Silenced By Syrah

by Scott, Michele

The drive was nothing short of boring. She decided to call Andrés. Surprisingly, he answered. “Hey,” she said. “You stopped ignoring me?”

  “Hi you.”

  “Didn’t you get my message the other night? I wanted to see if you could meet me at the wine bar.”

  “I did,” he replied. “But I thought you needed time to think without me pressuring you.”

  She could almost see the smile on his face, because he wasn’t saying it in a mean and condescending way. He got to her like that. “Hmmm. Is that what you thought?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that’s what you needed?”

  “Yes. I guess I did.”

  “Uh-huh. And, you missed me, didn’t you?” Andrés joked.

  She couldn’t help but smile herself. “You got me.”

  “I did, didn’t I? If you don’t go to Spain with me, think how much you will really miss me then. Do you want to put yourself through that?”

  “You’re good. Why are you so good? Huh?”

  “I can be bad if you want me to. That might be fun. It might be even more fun than being good. What do you say, come to Spain and be bad with me?”

  She sighed and bit her lower lip.

  “You’re chewing on your bottom lip, right now, aren’t you?”

  “Mhhm.”

  “It’s okay. You take some more time. No pressure. I’ll let you miss me some more. But you do know you only have a day left to decide. No pressure. Adiós mi amor.”

  “Adiós.” She clicked off the phone. Men like Andrés only come along once in a lifetime. So why was it so hard to go and be bad with him? Take a chance. Say yes. It’s easy—a three-letter word, yes. She still didn’t have an answer to that as she arrived at the prison in a little over three hours after making a coffee stop and filling up. She walked through the front doors of the cold and foreboding building. The place felt sterile, like most institutional buildings. It smelled of cleaning fluids, but not in a good lemon-fresh way, but rather a wipe-off-the-germs way.

  A guard thoroughly checked her purse after she walked through an x-ray scanner and told her to sign in and wait in line with the other visitors, that they would be taken to the visiting area in fifteen minutes. The fifteen minutes almost felt longer than the three-hour drive, and Nikki started questioning why she was even there. Finally another guard appeared and checked everyone off the list as they proceeded single file. There were men and women of all ages, probably mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers, husbands . . . and there were also a handful of children. She shivered at the thought of what it must be like to have a mother behind bars. A brief thought of her own mother entered her mind, and then of Janie and the loss of her mom. All were different situations, but the children in line going to see their moms did have something in common with both Nikki and Janie. There was a loss.

  In the visiting room there were small tables and chairs set up and everyone in the group knew right where to go. Nikki leaned in and asked the guard who Bernadette Debussey was. The guard pointed her out.

  Bernadette was a petite woman with curly, long, dark hair that she must have straightened prior to her incarceration, because it was super curly now, the kind of style most women who had it hated. She looked up at Nikki with big brown, almond-shaped eyes. Nikki sat down and introduced herself. There was a hardness in those eyes, and she couldn’t help wondering if it had always been there, if the thirty-year-old woman was the sociopath everyone claimed her to be, or if that hardness had developed during her so far six-month stay in jail.

  “Do I know you?” Bernadette asked, a curtness in her voice.

  “Actually you don’t.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re a new attorney that dipshit Don Sanders sent over, right?”

  She shook her head. “Uh, no. I don’t know any Don Sanders.”

  “Be glad you don’t.” She tossed back her curls, offering a glimpse of the glamour she’d likely once exuded. No room for glamour in the slammer. Bernadette crossed her arms in front of her and leaned back in her chair. Yep, she’d gotten the inmate protocol down. Tough gal. “He’s a moron. That’s what I get for signing a prenup, huh? No cash to get myself a good lawyer, not like I had a prayer anyway. Everything was stolen from me and I was set up good. No one believes me.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about why you’re here.” Nikki took out a notepad from her purse, going with her plan of being a writer. She figured it might sound insane if she told her she was there out of curiosity. Could it be more than curiosity? Something still nagged her about Georges’ murder. She didn’t know what, but something bugged her, maybe the ghost of the chef himself.

