Out of Her Depth

by Brenda Hiatt

  I definitely should have trusted my instincts and not called until I got home. “Lucky her. Are you sure Darlene didn’t dump him, instead of the other way around?” Maybe he’d cheated on her, too. I’d already learned that Darlene wasn’t his first fling. Just the first I’d found out about.

  “Hmph. I can’t imagine she’d let him go voluntarily. You, of all people, know what he’s worth.”

  “Not much, in my book.”

  She tsked. “I’m talking about money, Wynne. And influence. Tom Seally is a mover and shaker in Indianapolis, and you know it.”

  “He can move and shake whatever he likes, Mom, as long as it isn’t me.”

  “You always were stubborn. But don’t you see that this could be your chance to get him back? I knew he’d get tired of that bimbo after a few months. How could he not, when he had you to compare her to? Just call him, see if—”

  “No, Mom. It’s over.”

  “Only three weeks ago. There’s still time to fix things, to get counseling, to—”

  My phone beeped, indicating an incoming call—a beautiful sound. “Mom, Bessie’s calling,” I said without even checking. “I’ve been wanting to talk to her for a couple of days, so I need to take this. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  Without waiting for her response, I clicked over. “Hello?” I honestly didn’t care who it was.

  “I finally caught you!” It really was Bess. “So, how’s Aruba?”

  “It’s great. I went scuba diving in the ocean for the first time today and found a ring. How was your audition last night?”

  “Wow, Mom, you’re not letting any grass grow under your feet, are you? Or is there grass in Aruba?”

  “Not much. It’s mostly desert.”

  “Cool. I hope you’re taking pictures! The audition went great. I got called back for a second one—that’ll be tonight.”

  “And this is for—?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say? Sorry to be such an airhead. Beef & Boards is doing Little Shop of Horrors. But the audition is actually to become part of the company, not just for this show. That would be actual paid acting work. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “It certainly beats doing it for free.”

  I tried not to sound judgmental, but it was hard not to remember all that money spent on a degree in voice and theater, then the expensive year in New York while she aimed for the stars. Lately she’d been waiting tables and working temp jobs between auditions in the Midwest.

  “Break a leg tonight, sweetie. They’ll love you,” I added, belatedly supportive. Who was I, after all, to discourage anyone’s dreams? I’d done that to my own, and look where that had led.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Oh, and if Grandma calls, try not to let her know where I am and what I’m doing. Don’t lie to her, of course, but you don’t have to offer, either.”

  She chuckled, and the sound suddenly made me miss her acutely. “You’ve got it, Mom. I just won’t answer the phone if she calls. That’ll be easier. Okay, gotta go. Love you!”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.”

  I hung up smiling. Bessie usually had that effect on me, with her over-the-top enthusiasm for life. When she didn’t irritate the heck out of me for having her head in the clouds, anyway.

  After a quick shower to get the salt out of my hair, I dressed and took out the ring again. Yes, definitely at least a $20,000 ring. Someone, somewhere, had to be missing it. No doubt it was insured, but still . . .

  Before I could change my mind, I tucked it into my front shorts pocket, slipped on my sandals and headed out the door. The least I could do was see if there was a jewelry store in Oranjestad and ask if it had been reported missing.

  The first “taxi” that came past the hotel was a rickety van already holding half a dozen passengers.

  “One dollar to town,” the driver told me, so I got in. As he pulled away, I realized I could see the road zipping past through a hole between my feet. Forcing myself to relax, I let the Papiamento of the other passengers flow over me, praying that the van wouldn’t fall completely to pieces before we reached Oranjestad.

  It didn’t.

  “I stop there, other side of street, to go back to hotel. Every half hour,” the driver told me with a wide grin when he let me out in the middle of town, between Royal Plaza and the open-air Seaport Mall.

  I smiled back and nodded noncommittally, though I was hoping to find something a little more substantial for the ride back. Turning, I scanned the storefronts and saw with surprise that at least a third of them were jewelry stores.

  Jewelry was obviously big business in Aruba. Who knew? Well, I did now—but I’d already lost four shopping days!

  Dazzled, I stood there looking back and forth between Pearl Gems and Gandelman Jewelers, Little Switzerland and Kenro Jewlers—then glanced further down the mall and saw Cartier Boutique. I blinked, then started in that direction. If anyone on the island could trace the ring, that place could. And if they couldn’t . . .

  I hesitated, trying not to think about what I could do with the price of the ring. The divorce hadn’t exactly left me destitute, but Tom had done a good job of tying up our joint assets, and I hated having to ask him for money. Twenty thousand dollars would mean I wouldn’t have to for a while.

  Tom would say I was stupid to even consider turning in the ring. Was I? After all, Tom was a respected elder of our church, unbelievable as that seemed given everything I now knew about him. Of course, that was the main reason I’d stopped attending that church.

  Pressing my lips together, I kept putting one foot in front of the other until I was inside the store.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” asked the woman behind the counter in very slightly accented English.

  Mentally telling Tom to shut up, I nodded and pulled out the ring. “I found this while diving this morning. It has a Cartier mark, so I thought maybe you could find out who it belongs to.”

