"And your relationship with Davonna Fitzroy?" Savva asked lightly.
"I'm sorry?" Ioannis said. His brows pulled together in a polite but confused frown.
"How would you label it?"
"A casual friendship. I don't see Davonna much. We’ve invited them over, numerous times, for dinner but she always declined."
"Is your wife friends with Mrs. Fitzroy as well?"
"Yes, we both enjoy her company. Theodora used to walk into the village once a week with Davonna before she injured her knee."
"You talk to her when she walks to town; presumably that's when your wife isn't here?"
"My wife volunteers in town four days a week."
"Is she aware of the time you spend with Mrs. Fitzroy?"
"Yes, but Davonna never stays long. We talk right by the road."
"I see," Savva said, pulling out a pad and making a note.
"I don't understand what you're driving at, Captain."
"Forgive me, I'll put it bluntly: were you having an affair with Mrs. Fitzroy?"
Ioannis stared wide-eyed at Savva, incredulous. "No."
"She's a beautiful, unhappy woman. I'd understand if you had developed improper feelings toward her."
"I don't understand where you get your ideas," Ioannis seethed. "But your allegations are completely off base. How can you live with yourself, imagining the worst of people? Davonna is a kind woman, and she is unhappy, but I, and with the full knowledge and support of my wife, only sought to be a friend to her. Someone to turn to."
"Why would she need your support?" Savva plowed on.
Ioannis looked at him for a moment as if weighing his options. Savva caught fear in the older man's face. "She is thousands of miles from her family, and her parents died years ago. Theodora and I are same age."
"So you’re a father-figure to her?"
"If you must label it. We all miss our parents, Captain, and it's comforting to recapture them in other people."
Savva nodded, but was thoroughly grateful both his parents were long gone.
"Do you have children, Mr. Dukas?"
Ioannis sighed. "We did. A daughter." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "She died of breast cancer four years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Savva said, making a note, and refusing to go down his own tornado of grief. "When we last spoke you mentioned that Mrs. Fitzroy had been outside in the garden the whole week and at one point you were concerned for her health."
"Yes.”
"Why? Is it normal for her to work that much?"
"It was 35 degrees outside, out in the scorching sun without shade. She worked day after day. She's our friend, we couldn't stand by and watch her die of heatstroke."
"So it was normal for her to work that hard?"
"Yes," Ioannis said reluctantly. "She's always out. Painting the shutters, cleaning the windows, perfecting the garden, weeding. It's a huge property. There's work to do."
"Yes, I can imagine," said Savva. "Did you see her husband with her, on the weekends? Did he help?"
"No, John worked long hours. I never knew when he was off until a day went by, and we realized we hadn't seen Davonna."
Savva perked. "What do you mean, you hadn't seen her?"
"Davonna was always outside, always working on some project, as I said."
"But how did you know John Fitzroy was home?"
"Davonna always walks to town three days a week. She would miss one, I would comment that I missed her, and she’d say John had been home and they'd had a relaxing day in."
"And you were suspicious?"
"I wouldn't say suspicious," Ioannis said carefully. "But she was different, tired, the next day, and less likely to stay and chat."
"Which you took to mean?"
"I am not about to speculate as to what went on between the couple. Marriage is difficult, even a happy one, and to insinuate my own beliefs is neither right nor kind."
"And if he abused her?"
"Then I have little grief to spare for him," Ioannis said flatly.
"Have you ever gone into the Fitzroy's garage?"
"No. I've only ever been in the front hall of the house."
"Can you prove that you've never been in the garage?"
Ioannis fixed Savva with a heavy glare. "Am I a suspect now, Captain?
Savva smiled benignly. "I'm just trying to get my facts straight."
Ioannis continued to glower, and Savva rose and bid him good day and walked out of the house. He'd only cracked opened the front door when he heard a heavy step behind him.
"You have the wrong person, Captain."
"Really, which person would that be?"
"Neither Davonna nor I killed him. She's a good woman."
"Who should I be looking for?" Savva asked, blinking in the bright light.
"I wish I knew.”
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Dukas. I'm sorry to trouble you," Savva said, and strolled down the steps to his car.
He pulled out of the drive, turned the car downhill, dialed Booras, and waited impatiently for the sergeant to answer.
"Kalispera, Sir, how'd the meeting go?"
"Which one," Savva barked, with more anger than he'd meant.
"Colonel Kleitos."
"I was right. A cock and bull story about the press and insinuations about my job prospects if this case isn't finished in a timely manner."
"So the usual?"
"Yes, the usual. He also sent me back to Dukas' house to inquire as to his relationship with Davonna Fitzroy."
"And?”
"Dukas denies any involvement with her and says his wife was supportive of fostering a friendship."
"He's got thirty years on her!"
"It's not unheard of, Booras," Savva quipped. "What I want to know is what the Dukas' were so concerned about. They both made sure they made friends with Davonna Fitzroy."
"Being neighborly?"
"No," Savva mused. "Well not just that. Dukas mentioned that their daughter had died four years ago from breast cancer. He said that's why they'd befriended her—she was far from home and alone."
"Except for her husband."
