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The Santorini Setup by Becky Bohan-eBook-FINAL
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Praise for The Santorini Setup
“Readers of thrillers, romances, and suspense novels are in for a treat with The Santorini Setup…a winning combination of all three genres…. Becky Bohan does a fine job of cementing the criminal and cultural elements of her story with strong psychological profiles of characters.”
—D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer,
Midwest Book Review
“A sublime cast propels this tale of romance, misdeeds, and intrigue…all the way to the tense final act.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Mystery, danger, and romance abound for a professor searching for a life change in Santorini. Atmospheric and enjoyable…passion, thrills, and a surprise ending make this a satisfying adventure.”
—Booklife Reviews
“An intelligent, suspenseful lesbian mystery with a stunning setting.”
—Carol Anne Douglas
former editor off our backs,
Author of Sister Matthew and
Sister Rose: Novices in Love
Praise for A Light on Altered Land
“Bohan treats issues of aging, illness, spirituality, and family with maturity and integrity. Readers will be moved by this story of romance and second chances.”
—Publishers Weekly
“For those of us who may think we are too old [or] too spent…to revisit passion and lust ever again, this story offers up a different ending. Along with being a sexy love story, A Light on Altered Land is a fun adventure with twists and turns and familiar lesbian humor. It is also the tenderhearted expression of love that flickers through the novel with gusto and brilliance that is most captivating…”
—Sinister Wisdom
“A very well-written, well-edited, lovely romance [with] a lot of spirituality at its heart [and] good insights from both characters into what it means to get older, and to still want to live a full life. The way they thrived with each other was a joy to read [with] wonderful moments of humor.”
—Curve Magazine
“[A] story of second chances and newfound intimacy…[the] prose is refined and psychologically nuanced…[as Bohan] explores the wounds and wisdom that accrue to women of a certain age….”
—Kirkus Reviews
“It’s a rare pleasure for older women to see themselves reflected in fine prose and intriguing for the young to realize there's life after fifty!”
—Ann Bannon
Author of the
Beebo Brinker series
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters in this book and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
© 2022 by Becky Bohan All rights reserved.
Except for quotations and excerpts appearing in reviews, this work may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without the prior written permission of the author, Becky Bohan, at NanBec.com.
The Santorini Setup: A Novel of Suspense and Romance, 2022
ISBN 9798750126934
Cover, book design & author photo by Sara Yager
Edited by Cheyenne Blue
Paperback and E-book available on Amazon.com
OTHER BOOKS BY BECKY BOHAN
FICTION
Sinister Paradise (1993)
Fertile Betrayal (1995)
A Light on Altered Land (2020)
NONFICTION
Living Consciously, Dying Gracefully:
A Journey with Cancer and Beyond
(co-author Nancy Manahan, 2007)
To my wife Nancy—
Master of grammar and my heart
Table of Contents
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
The Santorini Setup is a re-imagining of Sinister Paradise, published in 1993 by Madwoman Press. In preparing that novel for an eBook edition, I realized that although the plot’s skeleton was strong, the muscles could be rejuvenated, organs transplanted, and the hormones jolted. I rewrote the entire novel, transforming it into a romance/suspense blend. I added scenes, deleted others, and romanced up the relationship between Britt and Cassie. I also substantially altered some characters and added new ones, hammered out multiple plot hiccups, and set the action in current times.
Stepping once again into the Mediterranean world of Britt, Cassie, and Nicki—and this time finding the enigmatic Susan Marcello there—has been a pleasure. I hope you enjoy their company as much as I have.
Prologue
“The gods will drink your blood!” Paulos Bountourakis spat.
Two thickset men, bracing against the wind, tightened their grip on his thin arms. They stood at the edge of Santorini’s cliffs where the nine-kilometer-wide caldera gaped behind them. Its three volcanic islands glowed like phosphorous in the moonlight.
“Last chance, Bounty!” the interrogator shouted. “Who do you work for?”
“Myself!” Bountourakis lifted his eyes to Orion, cinching the night sky, and envisioned his soul flying toward the stars. He sought courage from his Greek birth line spanning back to the naming of the constellations themselves.
“Who knows you went to Mesa Vouno?”
“No one.” Bountourakis closed his eyes. Earlier that night he had hiked up the limestone mountain on the island’s eastern side to the stone carvings of a lion, dolphin, and eagle. These men had caught him photographing the airport.
The interrogator shook his head. “We saw what you were doing.” He brandished Bountourakis’s camera.
“I take only pictures of my village. Kamari Beach is beautiful at night, sparkling with the lights of the tavernas.”
“You’re lying. You were shooting our Cessna.”
