She nodded, glancing around at the audience of attentive listeners.

He dropped his voice. "Have you come for dinner?"

"If you have a table."

"Yes, yes. Come." He led her to a table inside. She took the chair facing the courtyard and he unrolled her napkin and dropped it onto her lap. "The police say that he has disappeared. Have you heard from him?"

"No."

"It is the kako mati. Murder, vandalism, and my dumpster upended. That is where the bandalos got their ammunition. I showed the police. One bag of garbage taken away and another spilled on the ground. But the police said they threw eggs. An expensive waste." He paused, as if he sensed there might have been a gaffe in there somewhere, but he couldn't quite pin it down. He shook his head and kept going. "What did Zenia Stephanadis have to say for herself?"

Again she had the feeling that her every move was being watched and reported and the Kanaris grapevine seemed to sprout directly from Brakus' mouth. "She was extremely helpful. She telephoned her friend Governor Rigas even though he's on vacation in Malta and he promised to send additional police from other areas in the region. They should begin arriving tomorrow."

"Is that so?" His eyes widened, whether because he was titillated by the gossip or alarmed by the prospect of more policemen. "You must have wine. Tonight the wine is free for you and everything on the chalkboard is fresh. I will be back to take your order."

"Thank you. Perhaps when you aren't so busy, you could stop by the table and we could share a glass of wine and talk."

"Ne, ne, ne. Yes, I will do that." He skipped a look over her head and bustled off toward the terrace.

She looked at her watch. Nine-thirty. Mentor probably wouldn't arrive for another half hour. She kept a close watch on the courtyard. His daughter and goatskin-playing son-in-law could be one of the couples taking their seats at a long table under the grape arbor. She hoped to catch Mentor before he brought out his violin and the entertainment began.

The white-socked black cat scampered from the courtyard into the dining room inches ahead of a little girl, maybe three-years-old, with unruly blond curls and a tenacious countenance. Behind her came the mother, smiling indulgently. The cat slunk behind a table leg as the mother tried to outflank it and shoo it toward the girl, but it moved farther under the table. Undeterred, the girl crawled under the table after her prey. The large Greek family through whose legs she grabbed and poked at the cat, laughed indulgently. After a while, the grandfatherly gentleman at the head of the table swept up the cat in one hand and presented it to the girl, who clutched her prize to her chest and beamed. There were no thanks or apologies and clearly none were expected. Mother and child returned to the courtyard with the cat and Dinah wondered if all Greeks spoiled their children so lovingly.

Mrs. Brakus, even more harried than she'd been the last time Dinah saw her, appeared at her elbow with a notepad and a carafe of red wine.

"Dorean," she said. "No charge." She had dark circles under her eyes and puppet lines around her mouth and chin. With her husband gadding from table to table swapping gossip, she probably had to do more of the work of running this place.

Dinah thanked her and ordered the homemade noodles with myzithra cheese. As Mrs. Brakus hastened back to the kitchen, her husband returned.

"It is Katogi Averoff," he said, tapping the carafe his wife had brought. "Our best bottle. I took the liberty of decanting it." He poured her a glass.

"Please pour a glass for yourself and sit down, Mr. Brakus."

"Thank you. I know this is a tender time for you. Did the Inspector tell you where he was going this morning?"

"He went looking for stolen weapons."

His eyes bugged as if they might jump out of their sockets. "On Samos?"

"You make guns on Samos sound stranger than guns on the moon. Why?"

"We are a quiet island, far from the riots and upheaval in Athens. We are like the moon. It is bizarre. First the Iraqi and now a policeman has been murdered."

The instantaneous assumption of murder stunned her. She found herself rubbing the evil eye fetish Mentor had given her. "I believe he has been kidnapped. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to get him out of the way? Someone with an illegal sideline who didn't want a foreign policeman nosing around the neighborhood?"

"Illegal sideline?"

"I've been told that the bad economy has forced some people into shady dealings."

"Not Samians. If weapons are stolen, it is al Quaida or the Taliban who steal them. They are here from Iraq and Afghanistan, Syria and Pakistan. Some come to escape their wars, but many are parasites and terrorists. They should be deported. All of them."

She tasted the Katogi and pondered. Was he flogging the case against foreigners too hard? He hadn't appeared as if he wanted to deport the Iraqi he was consorting with in Pythagorio. "When you identified Fathi's body, you said it's the Iraqi. Are you sure you didn't know him?"

"No."

"Do you know any other Iraqis?"

"No."

She watched his face as he tried to read her mind. "Would any policeman that you know have a reason to harm the Inspector?"

"A policeman?"

"Yes. I've heard rumors that some can be bought off."

"Ne, ne, ne. It is Zenia Stephanadis who has given you this idea. Whenever you hear a slander, it comes from her mouth. She hates us peasants. Did you know that she poisons the village cats?"

Loud exclamations and laughter erupted from the kitchen and Mrs. Brakus emerged with a transforming smile on her face, followed by a laughing young woman in an apron and, behind her, a grinning Mentor. He was obviously privileged to enter the kitchen through the back door. Other diners shouted greetings and he waved his violin case in the air and said something to the crowd in Greek.

"Kalispera, Mentor." Savas got up and shook his hand. "You bring a smile to Irene's face when no one else can, and your music brings in the customers."

"If I make you rich, Savas, you must share the gravy."

"No one gets rich in Greece, but I will put extra saltsa on your meat. Irene has made a pork roast tonight."

"Exochos!" Mentor laughed and kissed Irene Brakus on both cheeks.

Brakus demeanor stiffened noticeably. "Will you drink wine, Mentor?"

"Ne, malista." He saw Dinah and waved, but his smile faded. "I will sit with Dinah Pelerin for a few minutes."

