by Brenda Hiatt
There was a long, perfectly understandable pause before he said, “I see.” His voice betrayed no hint of what he might be feeling at my clumsy revelation. “Did the Cartier people give you my name as purchaser of the ring?”
“Er, no. They just asked if they could pass my phone number along to the owner.”
“Then may I ask how you recognized the ring, Ms. Seally? Are you a friend of Melanie’s or, forgive me, someone I know but can’t place at the moment?”
He sounded more curious than suspicious, which was a welcome difference from my other calls today. Maybe that’s why I simply told him the truth.
“I didn’t recognize it, actually. An acquaintance did. He’d been following the case, on behalf of an insurance company.”
“Ah. That would be Ronan Gale?”
“Yes,” I replied, startled again. “How did you—?”
“I make it a point to stay informed about anything that might affect my future.” Now he sounded amused, which somehow made his voice even more delicious. “How did you come to meet Ronan Gale?”
“He was, um, piloting our dive boat. Filling in for the regular captain, actually. It was a complete coincidence.”
He chuckled. “I used to believe in coincidence, Ms. Seally.”
Remembering his recent conversion, I almost asked an impertinent question but caught myself in time. Instead, I said, “After I found the ring, of course I showed it to everyone on the boat. It was pretty exciting, that being my very first day diving and all.”
“Of course. And Ronan Gale told you about the ring and the case?” Now he did sound skeptical. I wondered how well he knew Ronan, or if he only knew of him. Either way, I was dying to ask questions I had no business asking.
“Not right away,” I said instead. “But the day after I found it, I thought he seemed, well, unusually interested in the ring, asking questions about it, so finally I made him tell me.”
“You made him?” The amusement was back. “I believe I’d like to hear that story sometime, Ms. Seally. But now, can you tell me who else knows about the ring, besides Ronan Gale and your fellow dive students?”
“Well, there are the people at the Cartier store, of course. Oh, and there are two FBI guys, too.” The list of those in the know just kept growing. “And, um, I’m pretty sure Melanie, er, Mrs. Melampus knows, though I don’t know how.”
“Melanie? What makes you think she knows?” His voice held a hard edge that it hadn’t before.
I wondered again how this whole thing was affecting Stefan Melampus emotionally. Bad enough to lose his wife at sea, and worse to be charged with her murder.
But to discover she might not be dead at all but was making no effort to return to him or clear his name? That had to hurt, however well he managed to hide it. I worried again that I’d spoken too soon, based on too-flimsy evidence, but now I had to explain.
“I went to the jewelry store the same day I found the ring—the day before yesterday. Yesterday, I had a message on my room phone claiming to be from the store. It was a woman, asking me to be at the store at a certain time. After I went back to the store and found out they hadn’t called me, I was suspicious enough to, um, stake out the area. That’s when I saw Melanie—or someone who looked like her—watching the store.” I paused, breathless, waiting for his reaction.
“I see. Someone from the store did call me about the ring, but I told no one except my attorney, as it seemed that it might be pertinent to my defense.”
“Then . . . do you think someone at the jewelry store might have told her?”
He was silent for a long moment before replying. “I don’t like to doubt what you claim to have seen, Ms. Seally, but I’m afraid I’m finding it very difficult to believe that Melanie could be alive. I’ve prayed for a miracle, of course, but . . .”
Another pause, during which my heart ached for him, then he continued. “The evidence—and both my attorneys and I have examined it thoroughly, as you may imagine—all points to Melanie having been killed, probably by one of my former business associates. I do have some thoughts, however . . .” His voice trailed off again.
I waited while he thought things through, feeling pity for a man who was probably as wealthy as Donald Trump. How bizarre was that?
“I wish I could speak with you face to face, Ms. Seally, and do some looking around there in Aruba,” he finally said. “Unfortunately, I’m currently prohibited from leaving Miami. That being the case, I’d like to send a representative to talk to you, to check things out on the ground, and perhaps to bring back the ring to serve as evidence. I’ll consult with my attorneys on that.”
“Um, I should probably tell you—or maybe I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway—that the FBI may be sending someone as well. And I think they’ll probably want the ring, too.”
I wondered what my obligations might be, considering I was out of the country and, presumably, the FBI’s jurisdiction.
“I see. Certainly I can’t ask you to act against your conscience, Ms. Seally, especially after the service you’ve rendered me already. I should mention, however, that my history with the authorities has not always been precisely amicable. Therefore it’s conceivable that certain members of the FBI may not have my, ah, best interests at heart.”
“Yes, I already had that impression after speaking with Agent Walters. So . . . I’m really glad you called me. The truth is what should be important.”
To my surprise, he chuckled again. “What a refreshing viewpoint, Ms. Seally. The world would be a better place if more people believed that. I must say, I do look forward to meeting you in person, whenever that can be arranged. God bless you.”
As I closed my phone, I realized that I was looking forward to that meeting, too. Stefan Melampus struck me as a very interesting man. To say the least.
So interesting, in fact, that after lunch—a small salad to make up for that decadent breakfast—I headed back to the hotel business center for some more internet research.
