That is when I noticed Ioli pacing up and down in the background. One hand held her phone to her ear, while the other waved angrily through the air.
‘Thank you,’ I said with a toothless smile and I turned to approach Ioli.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked as she lowered the phone.
‘No ships are allowed to sail because of the storm. It is even worse above the sea. I called the chief and he said it’s up to us to solve it.’
‘Well, at least no can leave. If you are right and that note wasn’t written by that old lady, then we have a murderer or an accomplice among us,’ I whispered.
‘I know most of the people here. I’ll interview the guests and I think it is better you talk to the parents. You have your way with dealing with grieving people. I suck at it.’
‘Is everything okay?’ Tracy asked, her soft hand stroking my wet neck.
‘Local police can’t make it because of the storm. We are going to have to take on the case ourselves. Babe, sorry…’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Costa. I know you’re a good man, but for crying out loud, don’t apologize for ruining our mini holiday. You didn’t kill her.’
‘I love this woman,’ Ioli said, placing her hand on Tracy’s shoulder and went to find Homer.
I kissed Tracy gently on her cheek. ‘Go to our room, watch some trash morning TV. Don’t stay down here with all these mourners. I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’ve got to go talk to the parents.’
‘What now? They just lost their daughter. We out of all people should…’
I placed my palm upon her chest. ‘I have to. They know something. That old lady was not who she said she was and they know it.’
‘How the hell do mysteries seem to go out of their way to find you, I do not know?!’
‘Some sort of inner mystery magnet, I guess.’
We kissed softly on the lips and walked up the staircase, together. Tracy smiled a smile of support and returned to our room. As she turned on the TV set, ready to be informed on which zodiac sign is better in bed, I walked uneasily in the direction of the palace’s master bedroom. The long corridor with the fitted, expensive Persian carpet and the works of art hanging from the walls would have been a delight to explore under any other circumstance. After every two paintings came a closed door. The only door opened was the one opposite the master bedroom. Inside, a large, round pink carpet filled the center of the room. The fuschia walls were decorated with faded Barbie wall stickers. Dolls, teddy bears, boxes of puzzlers and other toys filled the room. An indoor swing stood to my left, while on my right was a large purple sofa, cleverly placed next to the bookshelf filled with childhood gems like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Little Prince and Charlotte’s Web. Cassandra’s childhood playroom. Gaby would have loved this room. My daughter had been a major Barbie fan. Then again, which seven year old girl is not? It is funny how the most insignificant trivia can spark a memory. Gaby and I, in her bedroom having a tea party with her dolls. Now, all I have is memories. Memories of when I used to be a father of a living child and not just a keeper of her memory and her unconditional, innocent, child-to-parent love. Gaby would have been eleven this year. I guess she might have outgrown her Barbies by now. Kids grow up too fast now a days.
I finally managed to pull myself out of those old thoughts and turned towards the master bedroom’s door. A short, petite lady in a pink dress stood outside the door, playing nervously with her pearl necklace. I remembered seeing her upon our arrival to the house, yet did not know her name. She had said she was the bride’s aunt. Judging by her pointy ears, her full bottom lip and her deep set eyes, I would bet she was related to Cosma.
Upon my approach, she wiped the tears away from the corner of her eyes and shook her shoulders as to gather herself.
‘Hello. I am Captain Papacosta. I am here to talk…’
‘Of course, of course,’ she was quick to say. ‘I am Anneta Zampetaki, Cosma’s sister. I found myself coming up here to comfort them and just as I reached the door, I realized, I was the one that needed comfort. I can’t go in there. I will just stand there like a fool and cry.’ I smile sympathetically.
‘Maybe, we could have some tea sent up? That always seems to help.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Especially, in this horrid weather. Oh, the daughters lost in this world,’ she murmured, as she limped down the hallway.
If you only knew…
Irene Zampetaki’s sobbing echoed in the hallway, every now and then interrupted by her husband’s cry. ‘Why, God, why?’ he repeated. The knocking on the door brought silence to the room. Neither of them spoke. I built up the courage, knocked again and opened the door slowly.
