by Brenda Hiatt
And walked right back out, when I realized two steps in that it was aimed at a much younger crowd.
But then I stopped and reconsidered. Did I really want to buy a six-pack of practical, white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs like the ones I’d thrown away? Now that I thought about it, I most emphatically did not. Squaring my shoulders, I turned around and went back into the store, bracing myself against the assault of pop music blaring over the speakers.
Lingerie was at the very back, of course, which meant I had to make my way past microscopic skirts, tops, and shorts that no woman my age could ever wear without looking stupid. I couldn’t help feeling like everyone in the store was watching me, wondering what on earth I could possibly be doing in there.
Still, I persevered until I found a display of panties that would have done credit to Victoria’s Secret—both in style and price. Forcefully telling myself that I was creating a new me, I plucked half a dozen pairs off the rack: satiny things in hot pink, electric blue, even leopard spots. And I didn’t even pretend to the cashier that I was buying them for my daughter.
It was a small triumph, but I still felt empowered as I left with my crinkly fuschia bag of wildly impractical undies. And with that empowerment came inspiration.
Whoever had left me that bogus message would no doubt be waiting at or near the Cartier store at nine o’clock tonight—perhaps with some nefarious plot to get the ring from me. Suppose I set a trap of my own, staking out the store—from a safe distance, of course!—to see who that person was?
Walking aimlessly through the mall, I considered my plan from every angle, trying to decide whether it was brilliant or incredibly stupid. Maybe both, but the risk to me should be minimal, since there would still be plenty of people in and around Royal Plaza at nine o’clock.
Besides, if I didn’t give myself away by going into the Cartier store, no one should have any reason to target me. At least I hoped not, since I was still carrying the ring around in my pocket. I wished now I’d put it in the hotel safe before coming downtown, like Ronan had suggested. But I didn’t see how my mystery caller could possibly know what I looked like.
To make sure, though, I went back to the internet cafe and googled Wynne Seally. Rather to my surprise, there were a few hits that were actually me—but none with pictures. Just a couple of old newspaper articles about a charity ball Tom and I had attended, and one about Tom being named an elder of our church two years ago.
I closed that window quickly, trying not to think about the way certain church members had seemed to blame me rather than Tom for our divorce, despite the fact he was the one who’d cheated. But Tom brought in both members and money. I’d done nothing but teach Sunday school for a few years and sort through donated clothing for the homeless.
Yeah, I definitely had some issues with church.
Back out on the plaza, I glanced down at what I was wearing: capri-length khaki pants, a scoop-necked jungle print tank top, pink flip-flops, and an oversized hot pink purse. (What had I been thinking? Oh, that’s right—Debra had given me the purse).
I decided I’d pass as a typical tourist—which was more or less what I was. That was good, since the last thing I wanted to do was stand out in the crowd tonight. With any luck, a cruise ship would be docked, giving me even better odds of blending in with the milling throng of shoppers.
I dug my digital camera out of my purse and put it in a more accessible side pocket, along with a small notebook and a pen. I was ready for my stakeout.
Chapter Seven
IT WAS A quarter past eight and nearly dusk. I considered grabbing some dinner before finding an appropriate lurking spot, but decided my stomach was too jumpy. Besides, I’d had that enormous lunch with Ronan, then ice cream. That would hold me a while yet.
Music poured from the upper level bars on either side; maybe a drink would calm my nerves a bit. I started up the stairs to Iguana Joe’s, then changed my mind. If Bebe or her friends were there again, one of them might call me by name—and who knew where my stalker was right now?
I went back down to the pavement and across the square to another bar instead, pausing before entering to make sure I didn’t recognize anyone inside. That’s what a real undercover agent would do, right?
Twenty minutes later, I was sipping a frozen margarita, pretending to be cool and sophisticated, when a touch on my shoulder made me drop my glass. Luckily it was plastic, so instead of breaking it just bounced noisily, splattering my legs with most of my drink. Now I’d be sticky for my stakeout. Great.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry! I’ll buy you another one.” It was Rick, looking very young, very earnest and very drunk. So much for me acting like a real undercover agent.
“That’s okay. I didn’t really need it.” A definite understatement.
“No, no, really, let me get you another drink. What was it?” He squinted down at the green plastic glass on the floor.
“Please, Rick, don’t worry about it.” I glanced at my watch: twenty till nine. “I need to be going anyway.”
Rick nodded vigorously. “I was about to leave, too. I’ll come with you. Since I owe you a drink, maybe I can buy you one later on.”
I wasn’t sure if the idea of Rick “helping” me on my stakeout was more hilarious or terrifying. “Thanks, but I’m meeting someone. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Rain check. Yeah,” he said vaguely, following me out of the bar. “So, where are you meeting this person? Is it a guy?”
Since I needed to get rid of him quickly, I wasn’t above lying. “Yes, it’s a guy, and we’re going to want to be alone.”
Comprehension dawned gradually in his bleared eyes. “Oh. Oh! So it’s like a date? I guess that’s cool.” He took a step back and looked me over. “I guess you are kind of hot for . . . well . . .”
