Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you!

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘Now, listen here young man. You better start talking the truth right now or I swear to God and all the Saints that I will break you!’ She was so worried that her good, Christian boy had something to do with the rape that upon hearing I was at the concert, she fell into my arms and hugged me. Then she slapped me twice on my head. One for lying to the police and one for going to the concert. A third slap came as a warning not to do it again. Now, after all these years, the same angry tone was used.

  ‘Mama, I am in the middle of a case. A murder case. I have four dead bodies…’

  ‘Soon you will have a fifth.’

  ‘Mama, don’t be bitter. I’m in Santorini. A killer is on the loose. Dad is alive, and he is a fighter. I’ll fly out as soon as the case is over.’

  ‘I need you. But you stay there with your bodies. Save lives.’

  ‘Mama…’ The crackling noise came through sounding the slamming of the hospital phone’s handset. She was pissed off, and she had every right to be. I was her only son. She needed me there. Hopefully, my sister Jo, who I bet she called straight after me, would fly out of Seattle immediately. Hopefully, Aunt Tonia, who lived round the corner would be there in five. Mama always hated being alone. Especially in times like these. My father had always stood by her, through every wedding vow. Through sickness and all that.

  ‘Costa, is your father OK?’ Ioli quietly asked.

  ‘A car hit him… He hasn’t woken up yet.’

  ‘My God…’ Her breath quickened its pace.

  ‘God! It’s times like these, I wonder what kind of sick games he likes to play. We just saw a religious man, hanging naked, raped and killed. God. He took my daughter, he may take my father, somebody else’s loved one is dying as we speak. All ages, all races, all kinds of people. Good, bad. All in the same pot. All contestants in the GuessWhoDiesNextAndVoteHow, heaven’s favorite TV show!’

  ‘Get out. I’m driving.’ She exited the car and walked around. In a furious zombie like state, I did the same. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel, big guy.’

  She never questioned my decision to stay. She was a cop and, like me, this mess was her life. We caught killers. That’s what we did. Everything else came second as horrible as that may sound to normal folk. She walked me to my door and asked if there was anything she could do for me.

  ‘No, I’m fine. You go eat and get some shut eye. Seven o’clock sharp we’ll meet for breakfast and head over to the church.’ I forced a smile. I closed the door before she could see the first tear fall. With watery eyes, I found my cancer sticks and exited to the balcony. The stunning night view, insignificant to me. I chained smoked four cigarettes before invading the mini bar. Mr. Walker and Mr. Daniels went down my throat before a fifth cigarette was lit. Same number of cigarettes that I smoked all last year. I felt like a spoiled, angry teen taking it out on my body. I felt stupid. And with that last thought, I undressed down to my boxers and fell on top of the soft bed.

  Chapter 24

  Dr. Ariadne Metaxa’s office

  ‘It’s good you cried,’ she said, widening her smile, glad her closed-book patient had opened up to her. Her lissome figure approached me and filled my glass up with expensive mineral water.

  Normally, I would not be discussing police cases with a civilian, but Ariadne was kind of part of the force and shrinks had that whole I-can’t-tell-shit-to-no-one confidentiality oath. ‘I call tears soul catharsis. Were your tears just for your father?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yeah. I wasn’t thinking of anything else.’ Please do not take this to my daughter.

  ‘How did you feel when Ioli showed her support?’

  I frowned. ‘Good. It’s always good to feel that you have someone there for you.’ The sentence came out in the form of a question.

  ‘I am not implying anything, Captain. I know your relationship is purely platonic. It’s just that I know you have a hard time letting people get close.’

  I laughed. Ariadne Metaxa, for the first time, looked puzzled. She uncrossed her beautiful legs and crossed them the other way. In a modest way that is. No Basic Instinct style flash.

  ‘Did I say something amusing, Costa?’

  ‘No, no,’ I quickly replied, my laughter dying down. ‘You’re right, once again. I don’t let anyone in and Ioli is the first person I let get close to me since… since then.’ Then. Murder. Divorce. Escape from New York. Then.

