02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (13 page)

“Our fallback, of course, the rain location, is here in the auditorium. We’ll keep the sets at the ready. But it would be quite a lark to do it at the site, don’t you think?”

“I think it sounds terrific. What can I do?” I asked.

“We need a sort of stage manager. You know, get everyone to the right place at the right time, in the right costume. That sort of thing. The vice principal had that role, but I think I told you he broke his leg waterskiing. Why anyone would want to roar across the top of the water on a couple of sticks is beyond me. He was practicing for a jumping competition. At his age! I would have credited him with more intelligence. But there you have it. Boy stuff. Way too much testosterone!

“The lighting for this production will be key. Had a bad moment there. Only had one bloke who knew anything about electricals—I certainly don’t—the school caretaker. He’s in hospital. Fell down the back stairs at the school Thursday evening after everyone had gone. Claims he can’t remember what happened. But we know what happened, don’t we? We know he’s down in the boiler room having more than the odd nip or two at regular intervals during the day. Drunken old sod!

“ T thought we’d have to call the whole thing off, but the Goddess is watching over us. Sent us a savior. Right at one of her sacred places. Mnajdra. A very nice gentleman has come forward to help out. Knows all about the stuff. And oh… here he is…

“Signore Deva, how wonderful!” she gushed as she turned toward her savior. It was the man I’d seen at Mnajdra a couple of days before.

“Signore Vittorio Deva, Ms. McClintoch.”

“Signore,” I said.

“Please, signora, call me Victor. I am at your service, ladies. I will leave you now to see what lighting and sound equipment will be available here, if I may?”

“Isn’t he just darling?” Dr. Stanhope asked me after he’d left.

“Just darling,” I agreed. “Did you sign him up at Mnajdra?”

“No, in fact we just chatted for a few minutes. He asked me questions about the historical significance of the site. He was very interested in what I told him about Goddess worship, and what we were up to, the play, I mean. Then yesterday morning I heard about old Mifsud falling down the stairs…”

“Mifsud?” I interrupted.

“The caretaker. He’s a mess. Nasty bump on the head, cracked ribs, broken ankle. I didn’t know what to do. I went to get a spot of lunch at my usual place, and in walked Victor… Signore Deva. We chatted again. I told him what had happened. He was ever so sympathetic… and delicate. Let it be known he’d be glad to help if I asked him, but that he wouldn’t presume without my asking. Such a gentleman!”

“Indeed,” I murmured.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and I momentarily forgot my problems, partly because the place was an absolute din. I was coming to realize that in Malta, shouting is a normal conversational level. Soon I was shouting too. I used my shop organization skills to get all the costumes lined up in order, and made annotations in the script. Signore Deva—Victor— for all his unctuousness, seemed to know his electricals, to use Anna Stanhope’s expression—and he made some recommendations for additional purchases.

“I took the liberty of visiting the site this morning, my dear Dr. Stanhope, and I have some ideas I’d like to discuss with you, with your permission, of course.”

“All right, Victor, but remember, we have an extremely limited budget for this production,”‘ she said.

Victor looked wounded. “My dear Anna, if I may be so bold as to call you that? Yes? It would be a privilege—no, an honor—for me to be permitted to contribute in this small way to your most prestigious event. Please allow me the pleasure of purchasing the necessary equipment at my personal expense!”

I thought Deva was rivaling the tea Marissa had made for me earlier in the day for cloying sweetness, but Dr. Stanhope was all atwitter. She agreed immediately, and off he went to make his purchases. I’ll admit I could see why she was smitten. He was a very attractive man, mid- to late forties, I’d say, lovely Italian suit, impeccable manners, if a tad old-world, and very, very smooth.

There were a couple of other adult members of the team. Mr. Camilleri, from the PM’s office, had donated the services of one of his staff, a woman named Esther, a pleasant enough person who didn’t seem to do much, but presumably she’d be doing protocol duties the day of the event. There was also a young man by the name of Alonso, the older brother of one of the girls, who acted as general gofer and handyman. Whenever brute strength was called for, Alonso was called upon to provide it. He moved furniture, lugged racks of costumes, and even went out to get everyone soft drinks—some very sweet fruit-flavored concoctions.

Anthony and Sophia took me home. There was a police car in the driveway when we got there, but there had been one there off and on since Galea’s unfortunate arrival, so I thought nothing of it. When I went into the house, however, I was in for a little surprise.

