Death of an Aegean Queen Read Online Free Page A

One, I recognized from the show as the dancer who had spent much of her performance on the wrong foot, circling the wrong way, and a half-beat behind the music. Poor thing. I glanced back again and realized the second woman was also from the dance troupe. One of the better coordinated ones.
    On the other side, the port side, Kathryn and I met, having now covered the whole circuit. Except for the two of us, this whole stretch was deserted. One of the portholes on this side, I reasoned, must be Lettie and Ollie’s window, but all of them were dark. We decided to make double sure by continuing around in the directions we were already heading. As I rounded the aft end of the ship, I paused. The deep burble of the engine vibrated the deck under my feet, the twin propellers churning the water below into an iridescent ribbon-like trail behind us. I felt a bit queasy, looking down.
    Kathryn and I met up again at the same place we’d parted and decided to go straight to the shipboard security office, wherever that was. It stood to reason it would be in the vicinity of the purser’s office and the main desk, which were on the next deck up. We passed through the side doors and along a corridor until we found the grand staircase Lettie had nearly tumbled down earlier. Up one deck and around to our left, we walked past the photo shop where the embarkation pictures they had taken of each group as they boarded were displayed on felt-covered panels. Beyond the photo shop was the main desk where we found a grizzled, gray-haired attendant playing a hand-held video game. We explained our situation in slow, deliberate English.
    “One minute, please.” The man punched a button on the desk phone and paused, then began talking in Greek to whomever had answered.
    “Kathryn, I’m going to call Marco. I hate to wake him up, but he’ll know what to do. He’s a policeman.” I looked around for another phone. Marco’s room number was 373. I remembered it was four doors down from my own and on the same side of the hall.
    “I have talked to security,” the attendant told us as he hung up the phone. “They want you to wait right here. They will be here in a minute.”
    Kathryn pointed to a phone on a low table in the center of the arc of counters that included the main desk and land excursion sales cubicles. I took a deep breath and punched in Marco’s room number. Four rings, no answer.
    Kathryn nudged me and pointed toward a baby-faced young man approaching us. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a security patch on one sleeve and a gold nameplate that read, “Demopoulos.” I assumed it was his last name.
    I hung up the phone and listened as Kathryn explained her plight to the security kid. He paid close attention but didn’t appear to be all that shocked. It dawned on me this might be a fairly common occurrence on a cruise ship, and the lost spouse would frequently turn out to have been indulging in a little tête a tête in the wrong room.
    Kathryn launched into a description of George and what he was wearing the last time she saw him, but Demopoulos stopped her with an upraised finger. “I have better idea,” he said, taking her by the arm. “The photo shop has already posted the embarkation pictures. The shop is locked but I have a key. There should be a photo of your husband that will help us find him much more easily.”
    He unlocked and slid open the glass door of the shop and let us walk around among the panels displaying hundreds of photos, all taken in the same spot at the bottom of the gangway the day before. I couldn’t figure out how they were posted: alphabetically, in order of arrival, or what. We wandered around until we finally found it. George and Kathryn Gaskill, embarking on their dream vacation, hand luggage in hand, arms around each other’s waists.
    Demopoulos lifted the photo off the board and said, “I’ll bring this back after we’ve found him.” We stepped out and he relocked the photo shop door.