  ‘I laughed at the word platonic,’ I continued. ‘My ADD mind played a scene from days past.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, leaning back into her chair. Her eyes studied me and her fingers began fidgeting with her well-sharpened, rubber top pencil.

  ‘I had this friend in high school. Melissa. Terrific girl. We talked a lot and went to the movies a couple of times. Purely platonic as you said. Well, one day as we were on the roof smoking -out of adult’s sight-my mate Jimmy turned and asked if I had… slept with her yet.’ Not the word he used, but I have never been a fan of the f word. Unlike everyone I have ever met. ‘I told him we were just friends. I still remember the shock on his face.’ I did my best to mimic Jimmy’s deep voice. ‘Friends? You freaking serious? Sweet pussy like that! If a man needs a friend, he gets a dog!’

  Ariadne’s laugh was always the same. It was more of a giggle, a little girl’s giggle. She knew that. That is why her laughter lasted exactly two seconds. A two second spontaneous giggle, abruptly shot down by her embarrassment. A light rose colored the skin on her high cheekbones. She exhaled and the color vanished. She became her professional self again.

  ‘Maybe you should get a dog?’

  ‘In my tiny apartment, with my hours? I had a hard time feeding that stupid goldfish the woman next door gave me to babysit for a week. Do you have a dog?’

  ‘No, unfortunately, I am a cat lady. And being unmarried with four cats screams spinster from a mile away.’ Too personal; it lasted just a second and she moved on. ‘So four dead bodies, what happened next?’

  ‘The lab results came in and boy, did we have a mystery on our hands! But, first we paid the local priest a visit.’

  Chapter 25

  Agios Minas Church, like most churches in Thira, hung on the edge of the caldera, reachable only by foot. Narrow, stone pathways lead to and pass by it, forcing drivers to abandon their cars a mile away. This was fine for the flocks of tourists in the summer; the church was probably the most photographed church on the island. But now, during winter, it was anything but fine. The chilling north wind roamed the more-slippery-than-a-divorce-lawyer, narrow pathway and the downpour left you with no option of walking slow. Ioli and I walked arm in arm and wobbled along like an old couple in a rush to see the evening news.

  ‘I hate mornings without a sun,’ Ioli grunted.

  I nodded in agreement while using all my strength to keep our umbrella from snapping or flying away over the rooftops a la Mary Poppins.

  The church’s white dome became visible through the falling drops. I remembered it being blue. One of the few memories, my ten year old self managed to retain from the cruise around the Greek Islands with my then youthful parents. It is funny the things ‘‘we choose’’ to remember. So many things come and go, and unimportant things stay. A blue dome, falling off my bike outside Mr. Johnson’s house, the day Peggy Anderson let one go in class, a scary clown from Twin Peaks. Random images, imprinted in our hard drive. I remembered the dome because right outside the church, amongst Japanese tourists living up to their photo-mania cliché, I asked my father why every island we visited had white painted houses and buildings. Sebastianos, stood up straight, uncrossed his arms and the lecture began. I never dared to interrupt him. He looked so proud, spreading his knowledge and his love for his country with his ignorant more-American-than-Greek offspring.

  ‘You feel all that sweat on your forehead and under your armpits? It’s hot, Costa. Really hot. White reflects the harsh summer sun. It is heat resistant and that is why people across the Cyclades paint their homes white. And
once a year, mainly before Easter, folks re-whitewash their houses and shops. Asbestos is cheap, too. White paint wasn’t introduced until after World War One and it cost too much for the then fishermen and farmers.’ He leaned closer to me and lowered his tour guide voice.

  ‘Actually, Santorini never really followed tradition and used to have many colorful houses. Since the military Junta took over and orders were sent to maintain the Greek traditions and style, everyone painted white and added blue to show what great Greek patriots they were!’ I had heard about the Junta before. It was the main topic in Astoria during the late sixties, right up until the mid-seventies, when a tank in Athens ran over some brave students and Turkey invaded Cyprus. That was the end of the dictatorship and the beginning of freedom in the land that gave birth to democracy.

