by Brenda Hiatt
“How will we get there?” I asked instead. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Tom getting into one of those rickety dollar cabs, and I knew the shuttles only went back and forth between the hotels and Oranjestad.
“I rented a car, of course.”
“Oh. Of course.” I should have known Tom would refuse to be dependent on taxis or shuttles.
“Take a camera,” Ronan suggested. “The view from the California Lighthouse is spectacular, especially at sunset. Trattoria el Faro Blanco is supposed to be the most romantic restaurant on the island. But maybe the desk clerk mentioned that?”
I glared at him but he didn’t meet my eye, instead smiling placidly at Tom—but I thought I detected a sparkle of amusement in Ronan’s eyes.
Tom mumbled something I thought was an embarrassed ackowledgement, which had me redirecting my glare. There wasn’t going to be anything the slightest bit romantic about this dinner, no matter what Tom had in mind.
“Fine,” I said, disgusted with both of them and their matching cases of testosterone poisoning. “Why don’t you bring the car around, and I’ll meet you out front.”
Tom gave us both a slightly suspicious look, but then turned and went out.
The moment he was gone, I held out my hand. “Okay, give me back the ring—and your note. I’ll copy it myself.”
Ronan handed everything to me, and I went to a small table near the reception desk to write his words on the sheet of hotel stationery. Then I dropped it into the big blue envelope along with my wedding ring, sealed it, and addressed it to Chris Smith.
“I’d like to leave this for a friend,” I told the woman at the desk, handing her the envelope.
She read the name on the outside, glanced at me, then nodded. “That’s fine,” she said, and tucked it somewhere under the desk.
I stood there for a second, trying to decide whether that glance meant she recognized the name—which might mean someone had already spoken to her about picking it up. But I couldn’t be sure, and Tom would be out front any minute.
As I headed for the entrance, I could see Ronan moving off to a corner where he just happened to have a good view of anyone coming up to the reception desk. He leaned against the wall and pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open and started talking. I was willing to bet there was no one on the other end, but he made it look very convincing.
I felt another pang at not being able to help with the stakeout after my brave words earlier, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. I could only hope I’d be back at the hotel before anything interesting happened.
“Not bad, eh?” Tom said when I joined him out front, opening the passenger door of his red Porsche convertible with a flourish. “Aruba is the perfect place for a car like this—they only get twenty inches of rain a year here, and now they’re into their dry season.”
“Very nice, as long as you don’t mind sand in the car,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I assume you’ve noticed the wind.”
“You mean it’s always like this?”
“Yep. Your hair is already a mess.” I just couldn’t seem to stop myself from getting little digs in.
He went back around the car and slid behind the wheel. “Look, Wynne, I’m trying. I mean, I came here to try. Can’t you give me a little credit?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “Nope, I don’t think so. I tried for years—for most of our marriage, in fact—and I don’t recall you ever gave me any credit. So, no. No credit. It’s too late for that.”
“Look, if I’m going to spring for a fancy dinner, the least you can do is—”
“Mrs. Seally?” a voice to my right interrupted him. It was Agent Walters. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
I was almost relieved to see him, since it gave me an excuse to get out of the car. But when I noticed he was alone, I decided to stay where I was.
“Where’s Agent Truman?” I asked.
“He’s busy, working on another aspect of the case. Now, if your friend will excuse you for a moment—”
Tom got out of the car and stood up, facing Walters. “I’m not her friend, I’m her husband. Are you another FBI agent? What is this about?”
Agent Walters looked directly at Tom for the first time, then smiled. “Ah. Mr. Seally? Perhaps you can help us to convince your wife that she’s playing a very dangerous game, and that it would be best for all concerned if she just hands over that ring before it lands her in more trouble than she’s bargained for.”
Chapter Eighteen
“ARE YOU OUT of your mind?” I demanded of Agent Walters. “Is this the FBI’s idea of discretion? You just took this man’s word that he’s my husband. And he’s not.”
It gave me some satisfaction to see Walters taken aback. “He’s not? But—”
“Okay, okay, I’m her ex-husband,” Tom said. “But we’ve only been divorced a few weeks.”
Walters relaxed slightly, though he still looked shaken. He obviously knew he’d screwed up. “So not a real security risk, then.”
“But you didn’t know that,” I pointed out, not cutting him any slack. Walters had set me on edge from my very first phone conversation with him. “And he didn’t need to know about this. You’re the one who told me to keep it quiet, after all.”
He shrugged, then resorted to bluster. “It was a calculated risk. If he can make you see sense, it’s worth it. You have it with you?”
I was glad I could honestly shake my head. “Of course not. As I told you last night, I’m not taking any chances after what happened yesterday morning. It’s safe.”
“Safe where?” Frustration showed in his voice.
“I don’t think I’ll say just now,” I replied with a glance at Tom. I was more worried about Walters, to tell the truth, but Walters didn’t need to know that.
“Well . . . okay. You have my number. I expect to hear from you tonight.”
