an
eye on you and Michael.
 
I don’t
like the idea of leaving the two of you unprotected.”

           
I
sighed.
 
It was hard having Robert
care more about our well-being than Geoffrey seemed to.

           
“Christine,
is something wrong?
 
Why exactly
were
you looking for Geoffrey?
 
Has
something happened to upset you?”
 
He reached out and touched my arm in a gesture of concern that almost
undid me.
 

           
“I
-- Robert, it turns out Geoffrey and his brother had an argument the day his
brother died.
 
I know it shouldn’t
matter, but I can’t help wondering what the argument was about.”
 
I paused.
 
“You don’t know, do you?"

           
His
mouth tightened into an uneasy line and slowly he shook his head.
 
"Who told you about this supposed
argument?"

           
"I'd
rather not say."

           
“Was
it Skouras?” he asked.

           
I
wasn’t sure how to answer.
 
I
didn’t want to admit Michael had been in the house the night of his father's
accident, but I didn’t want Robert thinking I was bearing tales from
Spiro.
 
Suddenly I was saved from
my quandary by the approach of a small, birdlike woman of about sixty.

           
"It
is
you!" she chirped happily, beaming up at Robert as if he were a
long, lost friend.
 
His expression,
however, as he regarded the small plume of extravagantly coifed white hair, the
bright china-blue eyes, and the bejeweled finger tapping coyly at his chest,
was completely blank.

           
"Now
don't tell me you don't remember me, Bobby Humphreys!
 
Last December, outside Nice?
 
You and your wife gave me a ride back to town when my rental
car broke down?"

           
Recognition
dawned.
 
"Of course I remember
you, Mrs. Baxter," he replied at last.
 
"You are a woman quite impossible to forget."

           
She
pursed her lips.
 
"Trying to
make me feel like an old woman, Bobby?
 
Call me Elsie!"
 
Suddenly she noticed me standing there, and her eyes narrowed.
 
"And who's this?"

           
He
made the necessary introductions, and I held out my hand politely.
 
She gave it a single powerful shake,
and then she turned back to him and demanded archly, "And where's your
dear bride?"

           
"At
home.
 
She'll be sorry to have
missed you."

"She should
know better than to let an attractive man like you roam Corfu on his own,"
she said, with a pointed look at me.

"I'm here on
business,” Robert replied stiffly.

 
She turned to me.
 
"They were on their honeymoon, you
know." She paused and then added with a significant lift of her fluffy
eyebrows, "You've never seen such lovebirds."

Robert made a
strangled sound and I nodded my head politely,
 
at a loss as to how to reply to the implication that I was
out to snare an already happily besotted man.
  
Part of me empathized with Robert in his embarassment,
but part of me was grateful Mrs. Baxter was so gauche.
  
If Robert got embarassed enough,
perhaps he'd forget my rash admission about Geoffrey's argument with his
brother.
 
I was regretting that
deeply.
 
It was bad enough I was
doubting Geoffrey; I didn't have to pass my suspicions on to his friend.

"So,
Bobby.
 
What are the two of you up
to today?"
 

           
For
a fleeting moment, a look of horror passed over Robert's face.
 
Then in a determined voice he said,
“You'll have to excuse us, Elsie.
 
We
 
have a meeting to get to
and we're running late."
 
Before she could protest, he hauled me out of the lobby, and we started
up Dimokratias at a breath-robbing pace.

           
"Would
you mind if we slowed down a little?" I puffed.

           
"Of
course not,” he said apologetically.
 
“Shall we sit?"
 
He led
the way to a wooden bench set against a wall.
 
"I’m sorry for our abrupt exit, but I was afraid that
in another minute she was going to invite herself to spend the rest of the day
with us. "

           
"Is
that what happened on your honeymoon?"

           
He
nodded grimly.
 
"She attached
herself to us for a week and wouldn't let go. "

           
I
couldn't help smiling at his morose expression.
 
"Aw, come on, she couldn't have been that bad."

           
He
gave a faint shudder.
 
"You’ve
no idea.
 
The one mercy is that I'm
not staying at the Corfu Palace, so she'll be hard put to find me again."

           
I
giggled.

           
He
frowned and then reluctantly began to smile.
 
"Yes, I suppose it does sound a bit ridiculous.”
 
For a moment, we sat in amicable
silence, then his expression sobered.
 

           
“Now
about this supposed row between Geoffrey and William --"

           
Inwardly
I sighed.
 
So much for Mrs.
Baxter's value as a distraction.
 
“You know, on second thought, Robert, I think I’m making too much of
it,” I said uncomfortably.

           
He
shook his head, all humor gone from his face.
 
“No, Christine.
 
If whoever told you this story is making it up, then they’re trying to
make serious trouble for Geoffrey.”

           
“And
if they’re not making it up?” I asked.

