Her Boyfriend's Bones Page 20

  Slapping low-hanging limbs out of her face, she walked on for another five minutes. The trail ended abruptly in a wide, sun-dappled clearing dominated by a white canvas yurt stamped all over with blue fleurs-de-lis. Brother Constantine filled the door, his wiry beard billowing from his chest like a thunderhead. His black eyes projected a strong distaste for drop-ins.

  “Hello, Brother Constantine.”

  “Dinah Pelerin. Have you taken another wrong turn?”

  “No. I’ve come to ask if you saw the car fall into the gorge.”

  “You had no interest in my prophecies when last we met.”

  “I have no interest in them now. I’m asking if you saw or heard anything that will help me find Inspector Ramberg. He’s missing, as I’m sure you know since you reported the fact to Yannis Thoma.”

  He hulked into the clearing, arms folded over his chest. “You doubt the power of Hera to confer the gift of prophecy?”

  She wavered. Do not mess with a crazy person. Do not dispute the premise of his craziness and do not challenge him, especially if you’re not sure you can outrun him. Constantine was fat, he smelled of beer, and he was wearing an ankle-length frock. She suspended her do-not-mess-with rule. “How do you square your soothsaying for Hera with your monastic vows?”

  “I am catholic with a small c, encompassing all. May I offer you a beer? I’ll bring out some folding chairs and we can talk.”

  “All I want is information about the car. Did you see it go over? Can you tell me anything about what happened to the man who was driving?”

  “I may have information.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Have you not learned the first law of the land? Greeks must always be social before they speak of serious matters.” He turned and went into the yurt.

  He was baiting her. Her anger escalated.

  He emerged with two folding director’s chairs and two bright green bottles of beer. “Hold these while I set up the chairs.” He foisted the ice-cold bottles into her midriff and opened the chairs. “Sit down. I’ll get the church key.” He laughed until his belly shimmied and lumbered back inside.

  “Here we are.” He returned, popped off the bottle caps, took one beer out of her hand, and sprawled in the chair across from her. The wood-framed chair screaked under his girth and one fat, bald knee poked through the opening of his cassock. He had anointed himself with a potent cologne and, on top of the stale beer smell and his natural musk, it nearly made her eyes water. “Sit down.”

  She gave him a smoldering look and sat.

  “Cheers.” He took a long draft and belched. “It seems your friend’s presence in Kanaris has unsettled everyone.”

  “It’s his absence that unsettles me. If you know something, just spit it out. Please.”

  “Have a drink of cold beer. It will quiet your mind.”

  She wished she’d brought the Zigana pistol K.D. had found in the cupboard. Until Constantine chose to speak, she was at his mercy. She glanced at the beer. Mythos. A fitting brand for the mouthpiece of Hera. She took a sip to moisten her throat.

  He took another drink and stroked his beard. “The police asked me for my prophecy about what may have befallen your friend. They weren’t able to make me an offer worth my while.”

  “You want something in return?”

  “If I have useful information, a benefaction in return would be only fair.”

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. Is everything in this country for sale?”

  He guffawed. “The government is selling the train system to the Chinese. The Acropolis and the site of the Oracle of Delphi are available to rent. Two years ago the government planned to sell off a number of uninhabited islands to pay down the debt. The natives grew restive, so the politicians backed off. Instead, they will ask for long-term leases on the islands and public lands, but it amounts to the same thing. It is an auction. Nè, málista, in Greece, everything and everyone is for sale. The only question is price.”

  She thought, God forbid I should ever become that cynical. “You can’t want money. Zenia Stephanadis says your monastery cheated the government out of valuable real estate and it made you rich. She says you’ve set off a treasure hunt in the gorge.”

  “She has tantalized the villagers with the idea of chests of buried euros.” He threw back his head and laughed. “She would enjoy watching them shovel and sweat. Perhaps she has salted the earth with fool’s gold. She is a vindictive woman. She blames the villagers for the satisfaction they took from her husband’s murder.”

  “So you’re not rich?”

  “My money is safe in a Swiss bank. The brothers weren’t the only ones to profit. There were those in the government who received their benefactions, as well.”

  “Did the other brothers leave the country with their loot?”

  “Some. Others have chosen to remain in the monastery. To me, it is a waste to have so much money and live a life devoid of the pleasures money can buy.”

  “Living like a hermit in the woods doesn’t seem much like a life of pleasure.

  “You are right. Zenia gives me money for my immediate needs, but she can’t give me what I need.”

  “Zenia gives you money? Why?”

  “When I entered the monastery as a young novitiate, I shared a cell with a wily old monk named Demetrius. He told me that six months before Colonel Hero was murdered, he contracted a severe case of pneumonia and nearly died. A priest could not be found and Demetrius was called to hear the Colonel’s confession and administer last rites. When the Colonel recovered, Demetrius came into a great deal of money. It was a double miracle.” Constantine broke into another gut-shimmying laugh.

  “Are you saying the monk blackmailed him?”