Bountourakis stared at the incriminating evidence. Why didn’t I listen to my wife? Maria had said to avoid Athens and its officials with agendas and expensive suits. “What happens if you get in trouble?” she had asked. “You are an artist, not a spy.” But I left something for you. On Mesa Vouno. Between the rocks.
“A smoke, please?” Bountourakis asked, seizing at seconds to prolong his life, grasping at the last pleasures of the world—the star-speckled sky, a jolt of nicotine.
The interrogator nodded to his companions.
The howl of the wind caught his scream as Bountourakis plummeted past the 400-meter cliffs toward the old pumice ash quarry. Behind him, moonlight glittered on the indifferent waters of the volcanic crater.
Britt Evans squeezed her wiry frame between the clutter of furniture in Athens’s Syntagma Square and settled into a chair of an open-air restaurant. A waiter appeared and took her order for an Amstel beer.
Britt leaned back to examine the sights of the famous block. Amidst the noisy, relentless traffic, the leaves of the oak and ash trees shimmered in the spring breeze. Water from the fountain in the middle of the square spurted in an arc, and pockets of people gathered around small tables under green and blue canopies.
For the first time in weeks, Britt could savor a stress-free day. She was at the start of the fun part of her time away from her post in the Classics Department at the University of Minnesota. Her lectures at the American School of Classical Studies, based on her book, The Flora and Fauna of Ancient Greece, had gone well. Now she looked forward to an extended stay at Santorini where she would continue the research she had begun in the museums of Crete. As she stretched in contentment, the rays of the mid-afternoon sun struck her shaggy black hair and drew a fleeting halo of navy blue on her crown.
As the waiter delivered an icy beer, Britt glanced at her phone. Nicostrata Lampas, her habitually early friend, was late. Is it because of the surprise Nicki said she’s bringing?
The women had met during Britt’s graduate years at Berkeley when she was a teaching assistant in Ancient Greek Culture. Nicki, then a senior architecture student, had been waiting outside the classroom one day for her younger brother. Soon, she was waiting for Br
itt with a crush as big as her investment portfolio.
Britt surveyed the pedestrians, looking for Nicki. Her eyes briefly met those of a man with a closely cropped beard standing in the shade of a nearby tree. He turned to his phone with a slow, graceful motion, as though he had just glanced up from reading a text.
A familiar voice called above the traffic. Nicki approached her table, looking chic. She wore black gabardine slacks and a white linen blouse with a kerchief as black and glossy as her short hair. Tortoiseshell glasses made her appear older than her twenty-eight years.
“You look divine!” Nicki cried and kissed Britt’s cheek.
The smell of a spicy perfume wafted over Britt.
Nicki stood back. “Welcome to Athens,” she said. A short man in his sixties appeared by her outstretched arm. Nicki clasped his shoulder fondly. “My godfather, Mikos Zerakis.”
So, this is the legendary Mikos Zerakis. Britt examined the stocky man. His gold front tooth winked in the sunlight as they took their seats. She recalled that the long-time politician and current member of the Greek Parliament had been Nicki’s advocate, persuading a reluctant father to send his only daughter to America for an education.
Zerakis, dressed in a gray linen suit that perfectly matched the shading of his hair, gave Britt a penetrating look. His eyes lingered on the slight bump on Britt’s nose, the remnant of an old break, then locked onto her black, intelligent eyes. “Such a beauty!” he exclaimed. He grinned at Nicki in an approval not wholly affected.
Britt accepted the compliment without comment, knowing it was untrue and only meant to flatter. She was attractive in her own way but preferred her comfortable blue capris and a white cotton top to Nicki’s designer clothes.
“Are you enjoying your time in our glorious country?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s wonderful to be back. But I’ve spent way too much time buried in classrooms and museums—although I love the Acropolis Museum.”
“It is beautiful, yes?” Zerakis said with pride.
“Absolutely. But I’m looking forward to some island time and getting a nice tan.” Britt patted her pale cheeks.
The three exchanged pleasantries for several minutes as they waited for the server.
“What’s the issue of the day in Parliament, Mr. Zerakis?” Britt asked after he had placed an order for chilled wine.
“Terrorism.” He frowned. “It is a bad situation with no solution, no end.” He paused as if unsure whether to go on and risk boring this woman who meant so much to Nicki. But the politician in him prevailed. “Your president thinks we are too easy on terrorists. But this is the irony,” he said, holding up a finger. “We open our doors to refugees, then we are blamed if a few smelly goats sneak through! Perhaps we close the American naval base next!” Zerakis slapped the table for emphasis. Britt’s beer bottle rocked. “How would your president like that!”