"Exactly. From what he said, Dukas didn't think highly of the dearly departed. His exact words were, ‘I have little grief to spare for his passing.’"
"Do you believe he did it?"
"Even if he didn't kill Fitzroy; Dukas is hiding something, something important. Maybe he suspected John was abusive."
"Could she have used him, Sir?" Stelios asked tentatively.
"Used who?"
"Could she have asked Dukas to tamper with the car?"
"Why? That's what gets me about the car, whoever it was didn't cut the brake lines completely, therefore they couldn't be sure when John Fitzroy would go off the road. As I’ve said before the brakes might have failed at the hotel or as he pulled into the garage."
"Perhaps they didn't plan that far ahead?"
"I don't think so. It was done with a cool head and strict reasoning. I want to know why."
"What will you tell Kleitos?"
Savva hesitated. "Seeing as he likes Ioannis Dukas, I'll tell him I don't have evidence, at the present time, to indicate that Dukas was either having an affair with Davonna Fitzroy nor that he tampered with the car."
"Nice and tidy," Stelios chirped.
"Hardly," Savva said, with a growl and hung up the phone.
XIV
η βιβλιοθήκη είναι το φαρμακείο του μυαλού.
A library is a repository of medicine for the mind.
"The warrant came through."
Savva looked up from his breakfast and stared at the phone in his hand. "Alright, I'll be in. I'll handle this." He ended the call and stared forlornly at the steaming latte on the edge of the white-striped placemat.
He rose, put on his suit coat, stuffed his badge and wallet into his pocket, and picked up the delicate white cup with the hand-painted gold line a
n inch from the rim. He walked across the hall of the house to a door at the end of the hallway where Shayma lay asleep, her long black hair splayed over the pillow, her soft hands clutching the edge of a faded blue quilt. He kissed her forehead and placed the cup on the nightstand.
The police department hummed with excitement. As he entered the inner lobby Savva caught the tail end of the conversation about getting rid of foreigners. It didn't matter Greece was a part of the EU. Being so near to the conflicts in the Middle East, the island received thousands of refugees and such comments weren't uncommon.
He stumped through to his office to find the warrant sitting perfunctorily on his desk. A gaggle of uniformed officers stood clustered around a sergeant who barked out orders. He stuffed the warrant in his suit coat and growled at the loitering officers to follow.
The Fitzroy house gleamed in the bright morning sunlight. The shutters and blinds were flung open to tempt a breeze. Were they ever closed? He trudged across the gravel and pounded on the door, a tall woman with a lifted chin and hard eyes opened the door.
"Detective Savva, Lesvos Police, who are you?"
"Miriam Moray; I'm Davonna's sister."
"Might you find her for me?"
"You can't question her without her attorney."
"I'm not here to question her. I have a warrant to search the garage."
"Well, that's different. I'll go get her."
Her voice was sharp, but Savva caught something more; was it worry or fear?
"Everyone ready?" Savva shouted, over his shoulder to the gathered officers and forensic techs. A collective clamor of affirmation rose from their ranks.
Savva stared at the door, his hands clasped behind his back. It opened again and Davonna stood there, Miriam behind her, looking imperiously at him. "I'm sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Fitzroy, but we have a warrant to search the garage."
"Go ahead."
"I'll have an officer stay with you while we work."
"That won't be necessary," Miriam said.
"It is necessary, Ms. Moray." Savva strode off towards the forensic crew, and waved a female officer over.
"What does he expect to find?" Miriam said, under her breath.
"Something that caused the damage to John's car."
"In your garage?"
"I suppose so. He parked it there while he was gone."
"Davonna, why would they find anything in your garage? You didn't kill him!"
"No."
"And if they do?"
The question hung in the air between them; they looked over at the female police officer that stood ten feet away.
"If they do, it's more evidence against me."
"No, I won't accept it," Miriam hissed.
"Let's go inside, I'm starving."
The reality was too difficult to accept. Davonna turned away from the parked cars with their blue light bars full of intent.
"What have we found?" Savva growled. He stepped into the garage and blinked in a state of shock.
The garage looked more like a hotel room. Sunlight glistened on the epoxy floor, and the walls were painted pristine white. It was devoid of half-open boxes or rusting bicycles or a grandmother's orange china cabinet with floral contact paper in the drawers … nothing normal rotting a garage.
"Looks nicer than my living room," Rallis said, from the far corner.
"Mine too, but don't tell my wife," Savva said. "Did you find anything?"
"Two scissors, a well organized cabinet of garden tools, the usual. There aren't any obvious signs."
"Well if she did it, she'd clean up after herself and dispose of whatever she used."
"Not necessarily, Sir." The voice came from the back of a large, glossy black cabinet. A sergeant stood, his blue-gloved finger hooked under the handle of a small saw. "There are bits of metal and fluid on this blade."
"Bag it. Let's get going boys and girls, I don't want to be here longer than we have to."
"Not what you expected?" Rallis asked, with a sly grin.
"I'm not convinced."
"Yes, but the evidence points to her."
"Nothing is this easy."
