Statue of Limitations

by Kate Collins

  “Athena Spencer.”

  “Miss Spencer, have you heard about Harry Pepper’s murder?”

  I realized I was winding a lock of hair around my index finger, a nervous habit of mine, and let it drop, sliding my hands under my thighs to keep them still. “Yes.”

  “I’d like you to view a short video and tell me if you recognize the man in it.”

  Trying to keep my voice from shaking I asked, “What makes you think I’d recognize him?”

  “Because of evidence we’ve recovered from the crime scene.”

  He must have seen the look of shock on my face because he hastened to add, “You’re not in trouble, Miss Spencer, please don’t worry about that, but you could be a material witness.”

  “What kind of evidence did you recover?”

  Detective Walters reached across his desk for a plastic bag that had a wrinkled piece of paper in it. Placing it in front of me he asked, “Do you recognize this?” His dark brown eyes watched me like a hawk.

  I leaned over for a closer look and felt my mouth go dry. I had to swallow before I could answer. “It’s a copy of the sales receipt for the statue I bought at the Talbot auction.”

  “That you bought? Why does it have Theo Karras’s name on it?”

  “We always purchase things for my grandfather’s diner with his credit card, then we pay him back,” I lied. “He gets points that way that he uses to fly back to Greece to see his relatives, so the more we spend the more points he has to use.” I realized that I was rambling on and stopped.

  “Let me get this straight. You purchased the statue for your grandfather for his diner with his credit card?”

  “And his blessing. And then I paid him back.”

  “But the statue isn’t at his diner,” he stated.

  “He—that is—we thought he could use the statue inside the diner’s entrance, but it ended up being too large, so we brought it down to the garden center instead.”

  Walters studied me for a long moment. “I see.”

  “Why do you need to know who owns the statue?”

  “We’re trying to piece together what happened. I found this copy of the sales receipt crumpled in the victim’s hand, leading me to believe he was either trying to hide it from the murderer or leave a clue to the murderer’s identity.”

  I stared blankly at the piece of paper as my thoughts raced through the events of the previous evening. Until that moment I truly hadn’t wanted to believe Case could be the killer, but that wrinkled copy made me think otherwise. Could Harry have been trying to tip off the police?

  The detective started the video and I had to force myself to watch it again. When a man’s hazy image appeared on the screen, the detective hit the pause button. “Do you recognize him?”

  I swallowed again, wishing I’d accepted that water. “The video is fuzzy, but it might be the man who came into the garden center yesterday to inquire about the statue.”

  He tapped the plastic bag holding the receipt. “The same statue named in this sales receipt?”

  I nodded.

  “Did the man give you his name?”

  “Yes. Case Donnelly.”

  “Did he make any purchases?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give you any personal information?”

  “Just that he was from out of town.”

  “Did he say where?”

  I shook my head, wondering if I looked as sick as I felt.

  “Anything else you remember about him? Any scars? Birthmarks? Tattoos?”

  “Not that I saw. He had a jacket on.”

  “A tan bomber jacket like the one in the video?”

  I was feeling sicker by the minute, knowing I’d been alone with a man who might have killed someone. “Yes, but like I said, the video is fuzzy and I’m sure a lot of men own tan bomber jackets.”

  He stopped the recorder. “Thank you. That’s all we need for now.”

  As I was driven back to the garden center, I heard an all-points bulletin being broadcast over the squad car’s radio.

  Because of my testimony, Case was now a wanted man. Would he suspect it was me who’d turned him in?

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT’S ALL GREEK TO ME

  blog by Goddess Anon

  Liar, Liar

  Ask any Greek whether Greeks are good liars and you’ll get a resounding yes. It’s something they’re proud of. Get stopped by the police and how does a Greek answer? It’s the automobile’s fault, Officer. This car wants to move. It would be a crime to not let it once in a while to clean out that engine, you know what I mean?

