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

by Barton, Sara M.

  “The only person Henri ever seemed to trust at Grenois Financial was Louis Givernette. They went to the Sorbonne together and were roommates at the London School of Economics. If anyone would know what Henri knew, I should think it would be Louis.”

  “Thanks,” I was told. “We’ll be in touch.”

  But they weren’t. Instead, I got a call from Henri’s lawyer, Declan Dowd, telling me that he would handle any issues that cropped up, that I shouldn’t be bothered with any of that. He gave me a phone number where I could reach him, day or night. Over time, Declan started to call more regularly, checking on how things were going. It turned out that Henri had an insurance policy with a two-million-dollar payout. I was shocked to learn that my husband had taken out such a large policy. Henri was the one with the financial expertise in our relationship and he paid all the bills, save for the household expenses. I called Declan to ask for advice on what I should do with the money.

  “Give me a couple of days,” he replied. “I will set you up with a financial planner I know and we’ll put the money into safe investments.”

  Within six months, I had sold our Westport house in favor of a much smaller condo on the twenty-sixth floor of a New Rochelle luxury building. My plan was to follow my dream and become a serious, well-respected artist. I also decided to apply to be a docent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so moving to New York would make the commute into the city much easier. The profits from the sale of the large home went into the investment portfolio Declan helped me to set up with Maura Trelawney at Oracle Financial. I received a monthly allowance that paid the bills, leaving the bulk of the money untouched, safely ensconced in various financial accounts that would carry me well into my old age. But that was not to be.

  Chapter Three —

  As I was settling into my new life, no longer carefully controlled by Henri, things began to fall apart around me. By the fourth month, my investment portfolio was losing money rapidly, and Maura Trelawney insisted that we liquidate some of the assets and move them from precious metals to a new company that offered promising returns, Prevenue. It was a risk, but Maura insisted that because I had taken such a hit on the stock exchange, it was important to use the money I had made to bolster the investments that lost money. Another six months went by before Prevenue fell into bankruptcy. In ten months, I had lost just over a quarter of a million dollars. When I found out, I was stunned.

  Declan tried to convince me it was just because the economy had turned bad. I wasn’t so sure. Maura was no longer returning my phone calls. I was worried about losing all that money.

  “Have dinner with me,” Declan suggested. “I’ll have an independent review done of your portfolio and we can talk about it.”

  That dinner led to another, and then another. Soon I was seeing Declan a couple of times a week to discuss Henri’s estate as it crawled through probate. With so many different holdings and investments, and with me as his sole heir, there was a lot of sorting out to be done. Declan handled it all for me.

  Almost a year to the day that Henri died, Maura’s bloodied corpse was found in her Manhattan office. Federal investigators suspected she was working as an investment manager for a money launderer for the same Mexican cartel. That would explain why my money disappeared so quickly. It was revenge on Henri’s ghost for having begun to cooperate with the Department of Justice. Apparently, the cartel wanted to send a message to the financial money-laundering apparatus that cleaned their profits into respectability and they were using us as examples of what would happen to cooperating witnesses. As the investigation into Maura’s death revealed the extent of her criminal activities, the media began to follow the trail. Her clients were impacted by the public exposé. Once I started getting phone calls from reporters, Declan became my protector and shortly after that, my lover as well.

  Three months ago, out of the blue, Declan proposed. I was flabbergasted when I saw him holding the small Tiffany’s box in his hand as we sat outside on the deck of a charming restaurant overlooking Long Island Sound on a pleasant Sunday. When I hesitated, not wanting to be rushed into another marriage, Declan promised to be patient about setting the date.

  He was, up until the day I was mugged walking home from the train station. Battered by fists, robbed of all my identification and my dignity, I called him from the emergency room of the hospital. That’s when he insisted that I marry him sooner, rather than later.

  “I can protect you. I can keep you safe,” he told me. How true was that? I still hesitated, filled with doubts, feeling unsure and unsafe in a world I didn’t really understand.

  A couple of weeks later, as I was driving down to Baltimore, to visit my sister, Aurielle, and her husband, my sedan was side-swiped by a white van, sending me into a guardrail. Although not seriously injured, I was still very upset. Declan claimed that the cartel was out to get me, that they wanted their pound of flesh.

  That was just before the Department of Justice subpoenaed me to testify in Maura’s murder trial. An enforcer for the drug cartel had been arrested for killing her. The government wanted to prove there was a connection between her financial dealings with people like me and the cartel’s money-laundering. It only served to make me more worried about Henri’s business affairs. Maybe that trip to Myanmar was more sinister than I thought. I asked Declan if he knew what Henri was doing on that trip, and the others we took, including one to Mexico City in 1997, where I was introduced to a woman named Conchita Herrera Fernando at a pool party. She was the beautiful, but intoxicated mistress of Jaime Blandon, the Mexican financier, and shortly after she confessed to me that she saw something she shouldn’t have seen, she ended up drowning in that very pool, less than two hours after we spoke. Was Henri working for the Chapo cartel? Is that how he made his money?

