Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

“Not the same?” I could see her doubt about me written on her face.

  “Not the same. But similar.”

  “Like what?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How could I explain the hold Jared seemed to have on my life?

  “My fiancé did a lot of international business. I met him when I was the party planner for a big event. He...he swept me off my feet almost like Alain Beaumont did with Nora. It all happened so fast. I always thought he knew my desires, my tastes so well because he was in love with me, but one afternoon, when he thought I was in the kitchen, I thought I saw him checking the files on my computer. It was almost like he was spying on me.”

  “Well,” she scratched her head, considering it, “there must have been something else, because that, in and of itself, wouldn’t necessarily alarm a woman. Most guys are naturally nosey. And a man like your fiancé, with a financial empire to protect, might feel entitled to make sure you’re not a gold-digger.”

  “But that’s just it,” I frowned. “He had just opened a very large bank account in my name, down in Curaçao. He told me he didn’t want a prenuptial agreement, because he trusted me.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” she wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said that if anything happened, it would be mine.”

  “Did you get it after he died?”

  “Jeff asked me the same thing. No, I didn’t. As soon as Jared was murdered, the marshals moved me to New York.” I told her what I had told Rocky the night before. Nancy’s eyes grew wide as the details spilled out of me.

  “Holy crapola!” She crossed over to the dresser, grabbed some clothes from the drawer, and knocked on Vince’s door.

  “Yeah?” Vince was up and dressed, ready for work. “What do you need, Nance?”

  “Get Rocky. We’ve got trouble.” She turned back to me. “Do you still have anything, anything at all from New York with you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A purse, a cell phone, a special piece of jewelry?”

  Chapter Thirty

  “No. I left my purse behind at the Gilded Nest when I ran. The hit woman took my cell phone and tossed it into the bushes. All my jewelry was back in my apartment, except for the earrings I was wearing, which the doctor insisted I remove when I got shot. I stopped wearing my engagement ring when Jared died.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Too bad.”

  “But I do have a watch.” I held out my wrist and showed her the Citizen timepiece that had been Jared’s gift on our first month anniversary.

  A quick rap on the connecting door sounded before Rocky and Vince came through. Rocky wanted to know what was going on. Nancy handed him the watch.

  “We need to know if this has a GPS locator,” she told him. “If it does, it could be a game changer.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of it,” said the security expert. “In the meantime, why don’t you three get packed? You’re splitting up.”

  “But....” I heard those words and my heart sunk.

  “Not to worry, Marigold. It’s just temporary. We’ll take the watch for a little trip, and when we figure out what’s going on, we’ll deal with it. If someone is using that watch to track your exact location, we want to know who it is and what he’s planning. In the meantime, I want you some place safe. Okay, let’s hustle, people.”

  Half an hour later, we all left the Sheraton. Rocky instructed Vince to drive the Coachmen Freelander to Denver and hired a private investigator follow the RV, to shadow Vince for any signs of a tail. Nancy took a train to St. Louis, where she put the Citizen Chronograph into a padded envelope and mailed it to a friend out in Los Angeles. From there, it would be mailed to another friend, and then another. The idea was to keep it moving around the country until Jeff and Rocky had settled on a plan.

  Once she left the post office, Nancy returned to the Amtrak station and boarded another train for Springfield, Illinois. Rocky and I picked her up there, and once she was settled in the back seat of the SUV, we continued the journey to Chicago.

  At O’Hare Airport, we separated again. This time Rocky dropped Nancy and me off at the Hilton there, on his way to catch a flight back to Atlanta.

  “Enjoy Florida,” he told us, pulling our suitcases from the rear of the SUV. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you two need anything, anything at all.”

  “We’ll do fine, boss. Relax.”

  “It’s my job to worry,” he reminded her sternly. “Call Terry and have him meet you down there.”

  I had spent enough time with him to notice something was bothering Rocky. Nancy also picked up on it and did a little backpedaling.

