by Brenda Hiatt
But I was afraid it sounded more and more like Michelle might have killed her sister—or had her killed—for the insurance money and arranged for Stefan to take the fall. With a sigh, I rose.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Haliakis? As I said earlier, I’m to meet with the lawyer, Mr. Phelps, in just a little bit, and I’d like to run up to my room first.”
He stood as well. “Gus, remember? I’ll talk to Mr. M and give you another call if he wants me to find out anything else. Thanks for your time, Ms. S.”
“It was my pleasure.” And it was—or partly pleasure, anyway, given how easy on the eyes he was. It was undeniably a useful meeting for me, as well, since talking everything through, in order, had helped me to put things in better perspective.
As I headed up to my room, I wondered if there really was any chance that Melanie Melampus was still alive. From everything Ronan and the FBI agents had said, it didn’t sound like it. Even if she’d orginally been in on the scheme, planning to fake her death and disappear, her sister could well have double-crossed her and had her killed after all.
Either way, the ring might be the key to whatever had really happened. How had it ended up in Aruba, under sixty feet of seawater? I was beginning to wonder whether I’d ever find out.
Back in my room, I first checked that the ring was still safely hidden, then checked my cell phone. No messages, which I supposed was a good thing, though I’d half expected a call from Debra by now. I only had a couple of minutes to spare, so I brushed my teeth, reapplied my lipstick, and headed back downstairs for my next appointment.
Curt Phelps was waiting in the lobby when I arrived, a tall, impeccably dressed fair-haired man of about my own age. At a guess, I’d say his suit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home.
“Mr. Phelps?” I said as I approached, just in case I was wrong. I wasn’t.
“Ah, Ms. Seally? I want to thank you for seeing me. Shall we go next door to the restaurant before we begin?” His manner was cool, but I didn’t take it personally. I had the feeling he was that way with everyone.
I nodded, and we headed outside. The hotels along Palm Beach stood shoulder to shoulder, so it only took us a minute to walk to the one next door and another minute or two, once inside, to reach the Lotus Blossom. He had actually made a reservation, so we were seated immediately.
We were conveniently secluded from the other diners, both out of earshot of the nearest table and screened by a cascade of greenery and flowers. An artificial waterfall only a few feet away made it even less likely we could be overheard. I suspected Mr. Phelps had scoped the place out in advance and requested this particular table.
“I assume you’re going to want the whole story of how I found the ring and what’s happened since?” I said when the hostess left us, since he hadn’t really spoken to me since we’d exchanged greetings in the lobby.
“Of course. But I’d prefer we order first.” He looked pointedly at his menu.
His very precision made me want to do something outrageous—which was unusual for me. Fortunately, I was able to content myself with ordering the most expensive sushi combo on the menu when the server came by a moment later. Mr. Phelps suggested something from the wine list but I shook my head. Tempting as it was to run the bill even higher, I thought it wisest to stick with iced tea.
When the server was gone, he pulled a tiny digital recorder from his pocket and set it on the table between us. “You don’t mind, do you? This will be easier and more accurate than taking notes.”
Though I was a little taken aback, I shook my head. “That’ll be fine.” I’d just try really hard not to say anything stupid.
“Curt Phelps, Esquire, interviewing Wynne Seally,” he said, for the benefit of the tape. “Now, if you’d start with when, where, and how you found the ring?”
The formality was disconcerting, but after a second or two to marshal my thoughts, I launched into the same story I’d given Mr. Haliakis a couple of hours ago. Unlike my previous listener, Mr. Phelps interrupted me frequently with questions, to clarify various details.
When our salads arrived, he paused the recorder long enough to allow me a few bites and a sip or two of my tea before punching the button again and resuming the inquisition. At first I was self-conscious about eating with the recorder on, but as he continued relentlessly on, I decided he could just deal with any extraneous sounds on the tape and finished my salad between questions.
He paused the thing again when our sushi came. I noticed he’d ordered only cooked fish and veggie rolls. No, not the adventurous type, Mr. Phelps. Of course, prior to this trip, nigiri had been about the limit of my own adventuresomeness, but I decided not to dwell on that.
“And last night you learned your home had been burgled?” he prompted me after restarting the recorder.
I poured soy sauce and dabbled a bit of wasabi into it with my chopsticks. “Yes, though it actually happened sometime the day before. My daughter didn’t want to tell me in voice mail, so I hadn’t realized her calls were urgent.”
For the first time, his professional demeanor cracked a tiny bit around the edges, and he actually looked startled. “Your daughter was in the house at the time? Was she hurt?”
“Oh. No, no. She has her own apartment elsewhere. But the neighbor feeding my cat noticed some things amiss, so she called my daughter, who called me.”
“You didn’t leave your number with your neighbor?” He seemed to think that strange—as it would seem to anyone who didn’t know Mrs. Henderson.
“She’s a chatterer. I didn’t dare leave my cell number with her, for fear she’d rack me up a five-hundred-dollar phone bill with inconsequentials. Since I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle any emergencies from here, it made more sense to leave her my daughter’s number.”
He nodded and popped a piece of California roll into his mouth, sans wasabi.