  “You never told me who you were.”

  “I didn’t, did I?” Nikki asked. “Forgive me. I’m terribly sorry.” If Aunt Cara knew her ploys, jeesh . . . “I’m doing a story. Actually a book. A nonfiction book. I’m not published or anything, but my aunt was a homicide detective in LA and she raised me, so I’ve always been interested in crime.” Okay, now that was good. The total truth right there. “And writing.” True, too. Acting and writing went hand in hand. Before going to work for Malveaux she’d thought about writing screenplays. “And, I got to thinking that it might be interesting to get a handful of stories from women in jail who claim they were falsely accused but were still convicted and are now doing time. I found your case interesting because considering who you were married to I would have expected it to be a huge story.”

  Bernadette was studying her. Was her radar up? Was she completely transparent? “And your name is?”

  “Nikki Sands.” Bernadette kept staring. Nikki nodded, and decided to jump on in. “For starters, as I said, I’m unclear why your situation was kept out of the press as much as it was. You were married to Georges Debussey. And now with his murder, do you think your story will come up again?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. I heard that they caught the guy who killed Georges, at least one of them. I’m not surprised about that slimeball Henry Bloomenfeld. I never liked that guy. Some cop came here the other day.”

  “What did you tell the police? Why would they question you here about Georges’ murder?”

  “My kid brother, Johnny, the pain, he’s in a gang up in the city. I guess this cop might have thought retribution on Johnny’s part. The cop wanted to know where Johnny was, and I told him that I had no clue. Then he asked me a few more questions about Georges and who might want him dead. I told him that I knew Baron O’Grady, that chef Georges was working with, his pal, had a grande life insurance policy on Georges. But I liked Baron. Good guy. He never rubbed me the wrong way, like Bloomenfeld did. I’m not happy Georges is dead even though he helped put me here, but since he is, I’m glad it was that creepy agent of his that did it and now he’ll pay for it.”

  Nikki nodded. She got the distinct feeling that this was exactly what Bernadette Debussey needed—someone to listen to her. “Let’s backtrack a bit and talk about why you’re here in the first place, and as I asked before, how did your story remain out of the media? There were a few articles, but it never became a huge story.”

  “When this thing with me went down, Georges was just starting to go big. Yeah he was making money and people knew him. We lived a great life. That man knew how to invest wisely and make money, but his popularity didn’t take off until the release of his first cookbook, about the time I was convicted. Then he started working on that deal with the winery out in Napa, but I obviously didn’t see that finished.”

  Nikki shifted in her chair, feeling uneasy at the mention of the winery. “Good deal for him, huh?”

  “I’ll say. Sure we were rolling in cash, but him closing that deal out in the wine country was a great thing. Then, instead of me winding up between hills of grapes, I wound up here. You asked me why the story about me being arrested wasn’t a big deal? Well, you know, a restaurateur’s wife going to jail for arson makes the local news and the papers, but it’s not CNN material. I’m sure now with the book thing and all, it likely could have, but G
eorges had himself a very protective staff. That Lauren Trump for starters. She had her own connections on how to keep things quiet about me and my supposed crime.”

  Bernadette had some interesting things to say and Nikki wondered if she’d spilled all of this to Robinson, or if he’d simply followed the lead of Baron O’Grady’s insurance policy. “You say that you’re innocent of starting the fire in Georges’ guesthouse? That you’re not an arsonist?”

  “That was our guesthouse. And, I’m not just saying it. It’s true.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” She wanted to remain on Bernadette’s good side.

  “I didn’t start the fire. So, maybe I did go in and destroy that slut’s stuff, the one who was living in there.”

  Nikki flipped the page and pretended to read notes that were not there. “That would be Jane Creswell?”

  Bernadette nodded and turned away for a second. When she looked back at Nikki a bit of the hardness was gone and now confusion and hurt replaced it. Not for long. As soon as she started telling her version of the story, that stone-cold look returned.

