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  Another silence descended as two policemen entered, telling Fotini they wished to speak to the owner. Melecretes, emerging from the kitchen and hoping he hadn’t inadvertently broken any Greek law, felt relieved when the policemen said they wished to speak to Stavroula.

  “She’s up at the ‘ospital. Her father was attacked by a madman an’ is in a coma,” Melecretes told them. The policemen were absolutely gutted at this news as they’d spent most of the long drive down from Pouthena salivating at the thought of one of Stavroula’s delicious free slap-up meals.

  “Did she cook the food you’re serving before she went up there?” one of the policemen asked hopefully.

  “No, I cooked everything fresh this morning,” Melecretes said. “Just call me Mel by the way, I’m standing in for Stavroula as no one knows ‘ow long she’ll be at the old fool’s bedside.”

  “I suppose we could have a bite to eat here before we go to the hospital in search of Stavroula,” the policemen agreed.

  “It will be my pleasure to bring you both a plate of kolokithopita myself, it is today’s special,” Melecretes offered.

  Mel served the pie accompanied by a small glass enclosing their receipt. “What’s this?” the policemen asked holding the glass aloft.

  “It’s your bill of course,” Mel replied.

  “Our bill?” the policemen repeated in unison.

  “Yes, your bill. Is there a problem?” Mel asked before it slowly dawned on him the policemen were expecting a free lunch.

  “Po po, back in Idaho I ‘ave read a lot about the Greek economic crisis an’ ow people evade taxes by not givin’ receipts. Also I read about the corrupt officials who expect the brown paper envelopes of cash before they’ll get off their lazy backsides. Yous police expecting free lunches is corrupt and I, Mel, am not bribable.”

  “You have the wrong idea,” one of the policeman protested through a mouth full of pie. “When we have eaten here before Stavroula treated us like one of the family, she wasn’t bribing us by forcing free food on us.”

  “And her cooking is a lot better than yours,” the other policeman sneered, peeling off a note from the thick wad he pulled from his pocket, to cover the cost of their lunch.

  “I wonder what they wanted with Stavroula,” Fotini mused as the two policemen rushed back to their car, disturbing the siesta hour with a blare of sirens.

  “Well it couldn’t ‘ave been about the attack on ‘er father as they knew nothing about it,” Mel replied, hoping he wasn’t running the taverna of a criminal in the habit of bribing the police.

  Chapter 1l

  A Smitten Sofia and a Repulsed Iraklis

  By the end of Sofia’s first shift in the beauty parlour Evangelia had deduced her new trainee was naive, inclined to laziness, but pleasant enough under her Goth exterior and eager to learn. Sofia proved to be quite the chatterbox once Evangelia had confiscated her mobile phone until closing time. She confessed to her new boss her dream was to work in her uncle’s Cosy Coffins Funeral Home styling corpses, but he insisted she practise on living people before he let her loose on his corpses.

  “I’ve always fancied styling dead bodies,” Sofia confided, having enjoyed many happy hours playing in her uncle’s funeral parlour. “The only downside is most likely all the hair will have fallen off the skull by the time the coffin is opened so the bones can be dug up and washed in wine ready for their final resting place in the ossuary. Still, my hairdressing skills will be widely admired by everyone who files past the coffin in the church even if my handiwork will never be appreciated again.

  “You won’t get much conversation out of corpses,” Evangelia said with a shudder, being partial to a bit of gossip with her clients.

  “But the dead wouldn’t mind if I kept my headset in to listen to music. I bet half your customers are probably old crones not long off being corpses, wanting their moustaches bleached and blue rinses before they peg it,” Sofia said.

  “Don’t be disrespectful Sofia, my business relies on repeat custom and you have to be able to get along with everyone,” Evangelia replied.

  “Oh I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I have a way with old crones, they love me,” Sofia protested.

  “Well it is true Nitsa certainly took a shine to you and she’s not easy to deal with,” Evangelia acknowledged. “And the Scottish lady did say you were a natural at shampooing. I think if you are eager to learn I could train you up nicely and you might enjoy working on the living. Now, you don’t need to be back until six this afternoon, what will you do in your break?”