  “Let me handle this for you,” Declan insisted. “Don’t agree to anything without me. Can you do that? You don’t want the government to think you knew about anything illegal, and if you answer their questions, you might get tossed to the wind when one of those bastards tries to inflate his legal reputation.”

  That was part of my reason for being on this cruise on the Beauty of the Seas. Declan knew that the grand jury was calling witnesses to appear, and he wanted me out of the way when they came looking for me. It was his suggestion that I take Henri’s ashes on the trip and scatter them on the way to Bermuda.

  I couldn’t sleep, even after a hot shower. I was too restless, too disturbed by the incident on the deck. There was nothing on the ship channels, save for an old movie I had seen several times before. I left it on as I tried to doze. Fitfully tossing and turning through the night, I managed to tumble into a dreamless sleep sometime after five.

  At nine, with the sun streaming into my window, I opened my eyes. As I gazed around the room, I came to a decision. I wasn’t ready to marry Declan. I wasn’t ready to surrender the new me to the old way of life, not when there were so many questions still haunting me about Henri.

  I got dressed and made my way to the Windy Cutlass Cafe for a late breakfast of fruit salad, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. I felt safe enough in the interior hallways, knowing that the security team was able to monitor my movements throughout the ship. As I took my tray from the buffet, I looked for a quiet table. I wasn’t really in the mood for a discussion of the weather or the economy or the best place to buy shoes. I wanted to be alone to sort out my confused thoughts.

  What I wasn’t expecting was for an elderly lady to wander down the aisle next to me. She seemed sad and unsure, so I let my conscience decide for me.

  “Would you care to join me?” I asked, putting on a bright smile.

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother you,” she responded.

  “Please,” I encouraged her, “I’d enjoy the company.”

  “If you’re sure,” she responded. She slid her tray onto the table and pulled out a chair.

  “Are you enjoying the cruise?” I inquired, digging into my eggs. “I’m Mariem, by the way.”<
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  “My name is Mary. The cruise is fine,” she said. “I’m just not much on having fun these days.”

  “Oh,” I replied, “it sounds like you’re going through a tough patch.”

  Part of me wanted to run for the hills, but I stopped myself. After all, maybe it would help me to think about someone else for a change.

  “I’m sorry,” the elderly woman sighed. “I used to take this cruise with my late husband. He died three months ago.”

  “It must be difficult. It was so recent.”

  “We were very happy for almost fifty years. I still can’t believe he’s gone. It just seems so unfair.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “I’m also a widow. My husband died a couple of years ago.”

  “But you’re still young,” Mary said. “That’s such a tragedy.”

  “Death is no respecter of age,” I acknowledged.“And it doesn’t get any easier to say goodbye the longer we know someone. I think sometimes it’s more difficult, especially if you’ve always been close.”

  “That was Bernie and me. He was a postmaster. I was a librarian. Every year, we took a trip. When we were young, it was often just a cabin at a campground. As we got older, we started taking cruises. My Bernie loved to travel.”

  “What was your favorite trip?” I wondered. She thought for a moment.

  “This may sound strange, but my favorite trip was one we took to Niagara Falls about ten years ago.”

  “What did you enjoy the most?” I nodded to the waiter as he passed with the coffee pot. He poured me a fresh cup.

  “They were so much bigger than I expected, even though I knew the falls were enormous. To hear that roar, it was amazing. We rented a camper and traveled through the region.”

  “It sounds like you and your husband enjoyed each other’s company.”

  “We did. We had a lot of fun together.”

  “Are you traveling with someone on this cruise,” I asked, hoping she was.

  “My son and his wife. What about you?”

  “On my own. I don’t mind. It was hard at first, after Henri died, but now I’m used to it.”

  “The hardest part for me is the night. I’m just so used to Bernie being there. Sometimes I wake up and expect to see his head on the pillow next to me. What about you?”

  “For me?” I took a moment to think. “It was the not knowing what was coming next. Even after Henri died, my life continued to spiral downward. Every time I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Mary said.

  “I didn’t really know my husband,” I admitted. “He was a stranger when we met and in many ways, he stayed one.”

  I looked up to see her eyes on me, watching me sadly. She tilted her head, composing her response.

  “I suppose not every marriage is blessed with friendship.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “That’s true. But it must be lovely when you find it.”

  “It is,” Mary told me. “You’re still young, Mariem. Give yourself a little time to heal. And then go out there and find yourself a Bernie.”

  “Thank you for that, Mary. I enjoyed our conversation,” I said, rising from the table. “Perhaps we can do it again.”

  “I would enjoy that,” she told me.

  I left her to go to go back to my cabin to change into my bathing suit and grab a paperback. My intention was to spend some time relaxing by the pool. I didn’t get very far.

  “Mrs. Dufours,” said a tall bald man in a lime green golf shirt and plaid shorts. He caught up to me at the elevator. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

  I stopped, afraid to move forward, but equally hesitant to retreat. He gave me a bright smile.

