Murder in Mykonos

by Jeffrey Siger

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ He waved to a very hot-looking young Greek behind the bar. He was about her age, tall with dark hair, dark eyes, a dark, well-toned body – she pulled her eyes off him. No need to inflame her need any further, especially since she was about to start drinking.

  ‘As . . .’ She caught herself about to say ‘aspró krasí – ‘white wine’ in Greek – ‘my friends back home would say, “Wine would be fine” – white please.’

  ‘And where’s home?’ Panos’ piercing blue eyes didn’t fit his trusty, hound-dog face. His hair seemed just as confusedly located. Pirate-style, cascading dark brown curls should not share the same head with bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows and a drooping, even grayer, walrus mustache. Overall, Annika saw walrus.

  ‘The Netherlands.’

  The men around them had been quietly listening but now exploded in Greek.

  ‘Damn he’s good. How’s he do it?’

  ‘I owe him another fifty euros. I’d have sworn she was American.’

  ‘My money was on Swedish.’

  ‘Panos always goes for the Dutch girls. He has a thing about them. He can smell them a mile away.’

  That brought out a few comments she wished she didn’t understand.

  Panos swung around on his stool to face the chorus. He held up his hands and cocked his head. ‘Never challenge the master,’ he said in Greek. Then he turned back to Annika and winked. ‘We have a little ritual here. When a pretty woman comes to the door, we try to guess where she’s from. I won.’ He spoke to her in English.

  She admired his honesty. ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘No, that beautiful.’ He smiled at her.

  It never changes, she thought. Greek males start learning to seduce as children and keep up with it to their graves. You have to admire them – unless, of course, you’re married to one. She decided to subtly point out their age difference, though she doubted that would deter him. ‘So, how long have you been in business?’

  ‘I was born here, but moved to Athens when I was a boy and started working there.’

  That was not what she meant but she realized he’d been drinking a lot longer than she. ‘No, I mean this place. How long have you owned it?’

  Like many repeatedly asked the same question – and who drink too much – he responded with a stock answer not quite tailored to what was asked but that gives the requested information. ‘Oh, it’s been thirty-five years since I moved back here. My family had a farm out there.’ He pointed over his shoulder in some vague direction away from the sea and took another sip from his drink. ‘Still does. I never much liked farming, so I opened this place. Last year was thirty years. Yamas!’ He raised his glass and clinked on hers. Everyone around them did the same.

  He ordered food brought to the bar and introduced her to the crowd standing around him, making clear to his friends that he was in charge of her attentions. Around three in the morning, dancing to a deejay began in the back room. The party was just getting under way. He ordered a round of tequila shots for everyone to bolt down together. A Mykonos tradition, he said. Then someone else ordered a round. And someone else did the same. She had a pretty good idea where this tradition was headed, so she did what she’d learned from her years at Yale: dump it on the floor and fake a chug.

  The bar was packed and the back room was jumping. She was enjoying herself and getting buzzed from all the action, not the booze. She started moving to the music on her bar stool. Another round of shots. She’d lost track. She thought by now all the tequila at her feet must be marinating her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Better them than me. Someone from one of the tables came over and handed her another shot. She took it and smiled, but before she could fake her chug a hand grabbed her arm.

  It was the man on the bar stool next to her. ‘I wouldn’t do that, miss.’ He sounded serious. He looked about sixty, with blue eyes and neatly trimmed brown hair slightly graying at the temples. Handsome for his age, tanned, and if his grip was any indication, quite strong.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ She meant it. Who the hell was he to tell her not to dump her drinks?

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, but he didn’t let go. He reached over with his free hand, took the shot glass out of hers, and put it on the bar.

  ‘I know that was very rude of me, but in Mykonos it’s very dangerous taking drinks from strangers. You can’t tell what may be in them if they don’t come from behind the bar.’

  Of course the man was right, and obviously he hadn’t noticed she’d been dumping her drinks. How nice of him.

  ‘Thank you. That was very considerate. I’ll remember that.’

  The man nodded and went back to his drink.

