The Maltese Goddess

by Lyn Hamilton

  “You don’t have to shout,” the policeman said peevishly.

  I went to fetch the calmest, or perhaps I should say least hysterical, of the cousins, and got him to talk to the police. Finally they arrived. A doctor was called for Marissa, and I was escorted to police headquarters in Floriana, where I was treated as a major nuisance, until at last I was taken to Vincent Tabone. All of this, including Tabone’s interrogation, had taken many hours and I was feeling more than a little sorry for myself when I got back to the house.

  It was nearly one in the morning, so my first thought was that it was way too late to call anyone. But then I remembered the time difference and realized it was dinnertime back home. But there was the question of who to call. It is one of life’s revealing moments when one considers who, out of perhaps dozens of acquaintances and friends, one knows well enough to call when one has found a corpse, a murdered corpse, stuffed in a piece of furniture.

  Calling Lucas was out of the question. As much as I might need him right now, he was out of reach, probably sitting in a tent eating astronaut food from a plastic bag, oblivious to my situation.

  I considered calling Clive, my ex, on the theory that a heated argument, even over the telephone, would be therapeutic. Even talking to his new wife, the rather fatuous but extremely rich Celeste, might do the trick.

  In the end, I called my neighbor, Alex. I first met Alex when I moved into the neighborhood after my rather acrimonious separation and divorce. He adopted me somewhat in the way he takes in various stray cats and dogs from time to time. I credit his avuncular concern and friendship with getting me through a bad patch in my life. In turn, I have fended off more than one foray by his other neighbors who feel his rather ramshackle house and jungle-like garden are not in keeping with the image they have of our part of town. They’re right, of course. His place is a bit of an eyesore, but who cares? Alex is a genuine eccentric, and I don’t know what I’d do without him now, nor how Sarah and I could manage the store without his help.

  When I told him what had happened, he clucked over me in a soothing and satisfying way.

  “Haven’t heard a word of this here yet, although I’m sure we will soon enough. I’ll expect police enquiries, shall I? You tell me Mrs. Galea—Marilyn, is that right?—has gone missing, and is the prime suspect?”

  “Yes. Did Dave mention whether or not she was at the house when his men got there?”

  “No. I waited for his team to pick up the furniture last night but didn’t talk to him personally. They came around eight or eight-thirty, I’d say. We were open late last night anyway, and they came before we closed. Dave left a message on the answering machine at the shop. Said the furniture was on its way to you, it was late and he was going to bed. Bad cold or flu, by the sound of him. We didn’t bother him at all today. We figured we’d hear from you if there was a problem.”

  “No doubt he’ll be bothered soon enough, if he hasn’t been already.”

  “No doubt. Maybe I should call and warn him he can expect a call from the police.”

  “You know what, Alex? I think I’ll call him myself. Something went very wrong with that shipment, and maybe Dave can enlighten me in some way.”

  “Okay. But you take care. Leave the detective work to the police this time, will you?”

  “I will, Alex. And thanks for being there!” I said. I called Dave at his home. His wife answered.

  “Hi, Sandy, it’s Lara. How’s Dave? Is it possible for him to come to the phone?”

  “Hi, Lara. How’s Malta? Warmer than here, I hope. Did the shipment get there all right?”

  “It got here,” was all I could think to say.

  “Dave’s got a cold. It’s settling in nicely. The way he’s carrying on you’d think he had dengue fever, mind you. You know how men revert to babyhood the moment they get even the most minor of ailments! He’s asked me to screen all his calls. You are, in fact, the only person he said he’d talk to. Hold on a minute, I’ll get him.”

  Dave came on the line, and I gave him a short version of events and told him to expect a call from the police.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed.

  “Can you tell me anything about the shipment, Dave? Did you notice the switch in the piece of furniture? Was the chest particularly heavy? Who was there when your men got to the house? Anything strike you as unusual, anything at all?”