“And that’s pretty much it, so far,” I said, picking up a piece of tuna nigiri. “I’m really hoping, now that you and Mr. Haliakis and the FBI are here, there won’t be anything else of interest to report.”
I bit my nigiri neatly in half—something I’d hardly ever managed to do before without making a mess. It seemed a shame to waste such an elegant moment on ultra-conservative Mr. Phelps. Too bad Ronan wasn’t here.
The attorney picked up the recorder and put it back in his pocket. “Mr. Holt will appreciate your taking the time to tell us all of this, Ms. Seally. We’re aware that you weren’t obligated to say anything to us at all, but your testimony and evidence could potentially keep Mr. Melampus out of prison.”
“I do try to do the right thing when I can,” I said. Why did so many people seem to have trouble with that concept?
“An admirable attitude.” He set down his chopsticks, even though he’d only eaten a couple of his rolls. “May I see the ring?”
I shook my head, suddenly wary. “As I told the two FBI agents last night, after yesterday’s attack, I’m not comfortable keeping it with me. It’s safely locked away.” Well, my room was locked, so that wasn’t exactly a lie.
“Understandable. But Mr. Holt has asked that I bring it back as evidence. Once the ring is out of your hands, you should be at no further risk.”
“That’s just what the FBI guys said last night.” I was pretty sure my smile wasn’t very convincing. “As I pointed out to them, that’s only true if whoever is after the ring knows I no longer have it. And Mr. Haliakis said—”
“I should probably caution you against putting too much faith in Mr. Haliakis,” he interrupted. “Mr. Melampus may trust him, but his background is chequered, to say the least. As Mr. Melampus has had more than one close associate turn on him in recent years, his judgment may not be what it once was.”
I ate another piece of my sushi, more to give myself time to think than because I was still hungr
y—though it was excellent sushi. I found it more than a little bit interesting that Mr. Phelps and Mr. Haliakis had said almost exactly the same thing about each other.
Which meant that until I knew more about them both, I couldn’t trust either one of them.
Chapter Sixteen
“THANK YOU for a lovely meal, Mr. Phelps,” I said, standing. “Is there a number where I can contact you?”
He rose quickly but not awkwardly, as I’d secretly hoped he might. I really wanted to see this guy lose his cool.
“My cell number is on my card,” he replied, whipping one from his breast pocket. “Or you can reach me at room 1519 of the Royal Aruban—your hotel.” He pulled out a pen and jotted the number on the back of his card, then handed it to me.
I dropped it into my purse without comment.
“You’ll let me know when you’ve retrieved the ring?” he said then. It was more statement than question, and I found his assurance more than a bit irritating. “Everard, Jennings & Holt can make certain you’ll be safe once it leaves your possession.”
“Thank you,” I said again. Then, without committing to a thing, I turned and left the restaurant.
Walking back to my hotel, I felt a rush of relief that all of my ordeals were over—at least until the next phone call. I almost hated to go back to my room with its two waiting phones, but I did need to talk to Debra to see what the police had said about the break-in.
The housekeeper was just finishing up when I reached my room—and sure enough, both phones were blinking. I was anxious to check the ring’s hiding place but forced myself to putter around at the bathroom counter for an interminable two or three minutes until the maid left.
As soon as the door closed, I hurried to the drapes and knelt, feeling along the hem. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought the ring was gone, but then my fingers found the small, hard circle, just a few inches from where I’d started. Still, that scare was enough to make me prise it back out of the tiny hole I’d made, just to reassure myself that it was the same ring. It was.
I laughed shakily at my foolishness and put the ring back, then went into the bathroom for my sewing kit and stitched up the hole, as I’d meant to do last night before bed. That done, I finally turned my attention to the blinking message lights and picked up my cell. One message, from Debra.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me. The cops just left, so I figured you’d want me to call. Nothing much to tell, though—they looked at the back door, asked a few questions, told me I should replace the lock, and said they’d file a report. Woohoo. Anyway, call me if you want.”
And that would probably be the end of it. Since no one was hurt and nothing valuable was taken, the Indianapolis police weren’t likely to expend any resources on this.
When my friend Jean’s car was stolen last year, all the cops had done was “file a report.” She’d been lucky—her car had been found a week later, abandoned, stinking of cigarettes, and out of gas. But not by the police. The guy whose yard it had been left in had looked up Jean’s number after finding the registration in the glove compartment.
Ah, well, at least I’d played by the rules. I picked up my room phone next and found two voice mails waiting.
“Ms. Seally, this is Boyd Walters, FBI. Since you didn’t have it with you last night, we’re going to need to get that ring from you today so we can tag it as evidence. Call the Days Inn, Room 224, when you get in.”
I jotted down the number but had no intention of calling it—at least not yet. I wondered if Agent Truman even knew Walters had made that call, since I was pretty sure they didn’t have any authority to make me do anything here in Aruba. I did smile at the idea of them staying at the Days Inn. At least the American taxpayers weren’t shelling out for a penthouse somewhere.
I continued to the next message, which had been left only a minute or two before I’d returned to my room, half expecting it to be Frank Truman. But it wasn’t.