  “Right,” she nodded. “Want us to call when we’re in place?”

  “No. I want you to get in touch with Jojo and tell her you just found the perfect recipe for cooking fish.”

  “Fish?” Nancy seemed a little confused. “You do know, Rock, that I don’t cook, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “If everything seems good down in St. Augustine, make it a trout recipe. If, for any reason you’re nervous about your environment, make it a catfish recipe.”

  “Okay. I get it. It’s a coded message. That will work. You want me to have Terry bring his weapon?”

  “Absolutely. Tell him I’m putting him on the clock. And book a suite or a pair of adjoining rooms. Jeff will compensate you for it.”

  “You’ve got it, boss.”

  “Nance, just so you know, you folks might be down there for more than just a weekend.”

  “Aw, shucks,” she grinned. “I guess you’ve got to take the bad with the good.”

  It turned out Rocky was right. We spent a total of eight days at the Renaissance World Golf Resort. It was pleasant enough, as hotels go, and the location was wonderful, too, if people weren’t holed up in their rooms. For me, it was hardly a vacation. I grew weary of the same four walls day after day. Every time I left my room, I was accompanied by a bodyguard or two.

  As the days passed, we fell into a routine. We usually had breakfast on the outdoor terrace of the Fairways Café, lunch at the Murray Bros. Caddyshack, owned by the actor, Bill Murray, and his five siblings, and dinner at Villagio, the Italian restaurant inside the hotel. A couple of mornings, we ventured out to wander through the historic village of St. Augustine and do some shopping. Nancy and Terry played eighteen holes of golf every afternoon while one of their retired cop friends babysat me at the hotel pool or took me to the private beach club. Most of my time, though, was spent confined to the hotel room or on the small balcony overlooking the lake.

  After the third day, I found myself growing rather restless, unsettled. I longed to get on with my life, to resolve the mess I was in, but Jeff had other ideas, and he shared them during a phone conversation we had.

  “Marigold, you’re in limbo. It’s just the way it is. You’ll have to make the best of it until we get you sorted out. There’s no point in moving you again until we can do it safely.”

  “But I’ve got nothing to do here. There’s only so much television I can watch.”

  “That’s the problem, you’re bored?” Jeff sounded surprised. “Do you want me to send you more books?”

  “No, I’m taking a break from reading.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. The truth was I didn’t want to finish Vanilla Orchid Magic, at least not until my own life was back on track. There was a part of me that was afraid something terrible would happen to Nora or Jean-Claude, and I didn’t think I could bear that, given my own unfortunate circumstances.

  “Would it help you to know the book had a happy ending, Marigold? My mother has a rule about that. She continued Nora’s story in A Whisper of Ginger.”

  “She did?”

  “In Guadeloupe, Nora knew too much about Le Scorpion’s organization and about him as a man, enough to figure out what he was doing. She was his Achilles heel and he knew t
hat Noiret would use her to bring him down especially as he came up for trial. Ruthless men will go to the ends of the earth to satisfy their desire for revenge and their need for self-preservation? A man like Le Scorpion is always going to be suspicious under the circumstances,” Jeff acknowledged. “You didn’t really think the danger would end for Nora when she left the Caribbean, did you?”

  “She was a pawn,” I sighed, finally understanding the common bond between us. “Jeff?”

  “Yes, Marigold?”

  “Am I a pawn, too?”

  “It looks that way.” He said it matter-of-factly, much to my dismay.

  “Does that mean my only way to survive is to hide out the rest of my life?”

  “Finish Vanilla Orchid Magic and then check out A Whisper of Ginger, if you want to know what happened to Nora.”

  “Is it important?” I asked him.

  There was a long pause. Jeff took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It might be, Marigold. It just might be.”

  “Okay, I’ll finish it. But....”

  “But what?” he demanded.

  “I just wish I had something to do, to fill the long hours. I’m not used to being idle.”