This time, instead of googling the murder investigation, I looked up Stefan Melampus himself—and found tens of thousands of hits. Where to start? Several links were for bios, so I checked a few of those and finally settled in to read a lengthy Wikipedia entry, along with links which led to all publicly available information on the case—and on Stefan, the man.
I was interested to learn that he hadn’t been born to wealth, as I’d assumed, but had worked his way up from humble beginnings. His parents had been Greek immigrants, but Stefan had been born in the States. Ties to organized crime had been alleged since he was in his mid-twenties, but nothing had ever been proven. His genius for investment and a ferocious work ethic were well documented, however.
As was his wealth. He was even richer than I’d realized. I was amazed all over again that such a man had actually called me.
I kept reading, paying particular attention to what the bios had to say about Stefan’s supposed conversion. If that part was true, it gave me that much more incentive to help him now. And everything I found seemed to confirm it. Every case brought against him, except for the current one, dated from three or more years ago, and all of those had been dismissed for lack of evidence.
I didn’t doubt that he’d been guilty of shady business practices in the past, but his recent charity work and donations certainly pointed to a man reformed.
Now that I fully understood just how rich and powerful Stefan Melampus was, it seemed absurd to think a nobody like me could be of any real help to him. The man surely had a team of highly paid lawyers at his beck and call, even if his political influence wasn’t what it had been.
Still, I was left with an unshakeable conviction that if I could help, it was the right thing to do.
THE REST OF the afternoon was blissfully crisis-free, unless I counted a call from my mother.
“Wy
nne, sweetie, I know what you said yesterday but, well . . . Are you really in Aruba?”
“Who told you that?” I was going to kill whichever of the girls—
“Tom did. I think Bess told him. It’s true, then?”
Just great. Now both Mom and Tom would think I’d come here out of some kind of sentimentality over my anniversary when it was actually just the opposite.
“Yes, Mom, it’s true. The trip was booked, everything was prepaid, so I thought I might as well get a nice vacation out of it. I figured I deserved that much.”
“Oh, Sweetie. I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself, though you’re being very brave, what with tomorrow—”
“What did you want, Mom?” I broke in before she could lavish her backhanded sympathy on me—sympathy I did not need.
She gave a little sniff I chose not to decipher. “As I said, I talked with Tom again. He actually called me, to ask if I thought he should call you. But after the way you were yesterday, I told him he might do better to wait until you got home. That’s when he mentioned you were in Aruba. He assumed I knew, of course, and I must say—”
“So he’s not going to call? Good.” That would have been all I needed on top of everything else going on right now.
“No, not just yet, I don’t think. But I do think he’ll be willing to go for counseling with you when you get home, if you ask him nicely. I’m pretty sure he’s interested—”
“But I’m not interested,” I said, interrupting her again. “Not in getting back together, and not in asking him anything nicely. He cheated on me. He threw it in my face and left me. We’re divorced. I’ve moved on.”
“Oh, but if he’s sorry, you should at least try to forgive him. I’m sure that’s what our pastor would say, that everyone deserves a second chance.”
I grimaced. I had prayed for help forgiving Tom, but I hadn’t managed it yet. I wasn’t sure if I ever would.
“A second chance to do what, Mom? Make a fool of me? I’m not quite ready to give him that, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Wynnie, Wynnie, Wynnie.”
That was it. “I was just on my way to the beach, Mom. I’ve got to go.”
Luckily for me, she still didn’t quite “get” cell phones, so it wouldn’t necessarily occur to her that I could talk from the beach as easily as from my room. Still, I left the phone behind, just in case. Besides, it needed some serious recharging after all the time I’d spent on it today.
Out on the sand, I inhaled deeply, letting the stress of the past few hours slowly seep out of my body as the heat of the Aruba sun seeped in. Better. Definitely better. With no destination in mind, I started to walk.
The fierce Aruba breeze whipped my hair about my face and a tingling of sand against my bare legs, but I exulted in such purely physical sensations. My goal right now was to not think—to just be. I walked faster and faster, and then, amazingly, I broke into a run.
I’d never been a runner, not even in my high school prime, when I’d been on the swim team. But my body seemed to crave the exertion, maybe to shed the last vestiges of tension over the mess I’d somehow landed right in the middle of.
I estimated that I’d covered most of a mile before a stitch in my side forced me back to a walk. That had been weird. Exhilarating, but weird. And good for me, no doubt. Maybe I’d get up early tomorrow and run on purpose.
Or not. I’d play that by ear.
Suddenly the delicious awareness hit me that I didn’t have to answer to anyone, to adapt my plans to anyone else’s preferences or expectations. Why it had taken until now I don’t know, but a sense of my newfound freedom hit me like one of those enormous drinks at Carlos & Charlie’s.
I laughed out loud, caring not at all that strangers were giving me funny looks. I’d never see any of them again, so what did it matter? Feeling better than I had in years, maybe decades, I continued down the beach with long, swinging strides for another half hour or more, doing my best to think of nothing at all.
