retirement I’ve been renovating the farmhouse I bought a couple of years ago and I needed a break. I plan to spend my retirement there, ‘far from the madding crowd,’ as they say.
“Oh, but surely you’re too young to retire.”
“Not really retire. I’m just retiring from the rat race. I want to do organic farming and sell the results of my labor. My farmhouse is on ten acres of land.” Nigel had a trace of an English accent.
I felt as though I shouldn’t bring up anything to do with George because I had no way of knowing whether Kathryn had told Nigel Endicott about it. It seemed logical that, unless she was deliberately avoiding the subject, she would have mentioned it the very first thing. “My husband was murdered on this ship yesterday.” Hardly the sort of thing that would slip your mind, but it occurred to me Kathryn might be in need of a break because the tension for her must be unbearable. I could see myself, in her place, heading for a deserted deck with my morning coffee. If someone did join me and want to talk, I’d stick strictly to small talk. Quite natural, I thought.
I left them and took the stairs down three levels to the stern of the Poseidon Deck. This was where Lettie and Ollie had been heading last night for music and dancing in the area around the pool. The deck was abandoned now, so I grabbed a chair and, looking up, saw Kathryn and Nigel still sitting where I had left them. The pool area was open to the sky because the top three decks only went back part way. I moved to a chair that was closer to the bulkhead until I could see none of the upper deck, so Kathryn and Nigel wouldn’t think I was watching them.
I hoped Ollie and Lettie had had a fun evening. Poor Ollie. This was the first vacation he’d had in ages, the first time he’d ever been out of the States, and here he was, a murder suspect. I didn’t need to waste a single minute wondering if he was guilty. The very idea was ludicrous.
I wanted to know more about Leclercq and Stone, the other suspects. Why were they so anxious to get their hands on that krater of Brittany Benson’s? Why had they been so hospitable in offering their suite for a poker game with two total strangers? Ollie said they had been generous with the drinks and they had the poker table all set up when they got there.
Antiquities. That’s what Leclercq was shopping for, wasn’t it? Funny how this was becoming a recurring theme. Leclercq, looking for ancient Greek relics to furnish a client’s new home. Stone, an antiques expert. Luc Girard, world-renowned archaeologist and authority on antiquities. Sophie Antonakos, poor girl from central Greece who, nevertheless, can pick up an antique diadem and immediately spout a scholarly discourse on it. Brittany Benson, showgirl from America, who runs around Mykonos hugging a prize antique krater.
And the Aegean Queen , cruise ship with a theme. It flaunted genuine antiquities in showcases all over the ship.
Okay, but was any of that connected to the murders of George Gaskill and Nikos Papadakos, our late photographer? Were the two murders connected to each other? I thought about it for a while and decided I needed to talk to my son, Charlie.
* * * * *
Charlie, my next-to-eldest, was principal of a high school in northern Virginia, a most trustworthy boy and an absolute straight arrow. I knew I’d have to word my request carefully because Charlie wouldn’t violate the law or even bend the rules, and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what I wanted him to do was ethical. Or legal.
I couldn’t call him now because back home it was three a.m. but I recalled passing a sort of computer room on my way out. An Internet café. It had been closed when I walked past, but now my watch said 9:05 so I decided to check again and, lucky me, it was just opening. A woman behind a desk surrounded by computer stations explained the rates to me but they all sounded expensive. You paid by the minute to access the Internet
“Oh, but surely you’re too young to retire.”
“Not really retire. I’m just retiring from the rat race. I want to do organic farming and sell the results of my labor. My farmhouse is on ten acres of land.” Nigel had a trace of an English accent.
I felt as though I shouldn’t bring up anything to do with George because I had no way of knowing whether Kathryn had told Nigel Endicott about it. It seemed logical that, unless she was deliberately avoiding the subject, she would have mentioned it the very first thing. “My husband was murdered on this ship yesterday.” Hardly the sort of thing that would slip your mind, but it occurred to me Kathryn might be in need of a break because the tension for her must be unbearable. I could see myself, in her place, heading for a deserted deck with my morning coffee. If someone did join me and want to talk, I’d stick strictly to small talk. Quite natural, I thought.
I left them and took the stairs down three levels to the stern of the Poseidon Deck. This was where Lettie and Ollie had been heading last night for music and dancing in the area around the pool. The deck was abandoned now, so I grabbed a chair and, looking up, saw Kathryn and Nigel still sitting where I had left them. The pool area was open to the sky because the top three decks only went back part way. I moved to a chair that was closer to the bulkhead until I could see none of the upper deck, so Kathryn and Nigel wouldn’t think I was watching them.
I hoped Ollie and Lettie had had a fun evening. Poor Ollie. This was the first vacation he’d had in ages, the first time he’d ever been out of the States, and here he was, a murder suspect. I didn’t need to waste a single minute wondering if he was guilty. The very idea was ludicrous.
I wanted to know more about Leclercq and Stone, the other suspects. Why were they so anxious to get their hands on that krater of Brittany Benson’s? Why had they been so hospitable in offering their suite for a poker game with two total strangers? Ollie said they had been generous with the drinks and they had the poker table all set up when they got there.
Antiquities. That’s what Leclercq was shopping for, wasn’t it? Funny how this was becoming a recurring theme. Leclercq, looking for ancient Greek relics to furnish a client’s new home. Stone, an antiques expert. Luc Girard, world-renowned archaeologist and authority on antiquities. Sophie Antonakos, poor girl from central Greece who, nevertheless, can pick up an antique diadem and immediately spout a scholarly discourse on it. Brittany Benson, showgirl from America, who runs around Mykonos hugging a prize antique krater.
And the Aegean Queen , cruise ship with a theme. It flaunted genuine antiquities in showcases all over the ship.
Okay, but was any of that connected to the murders of George Gaskill and Nikos Papadakos, our late photographer? Were the two murders connected to each other? I thought about it for a while and decided I needed to talk to my son, Charlie.
* * * * *
Charlie, my next-to-eldest, was principal of a high school in northern Virginia, a most trustworthy boy and an absolute straight arrow. I knew I’d have to word my request carefully because Charlie wouldn’t violate the law or even bend the rules, and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what I wanted him to do was ethical. Or legal.
I couldn’t call him now because back home it was three a.m. but I recalled passing a sort of computer room on my way out. An Internet café. It had been closed when I walked past, but now my watch said 9:05 so I decided to check again and, lucky me, it was just opening. A woman behind a desk surrounded by computer stations explained the rates to me but they all sounded expensive. You paid by the minute to access the Internet
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