Feta Attraction Read Free Page A

grapes and toasted walnuts tomorrow, and handed it to Russ. He toted it over to the walk-in cooler.
    â€œCan I stay and help?” Russ removed the bandanna from his head, stuck it in his back pocket, and donned a baseball cap sporting a chain saw manufacturer’s logo. I figured he was hoping for an in-person glimpse of
Ghost Squad
’s
lone female investigator, a buxom young woman who always seemed to be dressed in a tight, low-cut tank top even when the rest of the crew wore sweatshirts.
    â€œThanks, Russ, but they’ve told us we all have to leave so we don’t influence the investigation,” I said, giving my hands a scrub at the dishwashing sink.
    â€œDo you think this place is haunted?” His big open face was uneasy as he took off his apron and tossed it in the laundry bin.
    â€œI can tell you that I’ve lived here for a lot of years and I’ve never heard or seen anything that makes me think that.”
    â€œBut Spiro has. He said he heard noises, and got creepy feelings like he was being watched. I think I might have heard something the other day,” he added.
    â€œWe’ll have to see what they find.”
    Speaking of Spiro, the inconsiderate darling still hadn’t shown up or bothered to call. Sophie and I had both tried to contact him several times, but his phone went straight to voice mail. I hoped he was having a good time, wherever he was, because when he got back he was going to have some ’splainin’ to do. Whether he’d left me for good or was just off on an extra-long joyride, I was angry with him.
    And angrier with myself for not having prepared an exit plan.
    Adding to that, I now had to do the interviews with the
Ghost Squad
people myself. What I wanted to do was spend the whole evening relaxing at the spa on Valentine Island, where I’d begged my best girlfriend, Liza, to find me a room. This would be a rare treat in the height of the tourist season.
    I headed upstairs and stopped at the door to Spiro’s room. Could he have left a note? It seemed unlikely, but I put my key in the lock—couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that, or wanted to! The door opened without my turning the key.
Strange
. Being moderately paranoid, Spiro always locked his door.
    I surveyed the room. He’d decorated the twelve-by-fifteen-foot space tastefully, though it certainly wasn’t to my taste. Chocolate brown walls complemented the original wide plank floorboards, sanded and polished to a glowing honey finish. A few scuffs in the wood over by one of the walls, but that was to be expected in a place this age. Pale blue drapes and some shiny chrome accessories, no fingerprints dulling the surfaces, gave the room a minimalist, modern feel. Nothing was out of place; nor had I expected it would be.
    The blue and cream spread covering the king-sized bed was wrinkle free, and the graphic chocolate and vanilla throw pillows were arranged with precision. Hard to tell whether the bed had been slept in. He was such a neatnik, he never left his room without making the bed. I checked the closet—he wouldn’t be embarrassed when the
Ghost
Squad
checked out his room—but his Louis Vuitton luggage was still there, and it didn’t look as though he’d taken anything else with him.
    The small table he used as a desk was clean and bare except for a lamp and an unlabeled manila file folder, which I opened. The top pages appeared to be photocopies of historical research about the Bonapartes, but I didn’t go any farther. Spiro was convinced Napoleon was Greek, not Italian or French. He was fascinated by the Bonapartes and had been researching the house for years.
    That knot of anger in my stomach twisted and re-formed in a different pattern. Why did I continue to allow him to blow off his responsibilities? And why did I continue to clean up the messes he left behind? Only a few months ago, the answer would have been simple—our