The Divided Child (20 page)

           
The
Lamborghini climbed slowly up the gravel drive, but when it turned out
Ithaki's
gate onto the paved highway it gathered speed and hurtled south.
 
The road, winding narrowly above high
cliffs, had seemed wonderfully scenic that morning in the taxi, but now it was
dark save for the sweep of our headlights and the distant light from the rising
moon.
 
After three consecutive
hairpin turns where the road seemed to fall away into nothingness just ahead of
us, I decided to risk creasing Demetra’s borrowed dress and slipped on my seat
belt.

           
Spiro,
finally seeming to relax now that we were moving, grinned.
 
"You do not trust my
driving?"

           
"Let's
just say this road makes me a little nervous."

           
"Don't
worry.
 
I could drive this stretch
-- how do you say it? -- with closed eyes."

           
"I'd
rather you didn't."

           
He
laughed.
 
"Only a fool would
close his eyes when there is an beautiful woman sitting next to him."

           
Spiro
was a skillful driver, and he seemed to know the road well, so I forced myself
to relax and enjoy the drive and the glimpses of scenery visible in the
moonlight.
 
I also, from time to
time, stole glances at him.
 
With
his hands set loosely yet commandingly on the wheel and a small line of
concentration visible between his brows, he looked quite prepared to tackle
anything that got in his way.
 
Even
a little boy
? I wondered.

           
We
sped through Corfu Town, continuing south past the airport.
 
The highway curved around a large bay
and then back down to the sea, and we drove some distance with the sea
shimmering like silver cloth to our left.
 
Then Spiro swung the Lamborghini sharply to the right, and we turned up
a narrow winding road that seemed to climb straight up.
 
We drove some minutes in wooded
darkness before coming round a curve to face a well-lit white building of
cascading curves.
 
The car turned
down a beautifully paved driveway and pulled to a stop before marble steps and
wide crystal doors that glistened in the darkness.

           
It
wasn't a restaurant, but a private club, and the dining room Spiro and I were
led to was ornate but almost empty.
 
A young waiter appeared.
 
His greeting to Spiro was formal but enthusiastic.
 
They murmured briefly together, and
then the waiter led us to a table overlooking a large picture window.
 
Spiro ordered for both of us, and then
the waiter strode off, leaving us to face each other over a white linen-clad
table.
 
Perhaps it was my
imagination, but it seemed to me that Spiro averted his eyes whenever his gaze
wandered to the bandaged side of my face.

           
"So,
how did your business go today?" I asked, anxious to shift his attention.

           
He
started, and glanced at me sharply.
 
"What?"

           
"Your
business," I repeated.
 
"The business that took you into town today.
 
How did it go?"

           
"Ah,
that."
 
He shrugged.
 
"It went as I expected."
 
His mouth compressed into a tight line.
 
"And you?
 
Did you enjoy your day at
Ithaki
?
 
I hope you did not find it too
dull?"

           
I
wanted to laugh, but instead just shook my head.
 
I gave him a brief and heavily expurgated description of my
day, leaving out entirely my visit from Geoffrey, Helen's rendezvous, and the
details of my run-in with Paul.

           
The
food soon arrived, and we kept up a patter of small talk while we ate, but
neither of us seemed to have our hearts in it.
 
Spiro once again grew distracted, and from time to time
would stare out the large window.
 
I looked to see what had him so fascinated, but the only thing visible
was leafy darkness.

           
I
decided it was time to start digging for information.
 
Fiddling with my fork, I said casually, "Spiro, I've
been thinking about what happened Tuesday.
 
Don't you think it a bit odd that Michael should have such a
close-call only two months after his father was killed in a car crash?"

           
Spiro's
attention snapped back to me like an over-stretched rubber band. "It is a
coincidence," he declared, "nothing more."

           
"Hmmm,
perhaps.
 
But I can't help
wondering if maybe Geoffrey's right.
 
Maybe someone
is
trying to hurt Michael."

           
Spiro's
dark eyes suddenly flashed with anger.
 
"Who, Christine?" he demanded.
 
"Me?
 
My
sister?"

           
"Of
course not," I said quickly.
 
"But what if some stranger is behind all this?
 
What about what happened to Michael's
father?
 
Is your sister sure that
his
death was an accident?"

           
He
shook his head in disgust.
 
"I
see Geoffrey has been busy with his lies."

           
"What
do you mean?"

           
"I
suppose he claims my sister murdered her husband?"

           
I
shook my head, startled by Spiro's directness.
 
"He told me he doesn't believe his brother's death was
an accident, but he never accused your sister."

           
"Except
to the police."

           
"
What?
"

           
Spiro's
expression was grim.
 
"The
English have little love for foreigners, and the police were quite ready to
believe Redfield's accusations.
 
Fortunately,
they could find no evidence that the automobile had been tampered with."

           
"If
there's no evidence, why do you think he’s so reluctant to accept that his
brother's death was an accident?"

           
"Besides
wishing to make trouble for my sister?" Spiro said.
 
He shrugged.
 
"Perhaps he cannot accept his brother's death because
of the guilt he, himself, feels."

           
I
tensed.
 
