The Forty Column Castle

by Marjorie Thelen

  THE FORTY COLUMN CASTLE

  First Novel in the Mystery-in-Exotic-Places Series

  Marjorie Thelen

  To my writer and reader friends everywhere, thank you.

  For John, always.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author. However, the ruins of the Forty Column Castle, Pafos, Cyprus and all its history and beauty are very real, and the author recommends a visit.

  Copyright 2011 by Marjorie Thelen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, save for inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without the written permission of the author.

  www.MarjorieThelen.com

  ISBN:

  eISBN: 9781618427120

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  “So long as he has a tooth left a fox won’t be pious.”

  Greek Cypriot Proverb

  One

  The phone rang in the middle of the night.

  I banged around my bedside stand in the dark, trying to kill the unnerving noise until I figured out it was the phone and not the alarm. I fumbled the receiver to my ear and croaked, “Hello.”

  “Marie-Claude,” Aunt Elizabeth said in the faraway voice of a long distance call, “you’ll never believe this. They say I’m an antiquities smuggler, and they’ve put me in jail. Not only that, they think I’m the head of a multimillion dollar smuggling ring.”

  I managed a laugh. “You’re kidding, of course.” Even in my groggy state, I had a pretty good sense of humor.

  Aunt Elizabeth sputtered incoherent noises. “Marie-Claude, stop laughing this instant. I’m in jail, and it smells, and it’s cold, and the bed is hard. You must come immediately and …”

  The line crackled and went dead.

  “Maybe you’re not kidding,” I said into the phone.

  I dropped the receiver on the hook and groaned back onto the pillow. I wanted to snuggle into my fat, fluffy down comforter and go back to sleep. The night had turned cold, even though it was May in Boston, and I had the bedroom windows wide open. A breeze played in the lacey curtains.

  “Deep breaths,” I said to myself and took a few, trying to clear my mind and still my racing heart. Dead of night calls did that to me.

  Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Where was my aunt anyway? Then I remembered. She had gone to Cyprus on vacation. Maybe she was in trouble. She had sounded almost hysterical.

  I stumbled to the bathroom to see what a hot shower would do to wake me up. The steamy water cranked out positive ions, and I started coming to life. I decided a few phone calls to Cyprus would be in order to find out what I could from this end. Aunt Elizabeth was eccentric but not criminal. This was an obvious case of misunderstanding.

  I shrugged into a soft, terry cloth robe and hustled to the kitchen, which wasn’t far from the bedroom since I lived in a loft, fluffing my hair as I went to let it air dry across my shoulders. After I had made a ten cup pot of coffee and filled my favorite ceramic mug, I placed some calls.

  It didn’t help. The Cypriot authorities acted suspicious.

  “Yes, miss,” said a whispery voice in Greek, like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, “your aunt tried to leave the country with Cypriot artifacts in her carryon. We have her in custody, but you cannot speak with her. She is not in this building, you see.”

  No, I didn’t see, but since my Greek wasn’t great, I didn’t know if I understood him correctly.

  “You may visit her,” he said. “It is possible.”

  That I understood.

  My aunt had to be innocent of any wrongdoing, my mind kept repeating. She was a retired librarian, for heaven’s sake. When I finally got through to the American Embassy in Nicosia, I was informed that my friend, the political attaché, was out of the country for two weeks. No special favors there.

  A call to my dear friend, Yannis Vasilis, my one Cypriot friend on the island who might be able to pull some strings, was futile. His work phone rang and rang and rang. No one in the office.

  I was on the next Olympus jet to Cyprus, a fourteen hour trip from Boston and a country whose laws on smuggling were foreign to me. Not that I was familiar with any laws on smuggling, U.S. or otherwise. I was a mutual fund manager, not a lawyer.

  Unfortunately, my aunt had a history of getting herself into untenable positions that she expected me to retrieve her from, like the time she called and wanted me to help her stop a man from jumping off the Prudential Tower. I was in Singapore. Fortunately, the police soon had everything under control. She was a little crazy like that. But jail was carrying crazy to the extreme.

  I stowed my trusty laptop in the overhead bin. My cell phone was in my purse. I was armed and ready. My Swiss Army knife used to be ever by my side, but not these days. I wore my favorite pair of black Capri pants, bright yellow strappy sandals, and scoop neck silk blouse to match.

  The Olympus flight attendant with the airline smile asked my drink preference, and I ordered red wine. I hoped it would mix with all the Tums I’d been chewing. Ever since the phone call, my nervous stomach had kicked into overdrive.

  The passengers were settling down, even the Greek family across the aisle that had tugged and pulled, pushed and squeezed a myriad of packages and baggage in, over and around them before take off.

  “Thanks,” I said to the man sprawled in the end seat, who had helped the attendant hand the wine across the empty seat between us. I had noticed him standing in line to board the plane and admired his sun streaked hair and bronzy tan. Marlboro Man. Wonder if he rode a horse and rounded up cattle. Or maybe he was part of the sailing crowd. He was a nice diversion to take my mind off my aunt sitting in jail.