Savva stepped aside and made his way around the rest of the crew. He stood in the doorway and glanced at the house, wondering what Davonna and her high-browed sister talked about. He knit his hands together, desperate for a cigarette even though he hadn't had one in twenty years. The gnawing feeling that he’d missed a large piece of the puzzle was back. It set his stomach rolling, and the ulcer he'd had since his promotion to captaincy flared. Unemployment and embarrassment: that's what he'd get if he didn't solve this case.
Savva started forward, with a vague notion of taking a proper examination at the grounds Davonna had tended during the week her husband had been in London. The sun beat down with a vengeance; he pulled a hand across his forehead and it came away dripping with sweat. He tugged at his coat collar, longing to peel off his coat, roll his sleeves, and take a nap in the gazebo.
It sat nearer the house for the convenience of the host. Beyond the gazebo it looked like pictures he'd seen of English gardens on country estates. He sauntered and sighed with pleasure as he sauntered across the manicured grounds and underneath a canopy of wisteria and between the towering cypress trees. That the garden was well tended and well oriented was obvious. A keen eye had planned this space; it needed a full-time gardener to maintain it.
He sat on a marble, semi-circle bench nearer the back of the property, and his mind turned to the list Davonna had tacked to the corkboard in the kitchen. Perhaps this garden was more than just greenery to trim and flowers to tend and weeds to pull. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine her willingly toiling away if she did it as some kind of escape. But the nagging discrepancy lingered... why had the list been in John's handwriting? She didn't need him to tell her what to do.
"Sir … Sir?"
"What?" Savva barked, as a wide-eyed private swung into view.
"We finished, Sir."
"Right," Savva said, and turned to the constable who hadn't moved. "Well get on! The real work will be at forensics." The constable jumped as though Savva’d shocked him with wire, and took off at a brisk trot. "Damn useless, can't even scratch their arses without instruction," he muttered.
He walked back the way he had come, but paid little attention. He never wasted investigative effort. Even the undulating wisteria failed to catch his eye. Back in reality, the threat of an explosive case hung over his head, along with the woman he didn't understand. For decades he had survived on a well-honed set of police instincts—'the gut' as the American's called it. His was ninety-five percent reliable. Missing kids came back within a day or two, the women with hand shaped bruises on their arms and black eyes most likely got them from their husbands, and bar fights were usually drunks arguing too emotionally about football.
But that rogue five percent flew in the face of normality. “There's nothing new in crime," Doyle wrote. Crime never changed. The Ancient Greeks had written everything of note. Criminals didn't dream up new motives. Human instinct was all the same at the end of the day.
Savva knocked on the door, and Davonna opened it. She looked as though she had aged ten years in the last hour. Her eyes were blood shot, her shoulders slumped forward, and she leaned against the door so heavily it appeared to be propping her up.
"We've finished," Savva said.
"I see. So what's next?"
"It depends on what we find." Savva turned and walked back down the steps, but Davonna's voice stopped him.
"I didn't kill him. I didn't."
Savva stared, flabbergasted, as though she'd gone mad. She didn't seem mad. She looked resigned. He walked away. Davonna didn't move. She watched him depart like she understood he didn't have the words.
She trudged upstairs after watching the line of police vehicles file, one by one, out of the driveway. How had she gone from riding in the front seat to the site of John's murder to be on the receiving end of a veiled threat abo
ut riding away in the back in handcuffs? Davonna stood against the door and listened to the sounds of Miriam tinkering away in the kitchen.
She fidgeted, restraining herself from staring over Miriam's shoulder. Her stomach twisted, the thought of someone else rifling through her organized drawers. But the woman in the kitchen had nothing but love and tenderness toward her. How strange to be safe, to walk through the house without walking on eggshells. To … be. Davonna meandered to the library, to its padded solitude; its books full of knowledge and joy and adventure.
John had never enjoyed books. Words didn't draw him in the way they drew Davonna. She sat for hours, curled in a chair—her fingers clutching a thick leather-bound volume, and slipped away. The haunting hadn't happened lately. John had fallen into darkness. He was manic about her whereabouts, her duties during the day—and the night. Davonna pulled a book off the nearest shelf.
The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis. Davonna drew the old friend to her chest, curled into the chair, held the book to her nose, and flicked the pages through her hands. If magic ever left a trace, it was the smell of the pages of old books.
"There you are!" Miriam burst into the library; her cheeks flushed a deep pink.
Davonna sat up, uncurling her legs from beneath her. "I was reading," she said, and stole a glance at the page number and set it down gently.
"What is it?"
"The Last Battle."
"One of my favorites," Miriam sighed, as she curled into the chair opposite.
"I always liked Lewis' description that there's more to this world than what we perceive."
"Or that there's a place where there is no pain or blemish.”
"Yes, I suppose," Davonna sighed. "I don't believe in heaven, but this book makes me wish it was real."
"Umm, hmm."
Davonna settled further into the leather chair and stared out the large windows. "What were you doing in the kitchen?"
"Making dinner."
"You don't have to cook."
Miriam's face contorted; her brows pulled together and the corners of her mouth turned down. "I do. I'm here to help. I'm not on holiday."
"I should take you to the village tomorrow. At least you can see the sights and get out of this house."
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