The Divided Child (11 page)

           
I'd
lost my appetite for the baklava, which was just as well;
 
I'd nervously shredded it to
honey-clumped bits listening to him describe Geoffrey's reaction to his
brother's death.

           
"Christine,
is there any evidence that your mishap yesterday
wasn’t
an accident?” he
asked, a frown of concern on his face.
 
Did you see or hear anything that supports the idea of foul play?"

           
I
admitted I hadn't, but told him about Geoffrey finding the loose block and
grooves in the mortar.

           
"What
did the Lieutenant have to say about that?"

           
"He
didn't find it convincing,” I admitted.
 
“He said it was ‘suggestive, nothing more.’"

           
He
sighed.
 
"I’m afraid I’m
inclined to agree with him,” he said, “especially since I can’t see what
possible motive there could have been for a deliberate attack.
 
You don't seem a woman likely to
generate enemies."

           
"Geoffrey
thinks whoever did this was after Michael."

           
His
hazel eyes looked troubled.
 
"I see."

           
"I
know, I find it hard to believe, too," I said.
 
"Still, let's just say for the sake of argument that
someone
is
trying to kill Michael.
 
Well then, there has to be a reason.
 
Perhaps if we could figure out what the motive is --"

           
"But
that’s just it.
 
There isn’t any
motive -- at least, not for anyone who counts."

           
"What
about the money Michael inherited from his father?” I asked.
 
“If Michael dies, does it revert back
to his father's estate?"

           
His
sandy eyebrows fluttered upwards.
 
"You mean does Demetra Redfield suddenly become a
multi-millionaire?"

           
I
nodded slowly.
 
"Thirty
million pounds could be a pretty strong motive for murder."

           
"It
could," he agreed quietly, "but I'm afraid you have it wrong.
 
Michael's money wouldn’t revert to his
father's estate.
 
Though in trust,
it belongs to Michael and in the event of his death would pass to his
heir."

           
A
cool breeze fluttered against my skin and caused me to shiver.
  
"Go on."

           
"Michael
is a minor -- the legal term is infant -- and cannot make a will.
 
Therefore, if he dies before reaching
his majority, he would die intestate, and the entire fortune he received from
his father would go to his closest living blood relative."

           
"But
isn't that --"

           
He
nodded.
 
"Yes, Geoffrey.
 
So you see, the one person who might
have had a reason for staging yesterday's accident is the very same person
trying to convince everyone it
wasn't
an accident."

           
I
shook my head.
 
"It doesn't
make sense."

           
"Yes,
that’s what worries me," he said.

           
I
pensively pushed clumps of baklava back and forth with my fork.
 
“I suppose Geoffrey and his brother
were quite close?”

           
Slowly,
Robert shook his head.
 
“No, not
really.
 
There was too great a
difference in their ages, and, more importantly, in their temperaments.
 
But I think William's death was a great
blow to Geoffrey.
 
Greater, I
think, than he is willing to admit."

           
"You
sound as if you knew them both well."

           
He
flashed a rueful smile.
 
"I
ought to.
 
We grew up
together.
 
Their family and mine
lived on adjoining estates.
 
We
used to play together as boys, and William and I were at Eton and then Oxford
together.
 
Later, I was his solicitor."

           
"And
you don't think there’s reason to believe his death was anything but an accident?"

           
His
expression turned grave.
 
"I’m
afraid not, Christine.
 
No more
than there is to believe your mishap yesterday was."

           
Perhaps
he was right.
 
Perhaps Geoffrey's
obsession with his brother's death had carried over to later events, causing
him to mistake the crumbling state of an old wall with evidence of foul
play.
 
This explanation grew more
compelling as I walked back alone to my hotel.
 
Surrounded by the sights and sounds of the bustling city, I
found it impossible not to feel drawn back to sane reality.
 
The experiences of the last two days
seemed to recede like a dream, like a nightmare that in the light of day
doesn't make sense.
 
By the time I
reached the Hotel Kerkyra, I was firmly convinced that the stone block had
fallen entirely by itself.

Chapter Five

           
As
if to reinforce my new conviction, I had no more visitors that day.
 
I slept through the afternoon heat in
my room, and woke from my siesta to find a cool breeze fluttering in through
the half-open windows.
 
It carried
the smell of the sea.

           
I
decided it was time to get back to being a tourist.

           
I
dressed quickly, slipping on a mint green silk dress and cream-colored
pumps.
 
I skipped putting on hose
and enjoyed the feel of the cool leather against my bare feet.
 
My grandmother's pearls felt similarly
cool and pleasant around my neck.

           
In
the lobby of the hotel, Panayiotis, one of Kyria Andriatsis's many

sons-in-law, was behind the
desk.
  
I asked him if he
could recommend a good restaurant for dinner.
 
With typical Greek tact he asked if I was eating alone.
 
His eyebrows rose in flattering
disbelief when I said that I was.

           
"Then
you must go someplace that has music and many people.
 
There is a place in Kinopiastes -- every night there is
dancing.
 
Many tourists go there,
but the food is not bad.
 
It's a
little expensive, but . . ."
 
He shrugged his shoulders as if to say "What does money
matter?"

