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Authors: Maria Hudgins
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lots of throw pillows. Lettie and I sat facing the windows on one arm of a U and Ollie, opposite us, occupied a section of sofa normally sufficient for two people.
“You’ve changed clothes, Ollie,” I said.
“I’ve been handling fish all afternoon. Lettie made me take a shower.”
“I asked him if he needed a sponge for his bath. We have plenty.” Lettie stuck her foot around the coffee table and gave Ollie’s tent-pole leg a light kick.
Ollie cleared his throat and paused a moment. “Lettie tells me the man you found in the alley was our ship’s photographer.”
“It was,” Lettie said.
“I don’t think I’d have recognized him,” he said. “Who looks at a photographer when he’s taking your picture? He’s always got that light shining straight in your eyes.”
“But you can count on Lettie to recognize anyone she’s ever seen before.”
“Of course I recognized him. We’d just passed him on the dock. He had a cute sort of round face and he was wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt.” Lettie paused and studied her hands for a moment. “The shirt wasn’t blue and white when I saw him later. It was red.” Her voice faltered. “So much blood. You wouldn’t think a person could have so much blood in him.”
“Did you see a knife?” I asked. We hadn’t discussed this at all on our walk back to the ship. We hadn’t waited for a bus to tote us across the hill, and the three of us had made the whole trek in silence.
“No.”
“Did you see any cuts on his arms? I mean, if there were cuts, it would indicate he’d fought his attacker.”
“Oh yes. His arms were all cut up. His chest, his arms, his neck. All cut up.”
“It must have been a battle.”
“A lop-sided battle,” said Ollie. “Apparently only one of them had a weapon.”
“I sure hope they find the weapon. The knife or whatever it was.”
We talked about it at length, but all we knew was based on the one brief look Lettie had, and that wasn’t nearly enough. The waiter brought our drinks. The lounge was starting to fill up as people returned to the ship. We were already a half-hour past the time we were supposed to have left the dock. A man came over and asked us if he could take the empty chair at the open end of our seating nook, but before he could take it, a hand grabbed his shoulder.
Marco stood behind him. “Sorry, but I need this chair,” he said. The man bowed politely and left.
“What a day, eh?” Marco pushed the chair close to my end of the sofa and sat. He smelled of sweat. “ Li mortacci . . .” He squinted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Tell us,” I said, and the three of us stared at him.
“His name was Nikos Papadakos and he was from Crete. His family, his wife and children, still live in Crete. He had worked on this ship for two seasons. Everyone liked him.”
“Not everyone,” Lettie muttered.
Marco gave Lettie a sidelong glance. “Everyone they’ve talked to so far. A lot of people from the ship were down in the area near the waterfront when it happened. The police grabbed everyone they could find and talked to them. At first, their chief wanted to hold up the ship’s leaving until they could sort everything out, but the ship security and the FBI men came down and talked to him. They pointed out that the people on the ship are as good as in jail when it comes to escaping.”
“Absolutely,” Ollie said. “Much easier to escape from an island with a dozen marinas than from a ship.”
“Have they found a weapon? What was it? A knife?” I asked.
“Almost certainly a knife, and no, they have not found it.”
“Do you think our photographer had a weapon, too? Lettie says he was all cut up.”
“It is hard to say. He has lots of defensive wounds all over, but if Papadakos had a weapon, the killer must have taken it with him.”
Ollie leaned back and threw one arm across a cushion. “Are they letting you work the investigation with
“You’ve changed clothes, Ollie,” I said.
“I’ve been handling fish all afternoon. Lettie made me take a shower.”
“I asked him if he needed a sponge for his bath. We have plenty.” Lettie stuck her foot around the coffee table and gave Ollie’s tent-pole leg a light kick.
Ollie cleared his throat and paused a moment. “Lettie tells me the man you found in the alley was our ship’s photographer.”
“It was,” Lettie said.
“I don’t think I’d have recognized him,” he said. “Who looks at a photographer when he’s taking your picture? He’s always got that light shining straight in your eyes.”
“But you can count on Lettie to recognize anyone she’s ever seen before.”
“Of course I recognized him. We’d just passed him on the dock. He had a cute sort of round face and he was wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt.” Lettie paused and studied her hands for a moment. “The shirt wasn’t blue and white when I saw him later. It was red.” Her voice faltered. “So much blood. You wouldn’t think a person could have so much blood in him.”
“Did you see a knife?” I asked. We hadn’t discussed this at all on our walk back to the ship. We hadn’t waited for a bus to tote us across the hill, and the three of us had made the whole trek in silence.
“No.”
“Did you see any cuts on his arms? I mean, if there were cuts, it would indicate he’d fought his attacker.”
“Oh yes. His arms were all cut up. His chest, his arms, his neck. All cut up.”
“It must have been a battle.”
“A lop-sided battle,” said Ollie. “Apparently only one of them had a weapon.”
“I sure hope they find the weapon. The knife or whatever it was.”
We talked about it at length, but all we knew was based on the one brief look Lettie had, and that wasn’t nearly enough. The waiter brought our drinks. The lounge was starting to fill up as people returned to the ship. We were already a half-hour past the time we were supposed to have left the dock. A man came over and asked us if he could take the empty chair at the open end of our seating nook, but before he could take it, a hand grabbed his shoulder.
Marco stood behind him. “Sorry, but I need this chair,” he said. The man bowed politely and left.
“What a day, eh?” Marco pushed the chair close to my end of the sofa and sat. He smelled of sweat. “ Li mortacci . . .” He squinted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Tell us,” I said, and the three of us stared at him.
“His name was Nikos Papadakos and he was from Crete. His family, his wife and children, still live in Crete. He had worked on this ship for two seasons. Everyone liked him.”
“Not everyone,” Lettie muttered.
Marco gave Lettie a sidelong glance. “Everyone they’ve talked to so far. A lot of people from the ship were down in the area near the waterfront when it happened. The police grabbed everyone they could find and talked to them. At first, their chief wanted to hold up the ship’s leaving until they could sort everything out, but the ship security and the FBI men came down and talked to him. They pointed out that the people on the ship are as good as in jail when it comes to escaping.”
“Absolutely,” Ollie said. “Much easier to escape from an island with a dozen marinas than from a ship.”
“Have they found a weapon? What was it? A knife?” I asked.
“Almost certainly a knife, and no, they have not found it.”
“Do you think our photographer had a weapon, too? Lettie says he was all cut up.”
“It is hard to say. He has lots of defensive wounds all over, but if Papadakos had a weapon, the killer must have taken it with him.”
Ollie leaned back and threw one arm across a cushion. “Are they letting you work the investigation with
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