Eventually, though, a thought did intrude. Or, rather, a face. Ronan’s. He’d promised to return those pictures, which meant he’d be coming back to the hotel. And I was a sweaty mess.
Turning back, I tried jogging again for a few steps but quickly opted to walk instead, though still with long, confident strides. I liked the way that made me feel—strong, a woman who could handle things.
It was dusk, about seven o’clock, by the time I reached the hotel. I stopped at the front desk to see if Ronan had left the photos there, as I’d suggested, but the only package they had for me was the one I’d left myself that morning. I let them keep that and went upstairs to check my room phone for messages.
The light wasn’t blinking, which meant Ronan hadn’t come by yet. My cell phone was blinking, showing a voice mail from my mother, but I decided to grab a quick shower before listening to it and possibly having my strong, confident mood shattered.
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, I stepped out of the opulent bathroom to hear my room phone ringing. My heart pounding all out of proportion to the cause, I grabbed the receiver before it could roll over to voice mail.
“Hello?”
“Wynne?” It was Ronan. “I’m downstairs with the pix, hoping you haven’t had dinner yet.”
Again with the food. Before I could think better of it, I heard myself saying, “No. In fact, I’m starving.” It was true, after my exercise on the beach, but that didn’t mean I had to say it.
“So that breakfast didn’t hold you all day after all, huh?” There was no way I was going to admit to having eaten lunch. “Do you want me to come up, or will you come down?”
“I’ll come down. I just stepped out of the shower, so give me ten minutes or so.”
“Take more time if you need it. I’ll be in the casino. Come find me whenever you’re ready.”
He hung up before I could ask where he had in mind to eat—dressy or casual. I shrugged. Nothing seemed too dressy in Aruba. A sundress should work for pretty much anything.
It did take me more than ten minutes to get ready, of course. I had to try on a couple of different dresses, then fuss with my hair and makeup more than was really necessary. No matter how many times I told myself I was being silly, I couldn’t seem to help myself. Ronan was the first man who’d shown any kind of interest since . . . well, since marriage had put an end to Tom’s courtship.
Once I was primped to my satisfaction, I picked up my cell phone, then changed my mind and set it down, still plugged into the charger. Mom’s voice mail would wait, and I didn’t want any other calls, from her or anyone else, while I was at dinner.
I found Ronan at the Texas Hold ’Em table. After letting him see me, I discreetly moved out of his line of sight so he could finish the hand without distraction—but where I could still watch. I wasn’t particularly surprised when he won.
“Now I can buy dinner,” he said as he cashed out his chips. “I like that dress, by the way. It suits you.”
I glanced down at my kicky knee-length green paisley sundress, the one I’d worried was too youthful for a woman my age, and tried hard not to blush. “Thanks. So where are we going, Mr. High-Roller?”
“There’s a fish place with outdoor seating practically across the street that’s pretty good. I thought we’d try there.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
As we left the hotel, he casually tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. Determined not to show how that flustered me, I blurted out, “So, did your plan with the insurance company work? What did they say?”
Oh, yeah. Real nonchalant.
“They were glad to have the pictures, but they won’t release my commission until the case against Melampus is settled. Not surprising, considering that the only reason they pay me at all is because they don’t like to let go of money. Here are the photos, by the
way.”
He pulled the folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. I slipped it into my purse.
We crossed the street and walked the block or so to the restaurant, where we were told there would be a ten-to-fifteen-minute wait. Ronan gave the host his name and led me to the tiki bar at one end of the patio dining area.
After ordering us each a drink, he said, “So, how was your day? Relaxing, I hope.”
I laughed. “It seemed like I spent most of it on the phone.” As soon as the words were out, I wanted to grab them back. I hadn’t decided whether I ought to tell him about the FBI or Stefan Melampus just yet.
“Oh? More calls from your daughters?” His tone was offhand, but he was watching me closely.
“My mother this time,” I was able to say truthfully. “Imagine every stereotype of a mother you’ve heard—Jewish, Italian, Irish, you name it—then square it. That would be my mom.”
“Full of advice and warnings, eh? I have a mother like that myself—and she is Irish. You didn’t tell her about the ring and everything, did you?”
I laughed out loud, just as the bartender set down our drinks, which earned me an odd look. “Are you kidding? I haven’t even told her about the diving lessons. In fact, she only found out today that I’m in Aruba—I’d just told her I was on vacation. She doesn’t need any extra fuel for her worrying, believe me.”
Ronan chuckled, and I took a sip of my strawberry daiquiri, hoping he wouldn’t ask anything else about my phone calls just yet.
To my relief, he said, “Back to my conversation with the insurance company—they’re very interested in the ring, since they handled that policy as well. They wanted details on where and how it was found. I think I remembered what you told me, but I have a proposition.”
I managed to not quite choke on my drink. “A proposition?”
“Well, a favor,” he amended. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to go diving with me tomorrow, back to the Debbie II, so that I can get a few pictures of the exact spot where you found the ring. The more evidence I can give the company, the more likely they are to pay out eventually.”