“He’ll have to speak for himself,” Britt said, steadying the green bottle. “But military cutbacks may close it before you do.”
Zerakis kept silent while the waiter set two glasses of wine on the table, then continued. “Those decisions are for the politicians, and this I will tell you,” Zerakis said, “we are all a bad lot.” He took a taste of the wine. “You know, our relationship with America is complex. You save us in the world war, then support the monarchy, then the junta.” Zerakis shook his head. “Greece is the home of democracy. How can America support autocrats?”
As Britt poured the rest of the Amstel into her glass, she noticed the bearded man still on his phone. But this time, he was holding it at a different angle. Was he taking a picture of Britt? No, just making a call, she thought as he lifted the device to his ear. She brushed away a flash of uneasiness as he sauntered down the street, conversing.
“Listen to this,” Zerakis continued. “Our governments may quibble, but this is always true: The people of Greece love the people of America.” He raised his glass in a salute.
Zerakis observed Nicki’s beaming face, then grinned. “But why do we go on so? The world is not all politics. There are places to see, people to love.” He began to recount the strong bloodline of Nicki’s family, a clan of wealthy Corinthian landowners and businessmen.
“You fly to Santorini next Tuesday?” Nicki asked Britt. Her light olive cheeks had darkened with her godfather’s praise of her family.
“Yes. Bill and Anne, my hosts, are having a send-off party Monday night. Why don’t you come? You, too, Mr. Zerakis.”
“Santorini, eh?” Zerakis raised an eyebrow. “A man died there recently. A photographer. Part of the Akrotiri crew, I believe.”
“I heard.”
“Did you know him?” Zerakis asked, his eyes slicing into Britt.
“No.”
“Ah,” said the politician. “It is a bad business, such an accident.”
“True,” Britt said. Was Zerakis implying something more?
“You must be careful there. Do not tempt the fates by dancing at the edge,” he said darkly.
“The edge of the cliffs?” Britt asked.
Zerakis pasted on the thin, knowing smile of an insider. “Yes, the edge of the cliffs.” He shifted his sights to the gleaming white chapel on top of Mount Lycabettus in the distance. “Or perhaps of life.”
After Zerakis departed for his parliament office, Britt and Nicki strolled through the nearby streets. They caught an occasional glimpse of the mammoth retaining walls of the Acropolis and the blue-and-white Greek flag, fluttering high above the ruins.
As they walked past the Agora, Britt asked, “How is it being back in Greece?” Nicki’s face looked thinner than it had been in college, and the passing years seemed to have tempered her exuberant nature.
“Mixed. I like to be near my family, but there’s much to miss about America.”
“Such as?”
“Organic produce. Good hamburgers. Not having to explain why I’m not married.”
“That’s a question you wouldn’t escape even if you were in the U.S. My mother still has hopes for me.”
Nicki laughed. “I tell my mother I am married to my profession. When she sees my creations, I think she understands a little.”
“I’d love to see one of your buildings.”
“I have several projects now,” Nicki said. “A small one near Sounion, a smaller one at Nauplion. A big one outside Milan where I’ve been for the past month. I’m glad I made it back to see you before you left for Santorini.”
“Me, too,” Britt said, giving her a smile. “I didn’t realize your architectural firm was international.”
“Yes. A very prestigious one. I think Mikos twisted some ears to get me hired—there’s still much discrimination against women here. But it improves a little each year.”
“I’m proud of you, Nicki,” Britt said. “You’re a great role model for young women.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Nicki adjusted her glasses. “In Italy, I work on eco-friendly housing with solar power. I want to do that here. Most Greek homes are the same—inefficient sugar cubes. I hope to build affordable carbon-neutral models with government backing—but the current economic crisis makes it impossible for now.”
As they turned northward, Britt caught sight of a man standing under a bakery awning. His hand cupped his phone as he talked. Was that the same man she had seen in Syntagma Square? Britt couldn’t be sure.
“Do you know that guy?” Britt asked, subtly pointing out the man to Nicki.
“No. Should I?”
“I think he’s been watching me.”
“Can you blame him? I’ve been watching you for years.”
Britt smiled weakly. Nicki tended to tread dangerously close to old wounds. From the beginning, their friendship had been unsettled, split between the shared joy of the classics and the misery of unrequited attraction. On one hand, they had been united in appreciation of a temple’s entablature, but on the other, divided by Nicki’s refusal to accept that Britt could prefer another woman—or no one at all—to her. Nicki had developed an annoying habit of reminding Britt of her devotion.
“You are single now?”
“Yes. I plan to stay that way, Nicki.” Britt turned away from her hopeful eyes, wishing to close that subject, as well as any thought of her being followed.