  “Have you forgotten the Jefferson project? Come up with a plan to convert the condo.”

  “It’s kind of hard to do long distance, especially since I don’t have a floor plan or any photographs.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Now, are we good?” That little touch of impatience was back in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ve got to go. I’m late for a production meeting.”

  “Jeff?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think I could have someone take my stitches out? I think it’s been long enough, and there aren’t any signs of infection.” I heard him groan on the other end of the phone. “I’m not trying to be difficult. It’s just that....”

  “No, no. It’s not you, Marigold. I’m so sorry. With all the things going on, I completely forgot about your ear. We’ll have to find you a doctor. You’ll need an alias. And Nancy will have to pay in cash.”

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely, my faith restored.

  “You’re welcome. One more thing,” he added. “I want Nancy and Terry to teach you some self-defense moves, just in case you ever find yourself in trouble.”

  “That’s not going to be much help if someone tries to shoot me,” I pointed out. “I’m pretty sure a bullet trumps hand-to-hand combat.”

  “True. But folks seem most interested in kidnapping you, and in that case, being able to get away might come in handy.”

  It was hard to argue with that. With a more hopeful heart, I focused on moving forward.

  One of the first things I did was finish reading Vanilla Orchid Magic. I took the paperback out to the balcony and settled myself in the chair. In the distance, I could see golf carts coming and going on the winding paths by the lake. Maybe it was a good thing to be in Florida, away from all the cold winter weather. The soft, warm breeze felt good on my skin. It helped to put some distance between me and the reminder of my icy terror.

  Forcing myself to pick up where I had left off, I took a deep breath, set aside my own sense of panic, and rejoined Nora in the trunk of that French sedan.

  Despite the warmth of the night, I found myself shivering as I lay cramped inside the trunk. The mountain road was rough on the Citroën, shaking it hard as it rolled over the potholes. By the time the car stopped three-quarters of an hour later, I was on the verge of losing my composure.

  This panic was exacerbated when I heard Inspecteur Noiret exchange angry words with another man, who insisted on inspecting the car.

  “To what end?” the French policeman demanded. “Do you have a reason to believe I have committed a crime?”

  “I received a tip,” said the gruff voice in response. “I have every intention of looking inside the vehicle. If you don’t like it, take it up with the....”

  “I shall! And when I do, I will personally put you behind bars and throw away the key!”

  “Oh, let me guess! You have friends in high places! How frightening for me!” mocked the other man.

  “What an astute assessment you have just made. Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Jean-Claude Noiret, Interpol.”

  “Ah, boss....” A newcomer tried to intercede, but he was quickly silenced as his boss continued.

  “I am questioning the suspect, Renny! Inform headquarters that I have located him.”

  I was crestfallen at the news that my rescuer was a suspect, but a suspect in what crime? Despite identifying himself as a member of Interpol, the island police officer was continuing to treat Jean-Claude with hostility. I thought that unusual behavior. Was this the result of Alain calling in favors from his influential friends? Or was this a matter of law enforcement corruption? Perhaps this was just a traffic stop gone wrong, an attempt to shake down a driver for a pay-off.

  “You have no jurisdiction here!” snarled the local cop to the man from Interpol. It didn’t bode well for the immediate future.

  “No? Are you willing to risk your career on that, mon ami?” There was a menacing tone in Jean-Claude’s reply, signaling that he was willing to do whatever it took to stand his ground. I tucked myself into an even tighter ball in the trunk, fearing the worst. Sure enough, it arrived in the form of a question -- just four words that spelled disaster for me.

  “Where is Madame Beaumont?”

  My heart started pounding as my stomach churned frantically in a sea of panic. Alain had initiated a search for me, and now I was being hunted like the proverbial rabbit. What if Jean-Claude decided I was not worth saving? Would he betray me to save himself? I found the answer came quickly and reassuringly.