  ‘Annika, Annika Vanden Haag, sir,’ she said to him. It seemed appropriate and not offending to use ‘sir’ with him.

  ‘Tom. Tom Daly. Pleased to meet you.’ They shook hands. He didn’t say more and kept his body facing the bar.

  ‘So, Mr Daly, where are you from?’

  ‘The United States. New York. And you?’ He only turned his head to look at her when he was speaking. Otherwise, he kept his eyes on his drink.

  ‘The Hague.’

  ‘Ah, we may be distant cousins. My mother’s side was Dutch – really Afrikaner Dutch. Part Greek, too, if you go back far enough.’

  ‘I’m only half Dutch myself.’ She didn’t mention her own Greek roots.

  ‘I guess that makes us two more in this world’s litter of mutts.’ He laughed.

  She smiled. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m a painter and come for inspiration.’

  ‘Really? Should I know your work?’ She realized the question was unintentionally insulting. She probably had had too much to drink, but the man didn’t seem offended.

  ‘I don’t know. One of my pieces hangs in here.’

  She looked behind the bar. My God, she thought, it’s one of those awful paintings from the hotel.

  He must have noticed the look on her face, for he lifted his eyes to see where she was looking. He burst out laughing. ‘No, not that one – lord no – that one.’ He pointed behind him to a large oil painting in a place of prominence on the rear wall.

  She didn’t recognize his work but somehow thought she should. It was filled with nymphs and color and ancient ruins.

  She decided to compliment him. ‘You’re him?’

  ‘Whoever “him” is, yes.’ He nodded appreciatively.

  ‘It’s an honor to meet you, sir.’

  He turned his body and put up one hand. ‘Okay, Annika, don’t bury me yet. Please call me Tom or else I’ll never hear the end of it from all these youngsters at the bar.’ He smiled and pointed toward Panos and his crowd.

  ‘Is he giving you that “Don’t take drinks from strangers” pitch again?’ Panos asked with a wink. ‘He tells that to all the pretty girls. Our watchdog of virtue, we call him.’ Everybody laughed.

  Tom shook his head. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ and went back to drinking quietly.

  Annika leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘Thank you,’ and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled without turning his head.

  Panos said, ‘Annika, I’d like you to meet my son.’ She turned around to look in front of the bar but saw no one who looked like Panos.

  ‘He’s behind you.’

  She turned to see the dark-haired boy behind the bar smiling at her. ‘My name is Yiorgos – call me George. My father said I can talk to you.’ A chorus of Greek chants along the line of ‘It’s time for the younger generation to have a shot at her’ made her smile.

  ‘So, let’s talk,’ she said, and broadened her smile.

  ‘Not here. There.’ He pointed to the dance floor.

  She nodded, slid off the stool, and pressed through the crowd toward the rear. He walked in pace with her from behind the bar. They met at the end. He took her hand and pulled her into the crowd. It was body upon body upon body. She felt that, here, your body was no longer your own; it belonged to the c
rowd. His hands were around her waist, then on her ass. They were belly to belly moving to the music. The music pulsed and he thrusted. It felt good to have a man so close.

  He dropped his hand to below her skirt and touched her bare ass. She let him. He moved his hand toward where only a bit of thong protected her and she twisted away. He persisted and she pushed him back. He gave a ‘can’t blame me for trying’ grin, and they went back to dancing. She let him grind at her crotch with his. She knew she was building expectations she was not prepared to meet – at least not tonight – but it felt so good. When he tried to move his hand inside her again she said she wanted to get a drink. He told her he’d wait for her and started dancing with another woman who appeared not to have Annika’s reservations.

  Her bar stool was still available. ‘I watched it for you,’ said Tom without looking up.

  ‘Thanks.’ She let out a deep breath and reached for the wineglass in front of her. She paused. It had been sitting open at the bar. Anyone could have put something in it.

  ‘I watched that too.’ He sipped his own wine without looking at her.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and took a drink.

  ‘You’re some dancer Annika.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, not quite sure what else to say.

