Island Casualty (Andy Veracruz Mystery Book 2)

by D. R. Ransdell

  Eleni went inside to check on her sons, and Rachel led me to the second story of the house, which was accessed by an outside staircase.

  “This will be a mess,” she warned me. “I was planning to clean up last night.”

  Rachel’s apartment was large and sparsely furnished. In the main room, which was a combined living room and kitchen, a beat-up couch lorded over an oval rug and a coffee table. Next to the door that led out to the balcony, two chairs were tucked under a table. On top of the table was a branch of bougainvillea in a makeshift vase that was actually a wine bottle and a framed five by seven of a young woman who resembled Rachel. In the corner, empty boxes provided shelving for a tape recorder, two dozen tapes, and a stack of CDs. Dirty glasses lay low in the sink and undergarments were drying on the dishtowel rod, but her place was more orderly now than mine was after I cleaned it. Beyond the living room, additional doors opened to a bedroom and a bathroom.

  “Set your stuff anywhere. This part of the house is mine. No stove though.” She followed my gaze to the mini-refrigerator under the sink. “If we want anything hot, we have to go downstairs.”

  I dropped my bag on the floor and naturally went to the stack of CDs. Several featured a singer named Vangellis Poulakis.

  “I see you have a favorite,” I said.

  Rachel shrugged. “He’s an island hero. He’s recorded a lot of his own original songs.”

  “I’ve heard of him. I think he might have played near L.A. last summer. There’s a fairly large Greek-American community.”

  “I see.”

  She seemed a bit uneasy. I didn’t blame her. It probably hadn’t occurred to her that I would accept her casual offer to come for a rent-free visit.

  When she went out to the balcony, I followed along. I was used to my fifth-floor vantage point in Squid Bay, but from Rachel’s balcony, I could look past the road to glimpse the sea. “If there’s any problem about my staying here, I could find a pensione.”

  Rachel stood beside me against the railing. “No worries. Amiros is a traditional island, but Eleni and Nikos aren’t traditional. Luckily the couch is comfortable. Besides, chances are you wouldn’t find a room in town.”

  “It’s nearly September. The tourist season is almost over.”

  “That’s why the businesses are trying to rake in every last euro. Half a dozen charter flights arrived yesterday full of pale Swedish tourists.” She smiled broadly as if she’d been concealing something that had finally worked its way out. “Andy, you play a little guitar, don’t you?”

  As the band leader of a mariachi, I had to be flexible. If the trumpet player got sick at the last minute, I had to play the trumpet parts on my violin. If one of the rhythm players got sick, I filled in on guitar.

  “I’m not too bad in a pinch.”

  “I need to ask you a favor. If those clients from last night ask us to return, would you mind coming along to help out?”

  I was a strong musician. I’d been studying music since I was six or seven, starting on piano, moving to guitar, and finally sticking with violin as a main instrument. I’d had regular classical training and could read music efficiently. For not quite twenty years I’d made most of my income from playing music, and most of that I’d made from my gig at Noche Azul Restaurant, a Squid Bay venue that had been smart enough to cater to the tourists for the first part of the evening and local Hispanics for the second. We’d played three or four sets of mariachi music a night, depending on the size of the crowd.

  Normally I was content with my work. I got tired of the repeated requests for Guantanamera and Spanish Eyes or the endless drunks who wanted to croon with us, but those minor annoyances came with the territory. Night after night I got to entertain people with music that was part of my heritage, and since new songs emerged on a regular basis, I had the motivation to keep learning. However, my repertoire was limited to classical and Mexican.

  “The only song I would recognize as Greek is The Zorba Dance. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t bouzouki music completely different from mariachi music?”

  Rachel leaned against the railing. “Yes and no. Most of the songs have simple chord progressions. You could hang.”

  She was sweetly crazy. She’d decided I was a genius musician based on an evening at Noche Azul where, as musical director, I had called the shots.

  “I don’t see how I could help you, but I’d be glad to try.”

  “Several of the customers we played for last night were from Venezuela. They kept asking for tunes I’d never heard of.”

  “I don’t know many South American tunes myself aside from Alma Llanera.”

  “That’s one they asked for, but I couldn’t remember the words.”

  I bent down to lean over the rail in a crass attempt to get closer to Rachel. The brown parcel I’d taken from the café tumbled from my pocket, scooted across the tile, and fell to the ground below.

  “Whoops.”

  “You’ve been shopping?”

  I explained about my fellow traveler as a small boy raced from inside the house, snatched up the parcel, and retreated.

  “No,” we heard Eleni say. “It is not yours.”

  The reply was inaudible.

  “Take it back upstairs.”

  Moments later two young boys raced up the stairs and burst into the apartment, followed at a more relaxed pace by their mother. They joined us on the balcony.

  “I’m Alexis, but you can call me Alex. Who are you?” demanded the older boy. He was fair and happy, boldly curious because his mother was behind him.

  “I’m Rachel’s friend. Are you her friend too?”

  “She’s not my friend. She’s my aunt!”

  “She’s my aunt too,” piped the younger boy.

  My eyes quizzed Rachel, but she stopped me. “I’ve been adopted.” She pointed to the younger boy. “This is Christos.”