  “I’ll go back to the house for a snack and a lie down, my feet are killing me.”

  “Sore feet are part and parcel of hairdressing Sofia. I’m often tempted to work in my slippers but it just wouldn’t look professional. Now run along and I’ll see you later. Make sure you’re not late for the afternoon shift.”

  Sofia was just about to leave when she spotted a tall handsome young man walking along the harbour in the company of a grizzled old fisherman. Emitting a soulful gasp Sofia exclaimed “Evangelia, who is that gorgeous man?”

  Evangelia glanced out of the window and laughed. “I suppose Thea told you Yiorgos is nicknamed ‘gorgeous’. He still fancies himself as gorgeous even though he’s the wrong side of fifty and looks like a walrus.”

  “No, not the old man. The handsome young one with him.”

  “Oh, you mean young Iraklis,” Evangelia said, happy to fill her new trainee in all the gossip. “He came here as a Pappas but turned his back on the church and went to work for Fat Christos at the supermarket. Christos thinks a lot of him and says he’s management material. Now, Iraklis lodges with Mrs Kolokotronis, she’s Fat Christos’ mother, but there’s nothing going on between them because she’s old enough to be his granny. Can you imagine Iraklis’ own mother accused them of having an affair, but she was a strange sort with a nervous disposition, forever mixing up her words? Iraklis is a bit prone to acne, but I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. Most boys do when they hit twenty-one. Now would you like me to call him over and introduce you? There’s not many folk under fifty in the village and it would be nice for you to have someone to play with.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Sofia shrieked in alarm, suddenly overcome with shyness.

  “Okay, another time dear,” Evangelia agreed, making a mental note to call Thea later for a gossipy catch up and meddlesome bout of matchmaking.

  Sofia dashed quickly back to Thea’s house, eager to top up her black eyeliner and change into something more seductive.

  “How was yous first day at work? Shall I bring a snack up to your bedroom, dear?” Thea asked, enveloping the youngster in a hearty embrace.

  “It was great but I don’t want a snack nona. I think I’ll just freshen up and go out for a walk,” Sofia replied to Thea’s surprise.

  “Would you like some company, dear?”

  “Another time nona,” Sofia shouted, slamming the bathroom door and hastily slapping kohl on her eyes and purple lipstick on her mouth. Checking herself in the mirror she muttered “he won’t be able to resist me.”

  By the time Sofia reached the harbour Iraklis was helping Gorgeous Yiorgos cast off the fishing boat. Yiorgos had promised to teach the younger man how to fish and Iraklis couldn’t wait to net something tasty and present it to Mrs Kolokotronis to cook for dinner.

  Sofia took a seat on the harbour wall, nonchalantly swinging her legs and zipping her leather jacket up to her chin to avoid the sun adding any colour to her almost translucent white skin.

  “That must be Thea’s goddaughter what is staying with ‘er and Tasos,” Gorgeous Yiorgos remarked.

  Iraklis looked up. Spotting Sofia he took a hasty step backwards, rocking the boat precariously. He was horrified at the sight of the frightening looking teenager dressed in outrageous black clothes with shocking purple hair.

  “I wouldn’t like to run into her on a dark night,” he whispered to Yiorgos, repulsed by the vision in black before him. �
��She looks like she’s into devil worship.”

  “Oh it’s just the fashion, she’ll grow out of it when she realises she’d look much nicer with ‘er face scrubbed free of all that gunk, and a nice flowery frock instead of all that black.”

  “She must sweat something terrible in this heat under all that leather,” Iraklis guessed.

  “Now Irakli, that’s somethin’ you’ll learn in time, women don’t sweat, they perspire. I thought yous wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down. Yous won’t get past first base if yous don’t choose yous words more carefully.”

  “It’s true I would like to meet a nice girl and settle down, but there’s no one under fifty in Astakos except Masha and she’s already spoken for,” Iraklis said, adopting a mournful tone.

  “Even if she wasn’t she’d never look at the likes of yous, Irakli. Women like Masha want men with a fortune to waste on ‘em an’ she’d eat the likes of you up for breakfast. Now that young girl might be nice under all that make-up, don’t judge a book by its cover young Irakli,” Gorgeous Yiorgos advised, happy to share his worldly wisdom.

