Statue of Limitations Page 4

  Carrying my steaming cup of coffee back to the desk, I sat down to work, trying without success to stop thinking about Harry’s murder. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible even though my gut was telling me Case was not a killer. Still, the facts added up and the guilt weighed heavily on my conscience.

  By ten thirty, I had finished half of my daily accounting work, made myself another cup of coffee, and gone out into the shop to take a break. Dad was restocking a shelf of fertilizer and Delphi was seated across from an elderly lady at the long table at the back of the shop having a cup of coffee with her.

  I recognized Mrs. Bird right away. I’d helped her choose perennials for her garden just a week ago, after Delphi had called in sick. I saw her swirl the coffee in Mrs. Bird’s cup and immediately headed toward them. My sister was about to give the poor woman one of her predictions.

  Reading coffee grounds was Delphi’s favorite diversion. She’d make a customer a cup of Greek coffee, a thick, sweet brew with a layer of fine coffee grounds at the bottom, then chatter away until the coffee was gone and only the grounds were left. At that point she would give the cup a few swirls, creating a pattern in the grounds, then interpret them.

  Some customers enjoyed her so-called predictions, while others played along with her, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Then there were those like Mrs. Bird, elderly and highly nervous, who might take one of Delphi’s foresights too seriously.

  When I got there Mrs. Bird was listening to Delphi with wide, alarmed eyes, while my harebrained sister talked a mile a minute.

  “Delphi?”

  She gave me an innocent gaze. “What?”

  “Phone call for you in the office.”

  Delphi gave me a scowl. “Take a message, please.”

  “Mrs. Bird,” I asked, “are you feeling okay?”

  The elderly woman gave me a beseeching look, her pale blue eyes wide with concern. “Not really.”

  “Whatever my sister said to upset you, I apologize. Delphi, a word with you, please?”

  “I was only giving Mrs. Bird good news,” Delphi said. “I told her that her husband is coming back home, and all is forgiven.”

  “That’s just it,” Mrs. Bird said, wringing her thin hands in trepidation. “I don’t want my husband to come back home. He’s dead.”

  * * *

  After seeing Mrs. Bird safely to the door, I stepped outside to stretch my legs and take in some fresh air. The day was mild and sunny with a cooling breeze coming off the lake, so I crossed the street and began to stroll along the boardwalk, gazing out at the blue water. Across from me were the boutiques, art shops, antique shops, pubs, restaurants, and gift shops that made Sequoia such a popular tourist attraction.

  Four blocks down I came to the section of Greene Street that made up Little Greece, where a Greek Fest was held every June. Sequoia also had a big arts and crafts festival in July along with monthly concerts all summer and fall in the band shell at Sequoia Park along the lake. But as I passed the first shop on the block, an art gallery called the Acropolis, owned by Don Fatsis, I was reminded once again of Talbot’s project.

  How deplorable to think that an entire block of shops would be history in less than two weeks, and a big, modern condominium stuck in the middle of our charming downtown, where the tallest buildings were a mere three stories high. How wrong that the diner started by my yiayiá and pappoús would be gone. It made me furious.

  I turned around and headed back, stopping to study the diner. I could picture a beautiful blue door with white columns on both sides, a coat of fresh white stucco, and large windows across the front that took advantage of the beautiful lake view. And while I wanted to encourage my grandparents to remodel, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get involved.

  Then why had I told Kevin I’d attend the meeting? I had to remind myself that what I truly needed to focus on was my own life, working toward independence for Nicholas and me, and holding onto the Treasure of Athena for Pappoús.

  * * *

  At noon, Delphi and I headed to The Parthenon for lunch while Dad handled the garden center for the hour we were gone. It was a dead time anyway, as most tourists and even the locals were eating then.

  Inside the family diner, deep red booths lined the dark golden-yellow walls decorated with gigantic murals—the Acropolis on one side and the Parthenon on the other. The long, faded yellow lunch counter with its red leather–cushioned stools separated the diner into two halves, each side with booths and tables that were almost all full. Behind the yellow counter was a wide pass-through window that showed Yiayiá and Pappoús hard at work in the galley kitchen at the back. Ancient black-and-white linoleum covered the floor, and the smell of oregano, basil, garlic, and lamb filled the air.

