Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

  “Don’t go there,” he hissed at her.

  “Good thing the Cornwall brothers aren’t here,” I commented under my breath.

  “It would kill Linc to witness this,” Tom shook his head, dismayed. “And Jeff would lay her out in lavender. But then, she is good at what she does. It takes a weasel to catch a weasel.”

  A short time later, the three of us left the federal office building, heading to the parking lot. Brushing past me, as if in a wordless bid to call shotgun, Deirdre beat me into the front passenger seat of Tom’s rental car; I wasn’t surprised she delegated me to the back seat, given her penchant for pecking order. I caught sight of Tom’s wink in the rear view mirror and tried to hide my smile.

  “Now what?” he asked her, starting the engine.

  “Give me a second. I want to see if I can get a manicure.”

  We spent the next five minutes listening to Deirdre cajole the receptionist at Daniel James. When she finally wore the poor woman down, she gave Tom the address and we dropped her off in front of the West Bay Street salon, a few blocks from the Hyatt Regency. As she got out of the rental car, toting her briefcase and purse with her, Deirdre made a prediction.

  “Mark my words, Marigold. Jared Spears is going to cut a deal and save the federal government the cost of prosecuting him. It’s just a matter of catching Leesa Braun and turning the screws on her until he caves.”

  “You don’t think there will be a trial?” I asked, surprised.

  “Not if I play my cards right. Tell Jeff I’ll call him after I have dinner with Manny tonight and let him know. Thanks for the ride, Tom. Say hi to Joanne for me.”

  “Will do,” replied the man behind the wheel. “Marigold, are you hopping up front?”

  “I am.” I scrambled out of the back seat and joined Tom. As we watched Deirdre walk away, I heard my companion snicker.

  “Oh, what I would give to be a fly on the wall during the phone call to Atlanta tonight. It’s going to be priceless.”

  “Worth every penny,” I agreed, giving him a grin.

  Two weeks later, Deirdre’s prediction came true. Jared Spears was placed in the witness protection program with his fiancée, Leesa, after they both agreed to turn on their collaborators. In order to be admitted into the program, they both had to come clean about every detail of their money-laundering schemes and the murder of that poor man back in Newport, Rhode Island.

  By then, I was long gone. The day after meeting with the United States attorney, Terry and Nancy instructed me to pack my things. It was time to hit the road again and get out of town before folks started asking too many questions about me.

  “Here’s the deal, kid. I’m driving you to the airport and putting you on a plane to California. Don’t worry. We have someone on the flight to keep an eye on you. You and Mini Coop are off on your next adventure. You’ll have a chance to start making plans for your new life, Marigold. It will be a good thing. And you’ll like my buddy, Bitterman. I worked with her. She’s a real hoot.”

  Clovis Bitterman turned out to be a short, stocky, no-nonsense retired FBI agent with a private law practice out in the San Fernando Valley. She picked me up at LAX and took me to her craftsman-style bungalow in Glendale for a couple of weeks. The rationale for having me stay with her was simple enough. If, for any reason, the federal government changed its mind and decided to try to prosecute Jared and his fiancée, Clovis would make sure they understood just what a bad idea it was to drag me back into it. She would, as a member of my unofficial legal team, remind them that we were prepared to sue the government for the harm I endured. And if anyone wanted to do me bodily harm, she was more than capable of handling the situation. Clovis, like Nancy, had a few awards for marksmanship.

  Since her retirement from the FBI, Clovis specialized in white collar crime and, instead of working for a big firm, preferred having a small legal practice of her own; she got by with one paralegal and an assistant. There was a small guest cottage in her backyard, which she used as her office. It was cramped, but charming. It was also convenient, in case I ran into a problem with unwanted visitors.

  I got back to the business of planning the decor for Jeff’s condo, this time with a new laptop, an encryption program that would thwart the average hacker, and new passwords. I also had an encrypted phone I used to speak with Jeff every day.