  “Let us say, they negotiated. The Colonel’s sins must have been splendid. I asked Demetrius for the details, but he declined to share. But all I had to do when I came to Kanaris was mention his name and our close friendship and Zenia could not do enough to help me.”

  Dinah felt a wave of revulsion, but she had ceased to be surprised. The corruption just kept coming. What horrible sins had Phaedon committed that Zenia would pay to keep quiet. Torture, rape, murder? Or had he confessed to being a closet commie who aided and abetted the enemies of the junta? To this day, that would be intolerable to a right-wing zealot like Zenia.

  Constantine said, “The Norwegian was here.”

  She reined in her emotions. He would use any sign of desperation against her. “When?”

  “The morning the car went over. At the marble quarry.”

  “What did you see?”

  “What can you give me in return?”

  Hot anger spurted. He was toying with her. The gorge and surrounding forest ran for miles. One fat, beer-swilling monk couldn’t keep tabs on the whole area. “I can’t think of a single ‘benefaction’ that I have or could get that would help you. My thoughts are actually running along the lines of having you drawn and quartered if you don’t tell me.”

  “I want a card that will permit me to reside in the United States. I think I would like southern California.”

  She almost laughed. “Is the climate in the German Republic not salubrious enough?”

  He frowned as if he missed the allusion and she didn’t elaborate. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not in a position to dole out U.S. green cards.”

  “You’re an American citizen. Americans can appeal to their elected representatives. I’ve read about this. Your politicians are applauded for their beneficence. They will win good publicity for helping a man of the cloth.”

  “Why don’t you buy a green card? All you have to do is invest a half million dollars in an American business and they’ll let you in.”

  “With my legal problems, I would have to overcome too many obstacles. Say that I am being persecuted for my deviant orthodoxy. You
will think of something.”

  “You’ve been specific about what you want. You’ve offered me nothing.”

  “I will show you something. If it helps you to find Inspector Ramberg, do we have a bargain?”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “Because I will show you what I have found before you speak to anyone on my behalf. That is good faith, is it not? It is the Christian thing. Do you promise?”

  “Yes. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Let us go then. It’s a short walk to the quarry, but steep.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Constantine’s extreme corpulence and flapping cassock fooled Dinah. He bounded up the trail like a mountain goat. She found herself breathing hard to keep up. She was still chafing over Yannis’ prediction that Thor was dead. She loathed Constantine, but she wanted desperately to believe that he could lead her to Thor, or some clue to his whereabouts. Constantine had prophesied correctly that the climb would create a serious thirst and he had supplied her with a bottle of water. She paused under an ancient rock wall and drank. Anxious as she was, she still marveled at the grit and ingenuity of the people who had planted olive trees up the side of this mountain and built these enduring terraces.

  “The quarry is just ahead,” said Constantine. He hurdled over a fallen log and turned back to wait for her.

  She took a last drink of water and pressed on. He reached back over the log and offered her a hand. She ignored it. He grunted and continued to climb. She followed. The near perpendicular incline kept her eyes mostly on her shoe tops. When she looked up again, he had stopped. She drew alongside him and looked down into a deep rectangular pit, like an inverted skyscraper. She stumbled back from the edge, nearly falling into Constantine’s arms.

  He said, “The quarry dates back to ancient times. Some of the marble was used to build the Temple of Hera. When Zenia’s husband bought the land in the mid-sixties, production ceased. It hasn’t been mined for many years.”

  She inched forward and peered into the depths. Water had collected at the bottom. If Thor had fallen or been pushed…

  She picked up a stone, threw it into the pit, and listened for the plonk. It seemed to take a long time. She edged around to the other side. There were two other pits, not quite as deep. None had barriers or warning signs. Driving heavy blocks of marble down that narrow, serpentine road would have been a hazardous job. The turnaround area had to have been wider when the quarry was operating in order to accommodate the trucks, but a thicket of pine saplings had encroached. Hillocks of tailings and fractured slabs of marble that must have been unsalvageable as counters and table tops enclosed the area and extended out into the road. A rusted-out dumpster overflowed with cans of lubricant and scrap metal and miscellaneous waste. It probably hadn’t been emptied since the quarry was abandoned. A screen of trees along the edge of the road didn’t quite hide a large area of clearcut.

  “Yannis Thoma comes in the afternoons with his chain saw when Zenia is away at the theater. He steals the wood and sells it in the winter when people are cold.” Constantine obviously didn’t share Yannis’ ethic about one Greek not sticking a knife in another.

  She said, “I assume you didn’t bring me here to show me an illegal logging operation.”

  “Here.” He beckoned her toward the dumpster.

  Her throat constricted. Dumpsters were notorious receptacles for dead bodies, butchered body parts, and horrors galore.

  On the ground beside the dumpster, a black tarp had been spread like a shroud over something smallish. He lifted the tarp with his foot. The body part he uncovered was a forearm, gray-veined white marble. Her eyes fastened on the reddish stain on the outside of the elbow. Was it Thor’s blood? Had somebody bludgeoned him with that arm and thrown his body into this dumpster?