  We said hello to Gayla, the hostess, seated on a stool at the small checkout counter to the left of the door, and headed for the last booth on the left side that Mama always reserved for family. As usual, she had a large bowl of feta cheese, kalamata olives, and cherry tomatoes waiting, along with glasses of water, hunks of homemade bread, and tzatziki, a cucumber yogurt dip.

  “Were there any updates on the murder?” Mama asked, as she scooted in next to Delphi, seated across from me. My sisters Maia and Selene hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Just the same news they had on this morning,” I said.

  “That’s all the customers are talking about,” Mama said. “There hasn’t been so much chatter since Mr. Talbot drowned in his bathtub.”

  A sudden hush fell over the diner. I swiveled to look at the TV over the counter where everyone was staring.

  “What’s happening?” Mama asked, rising.

  A customer said, “Another report about the murder. They just showed footage of a man caught on security cameras leaving the Talbot mansion.”

  “Wait a minute.” Delphi placed her fingertips at her temples. “I’m getting a vision.”

  I got up to move closer to the TV as the surveillance video played again. The images were somewhat grainy, but I could still make out the home’s white bricks, a row of huge viburnums along the front in full bloom, and a pair of open black French doors. A moment later I saw a dark-haired man dressed in a tan bomber jacket, navy jeans, and dark shoes run out of the doors and begin jogging out of frame.

  “Hey!” Delphi said, pointing toward the TV, “I’ve seen that guy before.”

  A cold knot formed in my stomach. I’d seen him, too. It was Case Donnelly.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My mother stared at Delphi in alarm. “You saw that man? Here in town?”

  “Yes!” Delphi answered. “That’s what my vision was about. And Thenie—”

  Before she could say more, I burst in with “—had a vision, too!”

  Mama stared at me openmouthedly. “You had a vision?”

  “Yes!” I pointed toward the TV. “Right now, in that news report, just like Delphi did.” I gave my baby sister a light kick under the table. “Right?”

  “Ouch.” Scowling at me, she reached for her ankle.

  “For a moment I thought you were serious, Athena.” Mama rolled her eyes and fixed her apron, bracelets jangling. “I’ll be right back. Behave, you two.”

  Delphi waited until Mama was out of earshot before whispering, “That was mean. I really did get a vision.”

  “It wasn’t a vision,” I hissed, glancing around to be sure no one could hear us. “You remembered seeing a man at the shop who resembled the guy in the video.”

  “I’m telling you it wasn’t a memory. I know the difference.” She reached across the table and took my hands. “You’ve got to believe me. The man who came to see the statue”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“is Harry Pepper’s murderer.” She sat back as though vindicated. “There. I’ve said it. Now you’ve got to call the police.”

  “Call the police for what?” Maia dropped her purse onto the bench next to Delphi, sat down, and began rolling her shoulders, her hair still in a ponytail from yoga class. Mama plopped
down beside her.

  “Something knocked over Pappoús’s statue and I think it’s that impish little Oscar.” I narrowed my eyes at my youngest sister. “If you wouldn’t feed him, Delph, he wouldn’t come around.”

  “Dad feeds him, too,” Delphi argued, completely oblivious to the subject change. “Besides, how can we stop feeding him? He was abandoned by his mother and depends on us to live.”

  “And you know this how?” Maia asked.

  “I saw it in a vision, just like the vision I had about . . . ow!” Delphi gave me another scowl but wisely let it go rather than being kicked a third time.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Yet as I reached for an olive, I was struck by the fact that I was protecting Case. And why? What was keeping me from turning him in? Was it the fear that the police might be pursuing an innocent man—or was there a deeper reason?

  “Are you talking about Oscar again?” my sister Selene asked, as Mama got up to let her in the booth.

  “How did you get here so early?” Mama asked. “I thought you had a client.”