  “Yeah. Sweet Janie. The crazy thing was, is, that she was my friend. I liked her. I felt freaking sorry for her because she lost her mom. We all had a good thing there. She had her place, we hung out like sisters, and Georges loved me, until she had to go sashaying around in tight jeans and half shirts. Not cool.”

  “I should say not.” Nikki had a hard time picturing the ethereal looking Janie in bimbo-type outfits. Had her initial approach been one of wanting to be the other woman and get ahold of some of Georges’ money? Maybe that was where a lot of her pain and guilt was coming from, especially after finding out who Georges was.

  “No. Not cool. Anyway she and Georges started hanging out a lot more and I know they were screwing around.”

  “Did you have any proof?”

  “No. But a woman’s intuition is solid and I knew.”

  “So you destroyed her stuff?”

  “Hell yeah. I am not the kind of woman who sits by while some other chick tries to steal her man. She used me. Pretended to be my friend while she was trying to back door it—get out of the guesthouse and into my house. I’m sure she’s hanging by the pool as we speak, sipping Vueve Clicquot.”

  “Right, but didn’t Jane have a boyfriend? It said in the paper something about that?”

  “Oh that Trevor dude? Whatever. She was using him, too. I’m telling you she’s the one who should be in jail. She knows how to work and manipulate people to get what she wants. First she starts letting my man at her while she’s working me and that poor Trevor kid so it all looks benign, then she sets the trap.”

  “Trap?”

  “Trap. You do speak English, don’t you? Janie knew I had a temper, and she continued to hang on Georges, laugh at everything he said. It pushed me over the edge. I cut up her stuff, he kicked me out, and then she burnt down the guesthouse, and somehow got my fingerprints, maybe from a glass, I don’t know, and planted them on the lighter the fire Marshall claims was used to start the fire. I had nothing. No one to back me. No alibi. I went to our cabin in Monterey. I still had a key and I thought maybe Georges would cool off, come to his senses. I came back two days later and the cops arrested me. The place was burnt down. The lighter, which I hadn’t used in God knows how long, was in my luggage. I was framed. I’m telling you.”

  “No one saw you in Monterey?”

  “No. I packed up stuff before I left. All I took was some wine, bread, and cheese. I think an apple, too. Trust me, I wanted to get loaded and pretend he wasn’t upset with me. That our love would win over whatever he was feeling for Janie.”

  Yeah, well, he was feeling something other than what Bernadette assumed—fatherly love.

  “Crazy. I really loved him. I wouldn’t have signed a prenup if I didn’t, and I wouldn’t have gone nuts when I realized that the two of them were up to no good.”

  Nikki sighed. The woman had a right to know the truth, but she’d promised Janie that she wouldn’t tell anyone, and she’d already told Simon. But Bernadette was not exactly her close friend. Besides, it might make Bernadette feel even worse to know that her crime was totally in vain. Nikki still didn’t buy that she hadn’t started the fire. She was off her rocker with the jealousy thing.

  The guard signaled that there was only a few minutes left. Bernadette leaned on the table now and gazed intently at Nikki. “I don’t trust too many people these days, and I don’t know if you’re really writing a book, but you seem nice enough. I swear to you that I did not start that fire. I loved my husband and I did not do that. If you can help me prove it, you’d get an innocent woman released from jail.”

  With that Bernadette stood and got into line with the other inmates. Nikki walked out of the penitentiary with a gazillion thoughts running through her brain. Was she being duped by Janie? Was there something sinister behind all that innocence? Why was it that Bernadette believed so strongly that Janie and Georges were having an affair?

  But her main question, which she kept repeating in her head during the three-hour drive home, was did the police have the real killer in jail? That nagging feeling sat heavy in her stomach. She still couldn’t put a finger on it, but as she replayed Bernadette’s story over and over in her mind, the feeling sank even deeper, and she started to think that this thing wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter 25

  Nikki came home to a handwritten note taped to her door from Derek asking her how she was feeling and if she needed anything. He claimed that he’d called but she didn’t answer and he didn’t want to disturb her. He also reminded her of the dinner tomorrow night for Georges, and the last thing in the note was a question: Have you decided about Spain? I spoke with Andrés and know the plan is for the two of you, if you decide to go, to leave on Saturday. I need to know to adjust duties around the winery accordingly .