  Well, I’m here to tell you that it isn’t easy telling a good lie—or being Greek sometimes. Take yesterday for example . . .

  Wednesday

  The weather turned so warm by midweek that Sequoia was deluged with tourists. Sailboats and chartered fishing boats filled the harbor; restaurants, bars, and diners had set up their outdoor tables and were busy bustling food and drinks to chattering patrons; boutiques had rolled out racks of clothing for early sales before the big Memorial Day weekend; and we were so busy I was able to push my fears to the back of my mind.

  That ended when I went into the office to grab a cup of coffee and found Dad seated at the desk reading the local newspaper, the Sequoian Press. “Did you see the paper this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  He held it up so I could read the headline.

  SEQUOIA MAN DEAD: KILLER IDENTIFIED

  My shoulders immediately knotted as Dad read the article out loud:

  “Harry C. Pepper, age seventy-two, Grayson Talbot Sr.’s ’s longtime trusted assistant, was found dead inside the Talbot mansion early Tuesday morning. Police have ruled the death a homicide and are now seeking a suspect known as Case Donnelly, who was last seen on a surveillance video outside the mansion’s first-floor office early Tuesday morning.

  “Detectives were unwilling to give out any further information because of the ongoing investigation, but according to a statement given to the press by Talbot’s son, Grayson Talbot Jr., the safe in his father’s office had been opened and the contents were askew. ‘We’re offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward to anyone with information about Donnelly’s whereabouts,’ Talbot said. ‘The public can be assured that we will bring this perpetrator to justice.’

  “That ought to get everyone in town out shaking the bushes,” Dad said.

  He continued reading. “When Talbot was asked whether he thought Pepper’s murder had anything to do with his father’s condominium project, he said he would address that subject during a press conference at five p.m., Friday, at corporate headquarters.”

  My ears perked up. Talbot was giving a press conference about the project and the murder? That snapped me out of my funk. “Someone from the GMA needs to go to that conference.”

  Dad set the newspaper aside and stood up to stretch his back. “Why don’t you go, Thenie? With your journalism experience, you’d be the perfect one to attend.”

  I rubbed my temples, my head starting to ache. I was getting sucked in deeper and deeper each day. “Fine,” I said with a resigned sigh. “I’ll go.”

  When the base for the statue arrived late that afternoon, I was reminded of Case once again. As the deliverymen mounted the Treasure of Athena on the elegant black pedestal, I couldn’t help but go over my encounter with him in the garden. The irony was that if not for our run-in, I would never have known Pappoús owned a valuable Antonius.

  * * *

  As soon as we closed for the day, my father and Delphi brought in every available patio chair to set up several rows facing the long oak table at the back of the barn. My mother cleared the table of its garden décor, while I set out the paper plates, napkins, utensils, and mineral water on it and started the coffee brewing.

  It was supposed to be desserts only, so Nancy, the owner of Downtown Shabby, a shabby-chic clothing boutique, brought in two trays of brownies, and Barb, the owner of Got Glass?, brought in thr
ee dozen donuts. Yiayiá brought a large pan of moussaka, a platter filled with kalamata olives, chunks of feta cheese, and slices of thick, homemade bread, and a big pan of baklava oozing with golden corn syrup. If the meeting lasted into the next day, they were prepared!

  Soon after eight o’clock, members of the Greek Merchants’ Association began to trickle into the garden shop. There were twenty in all, counting spouses, but Yiayiá had come alone so Pappoús could clean the kitchen and get it ready for the morning breakfast crowd. She’d persuaded me to stay and sit with her in the front row, and naturally Kevin was right beside me.

  After members had picked up their refreshments, my dad started the meeting by asking who was going to attend Grayson Talbot Jr.’s upcoming press conference. A few hands went up, including Donald Fatsis’s, who was seated in the back row with a chair pulled in front of him loaded with food.

