by Brenda Hiatt
“Nothing’s ever been proven.” I thought he sounded defensive. “Anyway, my main objective is to protect the insurance company’s interests. I’m hoping that your finding that ring here in Aruba will do just that. If it also happens to clear Melampus, that’s purely incidental.”
I thought for a moment. “But . . . if Mr. Melampus was suspected of his wife’s murder, the insurance company wouldn’t pay out anyway. I assume he’s her primary beneficiary?”
Ronan’s brows rose with respect, but I wasn’t in a mood to preen. “You’d think so, but no. The beneficiary is another relative of Melanie’s—a sister. Another thing that made me suspicious from the start.”
“That’s not suspicious in itself,” I argued, remembering some of the clients Tom and I had handled. “Especially if there was a lot of money brought into the marriage on either side. Or did the policy pre-date the wedding? That would also explain it.”
“No, that’s what makes it odd. Melanie took out the policy herself, apparently without her husband’s knowledge—only two months before she disappeared.”
“Okay, I admit that could be suspicious, if only because of the timing. Have you talked to the sister?”
He shook his head. “I generally come in at the other end of things, recovering whatever was insured or, in a case like this, figuring out what happened. I’m not involved in any eventual payout. I just try to keep that from happening, if it shouldn’t.”
“Figuring out what happened? Shouldn’t that be the police’s job?”
“Aye, it should, yeah. But their interests don’t always jibe with the insurance company’s, which is what I’m paid to protect. Plus, I don’t necessarily . . . um, have the same restrictions the police do in an investigation.”
My brows went up. “Oh, I get it. Like in The Thomas Crown Affair?”
“I’ve never had a case quite that, er, interesting, but that’s the general idea.”
If his guess turned out to be correct, this case might become as interesting—if not as romantic. It was that last caveat that kept me from saying so out loud. Instead, I dug into my purse.
“I have something to show you,” I said, pulling out the envelope with the pictures and handing it to him.
Ronan shot me one curious glance, then opened the envelope. His eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. “Why didn’t you tell me last night you’d taken pictures?”
“I wanted to make sure they came out okay first,” I hedged. “You seemed pretty skeptical that I could possibly have seen Melanie. I wanted to make sure I really did have proof.”
He frowned thoughtfully at the pictures. “The light sucks, but it does look like it could be her. Have you shown these to anyone else?”
“Not yet. But shouldn’t I make them public, or at least give them to the authorities? Maybe if I do that, the ring won’t matter so much to whoever’s been trying to get it.” And I wouldn’t be at risk anymore.
Ronan shrugged, still staring thoughtfully at the pictures. “That does make some sense, I suppose,” he said, almost absently.
I realized I still hadn’t told him about the FBI. Now that I knew his interest in the case was legitimate, I might as well, though I suspected he might not be pleased.
Before I could think of a diplomatic way to explain, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow these for a few hours before you do anything else with them?”
My suspicions, so recently laid to rest, suddenly twitched. “Why?”
He only hesitated for a moment before answering. “I thought I’d scan them and send them to the insurance company. I’m hoping they’ll consider them proof enough to cut me a check.”
So he was a mercenary after all. My cynicism startled me, though it shouldn’t have. My divorce, and all that led up to it, had effectively destroyed my old rose-colored glasses. At least his reason made non-sinister sense.
“Um, sure, I guess that would be fine. I’ve got several other sets.” It seemed important that he know that, more important than telling him about the FBI right this moment.
“Will it matter that you didn’t take the pictures yourself?” I asked then, genuinely curious.
He grinned. “Not if they don’t know that.”
Clearly my cynicism hadn’t been misplaced. “I won’t tell them. But I may have to tell the authorities . . . at some point.”
“I suppose,” he said with a philosophical shrug. “But with any luck, I’ll have my money by then. I’ll get these back to you by this evening, Wynne.”
“That’ll be fine. You can call my room or just leave them at the desk.”
I didn’t want him to think I was overly eager to see him again—though I had to admit I was, now that I knew he wasn’t a threat.
Not to my physical safety, anyway.
Chapter Nine
WE PARTED when we reached the hotel, and I went up to my room. The housekeeper hadn’t come yet, so rather than risk interruption, I hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. I more than half regretted contacting the FBI, but since I said I’d call back, I figured I’d better do so.
I decided to try Frank Truman’s cell instead of calling Boyd Walters back. I hadn’t liked Walters’s attitude—or his manners.
“Agent Truman, this is Wynne Seally,” I said when he answered.
“Right. My partner said you’d be calling. You found a ring in Aruba that you believe might have relevance to the Melampus case, is that right?”
This guy didn’t go in for pleasantries either. Maybe it was part of the FBI training. I liked his voice better than Walters’s though: cultured, mellow, and a little bit southern.
“Yes, that’s right. I found it while diving two days ago.” Was it really only two days? So much had happened since then.
“And what makes you believe this ring belonged to Melanie Melampus?”
“It’s inscribed with ‘Stefan & Melanie, 1998,’ for one thing.” I’d already told his partner that. Didn’t these guys communicate? Or was this some kind of test?
