02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (21 page)

Here my luck ran out. Galizia’s office was guarded by the most formidable secretary, an Englishwoman, left over perhaps from the British regime, who reminded me of the films of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in their declining years, or perhaps Norma Desmond of
Sunset Boulevard
fame: makeup applied with a trowel, thinning and overdone hair, and a generally cranky disposition. Behind her on the wall were three photos: The center one was the
de rigueur
portrait of the titular head of state, the President; to his right was the Prime Minister, Charles Abela, whom I recognized from newspaper pictures; and to his left Minister Galizia. While protocol had been observed, I could not help but notice that Galizia’s picture dwarfed that of the Prime Minister. It was a better photo than those in the newspaper clippings, and a good sight better than the mere glimpse of him I’d had that day at the University, so I tried to memorize his features, should I have the pleasure of meeting him in person.

I summed up the secretary and decided that the imperious approach was my only chance. It was, I confess, singularly unsuccessful, but I’m not sure there was an approach that would have worked. A bribe was clearly out of the question, even had I been able to afford one.

“I would like to have a few minutes with the Minister, please,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked sharply.

“No, but I would be happy to make one,” I replied, appearing to retreat slightly. “How about ten-thirty this morning?” I said, glancing at my watch. It was 10:27.

She was not amused. “What is the nature of your business?”

“I’m a journalist from Canada doing a story on Martin Galea, the famous Maltese-born architect. I am aware the Minister was a childhood friend, and I would like to interview him about it.”

“You may speak to public relations, second floor.”

“I’m sure the people in public relations have not met Mr. Galea, and their comments would not, therefore, be helpful,”‘ I said. “When is the Minister available?”

I thought she would say something like “For you, never,” but she didn’t. Instead she turned to the telephone, which was awkwardly placed on the credenza behind her, perhaps her way of treating visitors with contempt. She dialed an extension and with her back to me spoke rapidly in Maltese. I couldn’t tell from her tone whether this was a positive call or not, but I was not optimistic.

As she spoke, I glanced down at her desk and saw a pile of invitations, a luscious cream paper embossed in gold, very swank. It appeared the Minister requested the pleasure of someone’s company at a reception at Palazzo Galizia that very evening, if I were reading correctly upside down. I assumed they were surplus invitations: There was a guest list under them which I couldn’t read.

The dragon still had her back to me and was whispering conspiratorially into the telephone, when much to my own surprise and horror, I found myself reaching quickly across the desk and plucking the top invitation off the pile. By the time she’d hung up and turned around, I’d pressed it between my handbag and my hip to conceal it, and the rationalization process had already begun: something along the lines of desperate times requiring desperate measures.

She gave me a triumphant smile and said, “Security is on its way. I suggest you leave before they get here.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll send you a copy of my article. I hope you’ll be pleased with the way you’re portrayed. By the way,” I tossed back at her as I opened the door to the stairwell, “you have lipstick on your teeth.” I had the satisfaction of seeing her reach for her compact as I beat an ignominious retreat. Childish, I know. Some people just bring out the worst in me!

I was about a half a block from the building when Tabone caught up with me and issued his invitation for a coffee. There were crowds of people on Republic Street when we got there, and it was closed to vehicular traffic at that hour, but one thing about traveling with a policeman: Small details like parking and closed streets are not a problem. Tabone pulled the police car up onto the sidewalk right by the Caffe Cordina and we went in. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me there. It apparently wasn’t to discuss his investigations, because he wasn’t very forthcoming on that subject, nor did he make any reference to my being in the Palazzo Parisio, if indeed he had seen me come out of the building. I did learn, however, that Joseph would be brought back in for questioning again today.

“I don’t want to do it, frankly,” Tabone said. “But with that autopsy report on the books, there’s not much I can do about it. And he’s being such a stubborn old fool. Won’t tell anybody what he was doing in Rome. He took the first flight out one morning and came back the next day on the same flight as the deceased, except that Galea was traveling baggage class, of course.”

“So when do you expect to get another autopsy report?”