  Nikki crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash. She was exhausted and didn’t even bother with dinner, knowing a night of good rest was what she needed.

  She poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir left by the cleaning staff on the coffee table and grabbed a good book to take her mind off things. She wondered if Robinson had any leads on Moran. Where could the guy have gone? She wished Ollie were around just to prove that he still loved her best. But there was no sign of the Ridgeback. Surely he was tucked away at Derek’s, maybe licking Renee’s hand off. Did the dog miss her the way she missed him? Did his owner even care what she or the dog needed?

  She changed into a pair of Andrés’ sweats. Comfortable. Warm. Secure. Call him. She took her phone from her purse and called his house and then his cell. No answer on either. He’d probably gone back to his ploy of making her miss him. And, know what? It was working.

  She snuggled up on one of the oversized chairs with the latest Evanovich novel. She thought for a moment about getting the bag Jonah Robinson had left for her, but the thought of looking in it still made her queasy. Why was it so difficult to confront the past? Was it simply that whatever was in the bag would cause her to remember that she really had lost most everything precious to her? She’d hold off a bit longer.

  She started reading and although the book was entertaining, sleep took over shortly after she’d curled up in the chair.

  She didn’t know what time it was or if she was dreaming at first, but she soon discovered that she was not.

  A guitar? Outside her room. She stood and peered out the window onto the porch. Andrés. Playing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police. She opened the door. He smiled at her. Yep—warm, comfortable, secure. No doubt what’s in store when it came to Andrés.

  She sat down on the lounge chair on the porch, pulled her blanket around her, and listened to the song. Absolutely gorgeous. He finished and bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. She didn’t pull away from him. Not this time.

  He pulled away first. “Not here. Not now. There is a perfect time and place for us. In Spain.” He turned around and pic
ked up a basket of flowers and handed them to her. “Your ticket is in there, too. The flight leaves Saturday at three. I have to be in the city tomorrow to sign some more papers for the vineyard and to take care of some other business. I’ll be staying at a hotel overnight. If you decide to join me, I made arrangements for your car. There’s an address in the envelope with all of the information, in the basket. There’s a garage near the airport where it will be stored. If you do not come, I will have to understand your decision. For me this is good-bye for now. If you decide not to join me, I want these few moments as a lasting memory. Stupid sounding, I know, but, it’s the way I feel.”

  He smiled and tried to laugh, but Nikki knew he spoke the truth. “I, I, uh, I . . .”

  Andrés held up a hand. “No. Don’t say anything. Not now. You will decide and you will know, and so will I, soon enough.” He kissed her again and walked away, whistling “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.”

  She fell asleep with the song in her mind along with Andrés’ proposition. She tossed and turned all night and didn’t feel rested at all by the time she crawled out of bed Friday morning. She felt weary and weighted down.

  She thought about tonight’s dinner and wondered about Janie. She hadn’t seen her or Trevor since the other night at the wine bar. Had they done as she suggested and spoken to an estate attorney yet, and had Leonard Kinsgton made contact with them?

  She took a long hot shower and thought about Bloomenfeld’s dirty secrets. He’d committed some major crimes for chump change. Ridiculous what people would do for money, even for only a little bit of it. And considering all Georges was worth, Bloomenfeld and Moran had only pilfered a small amount. But maybe there were plans to tap into more of the millions Georges had, and through Moran that was possible. And Georges caught on so they had to do away with him. And, what about Rick Moran? Come on. The man was a financial advisor. How had he gotten sucked into Bloomenfeld’s gig? Whatever the reasons, Nikki was certain they had to do with Bloomenfeld’s side business or weird obsession. She went through all of what had happened in regard to Georges’ murder over the past week, and even though the relationship between Moran and Bloomenfeld was odd, and Bloomenfeld had a falling out with Georges, and they were on their way to Mexico with a couple hundred grand of Georges’ cash, something did not completely click for her. And, the question remained: where was Moran?