“So just two first names and a year.”
“And a Cartier hallmark.” My voice was getting just a teensy bit sharp.
“I see.” His held no inflection whatsoever.
“Wouldn’t Melanie Melampus’s ring be important evidence in this case, especially since I found it so far from where she disappeared?” I prodded.
“It could be.” Now it sounded like he was humoring me. “If we had proof that it was her ring, and if we had proof that she was wearing it when she disappeared.”
I exhaled noisily. “Didn’t Agent Walters’s research turn up anything on the ring? It should have been listed among her missing effects, for insurance purposes if nothing else.”
“How would you know that?” Skepticism had abruptly been replaced by suspicion. “What’s your connection to this case, Ms. Seally?”
“None at all.” I didn’t want to bring Ronan’s name into this without warning him first. “I found a ring. I’m just trying to do the right thing here—but you guys are making it awfully hard.”
“Fine, fine. I’m sorry. You told Agent Walters that it’s a platinum and diamond wedding band, correct? And the date on the inscription is the year of the Melampus’s wedding. Anything else?”
“Yes. Last night I saw Melanie Melampus herself, here in Aruba, right in downtown Oranjestad.”
Smugly, I waited for him to respond. Let him discount that.
“You might be interested to know, Ms. Seally, that we’ve been averaging two or three Melanie sightings a week since this case first appeared in the media.”
“Oh.” My bubble of triumph popped. “But—” Should I mention the pictures? Or would that be breaking my promise to Ronan?
“But I’d never even heard of Melanie Melampus until I found this ring,” I finished lamely
. “Isn’t it a pretty big coincidence that a look-alike and the ring would both turn up in Aruba?”
He coughed, then said, “I tell you what, Ms. Seally. Once you get back to the States, give me a call, and I’ll send someone to get a statement and the ring. If it checks out, we’ll tag it as evidence and get a formal deposition from you.”
Suddenly I remembered what Ronan had said about the authorities: that they might have reason to discount—or destroy—any evidence that would damage their case.
“How about this instead? Talk to the folks at the Cartier store here. They have the registry number, which should get you a complete description, original purchaser, everything. If it turns out this is Melanie Melampus’s ring, get back to me. Thanks for your time, Agent Truman.”
I hung up, trembling slightly with a combination of humiliation and righteous indignation. He obviously thought I was some crackpot or publicity-seeker. Seemed it was true that no good deed goes unpunished. Shoot, if I had mentioned the photos, or even e-mailed them, they’d probably claim I’d faked them somehow.
Belatedly, I thought to use some of the calming techniques I’d learned during my recent divorce proceedings, when I’d often felt much the same as I did right now: disrespected, patronized, marginalized. Lied to.
Breathing slowly, in through my nose, out through my mouth, I counted to fifty, ending with a quick serenity prayer. That was better.
What I needed now was some real downtime, stretched out by the pool. I changed to my swimsuit and slathered myself with sunscreen. A glance at the bathroom mirror had me regretting those waffles at breakfast. I tugged at the bottom of my suit in a vain effort to achieve a sleek line. No dice. I really didn’t look bad for my age, but I was never going to look twenty again. Or even thirty.
Tearing my gaze away from my thighs, I noticed the ring, hanging blatantly between my breasts. That wouldn’t do. I took it off its chain and tested it on my fingers. It fit almost perfectly on my right ring finger, so I left it there.
Turning resolutely away from the mirror, I stuck a book and my cell phone into my beach bag and opened the door, remembering to remove the “Do Not Disturb” sign. I passed the housekeeper on my way to the elevator. With any luck she’d be done with my room by the time I needed a break from the sun, and I could get a nap later.
IT WAS NICE to come to the pool with no lessons to face. I found a lounge chair in the shade, picked up my book and settled back, determined to relax until lunchtime. There was a nice breeze ruffling the palm branches overhead, I could hear the surf in the background and children in the pool in the foreground. A server was making her way around the pool, taking drink orders. Nice.
Three paragraphs into my book, my phone rang, shattering my hard-won calm.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Seally? This is Boyd Walters. We spoke earlier.”
“Yes. I just got off the phone with your partner, Agent Truman.” Honestly, didn’t these guys talk to each other?
“I know. He briefed me on your conversation.”
Oh.
“I had a few more questions,” he continued. “This ring you found—have you shown it to anyone else?”
That seemed like an odd question—as odd as when Ronan had asked me the same thing about the photos. “Why?”
“This has been a rather, ah, sensitive case. If the ring should turn out to be important, we wouldn’t want to compromise the investigation by having too much information in the media too soon.”
“You mean, information suggesting that Melanie Melampus was never murdered at all?”
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “Listen, Ms. Seally, Frank told me what you thought you saw, but I was at the crime scene myself. Believe me, no one could lose that much blood and still be alive. We have a ton of circumstantial evidence pointing to the fact that Stefan Melampus killed his wife and dumped her overboard less than a mile from Miami.”
“But no body.”