  “We did everything in such a hurry, Lara. I don’t know… I’ll have to ask my team who let them into the house. I didn’t think to ask at the time. I did notice that one piece wasn’t measured with your normal military precision. But the yellow sticker with your initials was on it. I checked every piece for that. And you know, the description—chest, sideboard—not much difference really.

  “I think I thought that maybe Galea had changed his mind about which piece to send, although it did cross my mind that maybe you’d come under the legendary Galea spell and lost it for a minute or two. You wouldn’t be the first woman that happened to.” His laugh turned into a coughing spasm.

  “Very funny, Dave. The guy is dead. Stabbed.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I should have known something was wrong. I guess I screwed up. Big time,” he said morosely.

  “I don’t think you screwed up, Dave. Presumably the murderer switched them. The police here think it was Marilyn Galea.”

  “That little mouse? Tired of all his philandering, no doubt. Still I wouldn’t have put her down for it, would you? And you’d think divorce, while it might take longer, would be a more socially acceptable alternative, wouldn’t you? Most of the money’s hers, from what I hear. Isn’t it just as likely to be a jealous husband, or a colleague whom Galea beat out for a big commission? There must be a few of those. He got a lot of commissions.

  “Come to think of it, I do recall a couple of the guys complaining that some of the furniture must be filled with bricks, or something. But they were all heavy wood pieces, and we didn’t open anything. I just amended the waybill accordingly. We were really rushing to make the flight. I… hold on a sec, Lara, Sandy’s waving at me.”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece for a second or two. “Gotta go,” he said. “Police at the door, as you predicted. Thanks for the warning. We’ll talk soon.”

  “Just one more question, Dave. Was the furniture always in your sight from the time it left the Galea house? I mean, could he have been killed somewhere other than at his house?”

  “Doubt it. The guys took it directly from the house and loaded it on the truck. They came straight to the airport. There was no time for a coffee stop, or anything, and they told me they came direct. I don’t think there was a time when at least one or two of us weren’t there during the loading. And anyway, why would anyone come all the way out to the airport to stab somebody? And what would Galea be doing out on the tarmac or in the hangar?”

  What indeed? It was looking more and more as if Tabone was right. Galea was probably killed in his own home. And yet… I couldn’t imagine Marilyn Galea stabbing anyone, much less her own husband. She had seemed very nice to me. But what did I know? Perhaps I just felt guilty because I’d once contemplated having an affair with her husband. A middle-class Presbyterian upbringing stays with you forever.

  *

  It was not until the next day that I figured out what all the loud sighing was about when Tabone talked about the autopsy. I was back in Floriana the next morning, going over the same old stuff one more time. Marissa, looking very pale and sad, was leaving the office when I arrived. She gave me a wan little smile as we passed in the corridor. I’d seen Anthony and Sophia in the waiting room as I came in. He was utterly crushed, I could tell, by the death of his idol and mentor; she in her own quiet way, was a pillar of strength. It occurred to me that Anthony, an only child, and a very much adored one, was seeing life in the raw for the first time. Sophia on the other hand possessed maturity that far exceeded her young life.

  In any event, as I was reading the typed
version of my statement, prepared for my signature, the telephone rang.

  “What have you got?” Tabone grunted upon answering it. There was a pause.

  “That’s it?” he asked incredulously. Then a few seconds later, he slammed the phone down and spoke to no one in particular.

  “It appears Martin Galea was stabbed. With something sharp. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say? But perhaps you figured that out for yourself just looking at him,” he said, turning his attention to me and glaring in my general direction. I said nothing.

  “Well, what would you expect from a loaner?”

  “A loaner?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Our former coroner, Dr. Caruana, has retired. He’s a prince. Really knew his stuff. We’re hoping to hire another one, Maltese, but in the meantime, we have a Frenchman, on loan. One of their rejects, if you ask me. He complains constantly about the primitive conditions under which he has to work here, and of course, he’s right. We have a long way to go in that area. Can’t do all the fancy tests other labs can. True in the medical area too. When Rosa, our eldest, was badly hurt in a car accident, my wife and I flew her to Italy for tests and treatment. Took every cent we had. No, more than that. We borrowed from several relatives, and we’ll be paying them back forever. But it was worth it, let me tell you.