  She looked at Constantine with redoubled loathing. “Did you watch him beaten? Is that why you know about this…this thing?”

  A suggestion of doubt flitted across his face. “I didn’t see the man.”

  “You said that you did. Are you now saying you lied?”

  “I saw his car. I know every car in the village and who drives it.”

  “You’ve put yourself at the scene of a crime. This arm links you to whatever happened here.”

  “I was harvesting honey in the forest. I saw the blue car. It was here and when I looked again, it was gone. I hiked up to see what the policeman had been doing and I found it.”

  “And thought you could use it for personal gain.” She was quivering with rage. “Are you conducting an auction to see who’ll give you the best price, me or the people who beat him up?”

  “I am not someone you can shame, Miss Pelerin. If this object was used to club your friend, I have given you a valuable clue. There is only one man on Samos who owns fine sculpture. Mentor Rodino.”

  She had shelved Brakus’ accusation because antiquities, stolen or not, seemed unrelated to Thor’s investigation. Constantine’s discovery seemed altogether too neat, but she couldn’t process the implications at the moment.

  She looked at the dumpster. It was unlikely that the kill…kidnappers would have unloaded all that garbage, thrown Thor inside, and heaped the garbage back on top of him. But this was a derelict site. Nobody came to collect the trash. She had to be sure. She set her water bottle down on a rock and turned to Constantine. “Help me empty the dumpster.”

  His head reared back in disbelief, but he appeared to recalculate and began to pull a few pieces of junk off the top.

  “Set the plastic bags on the ground over here.”

  He reached in, hauled out a couple of sacks, and laid them at her feet. They weren’t big enough or heavy enough to hold a body, but she pictured Yannis brandishing a chain saw and untied the string. Holding her breath, she dumped the contents on the ground. Cookie boxes, wine bottles, yogurt cartons, cigarette boxes, antifreeze cans, diverse gadgets. The heavier one contained a corroded car battery.

  Constantine tossed out an empty propane tank and two more bags. She sifted through the garbage inside the bags as carefully as if they contained archaeological artifacts. Had Thor come here looking for weapons and interrupted a different crime? Somebody’s secret apati—Yannis cutting down Zenia’s trees, Papas peddling forged cards to refugees, Mentor lifting a stolen antiquity out of a hidey-hole?

  Constantine wiped his hands on the front of his cassock. “That is as far down as I can reach. You can see that he is not here.”

  She chinned herself up on the side of the dumpster and peered over the rim. Caked mud and gravel, some sort of rusted cutting tool, a rotten rope.

  He said, “Zenia will be at home today. She has no performance on Thursdays. I will walk down to her house and collect my weekly envelope. If I ask nicely, she may offer a poor brother a hot bath and a warm meal.”

  Dinah didn’t know whether she felt more contaminated by the garbage or the brother. She said, “I’m surprised she hasn’t shot you by now.”

  He laughed. “Whether you find your Inspector dead or alive, you have made a bargain. I will see you again.”

  He loped off down the road and she looked over the mess she’d made. The afternoon meltemi had begun to blow, sending yogurt cartons and cookie boxes flurrying. Mostly to give herself time to think, she gathered up the emptied sacks, spread them across the garbage, and weighted them down with rocks. She wrapped the forearm in the tarp. Why would the only man on Samos associated with fine sculpture break it and use it as a weapon, then leave it lying about like a personal signature? The thing must weigh close to ten pounds, more than enough to fracture a man’s skull. She tried not to picture it swung against Thor’s head, but she did picture it. She walked behind the dumpster and vomited.

  When she was done, she found the water bottle, rinsed her mouth and hands, and took out her phone to call the police. It was dead. She’d forgotten to recharge
it last night. Maybe it was a sign from the gods. She tossed the empty water bottle into the dumpster, slung the tarp with the forearm over her shoulder, and started down the mountain toward Kanaris.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Pugh-ooh! You smell gross.” K.D made a face of disgust. “Where have you been?”

  “Dumpster diving with Brother Constantine.” Dinah blew into Marilita’s kitchen and laid the bloody forearm on the table. “Go upstairs and bring me some clean clothes, will you? Underwear, shoes, everything. And a towel.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower?”

  “No time.” She kicked off her shoes and looked for her purse. Where had she left it? “Where’s your phone? Give it to me.”

  K.D. set it on the table, but her hand remained closed over the screen. “There’s private stuff in here.”

  “Sounds racy. I’ll save it for the next time I’m bored.”

  “Jeez.” She rolled her eyes and flounced out of the room.

  Dinah sorted through her purse for the card Papas had given her. It listed both the main station number and his cell number. She called the main number. After a few rings, she heard a recorded message in Greek. She left a message in English to the effect that she had obtained new information regarding the disappearance of Inspector Ramberg and was on her way to visit Mentor Rodino. Damn. What call-back number should she leave? She covered the phone and shouted, “K.D., what’s your number?”

  K.D. shouted back from upstairs.

  Dinah left both K.D.’s cell number and land line number and as an afterthought, stated the date and time.