  He spoke softly without looking at her. ‘I once dreamt I lived on the edge of a wild amusement park, some place where any time I wanted, day or night, I simply stepped over the edge into the midst of my deepest fantasy, enjoyed my time there, and stepped back again unharmed.’

  Maybe he’s had too much to drink, she thought.

  ‘That’s Mykonos – a mad fantasy. It’s not real. You might think it is when you’re here, but it’s not.’ He sipped his drink again. ‘But, then again, it’s not completely the place of my dream. There I wandered about invisibly, taking in only the energy I chose and returning safely and unharmed to my reality whenever I wanted. Be careful of this fantasy, Annika, for here there’s definite harm afoot.’

  Before she could respond, Yiorgos was next to her, grabbing her arm. ‘Come, let’s go.’

  ‘Go, go where?’

  He seemed in no mood for talk. ‘To watch the sunrise.’ He pulled at her arm.

  She pulled it away. ‘I’d rather stay.’ Her voice was sharp.

  ‘We’re going to close soon. It’s after five.’ His voice was impatient.

  ‘I still prefer to stay.’

  He tugged again.

  ‘Yiorgos, stop.’ She looked around for someone to say something to him, but none of the once-so-attentive patrons seemed to notice.

  He leaned over, kissed her hard, and tried to shove his hand between her legs.

  She slapped his face. He slapped her back. His eyes were on fire. Still no one seemed to notice. In Greek, he called her a miserable, cock-teasing whore and stormed out of the bar.

  Only then did someone speak. It was Panos. ‘I apologize for my son. He has a bad temper. Let me show you home.’

  She was shaking. She couldn’t believe what just happened. None of these people who’d been so very nice to her had said a word or lifted a hand to help her. ‘No, no, thank you. Very kind, I’ll get home okay.’ She was ready to cry.

  ‘Please, let me take you home.’ Panos called to the remaining boy behind the bar for a glass of water. ‘Here, drink this.’

  Her hand was trembling as she took it and brought it toward her lips.

  At that moment Tom said, ‘Good night, everyone,’ and got up from his bar stool. He stumbled and fell onto Annika, causing her to spill the water all over her dress. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I apologize. I had too much to drink.’

  Panos said nothing. Nor did he offer her another glass of water. He just glared at Tom.

  ‘I better go too,’ she said. She quickly thanked Panos for everything and hurried out the door after Tom.

  She fell into step beside him. ‘What was all that about? The speech – and the spilled water?’

  ‘Nothing, just me rambling drunk and then stumbling drunk.’ He didn’t seem that drunk.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She sounded anxious.

  ‘To the taxi stand and home.’ He kept walking forward without looking at her.

  ‘Where do you stay?’ She kept talking and walking wherever he was headed. She didn’t want to be alone right now.

  ‘I rent a house from a farmer out beyond Ano Mera. Have been staying there summers for thirty years.’

  The taxi stand was by the harbor on the opposite end of town from the bus station.

  There were a lot of people in line, and she stood with him while he waited. He talked about his art. She talked about growing up in Holland, her miserable boyfriend, and how she should let her parents know where she was. He said that was a good idea, but guessed she wasn’t quite ready to give up on her ‘fantasy’ search. She smiled and said he was probably right.

  When it was his turn for a cab, he insisted she take it instead. He opened the door and told the driver in perfect Greek that she was a friend, and not to charge her like a tourist.

  Annika said good night and got into the taxi, but she knew she was too upset over tonight’s bad experience with another disappointing man to face going back to her room. She knew she’d fall apart.

  The driver asked her in English, ‘Where to, miss?’

  She looked out the window at the harbor and wanted to cry.

  ‘Please, take me where I can watch the sunrise. I’ll pay you double for your time.’

  ‘No problem. I know just the place.’

  He was driving on a part of the island she’d never seen before. She’d thought he was headed east to Lia Beach, where her mother and she often swam, but he’d turned and headed north. He was on a mountain by some military installation. It was almost first light – that moment when the world seemed to come alive again with the seductive promise of a fresh start. She needed this. She needed this badly.

