One Way or Another(7)

“You’re thinking it belonged to the girl who fell off the boat,” Martha said, tripping on the stony path so Marco had to grab her. He put an arm around her waist. It felt good and they smiled at each other, pausing to kiss.

“Like teenagers,” Martha whispered, burying her face in his neck. It smelled of clean air and sea salt and fresh sweat and faintly of the citrusy cologne he used, a combination that was uniquely his. But Marco had other things on his mind, and he looked away, staring out to sea, obviously thinking about what had been said, about the gold chain and the initials.

“I can e-mail someone I know at Cartier, if you like,” Martha suggested. “Explain how we came by the chain, tell them we would like to find who it belonged to so we can return it. I’ll ask if they have a record of it, perhaps they can identify it from the initials.”

“I don’t know why but I feel it must have belonged to the girl I saw drown,” Marco said. “What I’m asking myself is how it got off her neck into the water. You saw how difficult that lobster clasp was to unfasten. It could not have simply slipped off.”

“You mean you think someone took it off then threw it into the sea?”

“Perhaps it was the only item that could have identified her.”

“Apart from finding her body,” Martha reminded him. “Marco,” she protested, “you are simply pursuing an idea. There is no girl, there is no murder. Nothing happened, just someone diving off a boat for a swim.…”

Marco threw her a cold glance. “I may not be a detective,” he said, “but I know what I saw and I know she didn’t come back up. Somebody hit her, somebody wanted her dead.”

Marco recalled the girl running to the stern of the big black boat, turning with a hand held to her bloody skull to look behind her … and then her fall. He replayed it in his head, seeing her again and again, falling, her long copper hair a cloud floating above her. And him staring, waiting for her to come back up … diving in after her when she did not. And never finding her. He had been beginning to think perhaps Martha was right, except now he had the chain with its initials. AM.





5

It was a week later, and Martha had already left for New York. Marco was sitting alone under Costas’s ancient olive tree, stripped of its fruit, which Costas was now serving to his customers on thin wooden toothpicks, warning them to take care, the olives were so juicy they might squirt. And they did, as Marco knew from experience. Em too. She was fond of an olive every now and then, rolling it on her tongue, never quite sure what to make of it until she finally swallowed it whole and sat with imploring eyes asking for more. Two were the max for any dog, Marco decided; Em was better off with the mastodon bones. And he was better off with the braised goat which smelled delicious wafting past in a steaming dish straight out of the oven to a lucky couple on the terrace. They scarcely seemed even to notice, they were so busy looking into each other’s eyes. The eyes of love, Marco thought jealously.

Martha’s visit had been quick; she had left for New York the day before and he was bereft. Not only did he miss her physically, he missed talking to her; she was the only person who would ever understand that he was speaking the truth when he said he had seen a young woman murdered. Well, not actually seen the act, merely the end result. No one understood because apparently no such young woman ever existed.

Artemis served the couple and walked briskly back. Her long black hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore an embroidered white cotton peasant blouse that slid sexily off her shoulders, with a full red cotton skirt that swished sexily around her knees. On her feet were un-sexy flip-flops. Her toenails were painted a pale pink and her full mouth a glossier shade. Marco thought there was no doubt she was a lovely woman. He had already made many sketches and one day he meant to paint her portrait. Now, though, he had the red-haired girl on his mind.

“Artemis.” He caught her hand as she passed by. She turned, questioningly. “Do you have a minute? I need to ask you something.”

Intrigued, Artemis pulled up a chair. “Only a minute,” she said. “As you can see we are very busy.”

Café life swirled around them. The usual row of weathered old men were lined up against the wall as they were every day, with their caps and canes, elbows on tables, chairs facing out onto the street so they could see everyone that passed, and make comments in low tones. The day’s heat still lingered, the single streetlamp lent a dim glow and candles flickered in red and green glass holders left over from the previous Christmas.

“Marco?” Artemis’s eyes were wide, waiting for what he had to say.

“I’m looking for a red-haired young woman.”

“Martha has been gone only one day and already you are looking for another woman?”

“It’s not like that. This woman is dead.”

“Dear mother of God.” Artemis quickly crossed herself. “I don’t know any dead young women. We are all still alive.”

“This one had red hair. I need to know if you ever saw her here in the café, or on a boat, at the jetty.”

Artemis’s eyes rolled back; she was thinking. “I saw that girl.” She remembered her now. “Clouds of long red wavy hair. She passed by once or twice but never came in here.”

Marco heard his own sigh of relief. He wasn’t imagining it; the girl did exist.