Out of Her Depth

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Any man who’d let you go isn’t one I’d want lessons from—on anything.”

  My new cynicism wasn’t proof against that kind of flattery, but the novelty threw me off balance. “You haven’t said what brings you to Aruba,” I said, deliberately turning the topic away from myself. “Or do you live here?”

  “Not full time, though I visit when I can. This time around, I’m house-sitting for a friend.”

  “February is a good time to do it.”

  He nodded. “Miami isn’t bad in the winter, but Aruba is infinitely better. Especially now.” His smile had me feeling disoriented again. Luckily our salads arrived before the silence became awkward.

  After a few bites of the excellent spinach, mushroom, and raspberry vinaigrette concoction, I decided the safest thing was to get back to business—and away from the personal stuff. “So what’s the next step?” I asked. “Do we call the police and say we have the ring?”

  “We?” His look was something between curious and amused.

  I felt myself flushing again. “I, well, you seem to know a lot about the case, and I’m the one who found the ring, so I . . .” just thought I’d insert myself into your life, if you don’t mind.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, almost as though he’d heard the unfinished part of my sentence.

  “So you’re willing to let me help you?” he asked.

  “It seems to make sense. Especially after what happened last night—assuming it had anything to do with the ring. Which it probably didn’t.”

  He took a bite of his salad and chewed it thoughtfully before answering. “Probably not, but it never hurts to be cautious. I don’t like to think of you at risk, Wynne.”

  This time I couldn’t rationalize away his meaning—or his interest, unlikely though it still seemed. I mean, this was a very good-looking man, one who was probably at least two or three years younger than I was. After what seemed like an embarrassed eternity, I managed to find my voice. Sort of.

  “Er, thanks. I don’t like to think of me at risk either.”

  His laugh startled me. “There’s something very refreshing about you, Wynne. Do you know that?”

  That was a lot more startling than the laugh. Refreshing wasn’t a word I could recall anyone ever using to describe me. I liked it.

  “Thanks. I think.” Suddenly uncomfortable with the trend of the conversation, I again shifted back to the less personal matter of the ring. “So what do you recommend I do next?”

  “If the hotel has a real safe downstairs, I’d put the ring there before we pursue this any further. Then it might be a good idea to go back to the Cartier store and find out who they contacted.”

  I’d half expected him to suggest I turn the ring over to him. The fact that he hadn’t erased any lingering suspicion that he’d had something to do with my break-in.

  “I suppose I can do that. I have to admit I’m feeling more than a little out of my depth here.” I paused, belatedly recognizing a pun of sorts. “When I found the ring, I figured it was either a cool trophy or something I should try to return. I certainly never expected it to turn into something sinister.”

  He grinned. “Sinister? That’s a little strong. You have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you?”

  “No, that’s my daughter,” I said automatically, then immediately regretted it. I wasn’t ready to discuss my family with this man. Also, there was a tiny part of me that wanted to pretend I was too young to have two grown daughters. Silly, of course, but there it was.

  “I’d say she comes by it honestly,” was all he had time to say in response before our steaks arrived.

  I seized on the opportunity to change the subject. “Now I can see if Argentinian beef is all I’ve heard.” I took a bite of the tenderloin, and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head in ecstasy. “Mmm. Definitely.”

  “It was worth bringing you here just for that,” he said, snapping me out of my euphoria.

  “Sorry. I don’t usually—”

  “No, please don’t apologize, Wynne. I love seeing a woman enjoy her food. So few seem to do so these days.”

  Though still self-conscious, I managed a smile. Certainly I couldn’t refute his statement. I did love exceptional food, though I seldom indulged myself. And most women I knew spent more time complaining about calories or carbs than enjoying it when they did order something sumptuous. I resolved on the spot never to do that again.

  Not until I was halfway through my meal did my mind really start working again. When it did, I asked, “So, do we call the police about this or not? You never said.”

  He looked thoughtful. “We probably should, but there are reasons not to.”

  “Such as?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Stefan Melampus is more than an industrialist. For years, it’s been believed he was connected to organized crime. There are police—and others—from several countries who would like to see him convicted of something, and they may not care exactly what that something is.”

  “Are you saying that the police might cover up any evidence that could clear him?” This thing was getting more sinister by the minute.

  “I won’t say it’s not possible.”

  I discovered my appetite was gone—though the impressive amount of food I’d consumed might have had something to do with that.

  “If you’re willing to wait a day or two, I can make a few calls, maybe find out a little bit more. Then I might be able to give you better advice on what you—we—should do next,” he suggested.

  I shrugged. “I don’t suppose a day or two will make much difference.” Not to the fate of the ring, anyway. What it might do to my peace of mind was something else entirely.

  Chapter Six

  I WAS FEELING decidedly mellow when I finally got back to my room an hour or so later. The meal and the wine had been excellent—along with the company. Okay, the actual conversation had been unsettling. At least, I was pretty sure I’d feel unsettled once the wine wore off.