           
His
expression turned stark.
 
“If
they’re not, I have some serious thinking to do.
 
You see, the day of his accident, William rang up my office wanting
to change his will.
 
I was out when
he telephoned, and when I rang back later there was no answer.
 
I never found out what changes he
intended to make."

           
A
sudden breeze blew past and made me shiver.
 
“Go on.”

           
"When
William’s death was ruled an accident, I gave no more thought to the matter,
setting it down as mere bad luck that he died before he was able to alter his
will as he wished.
 
However, the
events of the past few days have caused me to reconsider that
conclusion."
 
He paused, as if
reluctant to go on, but it was clear what he was leading up to.

           
"You
think William might have been killed to prevent him from changing his
will?" I asked.

           
"It’s
a possibility,” he replied.
 
“That's why it’s
so
important for me to know who told you about
that row.
 
I must know if your
source is credible.
 
If Geoffrey
really did have a falling out with his brother the very day his brother rang up
wishing to alter his bequests, well . . . I
am
an officer of the
court."
  
His voice grew
somber.
  
"The proper
authorities would have to be informed."

           
I
shook my head.
 
"Sorry,
Robert.
 
I've already told you all
I'm going to."

           
"Christine,
please!
 
I understand your desire
to protect Geoffrey, but this isn’t the right way to go about it.

           
"You
don't understand," I said, rising to my feet and starting to walk
away.
 
"It's not Geoffrey I'm
thinking of."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
Despite
my parting comment to Robert, Geoffrey was very much on my mind as I wandered
through the small park of the Esplanade and plopped down, distracted, onto a
shaded bench to think.
 
Once again
Geoffrey seemed to be proving right: his brother's accident was looking more
and more like murder.
 
Unfortunately, Geoffrey also seemed, once again, to be the only one with
an obvious motive.
 
Why aren't
you here to give me some answers?
 
I railed silently.
 
The only
answer I received was the grumpy chirrup of a bird waiting for me to throw it
some crumbs.

           
Then
I remembered the two letters in my purse.

           
I
read the one in the airmail envelope -- the one from California, the one that
couldn't be from Geoffrey -- first, to get it out of the way.
 
It was from my sister.
 
It was a nice letter, friendly and
chatty, full of the news and gossip from home since I'd been gone.
 
For a little while I was able to
imagine that going home wasn't going to be so bad after all.

           
Then
I opened the second letter.
 
It
contained just three hastily scrawled lines: "
Business in Monaco not
going as expected.
 
Returning
Wednesday.
 
Looking forward to
seeing you then.
"
 
It
wasn't signed and indicated no return address at which the writer could be
contacted.
 

           
My
flight was scheduled to leave Wednesday morning at ten.
 
In all likelihood, by the time Geoffrey
returned to Corfu, I'd be gone.
 
Lost in contemplating this dismal vision, I didn't notice the Fiat pull
up until Paul got out to open the door for me.

           
Somehow
I wasn't even surprised to see him.
 
I slipped the letters into my purse and rose to my feet.
 
"I suppose you followed me?"

           
He
shrugged apologetically, but held the door open, waiting.
 
"The Archaeological Museum is
closed on Mondays."
 
After a
pause he added, "You are ready to return to the villa?"

           
"Why
didn't you tell me about the museum being closed before?"

           
He
cocked one eyebrow at me in surprise.
 
"I did not think it mattered.
 
I assumed there were other sights you wished to see.
 
I hope you were not overly disappointed
to miss the Gorgon?"
 
His
expression was bland, but his blue eyes mocked me.

           
I
bit my lip and for a moment considered the pleasures of being able -- like that
most famous Gorgon, Medusa -- to turn a man to stone with a single look.
 
Unfortunately, my glance was not
withering enough.
 
Paul, still
flesh and blood, asked me again if I was ready to return to
Ithaki
.

           
Growling
my assent, I let him hand me into the car.

           
We
stopped at a small shop in the center of town so Paul could complete his errand
for Demetra, then wove our way back toward the road leading north.
 
When we reached the outskirts of the
city, however, we found the road closed, forcing us to turn back.
 
Paul was not pleased by this mandatory
detour, and swore under his breath when he saw that we were being detoured back
toward the port where the ferries from Italy and Yugoslavia dock.
 
As we approached the perspiring man
directing traffic, Paul rolled down the window and began arguing with him,
insisting that there had to be a better route to take.
 
Calling the man an idiot, Paul gestured
angrily to his watch: didn't the fool realize that if was time for the Brindisi
ferry to arrive?
 
The red-faced man
made a rather rude comment about Paul's antecedents, and a policeman strolled
up to ask Paul in an icy tone if something was wrong.
 
Paul, grumbling, shook his head, rolled up the window, and
reluctantly turned the Fiat in the direction of the port.