I walked back up the causeway with the little group, Sophia at my side. The girls had started at Mnajdra first, the reverse of my visit, so I said good-bye and started back to the entrance.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to help me with a little project?” Anna Stanhope called after me as I turned to leave. “The gulls and I are putting on a little play for some visiting dignitaries in a few days. My stage crew of one broke his leg water skiing, silly fool. Do you think you might give us a hand?”
“Say yes,” Sophia mouthed at me.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to.” Sophia smiled her placid smile.
“Jolly good. Next rehearsal Saturday afternoon, three o’clock at the University. In the auditorium, same as last night.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
As I leave the Goddess’s sanctuary, I turn back for one last look. The sun is low in the sky.
I find myself the apex of a perfect triangle. I think if I raise my arms to shoulder height in front of me to form a sixty-degree angle with my body, with my left hand I point to Dr. Stanhope, with my right I point to the man. It is a pattern that will repeat itself.
For a few seconds, we are frozen in perfect symmetry, but then I turn to go and the triangle breaks apart. I see the man begin to walk toward Dr. Stanhope, but do not look again.
I feel a vague twinge of memory. Something about the eyes, when he took off his sunglasses for a moment. Or perhaps the way he walks. Was it recently I knew him, or a long, long time ago?
Somewhere in the brain, a command to retrieve data is sent. Billions of neurons spring into action; minute electrical impulses sprint through the mamillary body and round the hippocampus. Dendritic spines stretch out like tiny hands to meet each other; synapses crack across the voids.
The command is encoded low priority. I will not remember in time.
The next morning the phone rang very early, long before dawn. I groped my way to it and heard what I thought was a honking Canada goose. It was, it turned out, Dave Thomson with a dreadful cold, calling me on his cellphone from what sounded like the end of the main runway at Toronto International.
“We did it!” he croaked. “It’s on its way. Four hours start to finish. Warehouse is still a mess, so we picked up the stuff at the store in one truck and at the house with another. Packed it right on the frigging tarmac outside the hangar. Freezing cold, let me tell you. The wife says I’ll catch pneumonia. But it’s on its way. Skyliner Cargo. It’ll be in Rome in less than seven hours. We’ve got an hour’s turnaround. Everybody’s standing by. It’ll be on the two p.m. for Luqa. Let Azzopardi know for me, will you?” he said, naming his Maltese broker. “Docket 7139Q.”
“Dave, you really are the best.” I laughed. “I’m sticking with you for life.”
“Another satisfied customer,” he honked. Then, “By God, this was a squeaker. I’m going home to bed.”
I knew I’d never get back to sleep, so I put on a pot of coffee and watched the early morning light. Most places are enchanting at this time, none more so than Malta, where the early morning light was as beautiful as I’d ever seen it. I was beginning to love the place, idiosyncracies and all.
Later as I waited for the workmen to arrive, sans Joseph, and had left a message for Mr. Azzopardi on his answering machine, I did my own house inspection. I tried the taps: the water came on, hot and cold. I tested the switches: every light worked. The walls were free of holes, the paint matched perfectly to my eye, the woven hanging looked wonderful in the living room. I checked the kitchen cupboards: glassware, flatware, and dishes all lined up in satisfying rows, ready to be called upon at any time.
And best of all, the furniture was on its way.
“We might just be all right here,” I said to the empty rooms. “We might just be all right.”
By 4:45 that afternoon I was in position at the door, clipboard in hand, as a phalanx of small trucks—Mr. Azzopardi must have commandeered every small truck on the island for the occasion—came along the road and up the driveway one at a time to unload. The cousins stood by ready to unload and install.
“Two carved mirrors. Upstairs hallway,” I said.
“Teak dining table and six, seven… eight chairs. Dining area to the left.
“Wrought-iron and glass table, four chairs. Verandah at back.
“Antique etagere, second floor, far end.”
And so it went. Until the very end when there appeared a large oak chest. The cousins stumbled with its weight.
“What’s this?” I said. I checked the list again. “This is supposed to be a sideboard, not a chest.”
I looked the piece of furniture over. The yellow sticker with my initials on it was plainly visible.
“They’ve sent the wrong piece!” I said in exasperation. “I don’t believe this! What am I supposed to do with this?”
I wanted to kick it, valuable though it might be. Instead, I turned the key and flung the lid open with considerable force.
Someone screams and screams. It is a voice I think I recognize. A tiny rational part of the brain sends a high priority message to seek a match and finds one. The voice belongs to me.
Martin Galea is dead. Very dead. Body stuffed awkwardly into the chest, a brown stain on the front of the impeccable silk shirt. Eyes staring toward eternity.
For a few seconds time stands still for me.
ARIADNE
SIX
Roma Locuta est. Rome has spoken. Benign, perhaps, Pax Romana. But still, another imperial interloper on My shores. You drink My wine, eat My honey. Your villas, baths, and fortifications dominate My lands. Causa finita est, you say? Case closed? No, not quite. You too will leave us. Barbarians are soon at your gate. Pax Romana no more. Europe will sleep. I, Malta, My island, will sleep as I watch over it.
“Could we go over this one more time, please, Miss McClintoch?” Vincent Tabone asked. Detective Vincent Ta-bone of the Maltese police, I might add.
I nodded numbly. ‘. “You came here to get the deceased’s house ready for a social event of some kind. One that was to be attended by what you have referred to—forgive me, you have corrected me on that point already—that the deceased had referred to as important people. You don’t know who these people are, nor when the event is or was to be.”
“That’s right,” I said, nodding again.
“You knew the deceased was coming to inspect your work soon, but you didn’t know exactly when he was due to arrive.”
I nodded.
“Was that a yes?” he asked, looking up from his notebook. I nodded again.
“You were responsible for seeing the furniture was packed and shipped, then placed in the house, but you weren’t sure until today when it would arrive.”
I nodded again. I thought if this questioning kept up much longer, I’d be doing serious injury to my neck.
“There was a piece of furniture in the shipment that shouldn’t have been there, and it just happened to contain the body of the deceased. It was marked with a yellow sticker with your initials in what you say is your handwriting, and you don’t know how it got there?”
“Right again,” I said.
“You’ve been staying in the house for… how long?… six days. The first night you were here you thought you saw someone at the end of the yard, but you don’t know who, or even if there really was someone there. You also found a dead cat, and someone may have tampered with the brakes on the car, but you have no idea who or why?”