Vincent Tabone was there, and he, Marissa, and Joseph all had fingers held to their mouths in the universal “hush” sign. I was led upstairs to one of the empty rooms and found it empty no longer. A cot had been set up in one corner of the room, and on it, sound asleep, was a tall man. I say tall, because his feet protruded past the end of the cot. We went back downstairs to talk.

“Sergeant Robert Luczka of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police!” Tabone pronounced the name
Looch-Ka,
with an emphasis on the first syllable. “He’s come over to assist in the investigation of Martin Galea’s death, Galea being a Canadian citizen now and all. And the possibility that he was killed in Canada, or Rome, of course. The sergeant arrived today.

“He’s on a very small per diem. Budget cutbacks, apparently. So I thought bringing him here would accomplish two things: save him some money, and provide you with protection. Good idea, don’t you think?”

“Great,” I said. What else could I say?

“A Mountie!” Tabone exclaimed. “A real Mountie! I never thought I’d get to work with a Mountie!”

Indeed. And I never thought I’d have to live with one either.

The next morning I awoke to the smell of coffee and bacon. It irritated me more than I can say, for reasons I cannot explain. I think it was because I was beginning to consider the house mine in some way. Not literally, of course. I have never expected to make enough money at my business to ever own such a wonderful home. But my furniture was in it, and when I go buying for the shop, I only buy objects I love. I had handpicked every piece Galea had selected. I’d also worked so hard, and worried so much, to get it ready. But most of all, the house was beginning to feel like an orphan. Martin Galea dead, Marilyn Galea missing. No children. Marilyn was an only child, I knew, and if Martin had relatives anywhere, he had never mentioned them to me. I wondered what would happen to it. I felt the Mountie did not belong here.

I took my time going downstairs, not looking forward to my first conversation with the man. I was determined, I have to admit, not to like him. When I got downstairs, he rose immediately, poured me a coffee which he placed at a neatly set place on the counter, and stuck out his hand. He was tall, as I predicted, with light brown hair with a balding spot, blue eyes, and a lopsided smile.

“Rob Luczka,” he said. “Pronounced L-o-o-c-h-k-a and spelled L-u-c-z-k-a. Ukrainian. You, I know, are Lara. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you,” I said between clenched teeth. How could someone be so cheery first thing?

“Here, let me get you some breakfast. Marissa has left us lots of good stuff. How do you like your eggs?”

“In the carton,” I said. “I’ll just have some toast and coffee, thanks.”

“You need fuel to get through the day, you know. I’m cooking you some bacon. No, how about an omelet? That’s a good idea,” he said, answering his own question.

My God, I thought. There’s going to be another murder victim before this is over. I’ll kill him for sure. But I said nothing. He served up quite a passable omelet actually, and once I had that and some coffee, I felt I could face a conversation with him with some equanimity.

“So you’re here to assist with the murder investigation,” I said as my opening gambit.

“Yes, sure. Pretty cut-and-dried, though, I’d say. Most likely suspect is Galea’s wife. What’s her name?”

“Marilyn,” I said. “And I don’t think she did it. Didn’t you see the autopsy report? Said he’d been dead for only a few hours.”

“I’ve seen the report. Tabone showed it to me. Somewhat… basic, shall we say? I mean I don’t wish to criticize another jurisdiction’s work, but…”

“Tabone didn’t think much of it either,” I admitted.

“The point is, it’s been mighty cold back home. Sub subzero. I figure Galea could have been dead for much longer than the coroner here thinks. We already know that the furniture was loaded outside, it was minus fifteen at the time, and we checked the cargo line for the temperature of their cargo bays—they were embarrassed to tell us how cold they were, actually. So I figure Galea was just thawing out about the time he got here. That would account for the report.”

“But you’re here now,” I persisted. “Presumably you weren’t sent here because it was an open-and-shut case. You or your superiors must have thought there was some doubt.”

“Not really. We were sent a copy of the autopsy report, so we had to look into it.”

“So when do we start?”

“Start what? And if it’s what I think it is, who’s we? I’m the policeman, you are the shopkeeper, the one in whose shipment the body turned up, I might add.”