  You’ve sworn off men, a little inner voice said.

  Did I ever listen to my inner voice?

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  I couldn’t help a flirty smile. If I had to spend nine hours on an overnight flight to Athens on a mission of mercy, at least the big angel in the sky had given me a sexy seat mate.

  Will you never learn, the little voice squeaked?

  Geez it was only a plane flight, not a life commitment.

  The attendant handed him two small bottles of bourbon, glass with ice, and a snack. I busied myself pouring wine and took a sip of good old Gallo.

  “You think we’re the only English speakers on this trip?” he asked.

  “Probably,” I said. “Most of the passengers are no doubt Greeks with relatives in the States, and they’re returning home.”

  “You’ve taken this flight before?”

  I nodded. “Many times. I like the Mediterranean area for vacationing.”

  “Where are you going this trip?”

  “Cyprus.” I didn’t elaborate why I was going. I mean, a relative in jail can be a real show stopper, and I needed nice, pleasant conversation to keep my mind off my aunt and what she might have gotten herself into. “How about you?”

  “Cyprus, too, on business. I’ve been several times to the island.”

  His faded jeans and black pullover didn’t look like standard business attire, but it was a nig
ht flight. Maybe he was a geek, although he didn’t act socially challenged.

  “My friends call me Zach,” he said. “Short for Zachariah. My mother had four sons and was fond of the Old Testament. She named all her sons for prophets -- Zachariah, Zephaniah, Ezekiel, and Micah.”

  I smiled at the thought of a mother going for four prophetic sons. Delusions of grandeur.

  “Mine is Marie-Claude. Everyone calls me Claudie.”

  Since he had moved recently to Boston, we talked about the Red Socks, Quincy Market, where to get the best lobster dinner, historical sites not to be missed, the best clubs, the best bars.

  Zach’s hands were calloused, and he liked to talk with them. I have this thing about a man’s hands, so I liked watching his, which were generous with squared tip fingers. I picked up on a soft drawl and when I commented on it, he regaled me with tales of growing up in West Texas.

  “What do you do for a living?” he asked.

  “I manage an emerging markets mutual fund with my partner, Lena.” He seemed extraordinarily interested in the business which led to more pointed questions.

  “You live alone?”

  I wondered where this was going.

  “Yes, in a loft.”

  “With a harbor view?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” I was in the trendy address stage. “You?”

  He shrugged. “I travel all the time. No time for room mates. I don’t keep a permanent address. It’s wherever I’m working at the time.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” I asked, intrigued with what kind of job didn’t permit a permanent address.

  “Consulting.”

  “That covers a multitude of sins. Intelligence, computers, security, home improvements?”

  He smiled and changed the subject.

  “Where are you staying on Cyprus?” he asked.

  I hadn’t made plans past the first night until I saw what would happen with my aunt, and she was being detained in Larnaca where we would land. I hedged. “I’m booked at the Golden Bay Hotel in Larnaca for the first night and after that I haven’t decided. I usually stay with friends. I only have a week. Just wanted a little change of scenery.”

  So I lied. I was spinning a nice little web for myself, but something made me hold back telling him the real reason for my trip. It was probably that sneaky little inner voice.

  The flight attendant pushed the refreshment cart to our aisle, demanding our attention.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said the attendant with the Mediterranean dark eyes lined in black pencil and highlighted with bright blue eye shadow, lots of it. “Would you care for another drink?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll have another glass of red wine.” I needed more than these little one glass servings.

  The attendant passed my wine, and Zach got another round of bourbon.

  “Where will you be staying?” I asked.

  “I booked at the Golden Bay for the first night, too. I’m going on to the Coral Beach Resort north of Pafos after that.”

  What a coincidence that we’d be in the same hotel for the first night.

  “Nice five star hotel, the Coral Beach,” I said. “I’ve stayed there. Pafos is great. I love the west side of the island.”

  “Maybe we can get together,” he said. The suggestion I thought I saw in his eyes for an instant obliterated my aunt’s dilemma, and my resolve to swear off men forever.

  * * * * *

  Turbulence delayed the flight from Athens to Cyprus for two hours, so by the time I got through customs at Larnaca International Airport Saturday night, it was nearly midnight on Cyprus, too late to visit Aunt Elizabeth in jail or locate anyone official who might know something.

  Zach and I shared an old black Mercedes taxi to the Golden Bay with a driver who drove like a madman, the normal way to drive on Cyprus. At the entrance to the hotel Zach paid the driver who promptly took off, and the porter trundled our luggage inside. I fumbled in my purse for money to help pay the fare, but Zach shook his head and steered me toward the reception desk, his hand at my back.

  The hotel foyer sparkled in white marble. Polished brass railings framed an open stairway that rose from the main floor to the second. A tall vase of bird-of-paradise graced a brass table at the base of the stairs. Off to the left was the reception area, trimmed in trailing plants and imitation Greek statues. A solitary clerk in maroon uniform with gold braid stood at attention to receive us. We checked in, the clerk smiling politely and speaking in Greek-accented English.