“Today, if we’re lucky. Caruana went to Rome to talk to the forensic lab technicians, and he’ll be back late today. I still think it was Mrs… Marilyn Galea. Rob’s colleagues have looked into Galea. It seems he’s given her lots of reasons to kill him. Quite a bit younger than she is. Fifteen years, I think. Known to stray, shall we say. And he probably married her for her money, which maybe he didn’t need anymore.”

“Yes, but why now? He’s been like that for years. What would set her off now, particularly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was going to leave her for a twenty-year-old. Not unheard of, you know,” he said, smiling at me. Obviously he and I were going to have to agree to disagree on the subject of Marilyn Galea.

“And Ellis Graham?”

“We think that was a robbery, actually. All his money was gone, along with his ID.”

I’d assiduously avoided thinking much about Graham’s demise. It was so grotesque, a dead man held up by the sword on an empty suit of armor. But the unwanted picture now came into my mind as we talked: the body embracing the Knight, the bullet hole in the head, the sword straight through him, the rumpled clothes and hair.

In that instant I knew what I’d failed to notice at the time.

“Did you find Graham’s hat, by any chance?” I asked Tabone.

“Hat?” he said vaguely.

“His hat. Big brim, Australian outback style with one side turned up, tied under the chin. Leopard skin band too.”

Tabone didn’t say anything, but I could see the hat was news to him. I tried to get him to talk, but he clammed up and was being rather closemouthed about everything. Which was fair enough, since I’d had another thought that I couldn’t bring myself to share with him or anyone else. If I was so convinced that Graham’s and Galea’s deaths were linked in some way, who, other than myself, was related to both? The Farrugia family, Joseph, Marissa, and Anthony, that’s who. All of my Maltese friends had been in the marketplace when Graham was killed, but only the Farrugias had a relationship of any sort with Galea. It was a tenuous link, to be sure, and I was convinced of their innocence, but I was afraid that mentioning that I had seen them from the window of the museum while I was chasing Graham would not improve their chances with the police, and Tabone had said Joseph would be brought in again soon.

Tabone had brought a newspaper, the
Times of Malta,
and our conversation turned to the arrival of the foreign dignitaries in Malta to discuss the country’s entry into the European Union, among other things. The cover photo showed the British Foreign Minister being greeted at the airport by Galizia.

“Are you expecting any trouble?” I asked, gesturing toward the photo.

“Hope not. We have all kinds of security in place, of course. Almost as much as when President Bush and Gorbachev were meeting out in the Grand Harbour.”

“I was wondering about the school performance at Mnajdra,” I said. “Strange things happening at the site.”

“You mean that incident with the storage shed? Probably irate parents, you know.”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit strange that all these things are happening when world leaders are arriving here? I mean, two people murdered, nasty things going on at the site of a performance for these very important people?”

“Hard to see the connection. But we have someone in there.”

“In there? At Mnajdra? Do you mean undercover?”

He didn’t answer, so I assumed that was a yes. “Who is it?” I asked.

“If I told you that, and if we did have someone undercover there, which I’m not saying we do, then the person wouldn’t exactly be undercover, now would they?” It was clear he wasn’t going to say. We parted company, and I headed back to the house.

I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with the plan to crash the party at Palazzo Galizia, which was indeed for that same evening at an address on Villegaignon Street in Mdina. This would take more nerve, to say nothing of lack of social graces, than I would normally be capable of. It was Rob Luczka who decided it for me in a rather backhanded way. I told him about my visit to Galizia’s office and showed him the invitation. I was thinking that if I could persuade Rob to go with me, I might just risk it. But when I showed him the invitation, his response was, I suppose, predictable.

“How’d you manage that?” he asked.

“I was at his office and told him I was a friend of Martin Galea’s and…” My voice trailed off. For some reason, although I’d lied my way through the hallowed halls of the External Relations Ministry, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to Rob. My face, as usual apparently, did me in.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” he exploded. “You nicked it, didn’t you?” I nodded.