  “She canceled.”

  “I like your hair better that way, Selene,” Maia said.

  “Thanks.” Selene patted her hair—long black curls pulled to the back of her head, fastened with a tortoiseshell clip, and then fanned out like a peacock’s tail. “I redid it. I didn’t want to look like that woman described in the blog.”

  Delphi pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m getting a message about the blog.”

  “Delphi,” I said, trying to get her off the subject, “pass the bread basket this way.”

  “What’s the latest on Pappoús’s statue?” Maia asked, as Delphi shoved the basket down my way with a frown. “Are we going to have an unveiling for it?”

  “The pedestal base is coming tomorrow,” I answered. “We should take advantage of the opportunity to do some kind of promotion. How about this coming Friday? Delphi and I can organize it.”

  “Oh, joy,” Delphi said in a bored tone. She slid out of the booth. “I’m going to the kitchen to ask Yiayiá to make some keftedákia. Anyone want some?”

  “I do,” Selene said through a mouthful of feta.

  “Meatballs again?” Maia rolled her eyes. Eye rolls were a given in my family.

  “That’s better than what you eat,” Selene said. “I’ll bet there’s a protein bar that tastes like cardboard in your purse right now.”

  “It doesn’t taste like cardboard. It’s nutty and delicious and packed with nutrition. Besides, you know Mama’s rule. Always carry food for emergencies.”

  “Yes, real food.” Selene rolled her eyes and Maia stuck out her tongue at her.

  I said nothing because I had a protein bar in my purse, too, but I made a mental note of their argument for a future blog article.

  While Delphi was in the kitchen, another news bulletin came on, interrupting our conversation. Once again, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched the blurry image of a man closely resembling Case jogging away from the Talbot mansion. The bulletin was followed by a phone number of the Sequoia Police Department and a request for anyone with information on the man’s identity to come forward. And once again I felt torn, still hoping the man I’d met in the garden was not the image I saw on the TV video.

  “Something strange is going on,” Maia said. “Two deaths, same house, two weeks apart? Like Mama, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I had my doubts when Talbot’s drowning was first reported,” Selene said.

  “We all had our doubts,” Mama added. “And there was no investigation, just a quick ruling by the coroner.”

  “Here’s another thought.” Selene finished spreading a hunk of goat cheese on a thick slice of bread. “We just saw the footage of a stranger leaving the mansion after murdering Harry Pepper. Maybe that guy killed old Mr. Talbot, too.”

  Appetite diminishing quickly, I pushed my salad dish aside. “Isn’t it asking a lot to believe that a stranger came to town half a month ago to kill Talbot and then returned yesterday to kill Harry?”

  “Not if he was a hired assassin,” Maia said, picking through the bowl for a cherry tomato.

  Case, a hired assassin? That was something I hadn’t considered. Still, why wait so long before killing Harry? Why kill Harry at all?

  “Or maybe,” Maia added, “the killer was actually someone inside the house who had an ax to grind, like Sonny or Lila.”

  “I think we can all agree that Sonny disliked his father,” Selene said.

  “It was more like he hated the control his father had over him,” Mama corrected.

  “The same goes for his wife, Lila,” Maia said. “She was always talking to us at the yoga studio about how much she hated the old man. Talbot controlled the purse strings in that house and she despised him for it.”

  “Those strings couldn’t have been too tight,” Selene said. “I never saw Lila carry anything but Louis Vuitton bags when she came into the hair salon for her mani-pedis. She drives a silver Lamborghini, too.”

  Maia took another sip of water. “Maybe Lila drowned the old man.”

  “Getting a divorce from Sonny would’ve been easier,” I said.

  Maia nearly spit out her water trying not to laugh. “But then she’d have to give up her pampered life. Besides, I heard her prenuptial agreement was airtight. She wouldn’t get a dime if she divorced Sonny.”

  “You’re saying she might have killed her father-in-law out of hatred,” I asked, chewing on an olive, “and then killed Harry, too? What for?”