“Fine. Go out investigating by yourself. You’ll get lost five minutes out of the driveway, I assure you. And were you planning to take the car? I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

“Do I take it that you think that because I’m a Ukrainian from Saskatchewan I can’t find my way around an island this size? I’m a Mountie, remember. I track criminals through roaring blizzards, just like on TV.” He grinned.

“But of course,” I said. “Let me get you the car keys.”

EIGHT

Normans, Hohenstaufens, Angevins, Aragonese, Castilians
—
a blur of rulers, mostly absent. My tiny islands pass from hand to hand, pillar to post, sometimes the spoils of war, other times, more happily, to seal the marriage contract, yet others, a forgotten outpost in some despotic sovereign’s empire. Will freedom never come?

“I have A couple of pieces of news I think you’ll find interesting,” Vincent Tabone said, looking across his desk at Rob Luczka and me. My anticipated moment of triumph at seeing Luczka off in that splendid car was denied when Tabone called to say he was sending a squad car to the house. The factor mitigating my disappointment was that I was invited too, the Mountie’s opinion of shopkeepers doing detective work notwithstanding.

“I’ve heard back from the Italian authorities,” Tabone continued. “Martin Galea got to Rome on Canadian Airlines flight 6040. His car, a Jaguar—I’m impressed!—was found in the long-term parking area at Toronto International Airport. The Italians no longer require disembarkation cards at Fiumicino Airport—a mistake if you ask me. If they did, we could compare the signature on the card with the signature on the offer to purchase the land where he built the house just to confirm it was Galea on the flight. Not that we need to. We know he got here somehow. We’ve also contacted the airline. Galea as prebooked in seat 15B. But the flight was full, lots of large Italian families traveling together, and there was a bit of a computer glitch. A few seats in that area were double-booked. There was a seat for everyone, apparently, but a Jot of trading around on board. It was a 747—over 400 people. I’ve never been on one, but it sounds unnatural to me! We’ll try to contact the person who was supposed to be sitting in 15A, to see if we might get a positive identification, but frankly, I’m not hopeful.”

“So that means what?” Luczka mused. “Maybe his wife killed him in Italy—what’s her name again?”

“It’s Marilyn,” I burst out. “M-A-R-I-L-Y-N. Not what’s her name! Not ‘the wife.” Not
la femme.
Marilyn. She may be plain and very, very shy. She may have so much money you want to despise her. But I’ve met her. I like her. And she deserves better than this… this automatic presumption of guilt on both your parts!“ I was almost sputtering. Both men looked sheepish. ”What if something dreadful has happened to her too?“

Tabone cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should have added that I also checked on Mrs. Galea—that is to say,
Marilyn
Galea—and there is no indication she was on the plane with him. There’s no boarding pass, no ticket in her name either.”

“You said there were two items of interest,” I said, somewhat mollified. “What’s the second?”

“The second is equally interesting, I think,” Tabone said. “The information you requested on Galea’s will has come through from Canada, Rob. The bulk of his estate, as one would expect, is left to his wife, but, and this is the interesting part, he leaves the sum of $100,000 to the Farrugia boy— Anthony.”

“I think that’s great!” I exclaimed. “It’s to pay for him to become an architect, for his tuition and everything. Who’d have guessed Galea would be that generous?”

“Very generous indeed,” Tabone agreed. “But I think one would have to ask the question: Is this really for the boy’s education? Galea was what—thirty-seven?—when he died. Surely he would have expected to live longer than that. If he wanted to pay for Anthony’s education, why didn’t he just offer to do so?

“So the question remains, and the answer is very critical: Where and when did he get killed? If he was killed in Rome, then Marilyn Galea probably didn’t do it. If he was killed in Canada, then the Farrugias are no longer suspects.”

“You’d think the ‘when’ could be verified, wouldn’t you?” Luczka asked. “God knows I’m no pathologist. I can’t understand anything of what they’re doing with DNA evidence these days, but if I remember anything of my elementary forensics class a few years back, it is only in crime novels that it’s possible to pinpoint the time of death to an hour or two. I know what your pathologist says about rigor mortis. It normally begins to set in about five to seven hours after death, is fully set in after about twelve hours, and passes off again. But temperature makes a big difference to the rate. And as far as the breakdown of tissue after death—I think they call that autolysis—there wouldn’t be much difference between five hours and say, fifteen, which would put Galea back in Toronto when he died. And autolysis takes place at a slower rate when the body is cold.