  “Give the man the package,” Eleni instructed her son. By now the wrapping had worked itself loose. It fell off altogether, leaving a small jewelry box.

  I stared at the box thinking that we might as well open it. Alex did it for us before we could stop him. Disappointed, he snapped the lid shut and turned to his mother. “You can have it.” He handed her the box and raced for the stairs. “Come on, Christos! Let’s get our water guns!”

  Eleni opened the box herself. Inside sparkled the small diamond of a modest engagement ring. A note had been written on a piece of paper folded into the lid. She took it out and read aloud: “Doráki mou, Forgive me. It won’t happen again. H.”

  “Doráki mou?” I asked.

  “Sweetheart,” Rachel and Eleni chorused together.

  “It’s strange he forgot such an important package,” I said.

  Rachel shook her head. “That boat ride can make a zombie of anyone. After hours of rocking back and forth, I can barely remember who I am.”

  “Thank goodness you picked up the package,” Eleni said. “Castor might have tossed it in the garbage without even looking.”

  “Talk about throwing a damper on an engagement party!” Rachel said.

  I stroked the velvet blue of the box. “Should we call around to some of the pensiones? He told me he was going to look for a room near the café.”

  “He would be lucky to find anything near the center of town,” said Eleni. “Most places are booked weeks ahead.”

  “I didn’t realize Amiros was such a hot spot.”

  “We’ve got the best sun!” Eleni exclaimed. “It says so in all the guidebooks.”

  “We can look for your friend this afternoon,” said Rachel. “Everybody watches the sunset from the port, so he’s sure to be down there somewhere.” She pointed towards the sea. “Right now, it’s high time for a swim.”

  I followed along, unhurried. And terribly naïve.

  Chapter Three

  Rachel had designed an enviable summer schedule. After a late breakfast, she accompanied Eleni’s sons to the beach. In the afternoon, she drifted over to Nik
os’ Café. When business was lively, she helped out. Otherwise she and Eleni chatted over frappés, watching the tourists saunter down the street and the boats bob up and down in the harbor. Around nine o’clock, Rachel left for her taverna job a couple of blocks away. Each section of the day segued neatly into the next in calm anticipation. The system mystified me. I’d always assumed that showing up for work at a similar time each night was routine enough.

  “So this is Amiros,” Rachel said. Now that we’d completed our daily swim and washed off the salt water, we’d made our way to the harbor. We were sitting at the “base” table, the small table just outside the main door to Nikos’ Café. Stretching from the door to the deserted street was a sea of empty furniture. During the summer, no one bothered to sit indoors, and during the heat of the afternoon, which meant anytime before the sun started setting, nobody bothered to go to a café. “It’s pretty quiet.”

  I had every sensation that she was reading my mind. “I wouldn’t say it that way.”

  “No, you’re too polite.”

  “I suppose the café gets busy in the evening.”

  She gestured towards Nikos and Eleni, who were inside readying glasses and cups. “They’re on their feet all night.”

  “Why don’t they hire help?”

  “They enjoy the challenge. Eleni’s mom babysits her sons, so Eleni and Nikos can work until dawn if they have to.”

  The café had a friendly look. The dishware announced Nikos’ Café in bright letters. The chairs were a sturdy white plastic, but the flowered cushions added pizzazz. Matching tablecloths completed the color scheme. They were kept in place by glass ashtrays in the shape of the island that read “Amirosian Sunset.”

  Given that an awning shaded us from the last rays of the sun, I was perfectly comfortable. I fashioned the adjoining chair into a footstool, kicking off my Tevas before slapping my feet on the cushion. After the mess I’d lived through in Squid Bay, I wanted to think I could spend an entire vacation doing nothing, but I wasn’t convinced I could be laidback enough. It wasn’t my style.

  “There’s that guy from this morning!” I bounded towards the street to get a better look but immediately retreated.

  “Wrong guy?” Rachel asked.

  “A look-alike.”

  “Describe the man again. You said he has brown curly hair, and he’s almost your height.”

  “Right. He’s nearly six feet.”

  “Weight?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “He looked hungry, he could lose weight, or he was about right?”

  “About right maybe. I didn’t look that carefully. He had on tan pants. White shirt. He carried a jacket.”

  “Style?”

  I tugged at my dusty black shorts and faded red T-shirt that read “Sq id Ba ” on the pocket. “As you can see, I know less about style than about weight.”

  “At least you noticed him while you were still on the boat.”

  “After hours and hours, I got bored watching the waves.”

  Rachel frowned so hard that I could see the muscles move in her neck. “Sorry about the long trip.”

  “You weren’t the one who bought up all the plane tickets. I knew better than to wait until the last minute to book a flight, but somehow I couldn’t commit to one. Anyway, now that I’m here, I can relax.”

  I felt far from relaxed. I’d been debating with myself since we’d sat down, but now Rachel’s hands rested on the table, easily within range. I edged the pinky of my right hand towards the pinky of her left hand until they touched. She smiled.

  I felt as if I were back in grade school where touching girls was a breathtaking novelty. In contrast, when I’d first touched Louloudi, a fire rocket had shot through my body. But Rachel was alive, and, as far as I could tell, interested in flirting with me instead of with every available male.