  Clearly enjoying the whodunit game, Selene said, “Maybe Lila and the hired assassin were having a torrid love affair and Harry Pepper caught them at it.”

  “Or maybe Sonny hired the assassin for both murders,” Maia said. “Maybe he’s going to have Lila killed, too.”

  “That would be horrible,” Selene said. “She’s my best customer.”

  “Let’s hope the killer’s caught soon,” Mama said. “It’s a small town. Someone has to have seen the stranger in the news video.”

  That was all my nerves could take. I made a “time out” sign with my hands. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Here’s a thought,” Mama replied, casually leaning her elbow on the table. “How about deciding what you want for lunch?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Selene said. “I’m starving.”

  “Seriously?” Delphi asked, glancing into the empty bowl as she slid into the booth. “You ate everything.”

  And with that, the discussion was over. But not the conflict in my head. Now I had even more to consider.

  * * *

  My conflicted feelings about Case came to a head as Dad and I were in the garden area figuring the layout of the patio tables around the Treasure of Athena. The door opened and two policemen stepped out, one of them my former high school classmate and old friend Bob Maguire, a tall beanpole of a man with stubby orange hair and elfin ears. I’d never seen the other man before.

  “Athena Spencer,” Maguire said in his most official-sounding voice, giving me a solemn nod. I had to hide my smile behind a cough. Maguire had been a class clown who’d hardly ever had a serious thought in his head. If I was in a bad mood, Maguire could always make me laugh.

  “Yes, Officer Maguire,” I said, mimicking his serious tone.

  The other officer said to my dad, “Sir, are you Theo Karras?”

  “No, I’m John Spencer, Athena’s father. And you are?”

  “Officer Gomez,” he said, displaying his ID. “We understand Mr. Theo Karras purchased a statue from Grayson Talbot Senior, and we’d like to talk to him about that. We were told he was here.”

  Although my pappoús sometimes came down to sit in the patio and eat, Mama would’ve known he wasn’t here today. She must have sent the police here to protect Pappoús, knowing we’d figure out what to do.

  “Why do you need to talk to him about the statue?” I asked.

  “We’re not at liberty t
o say,” Gomez said.

  “Bob, can you at least tell me whether it has anything to do with the murder?” I asked.

  “Funny you should bring that up,” Gomez said.

  The way both officers were watching me, I knew instantly that I’d made a huge mistake by jumping to that conclusion. I’d have to come up with a way to keep Pappoús out of harm’s way quickly or he could easily end up in the hospital. He’d been told by his doctor to avoid stress because of his heart arrhythmia. I couldn’t imagine what being questioned by the police might do to him.

  Before I could respond, my dad said, “Theo isn’t here. He—”

  “It doesn’t matter where he is since I purchased the statue.” And just that fast my stomach did a flip at the lie, which didn’t do too much for all that feta cheese inside.

  “It’s your statue?” Maguire asked, gazing at me skeptically.

  I was shaking inside as I said, “Yes. It’s my statue. If you want to talk to someone about it, I’m your person.”

  “We’ll have to take you to the station,” Maguire said, giving me an apologetic look. “Detective Walters would like to talk to you.”

  “Let me get my purse first.”

  “Do you want Mama to meet you down there?” Dad asked me quietly. I knew he’d come with me himself, but Delphi couldn’t manage the garden center alone.

  “I can handle this, no problem, Pops. Remember, I was a reporter in Chicago. I had to talk to the police all the time.”

  There. Now both officers knew where I was coming from. Or at least that was what I hoped, because inside I was one big ball of nerves.

  At the station, I was shown to the detective bureau on the second floor and introduced to Bill Walters, a middle-aged man with short gray hair, coffee-colored skin, and an expression that seemed set in stone. He asked me to have a seat beside his desk where he had turned his computer monitor to face me.

  “Before we begin, would you like a cup of coffee or a bottle of water?”

  “Neither, thanks.” I didn’t think my stomach could handle it.

  “Okay, then let’s get started. I’ll be taping this interview.” He hit a button on a small recording device. “Please state your name for the record.”