  She sent one surprised glance my way, then gingerly took the ring from my palm to examine it. She turned it this way and that, then said, “Just a moment.”

  Taking a pad and pencil from near the cash register, she carefully copied the inscription and made a few other notes about the ring itself, then handed it back to me.

  “I’ll make a few calls. Where can we reach you?”

  I gave her my name, the name of my hotel, my room number, and the date I planned to check out, all of which she added to the notes on the pad. Then she looked up at me and smiled.

  “I must say, Ms. Seally, I’m impressed by your honesty. If the ring was engraved by Cartier, we may be able to trace it, but if it was engraved later, we probably can’t. If you haven’t heard back from us by the time you leave Aruba, I’d say you can consider the ring yours.”

  “Thank you. At least this way, if I get to keep it, I can do it with a clear conscience.”

  Putting the ring back in my pocket, I left the store with a lovely sense of having done the right thing. And who knew? Maybe I’d be rewarded for my virtue by getting to keep my prize. The saleswoman had implied that was the most likely outcome.

  Suddenly, I was in a mood to celebrate.

  I headed back toward Royal Plaza and spotted a bar with the whimsical name of Iguana Joe’s. Why not? I climbed the open stairs to the second level, went in and took a seat at the bar—something I couldn’t remember ever doing before in my life.

  “What can I get you, pretty lady?” asked the bartender with a grin, sending my spirits soaring.

  “Something fun, with an umbrella.” I scanned the menu behind the bar. “How about a Pink Iguana?”

  “Coming right up.”

  While I waited for my drink, I half turned so I could scan the room. The decor was as whimsical as the name of the place, with bright, c
artoony murals on the walls featuring a lizard (Iguana Joe, I presumed) in a hammock. Not many people were here yet—it was only about five o’clock—but the ones that were seemed to be having a good time.

  “Here you go.” The bartender set down a half-liter carafe of a pink, frozen drink, sprouting the obligatory umbrella. Definitely fun. “Would you like to run a tab?”

  “Sure,” I said, throwing caution to the winds. It wasn’t like I’d be driving.

  I took a long sip of my Pink Iguana and sighed. It was delicious—tart and fruity and cold. Why hadn’t I done this sort of thing before? Besides the fact that Tom had always disapproved of drinking—at least my drinking.

  “Wynne?”

  I turned to see Bebe behind me, flanked by two men and a woman I didn’t know, all about Bebe’s age.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, resisting a guilty impulse to hide my drink. What on earth did I have to feel guilty about? Bebe wasn’t one of my daughters—or Tom—and I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  “Guys, this is Wynne. She’s in my diving class. Wynne, this is Jim, Kevin, and Nicole. Do you want to join us, or are you waiting for someone?”

  I almost picked option two, uncomfortable with the idea of being the “mom” of the group, but realized in time how easily they’d see through that lie when no one showed up. “I’d love to join you. Thanks.”

  They found a table and pulled up an extra chair for me, seeming not at all put out at having a fifth wheel present—not that they appeared to be paired off, particularly.

  “So, Wynne, what brings you to Aruba besides diving lessons?” Kevin asked me after they’d all ordered drinks.

  “Vacation,” I replied with a little shrug. This was definitely no time to go into my sordid marital history.

  “Great place for it,” Nicole commented. “Though I didn’t expect all this wind.” She giggled, and my estimate of her intelligence went south, though she seemed nice enough.

  “Think how hot it would be without it,” I said, and they all murmured agreement. “And what brings all of you here? Besides diving lessons, Bebe.”

  It turned out they all worked for the same pharmaceutical company in Portland, Maine, had come to Aruba for a conference the week before, then stayed on for an extra week’s vacation. Since Maine must be even colder than Indiana in February, I didn’t blame them.

  We drank and chatted until I felt completely comfortable—not “mom” at all. A couple more people from the pharmaceutical conference wandered in—from Minnesota, I think, though I was getting fuzzy by then—and we all ordered dinner. My Caribbean jerk chicken sandwich was wonderful—or maybe it was the company.

  At some point we all wandered across the street to check out Carlos ‘n Charlie’s, which I was told was Aruba’s most famous bar. It was surely the loudest and wildest, with college girls dancing on the bar and everyone else dancing on the floor.

  My kids would have loved it, but despite my pleasant buzz, I began to feel out of place again. Much as I hated to admit it, I really was getting too old for this sort of thing. I glanced at my watch. Amazing—it was past eleven. Time for this old broad to head back, I decided.

  I managed to find Bebe in the crowd to tell her I was leaving. She was dancing and just nodded, not that I’d expected anything more. Kevin offered to walk me to the bus stop but seemed relieved when I declined. Ah, well, he was twenty years too young for me anyway.

  Walking back to the main drag to find a bus or cab, I felt distinctly muzzy-headed. I’d probably have a hangover in the morning for our last dives—and serve me right. I was glad now that I’d resisted when Bebe and Nicole had tried to talk me into a Lethal Lizard with its four shots of liquor. I doubted I’d be walking at all.