           
"Is
Kinopiastes far?" I asked.

           
"On
an island, nothing is far,"
 
he said with a grin.
 
"And don't worry, the taxi drivers know the place."

           
When
I stepped out of the hotel, I found that the light had dimmed from bright white
to a cooler blue.
 
A breeze slipped
past and nipped at my bare arms.
 
It was only a little before six, early yet for dinner, at least by Greek
standards.
 
I decided to walk for a
bit and enjoy the town bustling back to life after its afternoon sleep.
 
People began to fill the empty
streets.
 
Shops selling everything
from kitchen sponges to gold jewelry reopened their doors, and the sound of
voices -- talking, laughing, yelling, cajoling -- rose through the air like a
swelling chorus.

           
I
hadn't planned to walk long, but the energy of the awakening town was
infectious, and I found myself wandering up and down streets I didn't know,
exploring this shop and that boutique.
 
I found an English language bookstore where I browsed for an age, and
when I emerged I had four new books tucked under my arm.

           
The
bells of St. Spiridon Church chimed eight, reminding me of dinner.
 
Surely it was late enough now to
eat?
 
After a bit of hunting, I
found an empty taxi.
 
The driver
knew both Kinopiastes and the restaurant and needed no further direction, so
with a pleased sigh I settled back in my seat to enjoy the ride.

           
We
traveled south, winding our way inland through rolling hills.
 
As we drove, the sun sank behind the
trees in a crimson blaze.
 
As we
arrived in Kinopiastes the blaze softened into a violet glow that cast a gauzy
veil over everything.
 
Enchanted
with the sight, I had the driver drop me on the outskirts of the small town so I
could enjoy the view in solitude.

           
Sometime
later I made my way to the restaurant.
 
It wasn't difficult to find, and I could see that it was as popular as
Panayiotis had claimed; large groups of people were clustered outside waiting
to get in.
 
With a sinking feeling
in my rather empty stomach, I wondered how long it would take to get a table,
but when I spoke to the headwaiter he astonished me by saying my table was
already waiting.

           
He
moved off to lead the way before I could tell him he'd made a mistake.
 
I decided to wait and see what he
offered before I refused it.
 
We
threaded our way past crowded tables and a small area of bare floor where a
dance line was beginning to form.
 
A man and woman in traditional dress moved out to lead it, encouraging
the restaurant's diners to join in.

           
"Here
you are, Thespinis," the headwaiter said, motioning to a small table set
in a relatively quiet corner of the room.
 
"I hope you will enjoy your dinner."
 
Before I could reply, he'd bustled away, leaving me alone
with my prospective dinner partner, whose elegant dinner jacket and black tie
made me sorely conscious of my wrinkled dress and bare legs.

           
"What
are you doing here?" I exclaimed, embarassment mixing with pleased
surprise.

           
Geoffrey
Redfield stood up and pulled out a chair for me.
 
"I thought it was my turn to offer you dinner."

           
I
sat down.
 
The dance line was
beginning to sway to the music like a drunken snake.
 
"But how in the world did you know where I’d be?"

           
"I
stopped by your hotel." He circled around the table and sat down opposite
me.
 
"They said you might be
coming here."

           
"The
operative word was 'might'," I said.
 
"I could easily have gone somewhere else."

           
"True."
 
He picked a menu up off the red
tablecloth and handed it to me.
 
"I thought it worth the chance.
 
Hungry?"

           
I
nodded.
 
It was almost nine, late
by my stomach's internal clock, which hadn't yet accustomed itself to the Greek
schedule for meals.
 
A waiter
passed by carrying a tray laden with food.
 
The mouth-watering aroma in his wake hit like a wave and my
stomach gurgled in protest.
 
From
the expression on Geoffrey's face, I surmised his stomach was complaining,
too.
 
"How long have you been
waiting here?"

           
"About
an hour-and-a-half," he replied with a grimace.
 
"Have you decided what you'd like?"

           
I
took the hint and quickly scanned the menu.
 
Though I'd been brought up on Greek cooking, many of the
Corfiote dishes were unfamiliar to me.
 
In the end, I settled on a selection of appetizers that appeared to be a
sort of tourists' greatest hits, and Geoffrey ordered the same, whether to show
solidarity or because I'd chosen well, I couldn't tell.
 
He also ordered a bottle of wine whose
expense impressed the waiter tremendously.
 
He left beaming at Geoffrey as if he were a lost son.

           
The
waiter's bustling departure left an uncomfortable vacuum at our table.
 
I didn't want to be the first to speak,
and neither, apparently, did Geoffrey, so we sat in uneasy silence and turned
our attention to the dance floor.
 
The
syrto
was reaching its climax.
 
The dancers, their arms tightly linked to keep the whirling
circle from spinning apart, sped their steps to match the tempo of the
bouzoukia
.
 
The circle's leader twirled and twisted
from the handkerchief linking him to the rest of the chain.
 
Then he leapt into the air, slapping
the side of his boot and coming to a perfectly poised stop just as the last
chord was struck.
 
The room erupted
in applause.
 
I turned back to face
Geoffrey, and found myself staring into a pair of disquieting emerald eyes.