  “Caruana wasn’t bothered by it, though. He did his autopsies the old fashioned way, and he was always right. This French fellow obviously relied on fancy equipment in the past, and he’s definitely not so good at the basics. Complains about everything, including, and maybe especially, the food here. I hate spending any time with the man, but obviously I’m going to have to.

  “We’re having a devil of a time getting a permanent coroner. But what can you expect? Coroners, like policemen, are civil servants. Very badly paid. You get what you pay for, except of course in my case, where my contribution far exceeds the paltry sum I’m paid, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. He smiled at me.

  “Sorry. Totally lost it there, didn’t I?”

  I decided I liked Tabone. He had a sense of humor, bizarre and occasionally brittle though it might be, and he didn’t seem to take me very seriously as a suspect, despite my involvement in the whole affair. He also didn’t seem to share his colleagues’ distrust of, and dislike for, foreigners.

  “Is that all he said? The coroner, I mean. That Galea was stabbed with something sharp?”

  “Just about. Well, one more thing. He estimated the time of death at about noon or one p.m. yesterday, give or take an hour or two. He bases this on the fact that rigor mortis had not yet set in, which it would normally start to do within five or six hours, and the fact that the last meal in Galea’s stomach—pardon the details here—was breakfast, bacon and eggs. The poor fellow didn’t get time for lunch before he expired.

  “I expect this means that either Galea was killed in Rome wandering about the cargo area for some inexplicable reason, then stuffed in some furniture that just happened to be his, and which just happened to be heading for his new home in Malta, or alternatively that he and the murderer both stole on the cargo plane, and Galea was murdered mid-Atlantic. Perhaps—now here’s an idea—the pilot killed him, in a fit of rage because he was a stowaway. How likely do you think these alternatives might be? Ludicrous, would you say?” he asked contemptuously. “Maybe our loaner is getting into the embalming fluid in his desperation.

  “But I suppose we must work with what we have, and it does give me ideas. I’d better check with the Italian authorities and the airline to see if Galea was on a flight to Rome. Not that I have much in the way of resources, of course. Most of my staff are on security detail.”

  “Security? For what?”

  “It’s not terribly well known for security reasons, but our prime minister is hosting representatives from a number of Mediterranean nations next week. He wants to get Malta into the European Union. It’s an uphill battle, of course. The Opposition party opposes it. They think a little country like Malta will get swallowed up by the Union in one tiny bite and our economy will be ruined, and they may be right. Who’s to say really? I for sure have no idea whether it’s a good idea or not. In any event, the PM soldiers on for the cause. He’s hoping to get the support of countries like Italy and Greece to get us into the Union. So he’ll wine and dine a few of them and see where it gets us.”

  “Would these be people important enough to warrant an invitation to Martin Galea’s new house, would you say?” I asked.

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Interesting question, my dear Miss McClintoch. Very interesting question indeed.”

  *

  The rest of the day passed quietly enough, except for one very strange incident. After my meeting with Tabone, and reluctant to return to the house, I ventured by myself into Valletta. I needed to change some travelers’ checks into Maltese lire, and I had promised myself a return visit to St. John’s CoCathedral. Ostensibly, my reason for going there was the painting I’d heard was in the cathedral museum and had missed on my previous visit, a Caravaggio, and to see more of the cathedral, unhurried by Anthony’s relentless quest for buildings designed by Gerolamo Cassar. The real reason for going there at this particular moment, however, was, I think, an idea that a visit to this magnificent place of worship might put the horror of the previous day in perspective somehow.