  He turned onto a deeply rutted road and they bounced along for a few minutes until finding level ground. In a saner moment, she never would have dreamt of doing this – allowing a total stranger to take her to a deserted beach. Maybe the artist was right and she was ignoring reality in search of some fantasy. Too late now, but thankfully, the driver didn’t seem interested in her. He hadn’t said a word the whole time.

  ‘Here we are, miss.’ He stopped and pointed straight ahead. ‘I’ll wait here. If you need me, just yell.’

  He didn’t get out of the taxi. She didn’t mind.

  The hard ground where he’d parked soon changed to sand. She almost broke a heel. She took off her stilettos and walked barefoot across the dunes toward some sort of structure at the far end of the beach. Dawn was about to break and she started running. Then faster and faster and faster. No goal in mind, no place in mind, just running to wherever the light took her. It was by the structure that she stopped.

  She looked at the small, isolated house, totally dark inside, with no sign of life. Then she turned toward the sea and watched light fly at the horizon as if it were alive. Annika flung her shoes in the air and started running again toward the light. She pulled her dress over her head and let it drop to the sand as she ran. When she reached the water, she stepped out of her thong and threw it back in the direction of her dress. Naked, she waded out to above her ankles. She paused, and stood very still, her eyes fixed on the light spreading across the sea.

  The wind was light, the air was warm, the sea cold. She shut her eyes. She needed release. She needed to feel free, in charge of herself, in charge of her body. She needed her life back.

  Feeling the sun on her body, Annika gently lowered herself onto her back. She lay still for a moment in the shallow, lapping water – her eyes still tightly closed – then slowly rolled farther out. Over and over she rolled until it was deep enough for her to swim. For fifteen minutes she swam as hard as she could remember swimming. She burst back onto the beach and thrust a fist above her head. ‘Yes!’ she yelled as if she’d just
scored a goal. Her old self was back – enough with the fantasy and self-pity. ‘Yes!’ she yelled again and thrust her other fist in the air.

  Perhaps it was her renewed appreciation for reality, but whatever the reason, she sensed she wasn’t alone – and hadn’t been for quite some time. But where were the watching eyes? She saw no one on the beach or in the house. The taxi driver? Possibly, but it could be anyone, maybe a soldier with binoculars from the base on that mountain. Whatever, she couldn’t do anything about it now, and besides, ‘I feel great!’ she yelled to whoever was there.

  She let the sea breeze dry her body, dressed, and walked back to the taxi. The driver was sitting where she’d left him. She gave him the name of her hotel, and he drove her there. She paid what she’d promised, and he said, ‘Thank you.’ The only words he’d uttered the entire trip back from the beach. Weird for a Greek man, she thought. But so what? She was back at her hotel, safe and sound at last.

  7

  Andreas had fallen into a routine. He’d wake an hour and a half before sunrise, dress in running shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers, do sit-ups and push-ups while his coffee brewed, gather what he planned to wear that day, and drive the five minutes from his rented house on the Paradise Beach road to police headquarters; where he’d park and jog the hundred yards onto the airport runway. At that hour only airport security and cleaning crews were around, and as chief of police, Andreas could go where he pleased.

  He liked jogging inside the perimeter fence at sunrise. It gave him time to think, something you dared not do if you were crazy enough to attempt jogging on Mykonos roads – especially at sunrise. That was when the drunkest of the drunk returned from beach clubs and bars. The worst accidents took place during those hours, and heaven help the seriously injured awaiting an emergency helicopter flight to Athens. After his run he’d return to headquarters, shower, and ask the officer in charge to brief him on the ‘fresh hells’ to confront from the night before.

  For the moment, his thoughts were on the wonder of the Mykonos morning light. It never ceased to amaze him how its pale, rose-blue magic somehow brought the island’s rock-edged hills and bright white structures into graceful harmony. If only it could last, he thought, but hard light always came, bringing on the heat. Later, when siesta was over and dusk had arrived, the light changed again, with every color competing for your eye. Every vessel, every soaring bird, every stroller in the port, and every lamppost lining the harbor seemed to stand alone and yet – somehow – fit together against the horizon.