"Guilt?
 
What do you mean guilt?
 
What does Geoffrey have to feel guilty
about?"

           
Spiro
watched my reaction closely, and I suddenly worried that he saw all too
much.
 
"What did he have to
feel guilty about?” he echoed in a voice that held more than a trace of
mockery.
 
“Why only that he hated
his brother so much that he once tried to kill him, that’s all."

Chapter Ten

           
It
had been built as a refuge from the Hapsburg court by a grieving Empress
Elizabeth of Austria and had become a summer palace for Kaiser Wilhelm II.
 
Now it was neither refuge nor palace,
but a casino, and as Spiro and I walked up the Achilleon's red-carpeted marble
staircase, I was glad for my borrowed finery.
 
The glittering crowd surging up around us seemed to have
come straight from Monte Carlo.

           
At
the top of the stairs was a mural-sized painting depicting Achilles's triumph
over Hector.
 
The surging crowd spilled
past us as I stopped to gaze at it, and Spiro tugged at my arm to remind me to
keep moving.
 
He led the way out to
the terrace and one of several roulette tables, and managed to get both of us
seated despite the crush.
 
Once
more I sensed in him a pent-up tension and I wondered if he was an addicted
gambler, but he placed relatively small, conservative bets and seemed more
intent on explaining the rules and showing me how to play the odds than on
succumbing to gambling fever.
 
Eventually, I decided his excitement must have another source.
 
I thought the source might have
arrived, when a soft, caressing voice called out his name.

           
She
was short and generously curved and dressed in a silver gown cut tightly from
breasts to hips and then flowing in a foam of ruffles and tulle to the
floor.
 
"Aspasia," Spiro
murmured, rising to his feet.
 
To
my surprise, he did not sound pleased.

           
"Spiro,
my sweet!" she exclaimed softly in Greek.
 
"What luck meeting you here."
 
Her tone was casual, but the look in
her dark eyes was not.
 
She slid a
beautifully manicured hand along the lapel of his jacket.
 
"Come, darling, buy me a
drink.
 
It's been much too long
since I saw you last."
 
Spiro
looked anything but enthusiastic about her proposal, but she didn't seem to
notice.

           
She
was, I estimated, in her mid-thirties, with honey-blond hair cut short and full
around a small, sharp-featured face.
 
Her olive skin was deeply tanned, and large diamonds sparkled at her
bare throat and wrist and right ring finger.
 
This last diamond flashed as her hand slipped through his
arm to lead him away.

           
"I'm
not alone," he remonstrated, resisting the gentle tug.
 
Switching to English he added,
"Allow me to introduce you to a friend.
 
Aspasia, this is Miss Christine Stewart.
 
Miss Stewart is staying at the villa
for a few days."

           
Her
glance swiveled from Spiro to me.
 
She inclined her head politely and echoed my name, but there was a note
in her voice like the far-off warning of a teapot ready to boil.

           
"Christine,"
Spiro said, "this is Mrs. Aspasia Sminiotiou."
 
The slight emphasis he put on the word
Mrs.
caused her small lips to tighten.
 
"Aspasia is an old, old friend."
 
The lips tightened still more, leaving creases in her

pink-frosted lipstick.
 
"Her husband happens to be one of
the most influential men on the island: president of the Bank of Kerkyra, and
an old school mate of mine."
 
He flashed her a dazzling smile.
 
"Where is Panos, by the way, my dear?
 
Didn't he accompany you here this evening?"

           
Two
thin and carefully shaped eyebrows lowered angrily.
 
"Of course," she snapped in Greek, "does he
ever not?"

           
"Ah,
yes, I see him now.
 
Over at the
baccarat table.
 
I must go and say
hello.
 
Christine, you will excuse
me?"

           
"Of
course."

           
"Aspasia?"
 
He held out his arm to her in a gesture
that held more challenge than gallantry; she declined it with an outraged toss
of her head.
 
Spiro shrugged as she
swept away like a regal tornado.
 
Then he, too, left.

 
          
Their
exchange had been the focus of much attention, and I was chagrined to realize I,
too, figured in the amused speculation that now rippled round the roulette
table.
 
My first instinct was to
leave, but pride kept me in my chair.
 
I focused on the bouncing silver ball and placed bets I didn't care
whether I won.

           
Yet
strangely enough, I did.
 
My small
stack of counters grew to a fairly large pile, and the curious glances and soft
whispers were soon replaced by cheers of encouragement and speculation at how
long my run would last.
 
I began to
feel reckless and excited, and setting aside enough counters to repay Spiro, I
slid the remaining stack onto a single number and settled nervously back in my
chair to await the outcome.

           
It
seemed that everyone clustered round the table wanted in on the game, and
minutes ticked by as the bets were laid.
 
Impatiently glancing around the terrace, I suddenly saw something that
made me forget all about my reckless bet: in one of the doorways leading out to
the terrace, Geoffrey Redfield was chatting amiably with Aspasia
Sminiotiou.
 
As I watched, the two seemed
to turn in unison and look over in my direction.

           
"
Deka-eksi
!"
called out the croupier, and a murmur of excitement circled the table.