  “If it’s all the same to you Yiorgo I’d rather concentrate on fish than think about girls who look like that,” Iraklis said. He found Sofia’s gloomy appearance terrifying and not in the least appealing, and he intended to keep a safe distance.

  Fortunately Sofia remained blissfully unaware Iraklis found her style quite repugnant. She had been head over heels smitten since the moment he walked by the beauty parlour.

  Chapter 12

  A Reputation as a Cheating Scoundrel

  The sound of stentorian snoring clashing with the sombre recital of biblical verses assaulted mail order Masha’s ears when she finally arrived at Vasilis’ hospital room. The source of the snoring was Stavroula sleeping uncomfortably, squashed into a chair too small for her ample frame and completely oblivious to the religious droning of the priest. Even before seeking out the smitten old doctor for confirmation Masha correctly surmised her husband was still comatose; if he’d been lucid he’d have surely smothered the Pappas with a pillow to put an end to his caterwauling.

  “Masha, how good it is to see you on this glorious afternoon. May I take the liberty of saying your appearance is a ray of sunshine,” the Pappas greeted her. Wearing a bright orange mini dress that skirted her bump and accentuated her silicone cleavage, paired with orange heels and matching nail polish, Masha did indeed look sunny. She turned to stare at the priest, taken aback by his cheery welcome, having completely forgotten he’d undergone a personality transplant as an apparent result of the blood transfusion from the crazy stalker.

  Not wanting to waste words on the phony bible thumper Masha turned her attention to Vasilis, planting a kiss on his stapled head and using his bed sheet to wipe up the line of drool dribbling down his chin. Next she set to decorating Vasilis’ bedside table with framed photographs of herself posing in a bikini, sending the monitors keeping check of the Pappas’ vital signs into an overdrive of bleeping.

  Alerted to Masha’s arrival by the heady scent of her overpowering perfume, the smitten old doctor bounded into the room saying “Masha my dear, what a delight it is to see you again. May I say you look particularly ravishing today?”

  “Which is more than I can say for my ‘usband. ‘Ow much longer is he going to be comatose? Can’t yous do something to wake ‘im up?”

  “You must talk to him Masha, the sound of your dulcet tones may bring him round,” the smitten old doctor advised.

  “I’ve been having long chats with Vasilis, even if they were a bit one-sided, in the hope they would stir him,” the Pappas butted in.

  “’Aving to listen to yous would be enough to keep anyone in a coma,” Masha sneered contemptuously before turning to the doctor and suggesting “cant’s yous give ‘im an electric shock?”

  “That really isn’t the best method for bringing a patient out of a coma,” the doctor smiled.

  “Not on my ‘usband,” Masha shouted in exasperation. “Cant’s you electrically shock the Pappas to make ‘im confess he is faking ‘is niceness? It’s not natural.”

  Putting an arm round Masha’s waist the smitten old doctor led her into the corridor, whispering, “Between you and I the Pappas is ready to be discharged, but I’m keeping him in a bit longer to study this strange phenomenon of his personality transplant being potentially linked to his blood transfusion. I’m convinced he’s not faking. This is a most unusual case and could well go down in the annals of medical history.”

  “An’ make you a tidy sum in the process, no doubt,” Masha guessed.

  “Certainly not,” the doctor lied, convinced he could make a fortune writing learned papers and giving lectures on the Pappas’ case if he could elicit interest from the foreign medical community.

  The pair moved further away from the hospital room to avoid being overheard by Slick Socrates who’d just arrived bearing a foil wrapped piece of kolokithopita, courtesy of Melecretes, to keep Stavroula’s strength up. Roused from her sleep Stavroula inspected the courgette pie suspiciously before tucking in and pronouncing it inferior to her own efforts.

  “There’s something in it I cant’s quite put my finger on,” she said, failing to identify the something extra as Fotini’s spit. “’Ows the taverna doing without me Socrate?” she asked.