  As luck—or lack thereof—would have it, the same “cab” I’d taken earlier pulled up just as I reached the street.

  “Back to Palm Beach?” the driver asked with a delighted grin.

  Too tired to think of an excuse, I nodded and climbed in. This time I barely noticed the holes in the floor or the ominous shaking of the little van as a pleasant lethargy stole over me. It seemed like we were back at my hotel in no time at all.

  “Thanks,” I said, tipping him a dollar. A 100 percent tip, I thought. Wasn’t I the generous one? I stifled a giggle.

  I nodded sleepily to the man at the front desk as I made my way to the elevators, suddenly wanting nothing more than my comfy, king-sized bed. Reaching my room I put my card in the slot . . . and nothing happened.

  Grumbling a bit, I tried again. Still nothing. I looked at the number, wondering if I’d gotten off on the wrong floor in my fog, but no, it was definitely my room. Blasted card keys, I thought. Now I’d have to go all the way back downstairs and get a new one.

  I stuck the card in the slot one last time, without much hope, and to my surprise, this time the light turned green. Sighing with relief, I opened the door and flipped on the light—only to stop and stare in disbelief.

  The bed linens were rumpled, the desk chair had been pulled out, and one of the dresser drawers was open an inch or two. I looked into the open closet to see the room safe at an odd angle, its little door forced open.

  I’d been robbed.

  Chapter Four

  OR HAD I?

  The first thing I did was glance into the safe, only to find my passport, wedding ring, and diamond earrings—my only real valuables—still there. How odd.

  I flipped on the bathroom light and saw that while my toiletries on the counter were out of position, nothing appeared to be missing—not that a thief was likely to want used lipstick, foundation, or toothpaste. Feeling increasingly disoriented, I continued into the room. The desk drawer was also open a crack.

  For a long moment I just stood there, unsure what I should do. It flashed through my mind that I should call Tom, that he’d know. He’d always been good in a crisis, his judgment reliable. I was actually reaching for my cell phone before that moment of weakness passed.

  No. I’d handled plenty of crises myself, especially in recent months. I could handle this one. After one more glance around the room, I went to the nightstand phone and called the front desk.

  “Someone has broken into my room,” I told the man who answered—probably the same one I’d nodded to less than ten minutes ago. “I don’t think they stole anything, but I thought you should know.”

  “Room 1411?” He sounded alarmed, shaken. I guessed this sort of thing didn’t happen often. “I’m sending security up right now. Um, you should probably wait for them out in the hall.”

  I started to ask why, then realized it must be in case the intruder was still hiding in the room. A cold wash of fear hit my belly, and suddenly I was completely sober.

  “Yes. I’ll wait,” I managed to say before hanging up and scurrying out of the room, terrified someone would lunge out from behind the bathroom door to stop me.

  No one did, of course, and by the time two security guards joined me a couple minutes later I was feeling more than a little foolish.

  I felt even more foolish when they preceded me into the room and looked around. Really, there wasn’t any place for someone to hide. The bed was even on a solid pedestal.

  “You told the night clerk nothing was missing?” the taller of the two men asked.

  “As far as I can tell. I haven’t checked all the drawers yet, but there was nothing valuable in them.”

  They exchanged glances. “Ma’am, what made you think someone broke in?”

  It took a moment for me to realize what he was implying. “I’m not imagining this. Someone was in here. The room isn’t how I left it. Look at the bed. Look at the room safe.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t leave the safe open?” the shorter man asked. “Sometimes—”

  “I’m sure,” I snapped. “And I didn’t touch the bed after the m
aid was here, or leave any drawers open. Someone’s been in here.”

  The taller man was examining the safe. “It does look like this was forced open. I’ll have maintenance take a look.” He made a quick call with his walkie-talkie.

  “Have him look at the door to the room, too,” I suggested. “It took me several tries with my card before it would open.”

  Meanwhile, the shorter man was prowling around the room, peering into drawers and behind the dresser and TV. I tried not to wince as he examined my large-ish collection of herbal supplements and vitamins, which probably made me look like a hypochondriac on top of everything else.

  Then he pulled aside the drapes to check the balcony door and whistled. “Marco, take a look at this,” he said.

  The taller man, Marco, clipped his walkie-talkie to his belt and crossed the room. He looked at whatever had caught the other man’s interest, then turned to me.

  “I assume you didn’t leave this door open when you went out?”

  “No, of course not. I remember locking it, in fact.”

  “Well, it’s not locked now,” the shorter man said. “And the drape was caught in the door, like someone shut it in a hurry. Could be your intruder went out this way when you came into the room.”

  They both went out onto the balcony for a minute or two, while I tried not to think about what that meant. But when they came back into the room, Marco laid it out bluntly.

  “My guess is that he—or she—was still searching your room when you got back. You said it took a few tries before the door would open? That would have given him time to slip out onto the balcony before you came in. He probably waited there while you were in the room, then, when you went back into the hall, he could have climbed down to the next floor, or even to a balcony on either side, if he’s agile.”

  I felt my heart thudding again. So someone had been in the room when I’d made that call—or very nearly.