  The reason for my sudden relocation became clear to me during one of our first conversations when I arrived in California. Someone in the media floated the rumor that Jeff was somehow involved in my case, and the press began to pester him for answers. Given his public status as a best-selling author and TV producer, they thought they smelled a story. Everyone wanted to know about the woman called Marigold Flowers. Jeff got busy dating every starlet he could find. He even flew out to California twice, appearing at an awards dinner with Sierra Wyllys one night and a Hollywood gala with Zoe Charnack another. The gossip columns began to speculate whether he was in the market for a wife or just trying to sign an actress for the lead in his new summer TV series, Dangerous Deception.

  “I can’t believe you’re here and I can’t see you,” I told him the night he called after he dropped Zoe off.

  “Tell me about it,” was his gruff reply. “The press is camped outside my door.”

  Norma Parker, the vile Boston gossip columnist better known as “Nosey Parker”, offered her theory about Jeff after he showed up in Massachusetts to scout locations for filming. She hinted he was using the women to hide the fact that he was gay, and pointed to the fact that Jeff was never without a male entourage.

  “Isn’t it amazing how wrong people can be when they fill in the blanks?” he laughed bitterly during one of our conversations. “Here I am, heading into forty soon and I’ve never been married. That apparently suffices as evidence that I am gay. Unbelievable. It just goes to show you how unscrupulous some people really are. Boy, am I glad I got you out of town in time. Imagine what Nasty Norma would have done to you, love.”

  Chapter Forty Five

  “Too bad,” I deadpanned. “I always hate to miss out on a good time.”

  “Yeah, it was lots of fun. I’d liken it to having a root canal done by an orangutan on crack.”

  After I hung up, I crawled into bed with my dog and my book, getting lost once more in A Whisper of Ginger. I finally came to the chapter on the wedding of Nora and Jean-Claude, curious about the outcome:

  It was inevitable. I knew that one day my past would catch up to me and my life would unravel. Reborn as Mary Logan in Kona, I had happily thrown myself into building the Hawaiian Butterfly and Spice Company. Occasionally, a stranger passed me and did a double-take, thinking I looked like a long-lost neighbor or distant relative. I was even mistaken once for Monique Ravel, the acclaimed star of theater and film, on a catamaran trip to Bora Bora with Jean-Claude. So many times I felt that little jerk of my heart when I was out in public, the shiver of terror that sent me into a panic, only to find it was a false alarm. But on this particular morning, I had real reason to panic. I was recognized.

  It happened by accident. Jean-Claude and I were in Honolulu, preparing for the wedding ceremony that was to take place on Waikiki Beach the following day. We had checked into the Hilton Hawaiian Village at Waikiki with his parents; they were to be our witnesses.

  Dressed in shorts and a tee shirt for the quick trip to the Kuhio Pharmacy a few blocks away, I slipped my feet into my running shoes and tied the laces. I stuffed some cash and the room key into my fanny pack, preferring to travel light.

  “I need to pick up a pair of pantyhose and some bobby pins. I won’t be long,” I promised Jean-Claude, who was sitting out on the balcony, reading a history on Pearl Harbor.

  “Good, ma chérie. I thought we might all go snorkeling this afternoon, after lunch.”

  “That sounds like fun.” I kissed the top of his head and ruffled his hair affectionately. “I’m looking forward to it.

  I rode the elevator down to the lobby and set off from
the hotel at a leisurely pace, strolling to the entrance of the resort. There, the hustle and bustle of city traffic zoomed past me as I waited for a chance to cross over to the shady side of Kalia Road, with its lush tropical foliage. I headed towards Ala Moana Boulevard, listening to the cheerful chirping of the birds in the trees as I daydreamed about the wedding. This time around, I was marrying for love, and that thought put a smile on my face.

  “Nora? Nora Hazen?” I froze momentarily as a loud, unfamiliar voice hailed me. “Nora, is that you?”

  As soon as I heard the woman call my name, instinct kicked in. Flustered, I fought the urge to turn around and see who it was beckoning me. What was my best option? I kept going, pretending not to hear that insistent yell. I turned my face away from the sound, hoping to convince whoever it was that I was not Nora Hazen. A moment later, the Waikiki Trolley rumbled past me. I breathed a sigh of relief when it turned left at the end of the street. Just another close call, I told myself, but a little too close for comfort. I called Jean-Claude for instructions.