  Not until after I’d showered did I notice the message light blinking on the phone by the bed. Not my daughters or my mother—they would have called my cell.

  Curious, I picked up the receiver and pushed the button, to discover I had not one but three messages waiting. The first was just a hang-up, probably a wrong number. The second was from the hotel staff, checking to see if everything was satisfactory with my new room. I grinned at the solicitous tone. They really, really didn’t want me to file a complaint—or sue.

  The third message was interesting, though.

  “Ms. Seally, this is the Cartier Boutique,” said the feminine voice without giving a name. “We may have found the owner of that ring. We’d appreciate it if you could come back to the store at nine o’clock this evening so that we can get more information from you.” Then, after a brief pause during which I thought I heard a male voice murmuring in the background, “There may be a reward. Thank you.”

  I’d deleted the first two messages, but after listening to this one twice more, I saved it before thoughtfully replacing the receiver. Definitely interesting.

  The more I considered that message, the more I wondered whether it had actually come from the jewelry store. Certainly it hadn’t been the same woman I’d spoken to last night. She’d had the accent common to local Arubans, while the voice in the message sounded purely American. And why would they care what time I came in, if they just needed more information?

  Ah, well, I needed to go into town anyway, and Ronan had suggested stopping by the Cartier Boutique again to ask who they’d contacted about the ring. I’d just make sure I did so long before nine o’clock, in case the message was bogus. I should be able to find that out from the jewelry store, too.

  I did hope the message would turn out to be legitimate, though. After last night’s break-in,
I didn’t need anything else to make me paranoid. I just wanted to do some shopping—I still had to replace the underwear I’d impulsively trashed—and play tourist. With those simple goals in mind, I headed downstairs to catch another rickety taxi to Oranjestad.

  It was only about five o’clock when I reached Royal Plaza and headed for the Cartier store, a full four hours before the message had indicated I should come. I didn’t see the clerk I’d talked to last night. Instead, a young man was behind the counter, helping a customer. As soon as the customer left, I came forward.

  “Hi, I’m Mrs. Seally. I was in last night, with a ring I’d found, and—”

  “Ah, yes. You got our message, then?” he said.

  So it had been legit. I felt some of the tension between my shoulders ease, only then realizing how keyed up I’d been.

  “Yes, but since I was in town, I thought I’d stop by now instead of later.”

  He looked vaguely confused, but said, “That’s fine, though you could have just called.”

  I’d wondered about that, but since I was already here, I said, “So, what information did you need?”

  “Um, as I believe Valerie said in her message, we heard back from the owner of the ring, and he wanted to know how to contact you. Of course we can’t give out that information without your permission, which is why we called to ask.”

  That was nothing like the message I’d received. Then it hit me: I’d given the clerk my original room number last night. If Valerie had just asked for that room, instead of for me by name . . .

  “Then who—?” I started to ask, then stopped, the tension between my shoulders creeping back. The message I had received hadn’t been from this store after all.

  He was still looking understandably confused. “So, um, are you okay with us giving him your name and number?”

  “Who? Stefan Melampus?” That’s what I’d planned to ask them about anyway.

  I’d obviously caught him off guard with that question, though he tried to cover it. “I, er, I’m not supposed . . . that is, I really can’t say. But if you’ll allow him to contact you, it may be that he’s prepared to offer you a reward. Or, if you prefer, you can let us mediate.”

  I considered for a moment. I really didn’t want to give my new room number out to anyone just yet, especially a possible mob boss—or murderer?—like Stefan Melampus. But what if someone connected with the store had made that other call? Could I really trust these people?

  “You can give him my cell phone number,” I finally said. That wouldn’t give away where I was staying, so shouldn’t put me at any extra risk.

  “That should be fine.”

  I wrote it down for him, then said, “I don’t suppose anyone else has contacted you about this ring, by any chance?”

  He looked startled again, but then nodded, eyeing me strangely. “Actually, now that you ask, someone did come in earlier today, claiming to have lost a ring of a similar description.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I thought it odd, since we’d already heard back from the man who originally purchased the ring. I asked her to leave her name and number, but she refused.”

  She? More and more interesting. “Did she do anything else . . . suspicious?”

  “Well . . . I thought she was leaving, but a few minutes later, while I was helping another customer, I caught her behind the counter. I nearly called the police, but nothing had been stolen, and she apologized profusely, so I let it go. Most likely, she was completely unconnected with the ring you found. We’re a bit concerned that she might have been planning a robbery, though.”

  If she’d been behind the counter, it was possible she’d found my name, I realized. “Um, can you tell me what she looked like?” If there was a threat, it would be good to know what form it might take.

  “Tall, dark hair, maybe late twenties or early thirties. Pretty. Oh, and well dressed. She didn’t look like a criminal.”

  “Maybe she was just confused. I’ll wait to hear from the owner of the ring. Thanks.”

  I left the store, thinking hard.

