Jeffrey Siger - Murder in Mykonos

Andreas kept smiling, wishing he'd get to the point, but the lecturer was not about to give up his stage.

'Then along came the savior of all neglected churches on our island. He makes repairs, cleans them, replaces candles and icons — if they've been stolen — and says mass. He says it's his mission to protect them. The mayor even gave him a plaque for his work. A little weird — maybe even crazy — but harmless.'

For Andreas, the word harmless hung in the air.

'Why do you say harmless?'

Pappas smiled again. 'You really don't know, do you?' He paused for obvious effect. 'He's a priest — not one of ours, Anglican I think — who's been coming here forever. He's from England and he lives over that hill.' He pointed up toward the church. 'In the only house on an out-ofthe-way beach. Says he likes the solitude — and that every morning he can watch the sunrise from his front door. If you ask me, I think he gets more of a kick out of watching the ancient Mykonos tradition of local boys screwing tourist girls on his beach at sunrise.' He laughed.

Andreas felt the need for a cigarette. A priest involved in a ritual murder — in a church. That's all he needed to make this the Greek TV media event of the year. He couldn't wait to pass the good news on to Tassos. It was late afternoon by the time the ambulance and the Syros contingent headed back to the port. Miraculously, no film crew showed up. It must have been a very busy news day somewhere — or one hell of a party — Andreas thought. Thank God for small blessings. Which got him thinking of the priest. He wondered if he should wait until forensic results were back before talking to him, but decided to try finding him for some light questioning. Just ask him what you'd expect to be asked if you've looked after a place where a dead body was found. He'd have other questions for him later. He was sure of that.

Andreas took one of the police cars and drove southwest along the narrow dirt road winding up onto the mountain with the radar station. Soccer-ball-sized rocks marked the edge of the road — and a straight plunge over the rocky, arid mountainside. Far down and off to the left he caught a glimpse of green and a small beach tucked alongside a crystal blue sea; that was where he wanted to be. He followed the road as it fell down along the mountain toward the sea. Just before winding back up again toward the radar station, a rutted dirt path dropped off to the left. That's where Pappas told him to turn.

It was scruffy and overgrown and looked barely passable except to motorcycles. Andreas bumped and battered his way down, all the while wondering if he'd have to make an embarrassing call for a tow truck to get out. Once at sea level the road smoothed out and he drove for another fifty yards alongside a phalanx of bottle-shaped, gray granite boulders carefully aligned at attention — to keep SUVs from driving onto the beach, he guessed. Someone very strong and determined had gone to a lot of trouble doing that.

Andreas parked at the end of the road and started walking toward the house on the far side of the beach. He remembered he hadn't told his office where he was going. He should have used the radio in the car. He tried his cell phone — no signal. Just his luck to be at one of the few places on the island still without service. He kept going. He walked along waves of light brown sand that seemed to rise and fall in pattern with the deeper brown, rocky ridgelines above the beach. The sand was of the pebbly sort, not the fine sugarlike stuff on the south-side beaches. The winds on this side blew away everything but the hardiest.

He noticed the beach was set so close to the eastern side of the mountain that it must be in shadows several hours before sunset. That must explain why this place was never popular with the late-rising Mykonos crowd.

He stopped about twenty feet from the front door of a traditional round-edged — but tiny — one story, box-shaped Mykonian house. There seemed to be no one around. Not a soul, unless a steady five-mile-per-hour northeast wind counted as a spirit. Suddenly, a man bolted around the far side of the house. He was completely covered in white and moving quickly toward Andreas with a rifle-shaped object in his hand. Andreas' right hand instinctively went to his holster.

'Welcome, friend. I'm Father Paul.' The man spoke in Greek and seemed unaffected by Andreas' lurch toward his gun. He stopped and put out his hand.

Andreas took his hand off his gun but did not extend it. Instead, he nodded and said, 'Hello.' So far, it looked like Pappas was right about the guy. Definitely weird. What Andreas had thought was a rifle was a long-handled brush contraption the priest must be using to whitewash the thick exterior walls of his house — and himself, from the look of things. The man was wearing a pair of shorts, looked to weigh about one hundred-fifty pounds, five feet ten inches tall, and in terrific shape. Andreas guessed who'd moved those boulders.

'Andreas Kaldis, Father. I'm chief of police.'

'Oh, yes, I've heard of you. Sorry, but I've got to finish this last bit before I completely lose the light,' and off he ran to cover some spots by one of the small windows — and himself even more.

Andreas decided to wait until the man finished before asking any questions. He wanted to deal with him on a friendly basis, and sensed to do that it would have to be on the priest's terms. Andreas walked to the edge of the water and did what everyone else on this island did with a few moments to kill — he stared out to sea. Again his thoughts turned to his father. Damn it, why did Tassos have to mention him?

He was reaching for a cigarette when Father Paul went racing past him into the water. Ripples of white trailed behind him until he disappeared beneath the surface where, quickly, a film of white percolated above him, like an escaping halo. He must have been under for more than a minute before surfacing. He dipped his head back into the water and rubbed vigorously at his hair to get out whatever remained of the whitewash. Andreas saw now that his hair was almost as white as the paint. He was probably in his sixties, though you'd never think that if his hair were dark.

Father Paul emerged from the water as if born anew — and just as naked. He was holding his shorts in his hands, wringing them out. 'Yes, my son, what can I do for you?'

The first thing Andreas wanted to say was 'Put on your shorts,' but hey, this was Mykonos and he didn't want to do anything to spook the guy. 'I understand you look after some of the old churches on the island.'

'Every one that needs my care.' He was smiling, still squeezing and still naked.

'How many are there?' Andreas asked, his voice friendly.

Like a loving father proud of his children, the priest did not give a number. Instead he named and described each one in detail. Andreas did not interrupt, just took out his notebook and wrote what he was told.

'Thank you, Father. That's quite impressive. I have some questions about the church on the other side of this mountain.' He pointed up the hill.

'Ah, yes, my beloved Calliope.' Andreas noticed that before saying her name, he put on his shorts. 'How can I help you?'

'When's the last time you were up there?'

'June eighth.'

Andreas was surprised at how quickly he answered.

'With all the churches you look after, how can you be so certain of the date?'

'It was her name day. I always conduct mass there on her name day.'

Andreas should have known that. 'Are you the one who cleaned it and put in the candles?'

'Yes, I do that the week before celebrating mass.'

Andreas remembered that the night before the name day, there's a celebration dedicated to the saint and the souls of the family members whose bones are buried there — though it's more like a big party, with food, dancing, and music. 'Was there a panegyri?'