  “I was recognized,” I informed him, “but I don’t know by whom.”

  “Damn!” he growled. “Where are you? I will come to you.”

  I told him my route, glancing around as I did so. There was no sign of the woman.

  “Keep going. I will catch up to you,” he promised, “but first I want to see if you have a tail.”

  “Okay.”

  I took a right on Ala Moana Boulevard a moment or two later and had to navigate through a thick crowd of people waiting to cross the street with the light. Unexpectedly, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I shrugged it off. There was a tug on my shirt sleeve. “Nora?”

  Cringing, I took a deep breath. There would be no avoiding her. I whirled around quickly and blurted out a response in my best French. “Pardon? Qu’est-ce que tu veux de moi?”

  “Nora? It’s me, Donna!”

  Donna? Donna who? The face looked familiar. I squinted, trying to remember. And then it came to me as she leaned in to hug me. She was a former classmate at Boston University. Relief flooded over me; she and I had never really been close. I barely knew her, save for a couple of business courses I took. I was convinced I could pull off this charade, but it would take some doing, provided I could stay in character. With that in mind, I pushed her away, rebuffing her embrace.

  “Je ne parle pas anglais,” I shrugged, feigning confusion as I took a few steps back. Just then my cell phone rang. “Henri, où es-tu? Il se fait tard!”

  “As-tu besoin de mon aide?”

  “Oui,” I replied nervously. Jean-Claude immediately understood I was in urgent need of rescue, so he instructed me in French. “Keep walking away. I can see you now. Just go! I’m right behind you.”

  I did as he said, but Donna was not cooperative. She continued to follow me, insisting that she knew me. “Nora, the news reports said you were dead, murdered. It was in the alumni news.”

  I was about ready to run away when the former Interpol officer arrived on the scene and launched his best defensive offense. He began an argument with me.

  “Danielle! Sacré bleu! Tu m’as promis....”

  “Oui, je connais. Mais, Henri....” I pretended to assuage his anger, holding up my hands in defeat. He blustered on.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici? Les autres....”

  By that time, I expected Donna to back away, but she was persistent. She continued to insist she knew me.

  “Nora! Come on! It’s me! We were at school together!” she cajoled me. Jean-Claude and I both turned to her.

  “Qui est elle?” he demanded, glancing over at me. I shrugged yet again.

  “C’est une femme folle!” I gestured with my index finger, making a circle at my temple and rolling my eyes, to indicate I thought Donna was off her rocker.

  “Excuse me, please,” Jean-Claude addressed her with a more than hint of suspicion and a thick French accent. “Why are you bothering my wife?”

  “Your wife?” Now a little doubt began to slip into Donna’s face. Her brow crumpled under the strain. “No, no. I know this woman. It’s Nora Hazen, from Boston.”

  Jean-Claude made a big production of translating that for me. I laughed, shaking my head to indicate that the story sounded ridiculous. We exchanged a few more comments before he returned his attention to Donna.

  “We are very sorry, but you are quite mistaken. We do not know this...um, how you say...Nora.” He threw on the charm with great abandon. “I am Henri Allard and this is my wife, Danielle. We are from Marseille, not Boston.”

  “Are you sure? Because Nora Hazen....”

  “Oui, je suis sûr. We have been married for ten years, although if she continues to wait until the last minute to pick up pantyhose, when we are supposed to be ready to join our tour group for lunch, I am not confident that I will stick around for another ten!” He turned to me and made a big point of glaring. “Danielle....”

  “Dépêchons-nous, Henri! Vite!” I pulled his hand in the direction of Kalakaua Avenue, pretending to hurry him along. We continued our feigned argument, for the sake of appearances, and by the time we got to the crosswalk, Donna had acknowledged defeat, stumbling away to catch the next trolley.

  “That was close,” I told him.

  “You did well, ma chérie. I guess that settles it.”

  “Settles what?”

  “Tomorrow, I am officially marrying a French woman. From now on, we will speak only French at home and when we are out together in public. Before you know it, you will be thinking and even dreaming in French.”