“Someone old enough to be your mother?” I suggested, not even trying to hide my amusement. “Thanks, I think.”
“Nah, no way you could be my mother. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, Rick. Really. But I do need to go.” It was a quarter to nine, and I still had to find a good lurking spot.
“So, what are you two up to?” came a familiar voice, and I turned to see Ronan approaching us. Perfect. Just perfect.
Rick answered before I could. “I’m off to Carlos & Charlie’s, but Wynne has a hot date.”
Ronan’s brows rose as he looked to me for confirmation.
Thanks, Rick.
“It’s not—That is—Okay, fine, yeah, I have a hot date.” What else could I say at this point? I wasn’t about to launch into an explanation in front of Rick, and I really needed to get over to the Cartier store.
“Do you, then?” Ronan was smiling, one brow still raised. Somehow his skepticism irritated me much more than Rick’s had.
“I do. With a gorgeous, impatient gentleman. Now, if you two will excuse me?”
“C’mon, Ronan,” Rick said. “We can meet everyone else at Carlos & Charlie’s. It’ll be fun. Maybe you can join us later, Wynne?”
I had no desire for another uncomfortable hour at that teen/twenties hangout, but to get rid of them I said, “Maybe.”
“If you don’t get a better offer?” Ronan asked with a wink. I wondered how much he suspected.
“Exactly. Have fun, guys!” With a cheery wave, I headed across the square, in the opposite direction from Carlos & Charlie’s, resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder.
I didn’t go directly to the Cartier store, of course, but I kept my eye on it as I aimed for another shop two doors down. There appeared to be only one customer inside the Cartier Boutique at the moment, a man. I didn’t see anyone obviously loitering nearby. Just a lot of tourists wandering and shopping and chatting to each other.
I went into the souvenir shop I’d targeted and pretended to browse the postcards near
the front while I watched the area around the jewelry store. After a couple of minutes, though, I started to feel conspicuous—and I couldn’t very well whip out my camera here at the postcard rack and started snapping shots of people. I needed a better vantage point.
Leaving the shop, I glanced around. Unfortunately, the clock tower was too far away and in the wrong direction for me to pretend to take pictures of that while focusing on the Cartier store. What else was around? About a dozen other jewelry stores, interspersed with an upscale clothing boutique and this souvenir shop. Hmm.
Lacking any better idea, I dug my camera out of my purse and took a picture or two of the square, first looking east and then west. There was a big planter full of flowers nearby, so I went over to that and pretended to take close-up shots of individual blooms, as I’d seen photographers do in public gardens. Okay, so I probably looked like an idiot using a flash instead of waiting for daylight, but it was better than nothing as a cover.
I worked my way around the planter until I was facing the Cartier Boutique, then crouched down like I wanted to get a super close shot and peered through the flowers. Still no one who looked like—
Wait!
Leaning casually against the corner of a stairway across from the store, a tall woman in a floppy hat was watching the entrance to the Cartier store. Her hair was pulled back, its color indeterminate at this distance, especially since the only light came from the stores across the square.
A few yards away from her, a dark-haired man in a black shirt was also watching the jewelry store. I didn’t have a good view of his face, but from his profile I guessed him to be young and handsome. Were they together? It was impossible to tell for sure.
Still crouched, my heart pounding, I pointed my camera through the flowers and zoomed all the way in. Even in the dim light, I thought that woman looked a lot like Melanie Melampus. I toggled off the flash and snapped half a dozen pictures of her, and a couple of the man, for good measure, before my knees started to seize up.
“Stupid knees,” I muttered. Sometimes getting old really sucked.
Turning half away from the woman, just in case she did know what I looked like, I rose painfully to my feet, using the edge of the cement planter for assistance. I took a couple of hobbling steps, then, trying to look casual, snapped a few random shots of the square, not focusing on anything in particular.
After a minute or two, I stuck my camera back in my purse and headed back toward the souvenir shop, nonchalantly glancing in the woman’s direction. She was gone. I swallowed, trying not to panic as I furtively scanned the thinning crowd around the square, then checked the Cartier store.
The lights were dimmed, and the man I’d spoken with earlier was just locking the door. The woman who looked like Melanie Melampus was nowhere in sight. According to my watch, it was now a quarter past nine, so I could only assume she’d given up on accosting me, or whatever she’d planned for tonight.
I wondered what her next move might be, half wishing I’d found a way to tell Ronan about my suspicions. Suddenly nervous about being alone here in the square, where no one would have any incentive to help me should I need it, I turned and walked quickly back to Royal Plaza and the main road.
Back at the corner where the cab had dropped me earlier, I briefly debated joining my fellow divers at Carlos & Charlie’s. At least I’d be with people who knew me. But it would be tantamount to an admission to both Rick and Ronan that I hadn’t had a hot date after all. Pride won out over fear, and I stepped to the curb to hail the next taxi.
Before one came, however, I saw Ronan crossing the street toward me. He waved, and I waved back, trying to think up a plausible reason my “date” had been cut so short.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said before I could stammer out an excuse about my escort’s ailing mother. “Any chance, now that young Rick is safely partying with his chums, you’ll tell me what’s really going on?”
I stared at him. “You mean—?”