“But no body. Which is why every other bit of evidence, every witness, is so important to this case. If we miss anything, mishandle anything, or let the press get too wild with the theories, Melampus could walk.”
I knew it would sound naive, but I had to ask. “Shouldn’t he, if he’s innocent?”
“Innocent?” He made a disgusting noise that sounded like he’d spat. I was glad he was a couple thousand miles away from me. “There ain’t nothing innocent about Stefan Melampus, Ms. Seally, believe me. The crimes he and his so-called companies have committed over the years would curl your hair.”
“Then why wasn’t he already in jail before this incident?” I wasn’t really that stupid, but I wanted to hear his explanation.
“As you probably know if you’ve ever followed the news, Stefan Melampus is a very rich man with connections out the wazoo. A guy like that, well, he’s like Teflon. Nothing ever seems to stick to him. No matter how dead-to-rights we think we have him, someone somewhere pulls a string and presto! The case unravels. But not this time.”
“Because the case is so ironclad, or because no one’s pulling strings?”
He hesitated, then said, “Maybe both.”
Remembering what I’d read about Melampus, I hazarded a guess. “His former cronies won’t help him this time because he’s turned over a new leaf, is that it? They see him as a traitor?”
“I really can’t get into the details of the case,” he replied, suddenly laughably prim. “I’d just like to ask you not to talk to anyone about what you’ve found, what you think you’ve seen, or what you may suspect, until I or another agent can question you face to face.”
“Someone’s coming here? To Aruba?” That was a surprise. I guess they hadn’t written me off as a crackpot after all.
“Possibly. Or we may just have you send your evidence to our office, if we determine it’s important to the case.”
That definitely wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t trust this guy at all, even if he wasn’t quite as dismissive as Agent Truman had been. “So you still haven’t checked out the ring?”
“Frank’s looking into it now. Just keep a lid on it until you hear from us, Ms. Seally.”
He hung up before I could tell him that a whole boatful of people, as well as the clerk at the Cartier Boutique, had already seen the ring. Ah, well. That was water under the bridge now. I couldn’t undo it.
And the more I thought about it, I didn’t see why I should want to. Whatever else Stefan Melampus might be guilty of, I was pretty sure he was not guilty of his wife’s murder. Whether I’d really seen what I thought I’d seen, whether the Feds believed me or not, Melanie’s ring was definitely here in Aruba.
Plus, there’d been that weird phone call, which had very likely come from either Melanie herself or someone connected with her disappearance. Which might mean that Boyd Walters and Frank Truman weren’t the only ones determined to see Stefan Melampus convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed.
For the first time, I considered what Melanie Melampus’s role in all this might be, if she really was still alive. If there was a “ton of circumstantial evidence,” as Walters had claimed, the obvious person to have planted it was Melanie. Which must mean she wanted her husband found guilty as well.
And from what both Ronan and Walters had said, there were plenty of other people out there who’d be happy to see Stefan Melampus convicted—or dead. The man certainly seemed to have no lack of enemies. Maybe I was being naive—or just stubborn—to want justice in a case like this. But if Melampus was convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed, that would mean whoever was guilty went free.
Shouldn’t the FBI care about that? Shouldn’t someone? Even Ronan seemed primarily concerned about his own profit. He’d already demonstrated that he was willing to bend the truth, if necessary, to that end. As long as he got his money, I wasn’t sure he
really cared what happened to Stefan Melampus—who, if the news reports were correct, had now repented of his former lifestyle.
I stared out at the pool, feeling more alone than ever. Wasn’t there anyone else, anywhere, who wanted the truth—the real truth—to come to light?
My phone rang again, and I sighed, not really feeling up to another sparring session with the FBI, or even the day-to-day problems of my mother or daughters. But when I glanced at the screen, the number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?”
“Wynne Seally?” The man’s voice was unfamiliar as well, but as smooth as port wine and dark chocolate.
“Yes?”
“This is Stefan Melampus. I understand you’ve found something that might be of great benefit to me.”
Chapter Ten
BEYOND FLABBERGASTED that he had called me himself, I tightened my grip on the phone and tried to make my voice work.
“Um, yes, that’s right,” I managed after an awkward pause. “That is, at least, I seem to have found your wife’s, um, Melanie Melampus’s ring. While I was learning to scuba dive. The day before yesterday. But I didn’t realize . . . I mean . . .”
Thankfully, he interrupted before my babbling got completely out of control. “You have the ring there? Can you describe it to me?”
“Of . . . of course.” I described the ring, my nerves calming somewhat as I went through the litany yet again.
“Yes, it was her wedding band,” he said. “I had it specially commissioned and inscribed, which is how the Cartier people were able to trace it to me. You found it in Aruba—in the ocean?”
“Yes. And, um, there’s more,” I began, then hesitated, realizing that it would be cruel to get his hopes up if I were wrong about what I’d seen. Presumably, this man thought his wife was dead—murdered—possibly by someone close to him.
“Ms. Seally?” he prompted.
“I’m sorry. Last night, I think . . . I believe . . . I may have seen Melanie here, alive, in Oranjestad,” I finished in a rush.