A Deadly Twist

by Jeffrey Siger

  “But what if she uncovered something someone didn’t want exposed?”

  “You mean corruption?”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “I think it’s safe to say that everyone on this island already knows who’s corrupt, and a reporter threatening to expose what’s already known wouldn’t likely lead the bad guys to harm her. That would be a surefire way of generating far more serious trouble for them than anything she planned on exposing.”

  “So what’s not known that could have endangered her?”

  Marco again shook his head. “I don’t know. There are crazies everywhere in this world, doing the unimaginable in the most unlikely locales. Who knows what could have happened here, who she met, what she said or did, even innocently, that triggered a response otherwise incomprehensible to rational, sane people?”

  “That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

  “I truly wish I had a different one.”

  “Do you know anyone who might?”

  “Sure, speak to the activist folks.”

  “Where would I find them?”

  “Some of the island’s most vigorous activists call Halki home, or at least consider it friendly territory. Besides, it’s a cool village to visit.”

  “I can see why you represent so many disparate interests. You only have nice things to say about everyone.”

  He gestured no. “No, not everyone. But my disputes with them are unrelated to any of this, and even with my worst enemy, neither of us would go so far as to physically harm the other. It’s just not our way.” He smiled. “At least not when sober.”

  “On that note, thank you, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Not yet, please. Dimitri sent a pickup truck to take you and your motorbike to your next appointment.”

  “Did he say why?”

  Marco smiled again. “No, but my guess is that after your experience getting here, he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for you to be wandering about the island alone looking for whatever village it is you want to see.”

  “It’s marked on a map. How difficult could it be to find?”

  “What’s the village’s name?”

  “Siphones.”

  Marco lost his smile. “Oh.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That village has been abandoned since the 1950s.”

  “It can’t be the only abandoned village on the island.”

  “It’s not.”

  “So, then what’s with the oh?”

  Marco hesitated. “Locals claim it’s haunted.”

  “Oh.”

  Chapter Six

  Yianni stood alone outside the hotel entrance, speaking on his mobile with Andreas.

  “So, how did your Naxos friendship tour work out with the head of the hotelier association? Better than with the mayor, I hope.”

  “A lot better.” Yianni described his conversation with Marco in detail, leaving out only the parts about his trouble finding the hotel.

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Came across as a nice guy. He sounds like a politician, always trying to find middle ground.”

  “Always seemingly trying to find middle ground, but as you pointed out, his middle ground allows his hotel business to expand while cutting out potential competition from other beaches.”

  “But it does make sense, Chief. It might just be a matter of working out satisfactory compensation for those restricted from building on their property.”

  “I don’t even want to contemplate what that process would be like, how long it would take, or the sorts of shenanigans it would bring into play. If Marco thinks getting an international airport on Naxos would be politically difficult to achieve in the face of opposition from other Cycladic islands, imagine what his middle ground proposal would involve. I assure you getting individual islanders to give up their property rights so that their neighbors can profit from land they’re allowed to use will require nothing short of a political miracle.”

  “Okay, I get your point. But nothing Nikoletta could’ve written struck Marco as a reason for a local to kill her.”

  “So he says. He prefers the random crazy attacker scenario or, if not that, perhaps a cabal of vigorous village activists.”

  “What do you think he’s hiding?”

  “I’ve no idea if he’s hiding anything. But I do think he’s trying to take the heat off like-minded Naxians by suggesting we concentrate on crazies and activists. To me the bottom line is simple. He may not like the mayor, and certainly the two men have very different styles, but they share a core principle: Above all else, protect the reputation of the island.”

  “In other words, I should continue doing what I’m doing. Question everyone, believe no one, and be ready for your arrival tomorrow.”

  “I’ll let you know what flight. By the way, what are you driving?”

  “Funny you should ask. I think I see my new ride headed this way.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ve been using a motorbike, but it’s not good for the terrain I have to cover next, so Dimitri is sending me new wheels and a driver who knows the island.”

  “What kind of wheels?”

  “Give me a minute; it’s almost here.” Yianni paused. “My oh my, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Then I guess I should start humming the tune to that Eagles song about a girl in a flatbed Ford, because that’s precisely what’s headed my way.”

  Andreas groaned. “Call me later.”

  * * *

  Officer Popi Sferes was twenty-three, two years out of the police academy and freshly married to a local. She wore her dark-brown hair in a tight bun, no makeup, a light-blue police blouse, dark police trousers, and black leather high heels. Yianni never understood why so many female cops wore heels, but in this case he did. Without them, Popi would’ve been barely tall enough to meet the police force’s minimum height requirement.

  She introduced herself as his driver and official guide to the island. “My chief thought that since my husband is local, my presence might help convince other locals to talk with you.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Reason doesn’t necessarily work here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Let’s get the bike into the bed of the pickup, and I’ll explain later.”

