Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-six
Skye assumed that one or two police officers would arrive, collect the bones with minimal fuss, and be on their way soon afterward. What she didn’t expect was for an industrial digger to roll up with them, along with a crowd of local residents.
“How does everyone know already?” she asked Andreas, scooting out of the way as three heavyset men in navy uniforms stomped past her through the mud.
“A lot of very big mouths on a very small island,” he said, ever the pragmatist. “As soon as one person discovers something, it is certain he will tell three more.”
“Is it really necessary for them to excavate the entire garden?” she added as the teeth of the digger broke through the top layer of earth. “And with that bloody thing? If there are any more bones down there, they’ll end up as dust.”
“I will ask them to be careful,” Andreas said.
He moved away just as Adam emerged through the gap in the wall, camera already raised. This time he didn’t stop to ask for permission. Victoria followed, a stout man in glasses at her side. Skye had never seen him before, and the prickle along her spine was immediate.
“There are so many people out front,” Victoria said as Skye joined them in the shade of the lemon tree. “I hope you don’t mind us sneaking in like this.”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Skye said, addressing the newcomer.
“We haven’t,” he agreed. “Are you the homeowner?”
He spoke with a clipped British accent and had a pinkish complexion, his round, slightly puffy face giving little away.
The linen shirt he wore was pulled tight over a protuberant belly.
If Skye had to guess, she’d place him in his late forties, though he could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty.
“I am,” she said warily.
“Beautiful spot you have up here.”
“Thanks, I like it.”
“Vicky here was just telling me about your lottery wins. That’s what I call a stroke of luck.”
Victoria turned from where she’d been openly staring at one of the more attractive officers.
“We’re honestly still pinching ourselves,” she enthused. “Every day, I find a new reason to love this little rock.”
“What brings you to the island?” Skye asked, though she really wanted to know what he was doing in her garden.
“I’m here writing a travel piece for Condé Nast,” he said. “One of those off-the-beaten-path-type features, though it appears I’ve stumbled across something rather more newsworthy. A one-euro-lottery home with bones buried in the back garden as a kicker! It basically writes itself.”
Skye felt a hammering behind her ribs, too fast and too jagged.
“We don’t know that it’s anything more than someone’s pet,” she said, punctuating her words with a forced-sounding laugh. “A dog or cat maybe. That’s the most likely scenario.”
The man narrowed his eyes.
“Rather a lot of fuss for a pet,” he said evenly as the digger turned over more clumps of earth. “And am I right in thinking these houses were abandoned during World War Two?”
“Sure were,” Victoria said. “You should’ve seen the state of this place a few weeks ago. Skye’s had to gut the whole thing and start over, haven’t you?”
“It wasn’t quite that bad,” she protested. “Our local contractor, Andreas over there”—she gestured wildly, hoping he would see and come to her aid—“he did a lot of modernization before any of us showed up.”
“But nobody had actually lived in them, correct? So whatever it is that you’ve got buried in your yard here must have been in the ground since the war, if not long before that. This could be the prologue of a decades-old murder mystery.”
Skye opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Do you know much about the previous occupants?” he persisted.
“Well,” Victoria began, “she did find some—”
“No,” Skye cut in. “I don’t know anything.”
Victoria gave her a curious look.
“Putting a story out could help you learn more,” the journalist went on, unfazed by Skye’s abruptness. “In situations like these, it’s not uncommon for someone to see the article and come forward with new information.”
Skye said nothing.
“I’d only need a few words. I could do the interview right now if you’re up for it. Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.”
“Now isn’t a good time,” she told him.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I can’t do that, either.”
“The following day?”
“I have plans.”
Victoria had begun to play with the ends of her glossy ponytail, her gaze flicking between them as if she were watching a particularly uncomfortable tennis match.
“When would suit you, then?” he asked, smile unfaltering.
“I’m sorry.” Skye shook her head. “I’m not— That is to say, I can’t— If you’ll excuse me.”
Before he could press her further, Skye had turned and was hurrying away, slipping through the gap in the wall and past the onlookers toward the village.
She shouldn’t have run, not when the police were still there, though Skye couldn’t imagine any of the officers caring much about her absence.
None of them had done more than grunt at her, preferring to speak only to Andreas.
Bloody men, she thought with unusual savagery. Bloody, bloody men.
When she reached the taverna, Skye paused.
Pantelis must have closed on account of the storm.
The usually cluttered courtyard had been cleared of furniture, and shutters were pulled down over both doors.
He was probably part of the crowd outside her house.
She had spotted Klodi as she fled past, his son, Ajax, sitting up on his shoulders.
They all wanted front-row seats to the show, while that journalist, whatever his name was, appeared intent on writing its script.
What had Victoria been thinking, inviting him in like that?
What more would she tell him? For a moment, Skye teetered on the edge of going back.
The rush of adrenaline that had driven her had now evaporated, leaving her feeling hollow, unsteady, and thoroughly foolish.
The bakery was not much farther. She would buy herself some spanakopita and find an isolated spot in one of the orchards, sit beneath a tree until the coast was clear.
There was a bell above the door that tinkled as she went inside.
“Geiá sou,” a voice called, and a moment later, Sophia’s diminutive form emerged from the back room. When she saw her customer, she beamed.
“ómorfo korítsi. Ti káneis? How are you?”
Skye approached the counter.
“OK,” she said before cautiously trying the Greek word. “Entáxei.”
“Bravo, bravo,” the woman said, adjusting her dark blue headscarf. “It is very quiet today, not very many people.”
“Most of the village is at my house,” Skye said, explaining about the bones.
Sophia’s expression shifted from one of polite interest to clear concern. She reached for the rosary beads coiled beside the till, murmuring what sounded like a prayer as her fingers closed around them.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Skye began, but the older woman shook her head.
“óchi, óchi,” she said. “I was thinking only of the past.”
“Do you know much about it?” Skye said. “Nobody seems to have any idea why the houses were abandoned.”
There was a soft clunk as the rosary beads dropped onto the counter. Sophia’s hands were delicate, the skin nearly translucent, with brown spots scattered among pale blue veins.
“My father,” she said, “he lived for a time up on that hillside.”
“Your father?” Skye leaned in, her mind racing ahead. “When was this?”
“Before the war began,” Sophia replied with a small smile. He was a…exoría. Ah, political…”
“You mean a political exile?” Skye said.
Sophia nodded quickly.
“Nai, nai—exile. When the occupation began, it was not safe for him, not safe for a great number of Greeks, and so he had to go.” She raised her arm and made a sweeping gesture.
“A long time after the war ended, he returned to the island with my mother and found the houses empty, his friends and neighbors, all of them gone.”
“Did he ever see any of them again?” Skye asked.
“óchi.” She lowered her eyes.
“And he never found out what happened to them, where they all went?”
The older woman let out a sigh that was tinged with sadness.
“This I do not know,” she said. “Talking about the war, it made my father very angry. He did not like to remember it.”
“Is he still here on the island?” Skye asked, stirred by the possibility of having a conversation with someone who’d lived in one of the houses and could recall their neighbors by name, perhaps even have photographs of them.
Sophia laid a hand against her breastbone, her gaze drifting far away.
“éfyge,” she murmured, her voice quiet but heavy. She shook her head slowly. “He left long ago.”