Cosma sat with his head in trembling hands, rocking back and forth at the edge of his king-sized bed. Irene sat curled up on an oversized armchair with a tall back. The color of her skin reminded me of Tracy’s in the days after Gaby’s death. She lingered through our apartment, ashen, pale as new paper, as if something unnatural guzzled all life out of her. Her skin was engulfed by sorrow. As if the blood knew to stop flowing as before; the soul with all its pain taking over, leaving an empty vessel of a childless mother behind.
Cosma looked up and squinted his eyes in my direction. Pain and grief furrowed his brow. The look on his face revealed his mind’s process to recognize me. ‘Ah, yes. The police captain. Costa, right?’
‘Yes, sir. Believe me, I am sorry to bother you at such a time. Trust me, I know what you are going through…’
‘How could you possibly…’ Irene began forming the cliché question.
‘My daughter was gunned down in front of my eyes and left her last breath in my arms,’ I replied coldly, and continued ‘when a murder occurs it is wise to act at once.’
To receive testaments before people have time to come up with a lame story.
‘That old lady was not who she said she was, right?’
Both nodded in agreement.
‘She wrote she was Maria Marousaki. Wife of Ioanni Marousaki. You know that name, don’t you?’
More nodding.
‘So, who wants to tell me the story that led to your daughter’s death?’ I did not mean to sound so cold and distant. I hate it when something sounds right in your head and the moment you utter the words in formation, you realize you could have said it better.
‘I realize, Mr Costa, that you were born and raised in America,’ Irene said.
‘That is correct.’
‘I don’t know how much you know about Crete and its vendettas.’
Maybe Ioli should have come up and I should have interviewed the guests.
‘I know that families can hold grudges that last for decades…’
‘Centuries,’ Cosma interrupted.
Irene gradually stood up and slowly walked over to the window. The cold winds were throwing droplets of rain against the glass surface, water running down like tears. Irene wiped hers away and eventually spoke in a slow, crackling voice.
‘It all started over a hundred years ago, when Cosma’s great-grandfather fell in love with Katerina Mamalaki, the daughter of the richest man in Chania at the time. Katerina was to be married off to Christo Marousaki. The Marousaki family were winemakers just like Cosma’s family and never really got along…’
Chapter 5
Town Of Chania, Crete 1909
Christo Marousaki, wearing his heavy, black boots, leapt out of the handmade wooden chair and approached the window. He pushed open the rather dusty persiennes and smiled as the summer breeze swept by him and entered the room.
What a magnificent spring day, what a great day to get married.
He twisted his thick, black mustache with one hand, while with the other he felt his aroused genitals. His sexual fantasies had kept him awake for most of the night. He dreamt over and over again of his wedding night with Katerina. It had been six months since he was first introduced to the sweet, young, beautiful eighteen year old heiress and so far he had only managed to steal a
faint kiss on the cheek.
He knelt before his bedside table and kissed his icon of Christ, a gift from his late great-grandmother.
‘Thank you, Lord. For…’ He paused. He stood tall and proud; a man with many blessings. ‘Well, for everything.’
At twenty-three he felt he could climb Psiloriti, Crete’s tallest mountain. Handsome, from a prestigious family and as firstborn, heir to the Marousaki winery. And in a few hours, he could add the title of married to Katerina Liontaraki, firstborn of the richest family in Chania.
Miles away, on the other side of Chania, preparations at Liontaraki Manor were in full swing. Servants arranged flowers, laid out freshly cleaned carpets, prepared rooms, polished silverware and dusted –again-spotless surfaces, while below deck, the kitchen cooks prepared the food for the five hundred guests. Barrels of freshly cut vegetables brightened up the cherry wood kitchen while the strong smell of olives filled the air. Ladies bumped into each other as they prepared the village salads and the ‘fancy fig and pomegranate salad’ that the lady of the house requested. Others peeled and cooked red earth potatoes and the younger ones were in charge of making an array of Cretan desserts. In the next room, men chopped up yesterday’s butchered pigs and lambs, and placed the meat on the metal skewers; lemon, salt and virgin olive oil followed on top. Outside, in the spacious back garden tens of tables were laid with fine, white cloths and expensive silverware. In the middle of each table a porcelain vase stood proud, filled with roses cut in the morning.
