No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  Warren Fripp was a wealthy man. Of that, there was little question. Retired in 2010 from one of the biggest lobbying firms in Washington, he had amassed a personal fortune by the age of fifty, and he then transformed it into a large, impressive multi-million-dollar art collection that provided him with a second career, as owner of Bliss, the Georgetown gallery. He was well-respected as an art collector because he spent a great deal of time and money to obtain what was considered the best, and as a gallery owner, he made sure that his clients had access to the finest available canvases, sculptures, and collectibles he could find in the global market. Not only did Bliss attract Washington power brokers, it appealed to international investors and art collectors. Warren’s expertise as a lobbyist was in natural resources, and he had a lot of clients in the Middle East, including a couple of Saudi princes and at least one despot with a reputation for brutally shutting down a popular uprising.

  As a man, Warren was arrogant, self-serving, and cantankerous. I avoided dealing with him as much as I could. Prudence was his right-hand, and if she was now out of the picture, even temporarily, I didn’t want to take her place in the shooting gallery. Warren was known for using powerful weapons against enemies and friendlies in his quest to get what he wanted.

  As his agent for acquisitions, it was my job to locate artists and pieces. Warren lived for the excitement of deal-making. There was nothing that stoked his fire like beating down a competitor or undercutting an artist. He was genetically wired to come out on top, so he never held back in the effort to close any deal. That was what made him a dangerous man to cross. It was also what made him a reprehensible, thoroughly unlikable human being.

  Of course, I had no idea of all this when I naively joined Bliss. Warren had been a client of mine when I worked for Mathilda Rothschild at Dockersby, the art auction house, and over the years, he had often invited me to dinner to discuss artists and artwork he wanted to acquire.

  At the time, I was married to Tarkington Pilker and living in Westport. Tark was focused on building his career as a sportscaster for WNYT, working long days and nights at the studio and on the road. That left me with a lot of hours to fill, and when Mathilda offered me a part-time position at Dockersby, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. She was a decent person and I flourished under her tutelage, building up client services for the auction house. I would travel into the city to meet with Warren and show him pieces I thought he might want to buy, based on his taste in art. I was heartbroken when she was forced to retire because of ill health. When he found out Mathilda was stepping down, Warren offered me a job. It came on the heels of my divorce, and at the time, I saw it as a lifeline.

  It’s not hard to choose the final straw that broke the camel’s back. I felt like I had been carrying too big a load for too long. Tark was challenging as a husband, outspoken and opinionated by day, insatiable by night. I often felt like I was the period at the end of Tark’s sentence. We met in college. I was the artist and he was the jock. It was a mismatch from the start. Over the years, we drifted apart as he rose through the broadcasting ranks and I found an outlet for my passion in the art world. Some months he was gone more than he was home. By the third year, it felt like we were two ships passing in the night. Two years later, I sat alone on my birthday, waiting for Tark to arrive home from a trip to Atlanta. When he didn’t come home or call, my heart hardened a little.

  We talked about having kids — anything to fill the growing void between us. For a year, we tried naturally to have a child. For the next six months after that, we visited a fertility clinic. Nothing seemed to work. After a while, I started to think it was a sign, that it wasn’t in the cards for us to have a child together. We played around with the idea of adopting a child, but every time we started the paperwork for that, something came up. After a series of missed appointments with the adoption agency, we put the plan on hold.

  By our tenth wedding anniversary, we were ready to call it quits. That effort was halted when Tark broke his back in a snowmobiling accident in Provo, Utah, while he was out there covering a ski championship. I flew out and took charge of his care. I got him a medical evacuation flight to New York once he was stable enough to be moved. When he was released from the hospital, I set him up in the guest bedroom, in a special medical bed. That really began the end of our physical relationship. Over the next several months, he recovered at home. I drove him to his daily physical therapy appointments and his monthly doctor visits. By the second month, his assistant, Mandy, came to the house and he was able to keep his hand in the game at WNYT, staying in the major sports loop. The third month at home brought more changes. He called in favors and was soon interviewing major sports figures in our living room, once it was transformed into a makeshift studio. From pro-golfers to basketball superstars to legendary baseball and football coaches, Tark created a new style of sports interview. “Tark Talk” became a hit, with my husband, corseted in his back brace, in one leather club chair, and his guest of the week in another.

  My big mistake was in letting down my guard, in going back to Dockersby under the assumption that all Tark and Mandy were doing was working. Three years later, I was blindsided by the announcement that Mandy was now pregnant with Tark’s child. Within days, the gossip columnists had picked up the story. We were constantly barraged by phone calls seeking comments. Tark moved out of our Westport home and into Mandy’s pokey little Manhattan walk-up. It turned out that Tark found sex with Mandy a healing experience, good for what ailed his back.