  Yianni nodded and rolled the bike to the truck as Popi dropped the tailgate. Yianni braced himself to bear the brunt of the weight on the lift, and together they counted, “One, two, three, lift.”

  Yianni nearly lost his balance and dropped his side of the bike while Popi lifted her half with the strength of a man twice her size.

  She smiled. “Surprised you, didn’t I?” She reached for a set of tie-downs in the bed of the pickup, tossed one to Yianni, and together they lashed the bike in place.

  “Sure did. Could you let me in on whatever brand of vitamins you use?”

  “No vitamins, just the hard life of a farmer’s daughter in the rock-infested Peloponnese, plus years of weightlifting competitions to make up for what has me wearing high heels whenever I’m asked to meet a visiting dignitary.”

  “I’m hardly a dignitary.”

  “Maybe not, but you didn’t try mansplaining me into why I shouldn’t be lifting the bike, so I’d say you qualify as a pretty good guy.”

  “My girlfriend gets the credit for training me well.”

  “Good for her.” Popi walked toward the driver’s door. “Are you ready?”

  “Sure.” Yianni opened the passenger’s door and noticed a pair of women’s flat shoes on his seat. He held them up. “What do I do with these?”

  She slid onto the driver seat, kicking off her heels as she did. “I hate wearing heels.” She took the flats from Yiann
i and put them on.

  “So, what is it you promised to explain later?”

  “It’s a pitch I have for visitors to explain the nature of the people here. It saves them asking me a lot of questions.” She turned on the engine and edged back out onto the road, headed in the general direction of the airport. “I can give you the Chamber of Commerce-approved version, or my cop-to-cop one.”

  “I think you know which one I want to hear.”

  “Just stop me if I bore you.” Popi swallowed. “Naxos spent so many centuries occupied by foreign powers that some Naxians seem bred to be naturally suspicious of everyone and jealous of their neighbors. For example, the Venetian aristocracy that once lived within Chora’s Kastro walls literally and figuratively looked down on whoever lived outside their privileged castle. That same sort of snobbery exists in many respects today among their descendants.”

  She reached for one of two bottles of water in a cup holder between the seats. “The other bottle’s for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Then you have the farmers and herders who live outside of town. They’re not only considered ignorant peasants by many who live in town, but they’re also often consumed by rivalries with neighboring villages.” She took a slug from the bottle. “On top of all that local bullshit, you’ve got the resentment Naxos as an island bears toward its neighbors, Paros and Syros, and vice versa.”

  “What gripes does Naxos have with them?”

  “Basic islander jealousy pretty well covers it. But with Syros it runs a bit deeper. In antiquity, Naxos was rich and important far beyond any of its Cycladic neighbors, other than the holy island of Delos. But all that changed once Naxos was conquered. Centuries later, after Greek independence, Syros emerged for a time as the cultural and economic center of the Cyclades, and the airs adopted by Syriots riled Naxian pride to an extent they’ve never forgiven.”

  “You make them sound like rival football fans.”

  “Not a bad analogy,” said Popi. “Which means I may not be of much help if whoever we’re meeting with sees you as rooting for the other team.”

  “And the rival team for where we’re headed would be…?”

  “Greeks have a penchant for paranoid conspiracy theories. No telling how what you have in mind fits into their frame of reference.”

  Yianni shook his head. “So, what can you tell me about Siphones?”

  “It’s in a lovely location that’s been abandoned for nearly seven decades for reasons no one seems clear about. Some suggest it was a lack of water, others say floods, a few claim villagers moved away after the emery mines closed and they lost their jobs or because it lacked a school for the children.”

  Yianni looked at her. “What do you think’s the reason?”

  “Hard to say, but other villages have persevered and continue to this day with far less in natural beauty and resources than Siphones. In fact, farmers still work the land there during the day but leave before dark rather than turning any of the abandoned homes into their own.”

  “Like I said, what do you think’s the reason everyone moved on?”

  “Honestly, I’ve no idea. There are rumors it was leprosy, but that seems somewhat dramatic…another quality we Greeks are known for.” She paused. “Then again, there’s the marble cross and plaque someone mysteriously erected at the village some twenty years ago. The plaque contains an engraved prayer dedicated to a saint revered for his magic and makes mention of healing the wounds from demons and their works of magic.”

  “And thus arises the haunted angle Marco mentioned.”

  “Some would even say cursed. At one point the plaque was smashed to pieces, and though it’s been pieced back together on the ground, there’s been no explanation for why someone went to the trouble of destroying something bearing a prayer asking for a saint to heal wounds.”

  Yianni shut his eyes and shook his head. “At the moment, I’ve got more than enough open mysteries on my plate. This new one I respectfully leave for you to solve.”

  “I just thought you might like to know the background of the people and place you’re about to visit.”

  Yianni opened his eyes. “I know. I’m just complaining for the sake of complaining. Thank you for listening.”