Meanwhile, in a building tucked out of the way -an abandoned cottage on the grounds of the large estate-Katerina cried in the arms of Theodore Zampetaki.
‘You are crazy,’ she said and pushed him away.
‘Crazy for you, my rose.’
‘Don’t, please don’t call me that.’
‘What else would I call the sun of my life, the woman who I love with all my heart, the woman with whom I became one just last night…’
‘That was a mistake! I was foolish and acted like a… like a common whore!’ Katerina yelled and paced up and down.
Theodore stood opposite her motionless. His heart was ready to burst. ‘A whore does not love her clients. You love me, Katerina and there is no denying it!’
‘Love can’t save us, my dear Theo. My parents have chosen my man, how could we ever…’
‘We elope.’ He said it as firmly as his trembling lips and weak knees allowed him to. ‘Just last year we expelled the Turks. We live in a world where everything is possible.’
‘Theo, my parents would…’
A faint smile appeared across his sunburnt face. His green eyes found their sparkle.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘You’re worried about your parents,’ he replied calmly and stepped forward, stopping inches from her face, from her alluring, red lips. ‘Which means, my dear, you want me. You want to elope with me. You are not thinking of yourself, but of your parents. Well, you know what I say? To hell with them. They are selling you off to create strong ties and ensure your money is invested well.’ He grabbed her and kissed her with a passion seen only by people in love, crazy people, young people. And Theo was all three. ‘But, they are old and like all that walks this earth, my dear, they are sure to pass on to the next world.’ Another kiss. ‘We only have a limited time on this planet and I want to spend every second of it with you.’ Another kiss. Harder on the lips this time. ‘And with our children. Picture them. Our little boy and our beautiful girl.’ He rubbed her tummy. Tears fell from Katerina’s eyes.
Hours later, many tears were shed at Chania’s grand Cathedral. Christo waited and waited, pacing mechanically at the altar. Finally, the message arrived. The bride was nowhere to be found. A note found in her bedroom explaining how she could not go through with the wedding. A second envelope addressed to her mother explained the reasons why.
A genuine Cretan, Christo’s first words were a request for his gun. However, his stunning bride and his new arch enemy did not return to Chania until three years had passed and Christo had found and married another lover.
It had been the biggest gossip of 1913. The return of the eloped couple. They had married in a chapel near Rethymno and then lived in a remote village by the sea. Katerina gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl just as promised by Theodoro. Christo still wished to use his rifle; however, his hand was stayed by his pregnant wife. Older, wiser and with a baby on the way, Christo put away his weapon.
Gavdos, 2015
‘A truce seemed to be possible, but then again this is Crete,’ Irene Zampetaki said with her elegant, cultured voice and paused. She turned her head towards the door.
‘Yes?’ she replied, to the discreet knocking.
‘I brought tea, ma’am,’ the shy kitchen maid with the rosy cheeks said. She brought in the silver tray with the blue and white porcelain tea set. She placed it on the wooden, antique coffee table and with a nod she fled the gloom of the room.
Greek hospitality prevailed over any grief and Irene lifted herself out of the armchair and prepared three cups of tea. She did not bother asking me how I take it. She added a spoon of sugar and a few drops of warm milk. The proper way of drinking tea, according to Mrs Zampetaki. She took her cup in her hands and walked over to the oval window. She gazed out towards the horizon. The ocean, like a huge layer of thick oil, unfolded before her eyes. The island was never one of many colors; besides her well maintained garden, the rest was made out of beach sand, dust and thorny bushes of dull green. The only color that ever stood out was the blue of the sky above and its reflection in the cool waters below. Now, the world seemed entirely colorless. Her baby girl was no longer a part of it.
