Poppy
She jumps at the sound of her name, and stops. She scans the street.
A man looking like a Casablanca Humphrey Bogart in a panama hat sits beneath a vined trellis at a small table outside a Turkish café. He’s in shadow. She can’t see his face under the hat.
He waves her over.
She steps closer, suspicious.
Sun falls on the side of his face, and surprise rustles through her.
“Patrick?”
“Join me?” He gestures to a seat. “Apparently we can’t board yet. There’s some issue and they won’t be running the tenders for another half hour.”
She hesitates, glances toward the harbor, sees groups of milling guests along the dock. No one is getting onto boats yet. She turns back to Patrick. His table is shady under the vines. She’s thirsty.
“It’s better than waiting in the sun at the dock,” he says.
“Okay.”
He gets up, pulls out a chair for her. She seats herself and hangs her bulky bag over the back of her chair. He looks nice. All cleaned up and fresh, if a little wan.
He summons a waiter. “What can I get you? The Turkish coffee is excellent. But they also have very nice mint lemonade or a cold, salty yogurt drink—incredibly refreshing in this heat.”
“A lemonade, thank you.”
He gives the order. When the waiter leaves, she asks, “Where’s Arrabella?”
As she speaks, she notices Avi Galev taking a seat at a place across the street. She tenses. “I—I heard them calling her name over the PA yesterday.”
“She opted to remain on Crete.”
“What? Why?”
“She said she needed a break from me.” He gives a shrug. The waiter arrives with her drink and sets it in front of her. Poppy takes a large gulp, and the coolness is wonderful. She allows a small sigh to escape her.
“Is this to do with you feeling that she’s having an affair?” she asks, stealing another quick glance at Avi.
He laughs. “Direct as always. Good for you, Poppy. I’m afraid the booze was speaking—I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems. Bottom line, we do need to clear the air between us. Figure out where things go—or don’t—from here.”
“So why was the ship’s crew looking for her if they knew she was quitting the cruise?”
“Because she didn’t formally quit. She didn’t sign the requisite documents, or retrieve her passport—she didn’t bother, just didn’t come back. Security gave me a hard time because of it. They still have their eye on me. In case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case something did or does happen to her.” He gives another shrug.
“They figure I could’ve had something to do with her ‘disappearance.’” He makes air quotes.
“They always blame the husband, or partner, first, don’t they?
” He sips his Turkish coffee. “Who knows. Maybe she’ll try to rejoin us in Santorini.
Maybe she won’t. We’ll see. Right now—she’s as good as gone. ”
Poppy’s mind goes to the Death List.
Get rid of Arra.
She thinks of Lillith’s words.
She’s no good for my Patrick. I needed him to see that on his own. So I asked Avi to help with her.
“What about her luggage?”
He shrugs. “She has a credit card.”
Poppy frowns.
She casts another quick glance toward Avi, but he’s gone.
“Is the Black Orchid security still following up?” she asks while scanning the street for Avi.
“Apparently they alerted Crete authorities. Left her passport with the port people. I guess they’re keeping an eye on me while the Greek authorities try to locate her.
” Patrick takes his hat off, drags his hand through his soft pale hair.
It’s slightly damp. Poppy sees a cut on the back of his hand. There’s a graze at his temple, too.
“What happened to your face and your hand?”
“Apart from being pummeled by a Turkish masseuse and brutally exfoliated and cleansed in a Turkish bath? Works wonders, by the way. Ever had one?”
“I mean, you have cuts.”
“Oh, this.” He examines the back of his hand. “Took a bit of a tumble in Chania. Rather humiliating, to be honest.”
“What happened?”
“I got into my head that I needed to drown my sorrows. Found a pub. Had a bit too much raki—bloody strong stuff, that—and tripped and fell down those wretched alley stairs on my way back to the Orchid. Those Venetians could’ve done with some architectural tips, or town planning or something. ” He grins.
It lights up his eyes—she hadn’t noticed how very blue they could look. Or how handsomely he could clean up. She also knows the most deadly venom is often delivered by the prettiest of creatures.
“But here I am. The new me.” He holds his arms out to his sides. “All scrubbed and brushed and heated and flushed and cleansed. Turkey-style. Sorted out some of my thoughts during the process, too.”
“You’re really not worried about her?”
He sighs. “God knows, Poppy, it’s been a long time coming.
I guess I always saw the signs, but I was deluding myself.
We had a tiff—sparked by this whole ruse to get me onto the ship and under Lillith’s nose, and I gave her an ultimatum of sorts.
It’s up to her whether she returns or not.
Perhaps she’ll still decide there’s some advantage in it for her.
But the longer she’s gone, the more clearheaded I think I’m becoming about the whole situation.
I don’t want her back. I guess I don’t mind saying it.
To me, she’s gone. And by God I feel so much lighter. ”
Poppy blinks.
“And how about you, Poppy? What’s your story? Arra did claim you were dangerous and that you’ve been in a spot of rather deep trouble before.”
Nerves come alive again. She’s suddenly conscious once more of the oppressive heat and her circling suspicions. She checks her watch, wondering when they will start the tenders.
“Poppy?”
She clears her throat. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Arra apparently hired that man who was sitting across the street a moment ago. He’s been watching us.”
“What?” She blinks.
“She paid him to dig into your past.”
“Arrabella hired him?”
“That’s what she said. And there I thought he was her lover.
He’s just a lowly PI. She contracted him because she feels that you’re a threat to Lillith, with your past and all.
Mostly she was hunting for a way to get rid of you, I suspect.
And to get herself back into Lillith’s sphere.
She believes she should be ghostwriting that book of Lillith’s. ”
“A PI?”
“Yes. Madness.” He finishes his coffee.
She stares at him.
“But—but he works for Lillith,” she says. “His name is Avi Galev. He’s her security detail.”
He lowers his cup. “What?”
“That’s what she told me.”
He frowns. Falls silent. “Doesn’t make sense,” he says softly.
“I know—right?”
He rubs his freshly shaved jaw. “I mean, if that’s true—Avi Galev is apparently the one who told Arra about your murder trial. That would mean Lillith must already know? Or is Galev hiding that from her? Or . . . this is peculiar.”
“Patrick, about my past, I—”
He places his hand over hers. “Stop,” he says softly, eyes gentle. “It’s okay, Poppy. Or Helen.” He smiles.
She goes rigid at the sound of her old name. Her pulse begins racing off the charts. Fight-or-flight impulses crash through her simultaneously. She begins to hyperventilate.
“I did google you,” he says. “After Arra’s accusations.
I had to. I read about your case. I read what Peter Doyle did to you.
To be honest, poisoning seems far too kind a punishment when all other options are off the table, and the police were no help.
I’d probably do the same,” he says in his posh British accent, as though poisoning people to death is an acceptable, everyday thing.