“Mrs. Seally,” said a woman’s voice, “I’m calling because I am concerned for your safety. An item has come into your possession that puts you at great risk, as you must realize by now. If you wish to get rid of the item and secure your safety, leave it at the front desk of your hotel in an envelope addressed to Chris Smith before midnight tonight.”
The receiver still in my fist, I sat down abruptly on the bed, swallowing hard and trying to force my brain to work. The electronic voice of the hotel message system came on, saying, “That was your last new message. To save, press seven. To delete, press three.”
I punched seven, then pressed the voice mail button again. “You have two saved messages,” I was informed, then it proceeded to play them, in order received.
“Ms. Seally, this is the Cartier Boutique. We may have found the owner of that ring.”
I hung up the receiver before it finished. Yes, it was definitely the same voice—Michelle Alvares’s voice, I’d be willing to bet.
Just in case yesterday’s attack hadn’t scared me enough, she was now leaving threats on the phone. I wondered how many flunkies she had working for her, and where they might be.
Again my instinct was to run home, leaving all of this intrigue behind. But the same reasons I’d thought of last night after talking to Deb still applied today. Maybe even more so.
And if the FBI was any part of the threat at all, I’d just be giving them jurisdiction to demand the ring and whatever testimony I could give. I might be at even more risk there than here, since there was no knowing what measures Stefan Melampus’s enemies might take to keep me from doing just that.
If I was going to give Truman and Walters the ring, I might as well do it here and now. Ditto if I was going to hand it over to “Chris Smith,” aka Michelle Alvares.
I contemplated the hem of the drapes, agonizing over what I should do. One thing for sure—I was feeling less safe with every passing hour. I was very, very tempted to just comply with this latest demand. Otherwise, there was no knowing what Michelle Alvares might try next.
Of course, that would undermine Ronan’s chance of getting his commission and, more importantly, Stefan Melampus’s chance of getting justice.
“Why me?” I asked aloud of the empty room. All I’d done was find a souvenir, and then try to do the right thing with it. How had I ended up with such an awful ethical dilemma?
The very best thing that could happen was for Michelle Alvares to be caught and proof found that she had either murdered her sister or helped her to disappear. That would both end the threat and serve justice.
Maybe I should call the FBI guys back after all. No matter how much they wanted to see Stefan Melampus convicted, they wouldn’t let a murderer walk free—would they? I was fairly sure they wouldn’t physically threaten me, at least. But if they didn’t have jurisdiction here to make me give them the ring, would they have any authority to arrest Michelle, assuming we could somehow find her?
She could be anywhere in Aruba.
The room phone rang, making me jump. Heart pounding, I debated whether or not to answer it, since every phone call only seemed to make things worse. But knowing was better than not knowing—I hoped. I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” In my effort not to sound scared, my voice was almost belligerent.
“Um, Wynne? Did I catch you at a bad time or something?” It was Ronan.
I gave a shaky laugh. “No, no, sorry. I was just . . . well, it’s kind of a long story, actually.”
“Do you want to get together, so you can tell it to me?”
“Well . . .” I hesitated, gripped by a sudden, unreasoning fear of leaving my room and also a reluctance to explain things yet again, after doing so twice already today. But then I reconsidered.
“Yes, actually, I would. I think I could use your help figuring some stuff out.”
Ronan was an experienced investigator. Su
rely he’d have some ideas on what I could do. I knew his main motivation was profit, but since helping me was likely to work in his favor, I could live with that. And I still trusted him more than any of the other men I’d spoken to over the past twenty-four hours.
“I’m yours to command.” The playfulness in his voice calmed me, making everything seem somehow less dire. “When and where?”
I glanced at the clock—just past three. “How about the lobby in half an hour?”
He didn’t ask what I needed the half hour for. “I’ll see you then.”
Though it was tempting to feel flattered by his willingness, I knew it wasn’t personal. Besides, I had other things to worry about. I picked up my cell phone and called Debra.
“Hi, you’ve reached Debra Seally. Leave me a message and—”
I hung up, feeling stupid for forgetting she’d be at work right now. She’d probably had to go in late, in fact, after meeting the police at the house this morning. And she hadn’t even complained, though I was sure she felt she was humoring me.
After that call from “Chris Smith,” though, I didn’t regret my caution a bit.
I started to call Bess to warn her to be careful, too, but stopped myself before hitting the “talk” button. Would anything be gained by scaring my girls? Even if my worst assumptions were true, Michelle Alvares would surely wait to see if I complied with her demand before ordering any kind of attack on my family. Which meant I had the rest of the day to make some decisions.
And I had Ronan to help me do that.
I went into the bathroom to put on sunscreen and freshen up my hair and makeup, then headed downstairs to meet him.
He was already in the lobby when I got there—and so was Curt Phelps, over near the reception desk. He wasn’t looking my way, so I deliberately turned my back to him, circling around until I could catch Ronan’s eye.
Without saying anything, I motioned toward the beach exit. Ronan nodded slightly, and we both headed that way, not noticeably together—or so I hoped.