“You were just a little too eager to get away from us earlier, and it wasn’t the eagerness of a woman headed to meet a ‘gorgeous, impatient gentleman.’ Not that you couldn’t snag one if you wanted to, of course,” he added quickly.
“Thanks,” I said sourly. “My ego feels so much better now.”
“So?” he prompted.
Everything he’d told me that afternoon had turned out to be true, so I shrugged and described the odd phone message I’d received and the plan I’d concocted—though I left out the part about the camera. Until I had those photos safely printed and/or e-mailed off-island, I wasn’t telling anyone about those.
“And sure enough,” I concluded, “there was a woman loitering near the store that looked amazingly like the pictures I found online of Melanie Melampus.”
“Really? Where is she now?” he demanded, looking back over my shoulder toward the square. “Do you think she saw you?”
I was a little startled by his intensity. “I don’t think so,” I said. “How would she know what I looked like? Anyway, she disappeared once the store closed. I, um, didn’t see which way she went.” He didn’t need to know about my creaky knees.
For a moment I actually thought he was going to charge after her himself, but then he relaxed and smiled. “The important thing is that you’re safe. Of course, if there’s any chance Melanie Melampus really is alive, it would be useful to verify it.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I definitely believe you believe you saw someone who looked like her. But sometimes we can see what we expect to see. The mind is a tricky thing. If only . . .”
I opened my mouth to tell him about the pictures, but again I stopped myself. Not yet. Not just yet. “I can tell you what she was wearing, if you want to go look for her,” I said instead. “But there was a guy—well, I’m not sure, but he might have been with her. I didn’t see them speak to each other, so I can’t be positive.”
“A guy?” His attention sharpened again. “What did he look like?”
“Young, I think. Tall, dark—the light wasn’t great, and he wasn’t facing me. Anyway, the woman was wearing an electric blue sundress that looked designer, really cute tan shoes with blue heels, and a big hat. He was in khakis and an open-collar black shirt. Very European.”
Ronan nodded, clearly thinking hard. “Do you think you can get back to the hotel safely on your own? Or were you on your way to Carlos & Charlie’s?”
“Definitely not Carlos & Charlie’s. I was going to catch a cab back and order something up from room service. I’ve had enough excitement for one night.” It was true. Now that I felt safe again, I also felt drained.
“Sounds like a plan. Here’s a cab now.”
He flagged it down for me, then helped me inside, even telling the driver which hotel to take me to. Normally I’d have protested, but by now I was feeling fragile enough to appreciate it—not that I’d ever been at any real risk, I reminded myself.
I glanced back as the taxi pulled away from the curb and saw Ronan heading in the direction I’d come from. I wondered if he’d find my stalker—and whether I should hope he did or he didn’t. His safety mattered more to me than it should.
When I reached the hotel fifteen minutes later, I went straight to the hotel’s business center, but it was closed for the evening. I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.
Nervous again, though I had no real reason to be, I hurried up to my room and did exactly what I’d told Ronan I was going to do—after securing the deadbolt on the door and searching every inch of the suite.
I ordered room service, and then my cell phone rang, making me jump. But it was just Bess, calling to tell me she was now a professional actress—she’d been offered a position in the dinner theater’s troupe.
“It’s only part-time, of course—most of the others have regular nine-to-five jobs—but wh
at a great resume builder! And it will be fun, too.”
Her infectious enthusiasm made me smile. “Congratulations, sweetie! That’s wonderful.” At some point I’d have to find a diplomatic way to suggest that she consider a “nine-to-five job,” something with benefits. But not while she was in celebration mode.
“Do you . . . do you think I should tell Dad?” she asked then.
I nearly told her not to bother, that he wouldn’t care, but I stopped myself in time. I’d tried very hard not to bad-mouth Tom to the girls during our separation and divorce, hard as it had been at times. I wasn’t going to start now. Besides, if what Mom had said was true, he might eventually be interested in reestablishing his relationship with the girls.
“Sure, why not? I think he’d get a kick out of it. He might even come to see you perform.”
She laughed, and I was startled to hear an edge to it. Bess was my idealist, after all. “Right. He’s going to pay money to see me when he couldn’t find time for any of my free school concerts or plays? But I guess I’ll tell him anyway. You have a fabulous time with the rest of your vacation, okay, Mom?”
“Okay.” I hoped that didn’t count as a promise, since the way things were going, I couldn’t exactly guarantee it. “I’ll call you when I get back. Meanwhile, get together with Deb and celebrate or something.”
“We will. Love you, Mom.”
I closed the phone still smiling, but almost immediately my earlier worries came crowding back. I couldn’t help wishing I’d never found that blasted ring—or at least that I hadn’t felt morally bound to try to find its owner. I could have just enjoyed the last week of my vacation, my biggest worry whether I’d get a sunburn.
Instead, I was frightened for my safety and wondering if I’d stumbled into something way, way over my head.
When my dinner arrived a few minutes later, I made sure to check the peephole and deadbolted the door again the moment I’d tipped the server. Even with those precautions, when I went to bed—almost immediately after eating—I slept with my camera and the ring under the pillow next to me.