  Before Dad could say anything further on the subject, Donald took the floor, still chewing a big bite of food, to give an impassioned speech about how we had to stand firm in our efforts to stop Grayson Talbot Jr. from ruining the downtown. I could see people giving each other disgruntled looks. They’d been fighting this for months. There was nothing new in what he was saying.

  “Thank you, Don,” Dad said, forcing himself to be polite. “I was just about to propose we set up another meeting with Talbot to try to forestall the project.”

  At that point, Kevin interrupted, rising from his seat. “With all due respect, John,” he said, using his lawyer’s voice, “we all know talking hasn’t gotten us anywhere and we’re twelve days away from demolition. As I pointed out at our last meeting with the Talbots, our best option was, and still is, to file a lawsuit and get a court injunction to halt the project until we can get a judge to hear our case.”

  When he began to explain what that would entail, Fatsis jumped up to veto the idea, his beefy face, even his bald head, turning red with barely concealed fury. “Do you have any idea how much that would cost? I don’t know about any of you, but I don’t have either the time or the money. Anyone here know a lawyer who’d work for free? Kevin? Oh, that’s right, you’re just a legal aide. Anyone else?”

  “And what would you propose we do instead?” Kevin challenged, ignoring the barb.

  “Who made you a member of this association anyway?” Fatsis shot back.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Kevin glanced around the room to gauge the other members’ reactions, but they were studiously avoiding his gaze.

  Mama rose and went to stand beside my dad. “I invited Kevin.” She folded her arms and gave Fatsis a piercing stare. “He has the legal knowledge to guide us even if he can’t take our case to court.”

  She and Dad were joined by Yiayiá in her long black skirt and blue blouse with a blue print scarf over her head. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Fatsis?” Yiayiá asked, pronouncing it the Greek way of Faht-sees.

  At his muttered “No,” Yiayiá said, “Entáxei.” Good. “Now sit and eat your baklava.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Karras,”—Fatsis paused to mop his perspiring face with a napkin—“my proposal is that we don’t spend a fortune trying to convince a judge who’s probably already in Talbot’s pocket to see our side. I also propose that you let me try to convince Talbot to stop the project.”

  That remark brought a distinct murmuring of disapproval.

  “What makes you think Talbot will listen to you?” Nancy asked.

  “Because I’ve dealt with him in the past,” Fatsis retorted, “and he’s always been fair.”

  “Fair?” Barb called. “Are we talking about the same man?”

  “Remember, Don,” Dad said, “we have only twelve days before demolition is scheduled to begin, and your shop will be first on the block to go.”

  “Which is why I’ve got the most at stake,” Fatsis said. But somehow, he didn’t sound too convincing.

  Several people jumped to their feet to protest his proposal until Fatsis finally sat down and folded his arms across his heavy chest, pouting like an angry child. To end the dispute, Dad asked for a show of hands for those in favor of Fatsis meeting with Talbot, and not a single person’s hand went up. Then he asked the same about having Kevin look into fees for filing the lawsuit and injunction, and only a few went up, no doubt due to the points Fatsis had made about the cost.

  I’d been sitting there holding my tongue, trying my best not to be involved, but I finally had to say something. Rising, I said, “I have two suggestions. The first is to set up a fund-raising site to pay for the legal fees. I’ll bet all the shop owners as well as everyone living in and around the downtown area will get behind it. No one wants to see that huge condominium go up and block their view.”

  There was a buzz of excitement at that idea, so Dad made a motion and it carried. Then came the tough question. Dad looked around the room. “Who would be willing to set up the site and manage it?”

  Before anyone could respond, Fatsis was on his feet again. “I’ll do it. I have the time and know-how.”

  Now, suddenly, he had time? That sure wasn’t what he’d said moments earlier.

  “Any discussion on Don running the site?” Dad asked.

  No one spoke up. Finally, David Jennings, the owner of the men’s clothing store, said, “I move that Don sets up the funding site and runs it.”