  She pointed to the wide street that separated the café from the harbor. “Those are the men we played for last night.”

  Two men were push-pulling a fruit cart dominated by a large burlap bag labeled portokália. Oranges. The sun’s slanting rays obscured my view, but I guessed the men were from Northern Greece. They looked too fair and too uncomfortable in the heat to be islanders. They were headed for a small fishing boat whose captain awaited them with one foot on the dock. The trio struggled to transfer the sack to the vessel.

  “That’s weird,” said Rachel.

  “You’re right,” I laughed. “They could be carrying a dead body.”

  Rachel nodded. “Check out their clothes. Delivery men rarely wear leather shoes and pressed pants.”

  Rachel was right. The men were dressed for office work.

  “Maybe their workers took the day off,” I said.

  “Maybe they’re doing something they don’t want their workers to know about.”

  “In broad daylight?”

  Rachel indicated the empty street. “Why not?”

  “Is there a lot of drug traffic around here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  As we watched, the men boarded the boat, and the trio pulled away from the harbor at a steady pace.

  “They must be doing something wrong,” I said. “Otherwise why would they be doing anything at all in the heat of the afternoon?”

  “I’m not sure whether I want to play another after-hours gig or not.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “At the party last night, those two were the ones with the cash.”

  ***

  By the time Rachel left for work, the main drag was full of islanders strolling with toddlers and tourists shopping for the most alluring restaurants. Rachel encouraged me to stay at the café with her friends, keeping my eyes open for “H.” Everybody else staying on Amiros was passing by, so why wouldn’t he? Surely his business meeting wouldn’t have lasted through the evening.

  Given its importance and the man’s relative openness, I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned the engagement. It couldn’t have slipped his mind, yet he seemed too tranquil to have been concealing something that was vital.

  Eleni slipped into the chair beside me. “You do not find your friend?”

  “Not yet. I’d sure like to be able to help him out though. I can’t tell you why, but I had a positive feeling about him. Do you know what I mean? We didn’t talk for a long time, but he seemed genuine. And anyone who can be upbeat after twelve hours on a ferry deserves special credit.”

  “I trust my intuitions too,” Eleni said slowly. “But I would not worry about him. I am sure he will turn up.”

  “He has to. Otherwise how can he propose?”

  “I’m sure he will not want to admit that he lost the engagement ring! I know the owners of the café you went to this morning. Do you want to stop by? We could have a drink and casually ask about your man without explaining why we need to find him.”

  “Are you sure you want to leave right now?” Aside from five or six empty chairs, the tables at the café were full.

  “You are not used to the Greek system.” She waved her arm to indicate the sea of customers. “These people will sit for hours without ordering another drink.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Perhaps they might order something else, but it is not expected. I realize it is hard for you to imagine. In the U.S. you must leave if you do not keep spending money!” She stood and blew a kiss to Nikos, who was exchanging jokes at a nearby table. “We will be back soon,” she called out.

  Three cafés lay between Eleni’s place and her friend’s. All enjoyed healthy business. People who weren’t seated at one café or another were strolling among them at the slow pace of warm-weather vacations. Nobody was hurried or impatient. I liked the attitude, but I wasn’t used to it.

  “Himena is my age,” Eleni explained. “She pretends to run the place, but her father is in charge.”

  When Himena spotted us, she quickly served the coffees on her tray and came over. She gave Eleni a hug that seemed real rather than
formal, shed her apron, and sat with us at an outdoor table.

  “Where’s Rachel?” Himena was of medium height, but because her face was too big in proportion to her body, she seemed unbalanced.

  “She already went to work. This is a friend of hers who came from L.A.”

  Himena shook my hand. “I envy people who take summer vacations. I’m always trapped here.”

  “Believe me, a summer vacation is a rarity for me as well.”

  “Did you fly into Kos?”

  “I took the overnight ferry from Athens.”

  “That’s a rough way to start a Greek odyssey.”

  I rubbed my shoulder. “You’re exactly right. I was dead when I tumbled off the boat this morning.” I pointed to one of the other tables. “I had a coffee right there. It’s a good thing your brews are strong.”

  “Thanks for choosing our café.”

  “I arrived so early that your café was the only one—”

  Eleni patted my arm. “She knows. It’s a joke.”

  Right. Living on a small island was like living in Squid Bay. You knew your neighbors so well that you noticed when they changed sunglasses.

  I cleared my throat. “This morning, I shared a table with another traveler who’d come from the capital. I expected to see him around the port this evening, but I haven’t spotted him yet. Have any men come in alone? He’s got curly brown hair. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a tan suit.”

  “Nope.” Himena reached into her purse for a lighter. “Don’t ask now,” she muttered. I couldn’t hear the next phrase, but as she launched into an account of her cousin’s misadventures with feigned nonchalance, I realized she must have said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  When we made excuses to get back to Nikos’ Café, Himena offered to come along, scooting between us and linking her arms through ours as we strolled. “That man you asked about,” she said, “was he a friend of yours?”

  “Not really,” I said, “but we’d got to talking.”