“Good night, Agent Walters,” I said with all the insincere sweetness I could muster.
With a parting glare, he stalked off. Before I could breathe even one sigh of relief, Tom got back in the car and turned on me.
“Okay, tell me exactly what’s going on, Wynne. What’s this about a ring? And what happened yesterday morning? This isn’t about witnessing anything. You’re obviously involved in something way over your head.”
I didn’t owe him any kind of explanation, but I decided I’d rather give him a few details than have him keep badgering me, or start speculating—and possibly tell my mother. So I gave him a one-sentence synopsis.
“I found a ring during one of my diving classes that turned out to be a possible clue in a high-profile case the FBI is following.”
“Then why haven’t you given the ring to the FBI? No matter how valuable it is, it’s not worth going to jail over.”
I’m sure my disgust showed in my expression. “Valuable has nothing to do with it. In fact, if I hadn’t tried to find the ring’s owner, the FBI never would have known about it.” That explanation left out a few steps, but it was close enough.
“And what happened yesterday morning? Why are you afraid to keep the ring with you?”
Oops. Stupid to have said that in front of Tom. “Someone tried to take the ring from me,” I said, trying to keep all emotion from my voice. “It scared me a little.”
Tom stared at me. “I should hope so! You mean, someone tried to take it by force? Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I did. They took down all of the details. And I told the FBI about it, too, when they arrived last night.”
“Okay,” he said, starting the car. “You can tell me the whole story, every detail, on the way to the restaurant. And then, as soon as we get back, I’m calling my travel agent and booking us both flights back to Indy tomorrow morning. This is obviousl
y more than you can handle alone.”
I opened the door and got out of the car. “I’ve been handling it alone just fine, thanks—along with everything else, since you left me. Why don’t you go have that romantic dinner all by yourself, Tom.” It would give him an idea of what my life had been like the past eight months—until just recently.
The stress of the past few days, and particularly the past couple of hours, suddenly overwhelmed me. I could feel tears of mingled anger, fear, and humiliation threatening, and there was no way I was going to let Tom see me cry. Chin up, I turned on my heel and headed back to the hotel.
Unfortunately, I’d only gone a few steps when I heard Tom’s heavier footsteps behind me. “Wynne, wait. Of course I’m not going to the restaurant alone. We have reservations. You’ll feel better after you eat.”
“I can order room service, just like I’ve obviously done every single night for the last week,” I said without turning around.
“I never said—”
“Yes, you did. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to dinner with you, Tom. Especially not at the most romantic restaurant in Aruba.”
He put a hand on my arm, just as we entered the lobby. “Look, it wasn’t anything like that. I wanted to talk about the girls. Let’s just—”
I moved out from under his hand. “Don’t. I’d rather—”
“Good evening, Ms. Seally,” called Curt Phelps from just behind me. Oops. Too late to avoid him this time.
“Mr. Phelps,” I said coolly, turning and inclining my head, hoping that would be the end of it.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
“Is this another member of your diving class?” Phelps asked. Like the FBI guys, he’d been interested in knowing who’d first recognized the ring, and I’d been just as evasive.
“No, this is—”
“Tom Seally,” said Tom, extending his hand. “Wynne’s husband. Recently ex-husband,” he corrected himself when I opened my mouth to do it for him. “Definitely not a diver.”
“Curt Phelps, Everard, Jennings & Holt.” I saw Tom’s eyes widen with respect at the name of the famous law firm. “It’s good of you to come and lend your support to Ms. Seally at a time like this. I’m sure she appreciates it.”
“Er, yes.” Tom glanced at me, then back at Phelps, clearly unwilling to admit he still didn’t know exactly what was going on.
Deciding that Tom was the lesser of two evils at the moment, I summoned up a smile and said, “We have dinner reservations, I’m afraid, Mr. Phelps. We were just on our way out.”
“Well, I won’t keep you. Perhaps we can all talk later on.”
“That would be nice,” I lied. I accompanied Tom back out of the hotel—and away from Curt Phelps. At least he hadn’t volunteered anything more about the case.
His very involvement in it was enough to pique Tom’s curiosity, though. “Wow, you said the ring was part of a high-profile case, but I didn’t realize how high-profile. Everard, Jennings & Holt doesn’t handle everyday stuff. Is some celebrity involved?”
I waited until we were seated in the car again to answer. “I guess you could say that. It’s the Melampus case.”
Unlike me, he recognized the name immediately. “The Stefan Melampus murder case? Seriously?” I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or unnerved.
“Seriously. But the FBI doesn’t want me discussing it. With anyone. So the less said, the better, especially in public.”
I glanced around, but didn’t see Agent Walters loitering in the parking lot—though other people were walking past.
Tom started the car and pulled out of the lot to head north. “I still think you should come home with me tomorrow,” he said. “Just give the ring—and a statement—to the FBI and let them take it from there. I can’t think why you haven’t done that already.”
I really, really didn’t want to tell Tom about Michelle Alvares, or the break-in back home, or my threatening phone call. That would only increase his determination to “handle” things for me and get me on the next plane out of Aruba.