  If everything Ronan had told me was true, one possibility was that Melanie Melampus was still alive and had come looking for her lost ring—and had made that call to my room. But how could she have known it was found in the first place?

  Another theory, less dramatic but more likely, was that it had been someone who’d overheard me yesterday, when I was in the store with the ring. Either way, I didn’t think it was just chance.

  There might be other plausible theories, but my first order of business was to find out whether Ronan had told me the truth. I’d noticed an internet cafe earlier. Now I went there and got instructions on how to use one of the computers. I also got a hot fudge sundae, since the place doubled as an ice cream parlor.

  It took me a while to find what I was looking for, since I wasn’t particularly internet savvy but didn’t want to ask for more help, given the rather delicate nature of what I was doing. My girls had mentioned “googling” enough times that I figured that was a good starting place, and after a few fruitless searches, I eventually managed to find a few old news stories about the Melampus case.

  Everything I read confirmed what Ronan had told me: eight months ago, Melanie Melampus had disappeared from the Hestia in the middle of the night and hadn’t been seen since. She was presumed dead, and her husband had been charged with her murder.

  The absence of a body was an issue, but apparently there had been substantial—and grisly—physical evidence pointing to her death. I shuddered. So much for my first theory.

  Since then, the wheels of justice had been turning with their usual agonizing slowness. Stefan Melampus was out on bail but not allowed to leave Miami, under virtual house arrest while awaiting trial. Which at least meant I didn’t have to worry about him coming to Aruba and finding me. In fact, now that I understood just how wealthy and powerful Melampus was, I doubted he would contact me himself. Men like that delegated such things to lackeys.

  On that exact thought, my cell phone rang.

  My hands were shaking as I dug it out of my purse. I was so nervous at the prospect of talking to Stefan Melampus—or even one of his lackeys—after my research, that I didn’t even check the caller ID screen before opening the phone.

  Bad mistake.

  “Wynne? It’s Mom. I thought you’d be back by now.”

  Relief, disappointment, and irritation fought for supremacy. Irritation won.

  “I’ll be back in a week or so, Mom. I told you I’d call when I got home. I’m on vacation.”

  “Oh, Honey. I guess I can understand you wanting to get away right now, with your anniversary this week and all, but—”

  “Did you want something specific, Mom?” I stopped myself from saying that she was one of the things I’d needed a vacation from.

  “I did, actually, and if you’re going to be gone that long, I’m glad I didn’t wait for you to get back. This is too important to wait a whole week.”

  I knew from her smug tone that I’d regret asking, but I also knew she’d tell me whether I did or not. “What’s too important, Mom?”

  “I ran into Tom as I was leaving church today, and we talked for a few minutes. He’s definitely not with that blonde anymore, and he actually told me he’d made a mistake. I think he meant he’d made a mistake letting you go. Which of course he did, but I saw no point in rubbing his nose in it.”

  Of course not—though she’d done her best to rub my nose in what I was giving up by divorcing the cheating bastard.

  “Maybe the sermon did him some good.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, ignoring my dry tone, “I suggested he give you a call, and he said he might. I really think he might be willing to reconcile, Wynne!”

  “How nice for him. Fortunately, I’m not. Plea
se don’t get in the middle of this, Mom. It’s over.”

  She gave one of her gusty sighs that I knew was supposed to instill guilt. Years ago, it had worked, but once my own daughters were grown, it had lost its power.

  “You’ve always been stubborn, Wynne, but don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  “My face is doing fine without that particular nose, thanks. I’ll call you when I get home, Mom.”

  “But where—?”

  I hung up before she could finish the question. I really didn’t want her to know I was in Aruba, since I was pretty sure I’d told her that’s where Tom and I were going to spend our anniversary, the day I booked the trip. The day I found out Tom was cheating on me. I didn’t need her reading anything into that.

  With an exasperated shake of my head, I turned back to the computer to continue my research on the Melampus case.

  One article about the erstwhile industrialist cum crime boss mentioned that over the past year or two, Stefan Melampus had donated large sums of money to various charities, many of them church-related. He claimed to be a recently born-again Christian—a claim that predated his wife’s disappearance by less than a year.

  While I found that interesting, given my own conflicted relationship with church, of more immediate interest was a photo spread from People Magazine dated just over a year ago, with a couple of good shots of Melanie and Stefan.

  They’d certainly been a striking couple. He was tall, dark, with distinguished graying at the temples and a commanding presence. She was tall, exotically beautiful, and very blonde. She also appeared to be at least twenty years younger than her husband. I tried to ignore the sour twinge of memory that observation evoked.

  I clicked on a few more links, but most turned out to be duplicates of what I’d already seen, so I logged off, paid for my computer time and headed back out to the square to consider what I should do next.

  Maybe some mindless shopping would help me to sort things out. I headed over to Seaport Mall, which wound around under the Aruba Renaissance hotel, its array of shops opening onto covered breezeways. My main mission was to replace the underwear I’d tossed, so I walked into the first women’s clothing store I found.