  ‘It’s open,’ Ioli shouted over. She pushed open the wooden door and entered the little church. Loud thunder shook the air as I entered, making me smile at the coincidence of timing. Cool air lingered inside. Modern houses had nothing on Greek buildings built in centuries past. Especially here in Santorini, where, to the Greek mixture of stone, wood, mud and hay, volcanic ash was added, working as cement.

  The iconostasis small and humble. Still made of gold, but unpretentious compared to the grand scale ones, found in the newest built churches. The walls had recently been freshened up, with paintings of the evangelists and Bible scenes giving color to the dimly lit place. In front of the six rows of wooden stools, stood an elderly woman. She buzzed around the sand pit that served as a candle holder, emptying burnt out candles. The faithful visitors made a wish, said a pray and lit a candle.

  We walked over and stood behind her. She did not react.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ioli raised her voice.

  Startled, the woman dressed in a washed out black skirt and a whiskey colored, high-neck blouse turned around.

  ‘Oh my lord, you scared me. I left my hearing aid at home and did not hear you enter. Welcome to Agios Minas, blessed may be His name!’

  ‘We are here to see the priest,’ I said. More a question than a statement. We did not even bother to find out his name. Mother’s call last night threw me off course. I skipped breakfast with Ioli -who never skipped any meal-and the lack of coffee started taking its toll. I felt drained of energy. The alcohol swimming around my insides did me no favors either.

  Ash grey eyes looked up into mine.

  ‘He is on his way. Rain must be delaying him.’ She paused. ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘I am Captain Costa Papacosta and this is…’

  ‘Speak up, boy.’

  ‘AND THIS is Lieutenant Ioli Cara. We are with the Hellenic police.’

  ‘Constantino!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your name is Constantino. Do not butcher it. It is offensive to Saint Constantino.’

  I was ready to answer, but she had already shifted her round eyes over to Ioli.

  ‘And Ioli! What kind of a name is that? You have no saint, thus no name day!’

  ‘It is ancient Greek. The church itself declares and wishes for the continuation of Greek names. To maintain Greek tradition. Anyway, my mother always held me a name day celebration on the first Sunday after the Pentecost. The Holy All. Besides, if we stopped using certain names because there is no saint, how will those names end up with a saint? Someone has to be first, right? If Agios Mina’s mother did not name him Mina because there wasn’t a saint with that name, this church wouldn’t be here.’

  Never argue with an intelligent woman. Never.

  The old lady was taken aback. Clearly not used to receiving a reply to her grunts. An answer began boiling inside her.

  ‘Now listen here, young girl…’

  ‘Why did they paint the dome white? I remember it blue. It was lovely,’ I spoke simultaneously and drowned out her intro to a rant.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘THE DOME. WHY DID THEY PAINT IT WHITE?’

  ‘No need to shout. I’m not deaf, you know.’

  ‘Could have fooled me,’ Ioli whispered from behind closed teeth.

  ‘Churches should be white.’

  ‘It was better blue. The tourists loved it.’

  ‘Well, we don’t bend over to the tourist, Mister Constantino. It should be white.’

  ‘I liked it blue, too.’ A calm voice came from the door. ‘Good morning, Helen.’

  ‘Good morning, Father,’ Helen replied, her face the color of new brick. ‘Constantino and Ioli here are with the police,’ she continued as she walked over to him. ‘I’ll be off now. Everything is clean. Keep it that way.’

  ‘Yes, a good time to go. The rain has slowed down to a light drizzle,’ he said with a warm smile. He watched her leave and locked the door behind her.

  With the same warm smile still gracing his youthful-for-a-sixty-year-old face, he approached us. His smile semi-hidden amongst his untrimmed, silver beard. The thick, wiry hairs forming a grey cone. His green eyes, full of life, gained your attention. You could feel them piercing through you, reading you, studying you.