  That is how I stopped being Danielle Logan, former Manhattan resident, and overnight became Danielle Martin from Marseille.

  Jean-Claude had a contact at the French consulate. The two men concocted a tale and put in a rush order for a replacement for Danielle Martin’s missing passport to be sent to our hotel. They also had an expert forger prepare the paperwork for the wedding with my new official maiden name.

  “What about the other license?” I inquired, thinking that we had already visited City Hall to obtain it.

  “Do not worry, ma petite. We will fix all of that. What is important is that you marry me as Danielle Martin.”

  Within a few months, even the workers at the Hawaiian Butterfly Coffee and Spice Company were used to us speaking French together. They came to see it as an affectionate little quirk for the newlyweds and were amused, especially when we flirted with each other. The only time anyone questioned the change in last name from Logan to Martin, I explained that my divorce had come through at last and I had reverted to my maiden name.

  It was necessary to give credibility to the story, so two months later, we bought a small Marseille apartment with a dazzling view of the Côté Mer, where we spent two weeks every July and another two in late September. Jean-Claude’s parents bought one of their own, making it easy to spend time with them. They also came to Hawaii twice a year to visit.

  By the time we began to attract the attention of the local media on the Big Island, everyone assumed I was born in France to a French father and an American mother. Nora Hazen really was dead, but Danielle Martin Allard was alive and well, hiding in plain sight.

  Satisfied, I closed the book for the night, knowing that Nora and Jean-Claude’s continued adventures in paradise were not related to Le Scorpion. The idea that they had a future together filled me with hope. Maybe Jeff and I could make it work, too. I drifted off to sleep contented.

  Nancy checked in on me the following afternoon, wanting to know what was going on.

  “How’s California treating you?”

  “Quite well,” I told her. “I’m getting some work done and it’s nice to feel almost normal. I’m not looking over my shoulder all the time.”

  “And Clovis?”

  “Oh, Clovis is wonderful. She’s taken me all over the place on her time off from work. I’ve even been out to dinner with her and met her friends. It’s nice to have a social life again.

  “How
are the pooches getting along?”

  “Coop adores Beatrice and vice versa.” It was true. The two dogs enjoyed their walks together, the beagle often taking the lead.

  “How’s Clovis holding up? Still missing the ex?” Nancy wondered. She caught me off-guard.

  “The ex?”

  “I guess she hasn’t told you yet. Clovis recently split up with her long-time boyfriend. Too bad. That guy was bonkers about her. I was sure he was a keeper.”

  “That explains why her friends are now trying so hard to fix her up.”

  “Did she seem eager to let them, Marigold?”

  “Not really. She kept saying it just wasn’t in the cards at the moment.”

  “Hmm...sounds like she’s still hooked on him.”

  I found out the details the next day. Clovis and I lingered over dinner on the patio, engaged in conversation. She wanted to know about the case, so I told her about Jared and his dastardly plot; after commiserating with me, she mentioned her ex-fiancé.

  “Thank heavens he’s nothing like your boyfriend from hell,” Clovis told me. “He’s actually a wonderful man.”

  “But not wonderful enough to marry?”

  “Oh,” she let out a long sigh, “he’s actually a prince of a man; sweet, thoughtful, smart, kind.”

  “Those are all good qualities. So, what did he do wrong? Was there another woman?”

  “Another woman? Heavens, no!” Clovis tilted her head back and laughed, genuinely amused. “David is determined to have a family before it’s too late and he pressed me to set a wedding date. I balked.”

  “He wants to marry you and have kids?” I thought of Jeff, of my desire for him, and felt a twinge deep in my soul. How nice it would be to settle down and have a family of my own, to raise a parcel of kids. Would we ever have that chance? I had no right to even think about bringing a baby into this world as long as I was still in danger. I forced myself back to reality and looked across the table at Clovis. “Why is that a bad thing?”

  “I’m in the middle of setting up my new law practice, hanging up my badge after ten years on the job, and he wants kids right away. It’s too soon, Marigold.”