  “It was packed out at lunchtime my love. Don’t you worry about business, just concentrate on getting your father to sign this new will I’ve drawn up,” Socrates advised, passing his lover a ream of papers to stuff down her bosom.

  “I could just slip the pen in ‘is hand and guide it over the signature box,” Stavroula suggested.

  “Unfortunately it requires two witnesses and anything he signs in a coma won’t count as legal, my love dove,” Socrates clarified.

  “Well I guess I’m stuck ‘ere for the duration of ‘is coma then,” Stavroula sighed wearily. “The mail order floozy ‘asn’t bothered to show ‘er face yet today.”

  “Oh, Masha is here. She’s in the corridor being chatted up by the smitten old doctor.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the Pappas, shuffling back from the bathroom, unsteadily steering the intravenous infusion pole he was attached to.

  “Good day to you Socrate, could you give me a hand untangling this drip?” the Pappas asked.

  “You’ve got a nerve asking for my assistance after you tried to blackmail Stavroula’s father over his role in her conception,” Socrates sneered, turning his back on the snivelling priest. The Pappas had become hopelessly entangled in the line from the pole and as he struggled to straighten it the pole toppled over, landing with a crash on top of Vasilis’ head. The old fool’s body jerked violently and a pitiful groan escaped his parched lips. Stavroula screamed for the doctor, but by the time he appeared, hotly pursued by Masha, Vasilis’ body had stopped shaking and there was no evidence he had stirred.

  “He groaned, doctor. What does it mean?” Stavroula questioned.

  Lifting the intravenous pole from atop Vasilis the doctor observed “he probably felt excruciating pain when this pole pranged his staples.”

  “That’s a good sign isn’t it?” Masha asked, beating her husband round the head with her handbag and shrieking “Wake up yous old fool,” to test if the pain from the battering would prompt another groan. Vasilis’ resultant moan was akin to having the air forced out of a tyre, but the doctor promptly pronounced there was no improvement.

  “I am amazed he doesn’t respond to the sound of your exotic Russian accent or the sweet smell of your perfume,” the smitten old doctor grovelled. “Sometimes coma patients are drawn to respond by the presence of the thing they hold most special.”

  “Po po, I am ‘is long lost daughter an’ yous cant’s get more special than that,” Stavroula piped up, dismissively elbowing Masha out of the way.

  Masha drew away and stared pensively out of the window overlooking the car park. She mused it was true Vasilis loved her and was very
fond of his daughter, but at the end of the day the thing Vasilis truly doted on was his blasted donkey.

  “Perhaps K-Went-In was right and I’ll ‘ave to sneak the donkey into the ‘ospital to lick Vasilis out of his coma,” she muttered under her breath.

  Masha’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of the two policemen from the up north village of Pouthena, in search of Stavroula. Stavroula’s heart sank as she recognised the policemen and wondered when they would drop their harassment of her over the disappearance of her second husband Kostas. Presuming his interfering superstitious peasant sister Katerina had once again been meddling she was pleasantly surprised when the policemen greeted her cheerily, announcing they had good news.

  “Yous ‘ave found my ‘usband Kostas. Praise be, the cheating malaka is alive,” Stavroula cried out in a desperate attempt to keep up the phony act of a grieving woman who had been ditched by her philandering husband who was supposedly missing and presumed dead.

  “Well no, he isn’t exactly alive,” the first policemen began.

  “We have come to inform you that your husband Kostas has been declared officially dead. The powers that be decided to put a rubber stamp on the closure of this case having determined in all probability your husband’s body was devoured by wild animals in the vicinity of his crashed car,” the second policeman said. “Kyria Stavroula, it is my official duty to declare you a widow.”

  “Praise be, the cheating malaka is dead,” Stavroula whooped, thinking she had indeed got away with murder most foul as long as Kostas’ body was never unearthed from beneath the concrete floor of the chicken coop.

  Suddenly realising it would have been more seemly to conceal her spontaneous joy until the two policemen were on their way, Stavroula assumed a sombre expression, saying “forgive my outburst, but it feels as though a weight has been lifted to know I’m no longer under suspicion regarding my poor dear dead husband’s disappearance. May he rest in peace.”