  “I met you at a fundraiser for the Himrich Arts Center last year. You exhibited a painting of the Connecticut shoreline. Steve Kablinski, Greenwich.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips, relief falling over me like a blanket that I wrapped myself in. Until that moment, I hadn’t understood how deep my fear went, especially after last night. Putting on a bright smile, I shook his outstretched hand.

  “”I just wondered if you ever sold that painting.”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I did.”

  “Too bad. I was going to offer to buy it if it was still available.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “Not at all,” he insisted. “You’re a very talented artist. I like your work. Maybe you have other paintings I might be interested in purchasing.”

  “My work is represented by the Talmadge Gallery in Manhattan,” I told him. “They have several canvases there.”

  “Great, I’ll check it out when I get back to New York.”

  “Well, then,” I smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a dip in the pool.”

  “Of course.” I stepped past him and pushed the button for the elevator. There was something about the way he was watching me that made me nervous. As the doors opened, I stepped into the car and he followed me in. My finger reached out to touch number eight, but at the last second, I changed my mind and pushed four. I didn’t really know what was on the fourth floor. I only knew that I did not want to get off at my floor or his. He was still watching me when he pushed six. The doors closed and I stepped back, suddenly conscious of being along with a stranger who was showing far too much interest in me.

  The car slid silently down the shaft, stopping gently before the doors parted on six. Steve Kablinski turned to exit, but changed his mind. As he faced me, he took a step closer and I recoiled. I saw surprise in his eyes.

  “I just wanted to say it was nice to see you again. Perhaps we could have a drink together during the cruise.”

  I gave him a tentative nod and a brief smile. He was still studying me.

  “Well, then. Enjoy your swim.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.” He paused, waiting for a response from me. I didn’t have one. Something told me this was not a man to be trusted, and I was not about to get fooled again.

  Chapter Four —

  “Meet him.” Bob Ryan had come to my room as I was changing into my suit, and when I told him about the conversation with Steve Kablinski, he was adamant. “Just one drink.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he’s too interested in you. He has his pregnant wife and kids on the ship with him. Is he chasing you because you’re available and his wife is not, or is he pursuing you because he wants something specific from you?”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  Bob ran a hand through his dark hair and sat down on the small sofa in my cabin. He looked at his hands as they rested on his knees, turning them over and examining his palms. As he rubbed them together, he seemed lost in thought. The longer he stayed silent, the greater my apprehension grew.

  “Do you recall meeting him at the Himrich Arts Center?” he finally asked, his dark eyes on me. I shook my head.

  “Honestly? No. I spoke with a lot of people on the night of the big celebration, but he doesn’t seem familiar at all.”

  “That’s because he’s not Steve Kablinski of Greenwich, Connecticut. He’s Howard Bloomgarten of White Plains, New York.”

  “He lied? Why would he do that?”

  “It’s why I want you to have a drink with him, Mariem. He’s a certified public accountant with a busy practice in Manhattan, but I don’t understand his unusual interest in you.” Bob Ryan’s eyes never left mine as he dropped that bombshell.

  “Why would a CPA pretend to be someone he’s not?” I was stunned and confused.

  “Why indeed?”

  “Henri was in private banking. Maybe it has something to do with Grenois Financial,” I suggested, hoping what I would share with the former Treasury agent would make sense to him. It certainly didn’t to me. “Declan told me that there was a grand jury about to hear information about Maura Trelawney’s murder.”

  “Who’s Maura Trelawn
ey?” he wanted to know.

  “She was my financial planner after Henri died. In a matter of months, I lost nearly a quarter of a million dollars. And almost a year to the day that Henri died, she was murdered in her office in Manhattan. She worked for Oracle.”

  “Did she ever explain why you lost so much money?” The talk of finances seemed to bring Bob to life.

  “There was a company she insisted I put my money in, Prevenue, and it went bankrupt, so I lost my investment.”

  “Hmm…” he muttered.

  “Was anyone ever arrested for her murder?”

  “Someone from a Mexican cartel.”

  “Why would Maura have any connection to drug traffickers?” Bob wanted to know.

  “Honestly?” I sat down on the edge of one of the beds. Where should I start to explain all the worries I had about Henri? A part of me wondered if I was being indiscreet in raising the subject, but another part of me felt safe with Bob. After all, he understood the world of finance far better than I. Perhaps he could help me put those ghosts to rest. “There were things about Henri’s business dealings that bothered me.”

  “Go on.”

  “We took a trip to Myanmar. It should have been to celebrate our anniversary, but instead Henri had to meet a man, a Wan Liu. It was all so very….” I tried to find a way to describe the sinister feel of that trip. Henri had been wound so tight, it only took a word or two to unleash an angry tirade. That was the first time I actually thought my husband might contemplate murdering me. I told Bob about it.

  “Interesting,” was all he said in response. Maybe it was the way his fingers kept drumming on his legs as he sat there. Maybe it was the set of his jaw. I knew something I told him mattered, but I wasn’t sure what piece of information it was.

  “Maybe this sounds crazy,” I offered, “but Henri threatened to throw me into the Irrawaddy River when I defied him. I was wondering if what happened on the deck last night was connected.”