  ‘Sit, my children.’ His hand inviting us to the wooden chairs. He took off his black kalimavkion, the chef type hat or chimney pot hat -if you prefer-that all Greek priests wear. He fixed his black robes; drops of rain soaking in. He finally sat down beside us. He extended his hand. Large, cracked knuckles and gnarled fingers like the limbs of an ancient olive tree. Priests never extend their hand, in a handshake sort of way. It is more in a Victorian lady like way. I think it is their way of separating the crowd into believers and non-believers. The first kiss the hand, asking for their blessing, the latter turn it into an awkward handshake. Two such handshakes and name introductions later, I asked ‘Father Avgoustino, we are here to ask for your help. We have four dead people and we believe all attended church here. Can I show you some pictures and maybe you can tell us their story?’

  ‘No need for gruesome pictures. Names will be fine. I know everyone who comes here. Besides, I watch the news and people in small societies talk too much. This is about Katerina, Mario and Stella. Who is the fourth, you refer to, I do not know.’ His voice, calm, with a steady rhythm, relaxing. With a voice like that, you can say anything and make it sound sensible and logical. Unlike most Mediterranean men, his hands stayed still, one above the other on his lap. No arm waving to explain something. No body language, none at all. His body still, below his black clothes. I always wondered how they coped with the unbearable heat of the summer. Now, in the winter, it looked fine. In contrast to other Christian priests, Orthodox priests haven’t changed their attire for the last thousand years or so. Many attribute this to tradition. Priests themselves say it is to mourn the Fall of the Great City, Constantinople. A fall that signalled the end of Byzantion, the Great Orthodox Empire. Historians declare that they were forced to wear black by the Ottomans who ruled Greece for four hundred years. Either way, slave clothes or not, mourning clothes or not, thousands of priests suffer every Summer.

  ‘John Mina,’ Ioli filled in the seconds my mind took to ponder about his voice.

  His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped, taking his heavy beard with it.

  ‘John’s dead?’ His voice trembled.

  ‘Murdered yesterday at his workplace.’

  ‘Yesterday? He was here yesterday morning…’ the old man said and withdrew into his thoughts.

  ‘Why was he here yesterday?’ I asked.

  ‘Confession.’ He said no more. We knew he was not allowed to say any more. What was said stayed between them and God. Ioli spoke first.

  ‘Father, we understand that you have confidentiality rules, but if he confessed to a crime and that crime got him killed, you have to help us. His killer is still out there.’

  ‘Confess to a crime? What makes you say that?’

  Ioli looked at me and I nodded. ‘We believe he shot Kate Spanou.’

  ‘No. John?’

  ‘His rifle was the one used. What did he say, Father?’

  ‘You love
your job, don’t you young lady? There is a fire in your soul, and believe me, I understand you want to catch John’s killer. I want you to catch him, too. However, there is no way I am uttering a single word from confession.’

  ‘But he’s dead.’

  ‘His soul is very much alive. Besides, that is not the point. If people knew their dirty laundry might be revealed after death, how many do you think would be in here, opening their hearts to me?’

  Ioli sat back, defeated. The old guy had a good point.

  ‘Well, Father, we know all four came here. I see you are a good priest that cares for his flock. How about we make a deal? I tell you a story and if I am right, you don’t say a word.’

  ‘He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.’

  ‘Which Evangelist wrote this?’

  He smiled. ‘Freud.’

  ‘You are quoting Freud to me?’

  ‘My silence will be betraying. A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape.’

  ‘Now, that I’m sure is from the Bible.’

  ‘Proverbs, 19:5. You bring me to an awkward position, Captain. Tell me your story and I’ll see what I can do. No word from confession will be part of my answer.’

  ‘Kate found out that her husband, Mario, was cheating on her with Stella. She killed her husband; made it look like a heart attack. Somehow, Stella found out and this led to her death. Maybe, Stella paid John or used his gun to take the heat off her.’