  The sun was shining brightly when I went into the dim interior. Once again, I was amazed at how every inch of the interior was ornamented in some way. I found the painting I wanted to see, the quite magnificent “Beheading of St. John,” and then I just wandered around some more. A large tour group had left the cathedral shortly after I arrived, and I had the place more or less to myself.

  In the little chapel to the left of the main altar was a staircase that led down to the cathedral crypt. The guidebook Anthony had purchased for me indicated that visits to the crypt were only possible by writing for an appointment well in advance, something I had obviously not done. On my previous visit, the gate at the bottom of the steps had been held shut with a padlock and chain, allowing only a tantalizing glimpse of the crypt through the gate. This time, however, I could see that the padlock was open. I don’t know whether it was the lure of the unlocked gate, the thought of seeing something usually forbidden, or perhaps a bit of an obsession, recently acquired, with the hereafter, but after looking carefully about me, I went quickly and quietly down the steps and let myself in.

  There is something about crypts that demands silence, the coolness, darkness, and damp so akin, perhaps, to death. I walked very quietly into the depths, trying not to disturb the inhabitants, several of whom, I noticed, had been Grand Masters of the Knights of St. John, in their final resting place. For a moment or two I thought I was alone, until in the very back, at a dead end, I came upon the Great White Hunter himself, crouched low examining one of the tombs very intently. I don’t know why I was surprised. GWH was where he always was when I saw him, hanging about in the presence, here literally, of the Knights. Surprised I was, however, and I obviously startled him. Perhaps he had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard me at first. When he did, he turned, looking at me as much as anything like a cornered animal, fear in his eyes.

  “I’ll give you thirty percent,” he said.

  “Thirty percent?” I said, mystified.

  “All right, then. Forty.”

  I just looked at him.

  “Fifty/fifty. I’ll split whatever we get with you. It’s the best I can do. I have expenses, you know.” His voice was a hoarse gasp.

  “What are you talking about?” I exclaimed.

  He looked at me intently, and then straightened up, keeping his eyes on me at all times. “Then it’s not you,” he said.

  In my confusion, I took this to be an existential query of some sort and replied, “Of course it’s me. Who else would I be?”

  He lunged past me, pushing me roughly against a stone tomb and hurtled up the stairs. I heard his footsteps rece
ding quickly above me. I stood there alone in the crypt for several minutes, listening to some water drop against damp stones, my shoulder aching from the contact with the wall, totally baffled by the encounter.

  It would be some time before the significance of this event became clear to me.

  SEVEN

  But here, what is this? Shipwrecked soul, cast upon My shores. Paul, they call you, Saul of Tarsus, follower of the Nazarene. I see Cathedrals rising from My rocky soil. My strength ebbs before it, the Word that rings across the ages. Love thy neighbor. Subdued, silent, but not defeated, I remain. They will worship Me again.

  *

  The following day the enormity of what had happened finally caught up with me. Until then, I had been reasonably pleased with the way I’d been holding up. I did not wish to think I was becoming inured to the sight of violent death—this was not, regrettably, the first time in my life I’d discovered a murder victim—but by and large I had felt rather untouched by events. I knew that the planets were out of alignment somehow, but I merely sensed a kind of detached surprise. Indeed, I had put my feelings about finding Galea roughly on a par with my perplexing encounter with the Great White Hunter.

  That morning, however, a black cloud had descended upon me. The dreary rain outside mirrored the inner workings of my psyche. The fog that swirled around the yard had somehow worked its way into my body. I felt as if my eyes and ears and all my inner workings were clogged with cotton wool. I could not get out of bed.

  Marissa and Joseph, who had reappeared as suddenly as he’d left, arrived late morning. I heard them come in and call out for me, but I could not summon the energy to reply.

  They came looking for me, and soon their two heads poked around the bedroom door. I waved at them in a languid fashion, extending my hand only inches beyond the edge of the duvet, which was pulled up to my nose, to do so. Apparently they did not like what they saw. I heard, but could not understand their whispered consultation in the hall outside the bedroom and as they descended the stairs.