  “How the hell should I know? Why don’t you ask Monsieur Beaumont?” The French inspector mustered his disdain for the island inquisitor’s outrageous insubordination by dismissing the query with undisguised disgust.

  “He says you kidnapped his wife.”

  “He says....Do you see her here? Perhaps all that drinking has finally taken its toll on Alain and he is imagining things that never happened. Now, I will ask you again, and be careful how you answer me -- do you have reason to believe I have committed a crime?”

  There was a long silence. I heard the sound of footsteps on gravel, walking around the car. They seemed to pause by the side of the car. I held my breath until I heard the man take five steps away.

  “Let him go, Maurice,” said the nervous young policeman. “It’s not worth it.”

  “Are you telling me my job, Renny?” Maurice was now very angry with his subordinate.

  “No, no. It’ just that....”

  “It’s just that what?” demanded the senior officer.

  “You can see for yourself there’s no one in the car, sir. The back seat is empty.”

  “Perhaps she is in the trunk,” Maurice suggested with an air of desperation as he approached the back of the Citroën again.

  “But wouldn’t the victim be banging on the trunk lid, sir, to escape? Monsieur Beaumont insisted that his wife was kidnapped. Surely she would take advantage of this moment to escape her captor, wouldn’t she?”

  “Let’s test this young man’s theory. Allow me,” said Jean-Claude. Seconds later, an unexpected bang caught me unaware as his strong hand struck the trunk lid, causing me to flinch. “Madame Beaumont, are you in there? Would you like these nice policemen to set you free? Bang once for yes, twice for no!”

  “He could have drugged her!” Maurice growled, unwilling to concede.

  “Ridiculous! This is getting completely out of hand. You, mon ami, are pathetic, grasping at straws! How much is Alain Beaumont paying you to set me up?”

  “Pardon?” That sudden, offensive attack seemed to startle Maurice.

  “Or perhaps you think I tossed her over a cliff! Maybe you would like me to accompany you all over the island, so we can check every possible spot to conceal a hos
tage! How do we know you don’t have the lady in your trunk! Perhaps it is you who plan to kill her and stage the scene! Don’t imagine I will stand by and allow you to plant the evidence!”

  “Sir,” a new arrival hailed the ranking policeman, “Monsieur Janvier wishes to speak with you on the radio.”

  “Un moment, Noiret,” said the senior island policeman. “I shall return.”

  “And I will be waiting for you with bated breath!” replied the exasperated driver tersely.

  The seconds turned into minutes as we all remained in limbo, stranded by circumstances, while Maurice conversed with his superior back at police headquarters. I could see no graceful exit for the Guadeloupe policeman, nor easy excuse or logical explanation for letting Jean-Claude go. Maurice would have to either accept defeat by acknowledging he was in the wrong or deliberately destroy his career by insisting on pursuing the faulty claim.

  I found my alarm growing as I ruminated on the matter. Was the island policeman acting this way simply because he had received what he believed to be a genuine complaint from Alain, a plea for my safe return, or had my husband corrupted him? Was Maurice one of the officers who enabled Le Scorpion’s network to thrive on Guadeloupe, offering his protection services in exchange for cash or contraband?

  “Good news, Noiret!” Maurice sounded smugly cheerful upon his return. “My boss has taken full responsibility for the outcome of this case. On his orders, I am to let you go.”

  “A wise decision,” Jean-Claude replied. “Now, if you will pardon me, I must be on my way. I have an appointment to keep.”

  “At this time of night?” Maurice was suddenly interested once more.

  “Of course at this time of night!” Jean-Claude retorted, clearly aggravated by the challenge.

  “With whom?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I promised Mademoiselle Menard I would join her for a nightcap.”

  “Nanette Menard? The singer?”

  “Oui. She is my girlfriend. Bon soir.” A car door opened and Jean-Claude got behind the wheel.

  “Bon soir,” Maurice repeated, sounding rather concerned, as the engine started up and the Citroën drove away, with me still concealed in the trunk.