“The FBI guys only got here last night, and I did talk with them, for over an hour. I didn’t have the ring on me at the time, and they had some disagreement over whether or not they should take possession of it just yet, anyway. It’s not like I’ve been refusing to cooperate.”
“But that guy in the parking lot earlier said—”
“Agent Walters. I know. But that’s not what Agent Truman said on the phone an hour ago, is it? That’s what I mean about a disagreement. I think Walters may want the ring for his own purposes and not to see justice served.”
Tom was frowning again. “But does it really matter? Once you give him—either one of them—the ring, it’s not your problem any more. It’s theirs.”
Why was I not surprised he’d feel this way? “But it does matter. If that ring can prove Stefan Melampus didn’t murder his wife, I shouldn’t let Walters, or anyone else, just make it disappear.”
He started shaking his head, wearing one of those expressions I’d been so glad to escape. “Wynne, Wynne, Wynne,” he said, sounding way too much like my mother, except that she usually called me “Wynnie” when she did that. “Always willing to go out on a limb for the underdog. But Stefan Melampus doesn’t need the help of a nobody like you, and you know it.”
“Then why did he send one of his high-powered lawyers to talk to me?” I ignored the fact that I’d thought the same thing two days ago. Until Stefan Melampus himself had called me.
I could see Tom was stumped, but he tried to cover it by commenting on the scenery we were passing. I had to admit it was worth looking at.
While I’d seen desert conditions—complete with cactus—on my way in from the airport a week ago, the northern end of Aruba resembled a lunar landscape. Where I could see the shoreline, sand had given way to jagged black rocks, which also dotted the landscape on both sides of the road. The rocks became bigger and more numerous as we approached the lighthouse at the northwestern tip of the island.
“It’s like a different part of the world from the Palm Beach area,” I marveled.
“Yeah, they obviously put a lot of money into making the tourist areas attractive,” Tom said. “Take that away, and Aruba’s kind of an ugly island.”
I didn’t agree, but it wasn’t worth another argument. To me, this stark, almost brutal landscape had its own brand of beauty, especially as we started to round the point and I could see the higher surf of the north shore pounding the black rocks and sending spray a dozen or more feet into the air. I’d read that the north side was the “wild side” of Aruba. Now I knew what that meant.
We turned into the parking lot at the base of the lighthouse, by La Trattoria el Faro Blanco, and I could no longer see the shore. Turning south, though, I saw that we had a fabulous view of most of the island. I paused to admire it for a moment before following Tom into the restaurant.
“I have reservations for Seally, on the terrace.” Even in a simple statement like that, there was something pompous in Tom’s tone that grated on me. It wasn’t new. Just newly irritating.
The host led us out to the terrace, which had an even more breathtaking view of the island and western coastline than the parking lot. The sun was already sinking toward the horizon, turning the sky pink. No wonder this was considered the most romantic spot to dine in Aruba. I only wished I were here with . . . someone other than Tom.
Sheesh, I’d only been legally divorced for a month, and here I was, practically lusting over another man. It would probably be best if I kept Ronan’s name out of my head for the next hour or so. I’d try, anyway.
“It’s a beautiful setting,” I said, by way of a temporary truce. It would be a shame to fight in a place like this.
“I’m glad you like it. I was hoping we’d be closer to a beach, but we m
ay get a good sunset, at least. But now, about this stuff with the FBI and the Melampus case, I’ve been thinking—”
Luckily the server came before he could finish a thought I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear. Though I knew it was only a brief reprieve, I took my time, asking questions about the specials before settling on the salmon. Tom ordered the largest steak on the menu.
No wine, since Tom didn’t drink—with me, anyway. I knew he drank for “business reasons” with clients, but he’d never approved of me doing so.
I ordered a margarita just to irritate him, even though I didn’t plan to drink it, since I might still have a stakeout to help with later. He frowned, but didn’t quite dare to countermand my order.
“Okay, listen,” Tom said once the server was gone. “What I was thinking is, it really would be best if we got this ring business taken care of before going back home. It’s a good thing I came here. That means I can—”
I put up a hand to stop him. “You don’t even know the details of what’s been going on, Tom. And no, I’m not going to tell you,” I added when he started to interrupt. “It’s complicated and confusing, and I promised not to talk about it.”
More importantly, the details would only upset him more, and add to his determination to take charge, which was the last thing I needed right now.
“What did you need to tell me about Deb?” I asked, firmly changing the subject.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, she . . . That is, I . . . Okay, I admit it, I just said that to get you to come to dinner. Because I really do need to talk to you, Wynne. I’ve . . . I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Thinking maybe we should reconcile.”
I was more irked than surprised. “And you thought lying would convince me to trust you again?” I didn’t care how acid I sounded. “So what brought this on? Why now?”
He shrugged, ignoring my tone. “It’s . . . well . . . a few clients have asked about you. And some people at church. And it got me thinking. That . . . that maybe I made a mistake.”
