Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

  “Geez, Louise!” I groaned, dismayed. Every wall was smothered in reflective glass. No matter where I looked, I could see myself multiplied, right down to the stunned look on my face, making me feel like I was in the fun house of some demented eighteenth century amusement park. Above the mirrors, a hand-painted frieze encircled the room, depicting naked bathing beauties who lounged beside ornate soaking tubs, attended by cheerful cherubs and servants.

  The theme continued on the ceiling, where smirking angels peeped from behind their cloud cover, smug smiles suggesting they knew it was naughty to snoop on the unsuspecting bathers below, but didn’t care. The overall effect was one of cartoonish voyeurism that seemed to poke fun at human modesty.

  The little dog at my side seemed blissfully unaware of the debacle. He busied himself checking out every fixture in the room as I let myself re-imagine the bathroom.

  At first glance, this seemed like no easy task, but when I set my mind on looking past all the ornate embellishments, I could see the good features in the room. Stripped down of its excesses, much in this bathroom could be saved. Mirrored walls and murals could be replaced by plain, painted surfaces. The floor tiles were limestone and they seemed to be in decent condition. The oversized shower, tiled in the same stone, really just required a replacement for the ornate brass shower enclosure. I decided that it made sense to also replace all the brass fixtures and hardware with antique bronze; it would introduce a more masculine feel for the master bath. The cherub-and-rose-covered white cabinets could be repainted and topped with a new counter.

  But in the silence of the mirrored room, as I sat on the edge of the large soaking tub and found myself mesmerized by the repeated reflections, there was no escaping the many faces of Marigold Flowers. I was everywhere, tattered ear and all.

  It occurred to me that I was slowly beginning to transition into my new life, whatever that might be. Could I find the inner strength to reinvent myself yet again and find some semblance of normalcy in a new place, with a new circle of friends? What if I no longer had what it took to start over? I was in my thirties, no longer a fresh-faced kid with endless enthusiasm.

  It took time and effort to adjust to my move from Newport to Lake Placid after the shock of Jared’s murder in May of last year. Half-numb with grief in those first few weeks in the Adirondacks, I was forced to bury my emotions behind an overly cheerful public smile. I was a hunted woman. I left my life Newport behind and I couldn’t afford to look back with regret. Instead, I hit the ground running to start a new business in Lake Placid. Immersing myself in the local business community, I hooked up with restaurant owners and caterers, joined the Chamber of Commerce, and interviewed numerous candidates from Paul Smith’s College, the culinary and hospitality school, looking for part-time helpers. I created a business that was growing in leaps and bounds. I crafted my reputation in the area, earning respect as demand for my services increased. I did functions at country clubs, yacht clubs, a local sports academy, a prep school, and private homes. I even arranged a progressive wine tour for a group of college alumni. They enjoyed a five-course meal over four hours, with stops at three separate vineyards, sampling the different offerings.

  Like her old counterpart in Newport, the Marigold Flowers I became built a daily routine in her new town and embraced an active social life. Lake Placid suited me for so many reasons. I loved the mountains and the lakes, but it was more than that. I enjoyed my work, throwing myself into each event, taking pride in my accomplishments. I was a doer, an arranger, a fixer. As a party planner, I brought families and friends together to celebrate the important moments in life. Maybe it was selfish. Did I need to share in those happy times with strangers because I was cut adrift from the people I love?

  My recent experience as Susan Langforth, the pharmaceutical rep, opened my eyes to reality. I knew that I could pose for a time as Susan, but the character just wasn’t enough like the real me that I could spend the rest of my life being her. I had lost so many connections to the people and places that mattered most to me with every WitSec move. If I was going to start over again, I wanted to take all the wisdom I had gained over the years and use it to make a difference. I wanted to fit into my new world and I wanted my new world to be a place I could call home.