"I'll bring another glass," said Brakus. He gave Irene a sidelong glare and went into the kitchen.

Mentor set his violin case in an empty chair and sat down across from Dinah. "I am sorry about your friend. Is there any news?"

"If there were, everyone on the island would know it."

"It is hard to keep secrets of any kind in Kanaris."

"Of any kind? I was hoping I could trust you, Mentor. Don't start out by telling me a lie."

"All right. Kanaris does keep some secrets. Most of them stem from pride, people covering their embarrassment at having to skimp and barter to get by."

"Is there anyone who would kill to keep his secret?"

"I know no one so vicious as that."

Brakus returned with a glass for Mentor. "What will you eat, Mentor?"

"I must have some of Irene's roast, but later. In the kitchen, after I have finished my concert."

"Later, then."

When he was out of sight, Dinah pulled the copy of Nasos' letter out of her purse and handed it to Mentor. "Would you translate this for me?"

He knitted his brow, held the letter close to the candle, and read.

The wolf is old and his fur white, but his memory is long. I thought it purgatory enough that you should live for so many years with the stain of your sin. But you have no remorse. You have only hubris and now you have awakened the wolf. He is at the door. It is time for you to pay.

He said, "This is a threat against an old person by an old person."

"It seems so."

"Who wrote it? To whom?"

It had occurred to her that Galen Stavros might be Nasos. But now, looking at Mentor, she vacillated. He had been away from Samos for many years. Come to think of it, so had Egan. Zenia hadn't seen him in forty years. A man's face could change a lot in forty years.

"If you will not tell me who wrote this, will you tell me where you found it?"

She fixed her eyes on his. "Someone named Nasos Lykos sent it to Zenia Stephanadis."

"But Nasos Lykos died many years ago. Marilita killed him."

"Do you believe that?"

"It is the received wisdom, even though it seemed a lunatic idea at the time. Someone killed him. He has been dead for forty years."

She studied his eyes. "Why do people in Kanaris make so many allusions to the wolf?"

"The wolf is a common motif in many Greek sayings. One of the cult names of Apollo was Lukeios, from the word lykos. It means wolf."

The young woman who'd followed Mrs. Brakus out of the kitchen brought Dinah's noodles to the table and untied her apron. "Mpampas, let us begin. The food is all prepared and I want to dance."

"Dinah, allow me to introduce my daughter, Jacey."

Jacey smiled. She was a lithe, attractive woman with the same parenthetical laugh lines from mouth to eyes as her father. "I am happy to meet you."

Mentor said, "Jacey has a degree from the music conservatory, but there is no work and no students can afford to take lessons. She and her husband are looking at the possibility of emigrating to Australia, but for now she is helping Irene at the taverna. We are hoping her husband can find work on Samos. I don't know if I could live without my family."

"We will all be fine, mpampas. And tonight we will dance." Jacey nudged his arm affectionately. "Dance with me, Dinah. Come, I will show you how."

"Not tonight, thanks. I'd rather watch you."

Mentor opened his violin case and stood. "We must talk more, Dinah. Come to my house tomorrow morning."

Father and daughter went out to the courtyard and the music began. Dinah put the letter back in her purse and picked at her noodles. As the music built, she asked herself whether she was conflating the uncertain fate of Nasos with Thor's disappearance and whether her desire to keep Nasos among the living had more to do with the hope of finding Thor alive than it did with real possibility.

"I should tell you something," said Brakus, stopping by the table again. "I do not like to speak ill of my neighbors, but what you asked has made me think. Mentor Rodino has what you said..."

"Opa! Opa!" The music ended and the crowd applauded and shouted.

"He has an illegal sideline," said Brakus.

"What?"

"Stolen antiquities. He hides them in his kalivis."

"But I looked inside his kalivi. There were no antiquities, only a cooler and a jug of wine."

"No one knows how a teacher can be rich with his pension cut to the bone, but he is. He supports his daughter and her husband. All he does is make wine and play music and yet he has bought three kalivis in the last five years. Trust me, he would not want the police to look inside."

Chapter Twenty-three.

A police car pulled up in front of the Marc Antony, lights flashing. The music stopped in mid-tune. Dinah watched as Sergeant Papas got out and walked across the courtyard. She swallowed hard. He said something to Brakus and Brakus pointed her out in the dining room. She felt as if Papas were walking in slow motion. She searched his face for portents, but his expression was deadpan. She held herself in. Even if the worst had happened, she willed herself not to cry in public.

"May I drive you to your house?"

"Have you found him?"

"No. But I have news."

She let out a breath and stood up. "What?"

"Nothing worse than what we know already."

She walked out ahead of him, nerves taut as Mentor's bow strings. If Papas didn't know anything more, why was he here? Had Brakus called and warned him that she was asking questions about the integrity of the police? He opened the front passenger door for her and she slid in. He stood outside the car for a minute outside her range of vision. Her thoughts went into overdrive. He might be Thor's betrayer, or his undercover ally, or an ordinary cop trying to deal with a missing person case that had ramifications he didn't understand. Whatever he had to tell her, the personal visit and the flashing lights added a worrisome significance.

He got in, turned off the lights, and drove down the lane to Marilita's house.

"What is this about, Sergeant?"

"I would rather speak when we get to the house."

She tried to anticipate him, but could read nothing in his stern profile. With every bump and cobble, the tension built. The car bucked into Marilita's drive and he shut off the engine and pulled up the brake. "May we go inside to talk?"

"Yes, of course. I'll make coffee."

As they crossed the veranda, the mulberry branches swayed and jittered in the wind, creating a shadow show on the side of the house. She saw that Zenia had sent new outdoor furniture and the birdcage had been rehung. She couldn't tell if it contained replacement parakeets.

K.D. met them at the door, an expectant look on her face. "Did you find him?"