“I’m a policeman. I don’t crash parties, and I don’t mix with people who steal things either!” He stomped off in a huff.

I, equally annoyed, developed a fallback position. When Marissa brought Sophia’s costume back, beautifully mended, washed, and wrapped in tissue, I asked her if she would do me an immense favor and allow her son to be my chauffeur for the evening. I told her I’d been invited to a party in Mdina but didn’t want to drive myself, and it would be too late for the bus. She agreed. We arranged for Anthony to meet me at the house and drive me to Mnajdra for the dress rehearsal— he’d planned to be there for the rehearsal anyway—and then to drive me on from there.

There was no indication on the invitation of how to dress. I expect that’s because old families, or those who aspire to look that way, know the code. I’d brought one good outfit, just in case Galea had wanted me to help him with his party, either to help host, or even just to pass the canapes. It consisted of long silk pants that flared out at the bottom—I believe they may be called palazzo pants, which seemed appropriate enough for a party at the Palazzo Galizia—and a black silk embroidered top I’d picked up in my travels. The invitation said nine p.m., but I did not plan to arrive before ten when with any luck the party would be in full swing. When one is crashing a party, it seemed to me, it would not be a good idea to be the first guest. That would also allow enough time to get through the dress rehearsal, and for Anthony to drive Sophia home before going on to Mdina.

Rob was nowhere to be seen when Anthony picked me up and we headed off for Mnajdra, which suited me just fine. My face, no doubt, would have given me away.

The rehearsal was a fiasco. The best one could say about it was that if the old adage about a poor rehearsal meaning a great performance was true, then the next night would be a stupendous success. The girls seemed nervous, perhaps because the phalanx of police and army had doubled since the previous evening, and it was all a bit overwhelming for them. They forgot their lines, I got the costumes jumbled up, the music didn’t sound quite right, some of the lights didn’t work, and Victor Deva clucked and fussed all evening in a rather irritating way. The girls were quite down by the end of it all.

Anna Stanhope called them all together just before they went home. She repeated the adage about poor rehearsals and good performances, which brought little smiles to the girls’ faces, and then she said, “You are all citizens of a very tiny republic with an immense and sweeping history, and you are heirs to this heritage. The story you will tell to these world leaders tomorrow night is one of which you can be very proud. It tells of people who, although they have been conquered many times, have never been truly defeated, and have never lost their distinctive character despite attempts by many nations to stamp that out.

“You and your ancestors have endured times as dark as any nation could, whether that was the Great Siege of Malta by the Turks, or the second Great Siege so recently, when your parents and grandparents held on against tremendous odds, bombed day and night, food supplies dwindling, while the world watched and despaired for you. Many thought you would not survive it, but survive it you did. Many thought you were too small for nationhood, but you have proven them wrong. These are the stories you will tell tomorrow, and you will make your parents and your country proud.”

A hush had fallen over the site. Even the police and soldiers were paying rapt attention. She put her hand up in what seemed to be a gesture of blessing. “May the power of the Great Goddess be with you tomorrow, the wisdom of Inanna of Sumer in whose temple writing was invented; the power of Isis, whose name means ‘the throne’ and who provided the foundation for kingship in Egypt; and the strength of Anath who wading through blood, confronted and defeated Mot, the God of Death. But most of all we ask the blessing of the Great Goddess of Malta, who inspired your ancestors to build these temples right here where we stand, as a reflection of her strength and power.”

She lowered her hand and said simply, “See you tomorrow.” The girls left, standing taller perhaps, than they ever had before.

“You are a wonderful teacher,” I told her, wanting to voice my admiration but not being sure how.

“It is something I love to do,” she said simply. “Now let’s get to work,” she said, resuming her normal tone.

Sophia and Anthony helped me sort out the costumes, Victor and his cousin Francesco packed up what equipment they could and covered the rest, Alonso as usual did the heavy work, lifting the boxes and stacking them in the storage shed. Mario and Esther saw to it that a guard was posted on the shed all night. I changed into my party duds in the shed, and then we headed for Mdina.