  I got my start in event planning when I took a part-time waitressing job in college. The Dellavecchio family had been in the restaurant business for three generations. Villa Tivoli was housed in an elegant Italianate mansion on Long Island. With a picture-perfect setting, great food, and a comfortable ambiance, it was a popular local venue for all kinds of parties.

  Lisa Dellavecchio took me under her wing to teach me the finer points of creating memorable events. Weddings were her specialty. Lisa’s father, Gino, was a tough task master, expecting perfection from everybody, but he was also a generous mentor to those like me, who wanted to understand the ins and outs of the restaurant business.

  It nearly broke my heart when I had to leave Villa Tivoli unexpectedly. Just after my college graduation, the marshals were spooked by a potential attempt on my father’s life. We were collected in the middle of the night and relocated to Texas. My sisters went off to college two months later, while I tried to start a new career in Houston, where I had no connections and no friends. When I finally landed a job as an assistant event coordinator for a major hotel there, I got serious about learning the business from the ground up. I took classes and got my Masters. Within a few years, I proved myself and the chain promoted me, first to their standard hotel in Austin and then to their crown jewel in Dallas. For a few years, times were good. Would they ever be good again? Could they?

  I sighed aloud as I sat on the tub. I was too aware of the emotional weight I carried with me after so many years on my own. I had no one with whom to share my secrets. Only my WitSec team and a handful of FBI agents were privy to the details of my life on the run, and those people seemed to have cut me loose. Where would I be without the Cornwall brothers? Who would I turn to if they turned away from me?

  Kary trotted over and pawed my leg, commiserating. Gazing into those sweet, sincere brown eyes, I recognized a friend.

  “Don’t mind me,” I told him, picking him up. There was something wonderfully comforting in having a companion, even one that couldn’t speak. It made me realize just how lonely I had been. Kary slumped down in my lap, his paws on my right arm, as if to say, “There, there.” I returned the favor, tenderly rubbing his ears.

  “What a nice boy you are,” I told him, feeling a little confidence seep back into my conscious mind. “Now, where was I?”

  Turning my attention back to the master bathroom, I gently put the tiny dog on the tile floor and stood up. “There’s got to be a toilet around here somewhere.”

  I found it tucked into a separate room with hand-painted walls that made me want to recoil in horror. The unfortunate mural motif continued in here. A couple of life-sized male attendants in white, powdered wigs and satin uniforms, no doubt from the royal court of Louis XVI, stood at attention behind the commode, as if ready to step out of the mural and flush. Both sported lascivious grins.

  “Ugh, creepy,” I confided to Kary. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The Shih Tzu and I left the master bathroom and discovered a dressing room next door, filled with custom cabinetry. The carved doors with the hand-painted panels mimicked the French Rococo style, complete with gold tassels on each of the crystal door knobs. Opening drawers, I examined them, noting the dovetailed edges. I could tell these cabinets were well-crafted and offered functional storage, even if the style wasn’t right. I wondered if it was possible to have new doors and drawer fronts made for them.

  The dog and I made our way back out to the hallway. It was a relief to shut the door on the master suite.

  The next door I opened revealed a rather utilitarian laundry room with a folding counter and hook-ups for a washer and dryer. The lack of decoration made me think the previous owner probably had never spent much time in
this room. Was it a case of not fussing for the hired help or was the laundry sent out to the cleaners?

  Opposite the laundry room was a narrow linen closet, all of the shelves bare except for the lavender sachet I found on one of the shelves.

  What was it about seeing unoccupied rooms that left me vulnerable to moments of self-indulgent reflection? Walking through this unfurnished wing reminded me of the number of times I had left one home for another. How many linen closets had I filled in the years since I entered the witness protection program? I could never allow myself to grow emotionally attached to my possessions, be they towels or treasures. It was my responsibility to take the cover I was given by my handlers and make it work for me. Every major decision I wanted to make for myself required approval by the people in charge of my safety. I had been cooperative all those years. So why had I been kicked out of witness protection now? What had I done that warranted such extreme action?