  Chapter Two —

  The divorce took longer than expected, due to the complex nature of the case. Tark and Mandy had been having a relationship long before that fateful snowmobile ride. It turned out they had begun their passionate love affair within the first six weeks of her hiring. He had hidden assets, not telling me that he had received raises that amounted to nearly ninety thousand dollars a year as he became a darling of the sports world. That extra money went right into an account for Mandy. After five years, with the baby on the way, Tark wanted to marry his mistress. I felt like a complete fool, having never suspected what was going on. The judge forced Tark to settle with me based on his real salary, not his adjusted one. Even so, by the time I paid my legal fees, I had barely enough to buy myself a small flat in the center of town. I needed a job that would pay my bills as a newly single woman. All of this came at the same time as Mathilda’s retirement. It was one emotional blow after another, and it left me devastated. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to look too closely at the offer Warren put before me that day at L’Enfant de la Mer. I accepted the job because I needed to work and my options were few.

  The train car became crowded as the final passengers took their seats. A short, burly man with plenty of tattoos sat down next to me. He wore a sleeveless white tank top, exposing plenty of chest hair, black shorts, and huaraches. I had to move my feet as he reached over me to put his cases in the rack above. A second man, wearing a white short-sleeved Oxford shirt, olive green slacks, and black loafers sat opposite him. The contrast between them was night and day. Another look at those loafers revealed fine craftsmanship, probably Italian. The second man was very attractive. I’d heard the term “smoldering eyes” before, but I had never actually seen such a pair up close. As he gazed at me, I let myself drink in all the details, from the long, coal black lashes to the deep amber irises. His mouth turned up at the corners in a sly, flirtatious smile. I looked for the telltale sign of white on his ring finger, but his tan was even. He had a black leather attache case in his lap and he seemed unwilling to let it out of his sight. I tried to guess his profession, but I observed no clues. He could have been any well-to-do businessman or professional.

  “Excuse me, I think you’re in my seat,” said a little old lady with salt-and-pepper hair and a hot pink metal cane to the man with the white tank top.

  “Am I?” He vaulted to his feet. “Are you sure?”

  “See?” She held out her ticket to show him. As he apologized profuse
ly, I saw the man with the smoldering eyes watching the scene with amusement. A moment later, the smile disappeared from his face as another elderly lady demanded he vacate her seat.

  “You think I’m in your seat?” he demanded.

  “I do,” she insisted.

  “Well, let’s go talk to the conductor, to see what we can do about it.”

  A few moments later, I looked up from my smart phone to see the man with the smoldering eyes return. Apparently, the little old lady got her seat number wrong, because he settled back down and gave me a smile. By that time, a middle-aged woman with large purse and a rather wide chassis parked herself in the last of the four seats. She seemed rather cramped as she sat. Her seatmate beside her paid her no attention.

  The train began to leave the Sanford station as I finished my last email. I had Bella working on her end, tidying up the minor snafus. We would hook up tomorrow once I got to St. Michaels. Walter promised me that he would be arriving at the Fletcher Inn tonight and that both of his masterpieces were ready to be hung first thing tomorrow. With all that settled, there was nothing left for me to do but kick back and relax.

  Mr. Wilfred, Uncle Jack’s neighbor, told me there was a wine and snacks time in the lounge car, so I decided to head there and grab a little something to tide me over for my dinner reservation at 9. As I maneuvered past my seatmates and into the hall, I noticed the man with the tattoos sitting in a seat in the next car. As I moved forward, heading to the lounge, he raised his eyes, and for an instant, he held my gaze with his own. I wasn’t sure what I saw in those coal black eyes. Certainly not timidity. But then he looked away and I felt strangely cut loose, almost abandoned.

  There were several passengers in the lounge car when I arrived. I ordered a glass of white wine and helped myself to cheese and crackers. Some of the people in the car were talking about disco, reminiscing about the days of “Saturday Night Fever”.

  “My favorite scene in the movie was when Travolta slid on his knees across the floor,” said a moustached man with a receding hairline and a pot belly.

  “They should have cast a better female lead,” said another man. “That chick was pretty wooden.”

  I left them to their conversation and found myself a seat facing the bank of windows, next to a quartet of elderly ladies. I gave them a bright smile as I sat.

  “This is one of my favorite parts of the trip,” said a silver-haired woman who introduced herself as Etheline Defenbacher. “Welcome to happy hour!’

  “L’chaim,” agreed Deeza Horowitz. She raised her glass to the heavens. The rest of us followed suit.

  “Traveling solo?” Mary Maloney wanted to know. I explained how I came to be on the auto train.

  “Your boss sounds like a creep,” she decided. The others agreed.

  “You should tell him to take his job and….” Pauline Nessbaum started to say, before Eleanor Durkee broke in.

  “In this economy, the girl is lucky to have a job, Pauline. Don’t encourage her. Not every woman has a trust fund. Some of us have to pay for ourselves.”

  “Saint Eleanor of Boca Raton,” Pauline sneered. “Always looking to appease.”

  “Oh, blow it out your saddlebag!” Eleanor retorted, in a tone that suggested anything but a saint. The other women guffawed heartily. They turned out to be a feisty bunch of senior citizens. By the second round of wine, they were already sharing off-colored jokes about the men in their senior citizen complex. I passed on the third round, choosing to head back to my assigned seat. Along the way, I made a quick pit stop at the restroom. The train hit a section of track that had me bouncing on the toilet seat as we rounded the bend. I gripped the tiny sink for dear life as the lights went out.