She turned around and looked at me, while taking a sip from her hot beverage. Strands of steam threaded past her empty eyes. Lightning flashed through the window, darkening her figure.
‘Shall we get back to our story?’
Chania, 1929
Chania had grown into one of the finest towns of the Cretan state, now officially part of Greece, again. In the calm waters of the harbor, Venetian buildings were reflected in the moving sea, swirling around, bringing Van Gogh paintings to shame. Proud, muscular horses pulled carriages along the paved road, carrying their masters past the many tavernas that had opened along the coast. Cretans had always enjoyed their meat and their wine.
Two wineries competed to prevail in the booming market. The Zampetaki winery and the Marousaki winery. Both, were family run. The Zampetaki winery by Theodoro and his son Kyriako and the Marousaki winery by Christo Marousaki and his two sons. His wife Maria was pregnant with a third son at the time.
Like with all sad stories, a series of seemingly unconnected events would lead to death. If only Kyriako Zampetaki had woken up a few minutes later that day, or earlier for that matter. If only he enjoyed his morning coffee for longer.
Christo Marousaki stood in the doorway of his 19th century log house, kissing his wife goodbye, before heading out to the vineyards and then to the winery. His large hands caressed her six month baby bump.
‘If it’s a boy again, I want to call him Ioanni, after my mother Ioanna.’
‘That’s a lovely thought,’ she replied with a smile and leaned her head upon his chest, her honey-colored hair swirling in the wind.
‘Bye, mama,’ Constantino flew past them first. ‘Bye, mama.’ Antony followed.
‘Wait, you two,’ their father’s voice brought the youthful enthusiasm to a halt. ‘You’re not coming with me. I need you to ride into town and pick up the new barrels from Mister Papadopoulos.’
Both grinned at each other. At sixteen and eighteen years of age, they enjoyed nothing more than to ride their horses into town and pose for the fine ladies of the town.
‘Behave,’ their mother said, widening her brown eyes.
‘Don’t we always?’ Antony said, as he jumped upon his white horse.
Both parents remained in each other’s arms as they watched their sons ride off into the morni
ng sun.
Some ideas are born out of nowhere, somewhere deep inside our minds. Kyriako Zampetaki found himself riding to Katrakis barber shop, instead of up to the winery. The Katrakis barber shop was situated on the main road, heading down to the pier, right next to Mister Papadopoulos’s workplace.
The two brothers arrived upon their well-groomed, agile horses just as Kyriako hopped off his tied-up steed and said hello to Mister Papadopoulos.
‘Since when do they let riff-raff come to this end of town?’ Antony mocked him.
Kyriako ignored the insult. He bowed his head and tilted his hat to Mister Papadopoulo, turned his back to the two brothers and walked steadily towards the barber shop’s open door.
‘Cutting his hair to become more presentable? Maybe he wishes to find another rich whore to support their pitiful winery,’ Constantino said, while a grin was born across his round face.
Kyriako froze on the spot. He turned his head slightly around and without looking at them asked ‘Are you referring to my mother, sir?’
Both brothers laughed. ‘Yes, sir! What are you going to do about it?
‘You’ll soon find out,’ Kyriako replied and entered the barber shop. He exhaled deeply and complimented himself for keeping his cool. No punishment for calling his mother a whore could be executed before public eyes.
Two days later, the unfortunate news spread from mouth to mouth in the small community. Fire had burned down the Marousaki winery, destroying the entire wooden building and killing its owner, Christo Marousaki and his two sons along the way. All three burnt alive, trapped inside their beloved winery.
Maria went into premature labor upon hearing the news of the loss of her entire family. Her precious boys and the love of her life, gone, dead. All will to live floated away from her, leaving behind an empty vessel. A human without a soul.
Doctors did not expect the six and half month old baby to survive the long night, but the Greek sun sneaked out of the endless ocean and bright light lit up the dark hospital room to reveal a very much alive infant. Maria forced herself out of the rusty, old bed with the once white linen and staggered towards her baby boy. Her eyes came back to life, shining brighter than summer’s midday sun.
Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you! Page 47