  At the elevator Zach said, “How about breakfast together in the morning?”

  His invitation I found flattering. This looked like more than a one night stand. After all we had spent the night together -- me, trying to sleep wrapped up in a navy airplane blanket with my child sized pillow uncomfortably propped against the window, and him, watching movies. But the breakfast proposition posed a quandary. I had planned to try to see my aunt first thing, even though it was Sunday, and I didn’t know if the jail would be open to visitors.

  I decided to keep my options open. “Gee, I need to catch up on my sleep. Maybe late brunch.”

  “Call me when you get up. After brunch maybe we can do a little sightseeing.”

  “Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure about anything.

  In my room sounds of the sea drew me to the balcony that overlooked a courtyard below, where a lighted pool glowed aquamarine in the night. Beyond I could make out the gentle white crests of Mediterranean waves. The smell of the sea was thick in the air, and I breathed the exotic, heady fragrance of Cyprus.

  I was wide awake. My body was confused as to what time it should be. A seven hour time difference was a lot to acclimate to. My thoughts turned to Zach. After spending twenty four hours with him, I felt like we were old friends, that I had known him a long time. I wondered how it happened that some people I liked instantly upon meeting and others I couldn’t stand.

  My mind nibbled around the plausibility of my aunt being a thief. Here was a person I had known and trusted all my life, and thief didn’t fit the picture. This was a person who wouldn’t remove a hairpin from my dresser without asking me first. Of course, given her past behavior, I knew her logic could be skewed at times. I also knew she adored souvenirs, but could she have turned to theft to get them?

  I needed to talk to someone.

  Even though it was late, I decided to call Yannis, who lived in Pafos and tended to be a night owl. He knew everyone on Cyprus through an intricate web of relatives, most of whom he referred to as cousin. I had long ago stopped trying to figure out the web. Like many of the locals, he spoke excellent British English while my Greek had never progressed past the tourist stage.

  “Ney,” I said to the operator, hoping for an English speaking one. “Parakalo, Pafos 357-5-781711.

  “Yes, miss. One minute, please,” she said in clipped English.

  I heard a vigorous, “Ney, ney?”

  “Yannis, darling,” I said, relieved to hear his voice.

  “Who is speaking, please?”

  “Guess.”

  “It sounds like an American Princess I know.”

  “It is. It is.” I laughed in delight and relief at getting through to him.

  “It is great to hear your voice. How is Boston and when are you coming to see us?”

  “Sooner than you think. I’m in Larnaca. I tried to call yesterday before I left the States but couldn’t get through.”

  “Larnaca? You didn’t tell me you were coming. You always call ahead. Is everything okay?”

  “Not exactly. I got bad news. Something awful has happened.” I jumped right into the dilemma. “Aunt Elizabeth was here on vacation, and she’s been detained in Larnaca on smuggling charges.”

  Yannis hooted. “Claudie, you had too much wine on the trip over, I think.” He continued to chuckle, somewhat to my annoyance.

  “I know this sounds absurd, but it’s true. I managed to get through to the police before I came. They verified t
hat airport security detained Elizabeth Davies, U.S. citizen, in jail on the charge of smuggling antiquities in her carryon. They suspect she’s the leader of the smuggling ring.”

  “No. You aren’t kidding, are you? Your aunt? She is not a criminal. Perhaps her bags got mixed with someone else’s.”

  “That’s the obvious explanation. But I’ve been unable to drag any more information out of the authorities, and since it’s the weekend I’ve not been able to get in touch with anyone at the American Embassy.”

  I huffed a little sigh, hoping he’d rescue the damsel in distress and jump in with an offer of assistance. It doesn’t hurt to work the male ego when it suits the purpose.

  “Do you know if your aunt went to the Turkish sector this time? You know that was the problem one time when she was leaving the country, and the officials saw the Turkish stamp on her passport.”

  Cyprus is a divided country since the Turks invaded the North coast of the island in 1974 and refused to leave. Bad blood between Cypriot Greeks and Turks is legendary.

  I shook my head into the phone. “I don’t know, Yannis. I told her to be careful and stay out of the North, but you know how much she loves Kyrenia.”

  “Odd they detained someone like Elizabeth,” Yannis said. “I will make some phone calls. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Golden Bay. Oh, Yannis, I’d be so grateful if you could help.”

  “Of course, I will. I’ll come to your hotel around ten in the morning to pick you up. Check out and stay with my family here in Pafos. We’ll get to the bottom of this and secure your aunt’s release. Then we’ll get in some beach time. Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll see you soon. Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  I smiled to myself. Yannis would get this mess straightened out. We’d get my aunt out of jail and on the next plane back to Boston in no time.

  Two

  I was waiting in the hotel lobby when Yannis arrived the next morning, pushing eleven o’clock. I’ve never known him to be on time. I’d fallen into an exhausted sleep but felt disoriented with the change in time and country, even after a hot shower, and the thunderbolt they called Greek coffee.