  Chapter Twenty One

  Recalling the events in my life, I had to admit the bad times weren’t all because of the witness protection program. In between transitions, when it seemed like everything was finally copacetic, life had a knack for knocking me flat on my fanny in unexpected ways. I flashed back to that tragic phone call a few years ago, the one that nearly broke my heart.

  “Marigold, this is Dad. I’m afraid I have some bad news, dear. Your mother’s not doing well. The oncologist says it’s just a matter of months now....”

  Three weeks later, having given notice to my boss, I moved back to Houston to become my mother’s caregiver, severing my delicately forged ties once again. My father was desperate; his government research project was at a critical juncture and his team needed him to complete the study, since his name was on the masthead.

  I took over the day-to-day care of my ailing mother, driving her to and from the hospital for treatments. We took advantage of the good days and got out, even if it was just a stroll around the block. I pushed her in the wheelchair. On the bad days, my father and I often spent hours at her bedside, ready to dispense medications to control the pain or hold her hand when comfort was what she needed most. My father and I watched her slip away from us, little by little, her body shutting down as she moved towards death. We felt powerless to do much for her, but one afternoon, as the sunlight streamed into the room beside her bed, she smiled.

  “I’m not sorry,” she told us, reaching out for our hands. Her pale skin was paper thin, her long fingers cool to the touch. It seemed like I could see every vein in her delicate wrist. “It’s been a difficult journey, but I’m glad I had you with me. I just wish I had the twins with me, too.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” my father promised.

  It took some serious lobbying to get both my sisters to Houston in time to say goodbye. The marshals weren’t happy about the risk, but in the end, they made the arrangements. Violet flew in two days later. She and her WitSec handler arrived at the house in nurse scrubs. My other sister caught a flight to Dallas and drove down a day later, accompanied by another marshal. Pansy brought a medical bag with her and coordinated with the medical team. She took charge of palliative care, managing my mother’s pain. We had three days together. When it was over, the family scattered once more, for the sake of security.

  One of the downsides for the witness protection program is that it’s not a simple thing to bury a body. It’s not as if you can use real names for the obituary or the funeral. There’s no such thing as a family plot as long as there’s a danger to the survivors, because hanging around a cemetery can get you killed. Professional assassins look for those kinds of opportunities to complete their contracts. For that reason, my family got creative.

  The four of us met up at the Dallas Arboretum the following week. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon. We stood in the Boswell Garden by the stacked stone wall. My father carried my mother’s urn. For a woman who had dedicated her life to growing things, the rose garden was the perfect place to scatter her ashes. As a handful of marshals looked on, we bid farewell to the woman who had always been the heart of the family. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I took comfort from the fact that when I missed her most, I had only to click on the website and scroll through the many photographs. My mother lived on in every beautiful rose.

  A month after my mother succumbed to the disease, I was forced to make a decision. My father was still doing classified research and if I stayed, the restrictions on me would be significant. I wouldn’t be able to stray far from our house. If I left, I would be free to build a new life with a new identity. I was so torn.

  “You did right by your mother and I appreciate it. Now it’s your turn to get back out in the world,” my father insisted, hugging me tightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You go and have a wonderful life.”

  I took his advice. That’s how I found myself on the other side of the country, thanks to the WitSec team. With my savings account carefully transferred to a Newport bank, through a series of covert moves designed to hide its origins and give it legitimacy, I unpacked my things and restarted my career on the Atlantic coast. I had a new name, a new cover story, and references provided by my WitSec team. I had no more ties to my past, save for the occasional family visits that were carefully orchestrated.

  And it had all gone well until that day that Jared turned up dead on the floor of my condo. That was the beginning of a terrifying journey for me, a wild roller coaster ride from Rhode Island to New York. When the tide turned; I found myself booted out of the official witness protection program run by the United States Marshals and into an unofficial one run by the Cornwall brothers.