  Popi smiled. “That’s an admission I rarely hear from a man. Your girlfriend really did raise you right.”

  “It’s been a challenge. For us both.” He smiled at Popi. “But it’s worth it.”

  She smiled back. “I know.”

  * * *

  At a juncture with a main road just north of the airport, Popi turned left, then headed north.

  “Are we heading back to town?” asked Yianni.

  “Who’s doing the driving?”

  “Okay, I’ll take that as a ‘please shut up.’”

  “No need to say please.”

  Yianni stared at her. “Why do I feel your husband and I have a lot in common?”

  She turned right off the highway onto a narrow dirt road passing between broad swatches of farmland mixed in among fields of tall grass and newly baled hay. Tall bamboo, planted to protect the crops against strong Cycladic winds, lined both sides of the road, and of the handful of structures Yianni saw along the way, half looked to be businesses catering to tourists.

  “Is this what most of Naxos is like?”

  “Around here, yes. Away from here, no. We’re on the edge of a fertile plain that spreads out south and east into major growing areas. Once we hit the highway, we’ll be heading into the mountains and you’ll get a bigger picture of where we are now.”

  “I think what you’re trying to tell me is that down here, I can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  “Yes, but more like you can’t see the farmland for the bamboo. Naxos no longer has forests. Thanks to the practices of those who lived here before us.”

  Yianni stared out the window, wondering how this area might look a few years from now.

  “Are you into goat herding?”

  Yianni looked at Popi. “That’s a strange question to come out of nowhere.”

  “You said you thought my husband and you had a lot in common.”

  Yianni paused for an instant. “Are you saying your husband’s a shepherd?”

  “That’s for sheep. He’s a goat herder and one of the best.” Popi glanced at Yianni. “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. It’s just so different from what we do.”

  “Not really. He spends much of his time like us, trying to keep critters in line who’d otherwise go astray at the first opportunity.”

  “Interesting perspective, but you must admit it’s not the sort of career you hear much about these days.”

  “You do if you live in a rural community on Naxos. You may think being a cop is glamorous, but at least herding has profound biblical significance.”

  “We have more TV shows.”

  She smiled. “Good point.”

  Popi turned left onto a paved road, then right onto a two-lane highway lined with a hodgepodge of buildings and unkempt grounds typical of the sorts of businesses necessary for supporting a community.

  She kept left each time the highway split. “Here’s the road we want.” She nodded toward a sign pointing left and marked KOUROS, KINIDAROS.

  “Ah, at last, a chance to find myself,” smiled Yianni.

  “Huh?”

  “That sign, it has my last name on it.”

  “Oh, I see, that was a joke. Next time warn me.”

  “I assume Kouros is where Naxos’s famous six-meter long, unfinished marble statue of a young boy has lain on its back since the seventh century B.C.E.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Trust me, if your last name also happens to be the term used to describe nude statues of young boys, you learn all about them, whether you want to or not.”


  Popi laughed. “Now that’s funny.”

  “And I didn’t even have to warn you.” Yianni stretched. “So, how much longer until we get to Siphones?”

  “We should make it in about a half hour, depending on traffic.”

  “What sort of traffic?”

  “Slow buses, slow trucks, slow tourists, and of course, the ever-present possibility of goats on a road.”

  “You must know all the tricks for driving through a herd of goats.”

  “Yes, sit back, relax, and wait, because if you want to see a pastoral herder turn wildly insane, try driving through his herd and scattering his goats in every conceivable direction.”

  “Oh.”

  “Enjoy the ride.”

  They left the developed part of the island behind them, passed through rich bottomland plains, and began their climb up into the mountains. Each time the road narrowed down to run through a village, Yianni’d catch glimpses of the weathered faces of old men sitting on the front porch of their local kafenio. He wondered what thoughts passed through their minds as they sipped their coffees, watching so many vehicles stream by on their way to who knew where. Perhaps they thought of their children and grandchildren out working the farms and tending the flocks in the same age-old ways as they once had.

  More likely how naive we city types are. Why would their kids, let alone their grandkids, be willing to put in the sort of fifteen-hour days of hard labor their lives once demanded?

  As the pickup slowly passed close by a tiny, bougainvillea-draped stone house surrounded by daisies, poppies, and anemones, Yianni rolled down his window for a whiff of the scents. With that, he caught the rhythmic beat of cicadas nesting in a roadside patch of fig trees.

  “Can it get any better than this?”

  Popi smiled. “Just wait.”

  Once up in the mountains, the road turned to twists, switchbacks, and panoramic views of long, fertile valleys and stone-edged mountaintops. At times he’d see a slice of the distant deep-blue sea, or a mountain face shaved white for its marble. Down in the valleys, rows of olive trees swept up against fields of copper, emerald, and sage, while stone walls streaked with age held planted terraces snugly in place against sharply slanted hillsides.