  “Oh, good lord!” With great care, I finished what I was doing, washed my hands, and fumbled for my purse in the dark. Throwing the strap over my shoulder, I felt for the lock on the door. Maybe there would be emergency lights in the corridor. As I opened the door to complete darkness, I felt a hand grab me and pull me down the hallway.

  “Hey!” I hollered. “Let go of me!”

  I felt myself propelled through the black nothingness, bouncing against the walls as the train picked up speed. I was beginning to fear for my life.

  “Help!” I cried out. “Someone, help me!”

  The hands grew rougher and one of them clamped over my mouth. A flashlight cut through the darkness from far away, like a disembodied fairy dancing across the sky. I was tossed against the wall with a hard thud as my assailant fled. I could hear voices coming toward me as I lay slumped on the floor of the corridor.

  “Are you okay?” asked a conductor. “What happened? What was that guy doing to you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. He aimed his flashlight at my face.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I am?”

  “Come on,” he told me. “I’ll take you to Doc. He’ll patch you up.”

  The lights came on and we all looked up simultaneously.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I shrugged him off, reluctant to take this any further. Maybe I was in denial that someone just tried to assault me. Maybe I just wanted to believe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe all I really wanted to do was go to the dining car, sit down in the light, and be with a crowd of people, where I would have plenty of witnesses if the mystery man tried to attack me again. Maybe I just wanted to forget the last ten minutes, like they never happened. So many confusing emotions swirled around my head. And then I realized it was my head that was swirling as I lost consciousness.

  I have no idea how long I was out, but when I woke up, an old man who smelled like cigars and coffee was leaning over me. He held my wrist with his thumb and forefinger, taking my pulse.

  “What do you think, Doc?” The conductor leaned over us, a heavy-set man with blue eyes and a bushy brown moustache.

  “I don’t know, Robert. Her pupils are dilated, her pulse is racing, and she seems confused. I can’t find any real injury, other than that scratch on her face. Are you sure she’s not under the influence?”

  “I’m not drunk!” I said testily, sitting up quickly from the bench seat. It looked like I was in the crew’s quarters. “I only had a couple glasses of wine.”

  “Not that kind of influence,” Doc replied. I looked him right in the eye, or at least I tried to, but my eyes had trouble focusing. “Follow my finger. Doesn’t seem to be drugs involved.”

  I forced myself to watch his stubby finger move from right to left and then left to right. It wasn’t easy. There was a sharp pain forming right in the center of my forehead. An important thought was trying to break into my consciousness. I wanted to let it in, but I couldn’t seem to open the door.

  “My purse. Where is my purse?” I reached down, hoping it was here, beside me.

  “There was no purse when we found you,” Robert insisted.

  “What am I going to do? Everything is in my purse, even my laptop!”

  “Maybe that’s what he was after,” Doc suggested. “It’s a motive for the attack.”

  “What am I going to do?” I said again. I kept hoping that this was a dream and someone would wake me up.

  “We’ll have to notify the police at the next station,” Doc told Robert.

  “But that’s not till Florence. We’re in Georgia right now. Who has jurisdiction?”

  “You have a point. I guess we’ll have to fill out an incident report, son.” They talked around me, as if I weren’t there.

  “But what am I going to do?” I asked for the third time. “I have no money, no keys, no nothing!”

  “Look on the bright side,” said Robert encouragingly. “We’ve got your car keys. This train doesn’t stop again until Florence, South Carolina. That means no one can get on or off until then. Your purse is somewhere on this train.”

  “But what’s to stop the guy from stealing my money and my credit cards and just tossing my purse out the window?”

  “Well, chances of that are small,” Doc
decided. “For one thing, windows are only supposed to be opened in the event of an emergency. For another, it’s not so easy to do. You have to know how to work the latches.”

  I looked at the two train employees, wondering if they truly were that naive. It was beginning to dawn on me that I really was attacked. Was it deliberate?

  I thought back to the moments before it happened. I had been on my way back to my seat from the lounge and I had stopped at the restroom. While I was in there, the lights had gone out. Whoever was waiting for me outside the door must have seen me go in. Was he lying in wait to ambush me when I left? Why would anyone want to do that to me?

  “We’ll have to call Amtrak security,” Doc told us. “We still have a couple of hours before we pull into the station. In the meantime, we’ll escort you back to your seat, Miss….”

  “Dunham. Kelsey Dunham,” I answered perfunctorily as I rose from the bench. I grabbed the edge of the table as the train jiggled. Robert gently took my elbow and escorted me back to the passenger car.

  “You haven’t had anything to eat. Could I bring you something? Or would you like to stop in the dining car and eat?”

  I was going to refuse. I was going to just go back to my seat and flop. I was angry that I had been violated, all the more because it was in the dark and I couldn’t see my assailant. But then I thought that if I were in the dining car, I would be wide awake, and so would my fellow passengers. What if my seatmates in the passenger car were all asleep? What if my assailant came back?

  Chapter Three —

  “Maybe I could eat a little something,” I agreed. I leaned on Robert’s arm as the train jiggled over a bumpy stretch of tracks. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”