  “What do you think, boy?” I reached down and patted Kary, who waited patiently by the door for me to follow him. I loved that little wag of the tail that seemed to express his optimism. It was contagious. “Do you think we have a chance here?”

  As we continued to explore the seemingly endless rooms, I thought more about the Cornwall men. They prided themselves on doing things right. They were careful in their actions and reactions. They asked so many questions. It was such a change from how my Rhode Island WitSec handlers did things. Did that matter? I gave it some serious thought.

  Jojo had gone to great lengths to prepare me for my cover story. She’d dressed me to play the part, but she’d also made sure I sounded credible, even though I would only play the part of Susan for such a short time. Tovar’s handling of my transition from Margot to Marigold involved a ten-minute conversation about Lake Placid, a promise to transfer my money to the local Champlain National Bank branch, and references for my new landlord. In terms of real support, it was sadly lacking, but I chalked that up to the fact that Eve had gone out on maternity leave sooner than expected and Shaun had retired ahead of schedule. But what if there was more to the story than I understood at the time?

  The weeks and months right after Jared’s murder were fraught with worry that I was in grave danger, even after I arrived in Lake Placid. I was forced to throw myself into my new cover at full speed, without even taking a breath. I could see now I never had the chance to grieve for my fiancé, nor for the loss of my own sense of self. When Jared died, the fictitious Margot died with him. I lost the woman I pretended to be, only to become Marigold Flowers. Did that add to all the confusion?

  Obviously, my days as a party planner were now officially over. It was too risky to go down that road again. Still, I recognized the mental mix of dread, confusion, and uncertainty I felt as I fled hired killers in New York was beginning to lift. I contemplated what came next. Georgia was a fresh start and it seemed promising to a heart that was hungry for it.

  What had changed for me when I got to Atlanta? Jefferson Cornwall had thrown an unexpected bit of hope my way. This unfinished shell of a home seemed to light a fire under me. Every wedding I had ever done was scripted like the finest play, to eliminate the missteps and highlight the love story. Was it really all that different to transform this unoccupied residence? Instead of directing the actor
s on stage, I would turn my attention to building the stage itself. Maybe I jumped too quickly at the chance to help Jeff with his condo because it allowed me to feel like the real me, and that was what I needed most right now.

  The next room was dark, save for a thin crack of light creeping in from under the covered window. I fumbled along the wall, feeling for the switch, and when I flipped it, the dazzlingly bright candelabra illuminated every corner of the little princess bedroom. Looking up, I saw pearls and pink crystals dangling from twelve white electric candles, each topped with a lavender shade that was trimmed with pink ribbon.

  But it was the mural that covered all four walls that captured my attention. Against a wrought iron fence and trellised archway, pink roses bloomed, their canes climbing upward, in an enchanted garden, where little fairies darted here and there on ethereal wings, their tiny faces no bigger than my thumb. A fat frog, wearing a jeweled crown and dressed in a blue waistcoat, squatted along side a toad stool on one wall. He faced a pink-eyed, slightly loopy-looking white rabbit in a lavender dress, holding a rose-covered parasol in her paw, on the other. By the closet door, a pair of bluebirds decorated their white birdhouse with pink and purple satin ribbons. Butterflies and bees fluttered among the flowers in the garden and all the way up to the ceiling, where they crossed the painted sky.

  The window, obscured by yards and yards of lavender silk adorned with tiny pearl accents, piqued my curiosity. I crossed the room and lifted the balloon shade, gazing out at the view. Here was another terrace, much smaller than the one off the living room, but there was room enough for a patio chair or two, and perhaps a couple of flowering bushes in planter boxes. At this time of the day, there was enough shade to make this a pleasant outdoor retreat.

  I turned my attention back to this room, considering the possibilities. As much as the mural offered a whimsical charm, was it really something Jeff would want to keep? I didn’t think so. I could imagine this bedroom as a quiet sanctuary. I wondered what kind of light slipped through the window at dawn.