  The motion carried and Fatsis sat down, rubbing his hands as though he couldn’t wait to get started. His eagerness to take charge made me wary, especially when he’d just professed to be against any type of legal action. But then, considering what I knew about him, I tended to look at everything Fatsis did with a skeptical eye.

  In the short time I’d been back, I’d heard more than one person complain about purchases made at Fatsis’s art gallery, claiming the items he’d sold as original works of art had turned out to be fakes. He’d also been written up a number of times by the Better Business Bureau. Both of those factors could explain why his sales had been steadily declining.

  “Athena, what was your second suggestion?” Dad asked.

  “Once we get the injunction, everyone in Little Greece uses whatever resources are available to spruce up their storefronts. Paint is cheap, trim isn’t hard to remove or have installed. We all know people who would be willing to help. I drew up some ideas for The Parthenon that are on the refreshment table. If all of you get on board with this, Talbot can’t complain about Little Greece being run-down and out of date. In other words, we stand together and work together.”

  I was applauded for that, and as I sat down, I could hear people discussing improvements they could make. Dad proposed another meeting for the following Wednesday night and it carried. Then everyone went back to the refreshments table for seconds and even thirds, until the food was gone.

  As soon as the shop cleared out, we locked the door and then Dad, Mom, Yiayiá, Kevin, and I cleaned up and put the furniture back in place. I could see that my grandmother and parents were tired, so I sent them all home under the pretense of wanting to finish cleaning by myself, even shooing Kevin out to see them home safely.

  Humming softly as I planned my next blog, I bagged up the trash and carried it out to the bin behind the shop. I even had the title: A Forkful of Baklava Makes Everything Better.

  There’s nothing like Greek food to make even the most stubborn individual soften, except in the case of certain fatheads who are so full of themselves that . . .

  I heard a noise and saw Oscar sitting on a wrought-iron chair, watching me expectantly, as though waiting for dinner. I opened the trash bag, found a paper bowl that still had some moussaka in it, and walked carefully toward the table. He was used to my dad and Delphi but was still cautious around me. “Here you go.”

  Delphi had told me that he’d been coming around since he was big enough to climb over the fence. He was a cute little raccoon, either not fully grown or the runt of the litter. He had a pointy gray snout with a black nose, white whiskers, and black fur around
his dark eyes, lined with white, giving him the notorious burglar appearance. But he was friendly and growing more accustomed to people. Even the customers liked him. Oscar had become our unofficial mascot.

  He began to eat with his little hands, keeping one eye on me. When he’d finished, he washed his face like a cat and then hopped down from the chair and made his way toward the back of the property. I was tempted to follow to see if he’d made a bed for himself back there, but then I glanced at the time and headed inside.

  Preoccupied, I didn’t notice at first that someone was sitting at the long oak table. I turned, then gasped, startled to find Case Donnelly watching me, a smile on his face. For a second I froze. Except for a ceiling fan whirring softly high above us, there wasn’t a sound in the room. I’d locked the front door myself. How had he managed to get in?

  “Evening, Athena.”

  I reached for my cell phone in my hip pocket only to remember I’d set it on the table where Case now sat. My eyes darted toward the table, but the phone wasn’t there.

  He held it up. “Looking for this?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I stared first at my phone in his hand and then at Case. He knew—had to know—that I’d turned him in. Why else would he have come back?

  Determined to show no fear, I lifted my chin and forced myself to say in a firm voice, “What do you want?”

  “A chance to redeem myself.”

  That wasn’t what I expected to hear.

  He stood abruptly, startling me. I glanced around, ready to flee. But he merely pulled out a chair adjacent to his and gestured toward it. “Please, have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks. Just say what you want to say and get out.”

  “Have it your way.” He reached inside his bomber jacket as though going for a gun. I flinched, holding my hands protectively over my face, expecting to hear a shot. Instead I heard a rustling noise and peered through my fingers to see him smoothing out what appeared to be a piece of ancient parchment paper. I tucked my hair behind my ears, trying to cover my embarrassing reaction.