by Brenda Hiatt
A glimmer of understanding broke through. “You mean your sterling reputation is losing some of its polish now that word of our divorce—and the reason for it—is making the rounds? Worried the church elders might ask you to step down?”
“How did—? I mean . . .” Obviously caught off-guard, he stopped to choose his words. “I want to make it up to you, Wynne. To make things right. I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself like I did.”
“Make things right. So you think—what? That if I come back to you, if we remarry, you won’t risk losing any clients? Or have you already lost some?”
He looked even more uncomfortable now. “A few. Not necessarily for that reason. But I can’t deny that us getting back together would help me . . . help to, um—”
“Put the rumors to rest? No thanks, Tom. Not my job. You made your bed with Darlene. Now you can lie in it—alone, if she’s left you.”
“Left? Who said . . . I mean . . . that’s been over for a while. It . . . never really meant anything, Wynne.”
“Gee, that’s not what you told me when I first caught you together, or when I begged you to consider counseling. And the last time I ran into her, she was talking wedding plans.” Smugly, I recalled.
Tom’s salad arrived then, saving him from having to answer. I wasn’t particularly surprised when he reverted to the previous topic once the server was gone again.
“Wynne, about this business you’ve gotten yourself involved with here, finding that ring and all . . . I think you should let me do the talking to these FBI agents and maybe that lawyer. I know how guys like that can be with a woman. They’ll talk legal jargon, get you all confused, maybe make you end up saying or doing something you’ll regret later.”
My exasperation escaped in an audible sigh. It was hard to believe that just a few nights ago—the night my room had been searched—I’d actually considered calling Tom for advice.
“Is this why things didn’t work out with Darlene?” I asked. “She wouldn’t let you control her life? I guess she was a lot quicker on the uptake than I was. I’m sorry you don’t have her to boss around anymore—well, no, I’m not—but you’re definitely not going to start back in on me. You’ll have to settle for just running your own life now.”
He stared at me. “It’s not . . . I don’t . . . Don’t be ridiculous, Wynne. I only want what’s best for you.” But his voice lacked conviction. It was pretty obvious that what he wanted was what would be best for him. And he knew that I knew it.
Our meals came a few minutes later, and we both ate quickly and in near silence. Tom had apparently run out of arguments for the moment. In fact, I had the feeling he was now almost as eager to get away from me as I was to get away from him. He didn’t ask any more questions or offer any more advice, for which I was grateful.
When the check came, I reached for it, unwilling to be indebted to Tom for so much as a meal, but he was quicker.
“I can afford it better than you can,” he said, handing the server his credit card.
I looked away, biting back a sarcastic reply. Instead, I said, “Look. The sun set, and we didn’t even see it.”
He glanced at the horizon in evident surprise to see the fading crimson line that showed where the sun had gone. “Oh. I’m sorry, Wynne. I really did want this to be a nice dinner. Special.”
The regret in his voice almost made me feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I appreciate the effort, but it’s . . . too late.”
The server brought back the credit card and slip. Tom signed it, and we left. The silence between us lasted until we were getting out of the car at the Royal Aruban, fifteen minutes later. It was weak of me, but I couldn’t quite leave things like this.
“Look,” I said as we entered the lobby. “Maybe we can talk again before you leave Aruba. Or when I get back to Indiana. It would be nice if we both got together with the girls occasionally. I think it would mean a lot to them.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we should do that.” He had all the sincerity of a socialite saying, “Let’s do lunch sometime.”
In other words, if I couldn’t be useful to him, if I didn’t want to play by his rules, he wasn’t interested in putting forth any effort.
But even as I thought that, he stopped and turned to me. “Listen, Wynne, what about that counseling you wanted before?”
“That counseling you completely refused, you mean?”
“Well, yeah, but that was before. Your mother said—”
“Yes, I know Mom wants us to get back together, but it’s not her life. It’s mine. I can’t say I was happy about what happened, but now that it has, I think I’m better off—even if it doesn’t seem that way to you or to Mom.”
“If you say so. But what about the short term? This business with the FBI. Hey, there’s that lawyer—Phillips?—coming this way. I think I’ll have a talk with him.”
I had no desire for a three way conversation with Tom and Curt Phelps right now, when I was anxious to find Ronan for an update. On that very thought, I spotted him at the reception desk, talking to one of the clerks.
“Phelps is a busy man, Tom. He probably won’t have time—”
But Tom was already moving across the big open area of the lobby to greet Phelps, who looked delighted to see Tom again. I watched as they greeted each other, then, without a glance at me, turned and left the lobby together, headed in the direction of the piano bar.
Though I couldn’t help but be nervous about those two cozying up together, I wasn’t sure what harm it could really do. And it did free me to talk to Ronan.
He was just leaving the reception desk, a distinctly dissatisfied look on his face. I intercepted him before he had taken a dozen steps. “Well?” I asked quietly.
“Oh. You’re back. I figured you’d be gone for another hour, at least.” Was it my imagination, or was he being evasive?
“Neither of us were enjoying each other’s company much, so we didn’t exactly linger. So what did I miss?”
He hesitated, and now I was sure he was being evasive. In fact, he looked positively uncomfortable. “The note is gone,” he finally said. “And I don’t know who has it.”
Chapter Nineteen
“GONE?” I repeated. “But how—?”
“Not here,” he cautioned, glancing around. “Let’s go around the corner. There are a couple of chairs there, where we won’t be overheard. By the way, did I just see your ex and Melampus’s lawyer leaving the lobby together?”
I followed him away from the reception desk, in the opposite direction from the way Tom and Phelps had gone.
“Yes, they met as we were leaving for dinner, and Tom’s been gung-ho to talk to him ever since. Phelps is probably planning to discreetly pump Tom for info.”
We turned a corner and found the pair of plush chairs in an out-of-the-way nook, partially screened by a potted palm, well away from the main part of the lobby or any wandering guests.
“So, will Phelps get the info he wants?” Ronan asked, once we were seated.
“No. Tom doesn’t know much—even though Walters, that FBI agent I don’t trust, told him more than he should have.”
“What did Walters tell him?”
“He just said that I’d found a ring that the FBI wants. He thought Tom might be able to make me see sense.” I grimaced. “Tom pestered me into giving him a few more details—but not as much as Phelps already knows. I’m more worried about what Phelps might tell Tom.”
“And Walters? Why don’t you trust him?”
“I haven’t liked his attitude from the start, but tonight it was pretty obvious he was acting on his own, without his partner’s knowledge. I’ve had the feeling all along that he’d be willing to do almost anything to see Stefan put away for good.”
&nb
sp; Ronan raised his brows. “So it’s ‘Stefan’ now, is it?”
I felt color creeping into my face. “I didn’t . . . That is . . .” I shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve ever actually met the man. Anyway, I can tell you’re stalling, Ronan. What happened with the note? Why didn’t you see who came to get it?”
“Because no one did. Someone staying in the hotel called down to the desk and asked to have it delivered to their room. I can’t believe I didn’t consider that possibility,” he said with evident disgust. “I must be losing my touch.”
“I would never have thought of it either,” I said, trying to hold panic at bay.
He gave me a twisted smile. “Yeah, but you’re not a trained investigator. I am.”
“But Michelle can’t possibly be staying in the Royal Aruban, can she? Isn’t there any way to find out whose room it went to?”
“I was just trying to do that—and I will, believe me. If I’d seen that blue envelope in the desk clerk’s hand in time to get into the elevator with her, I’d know already, but I wasn’t quick enough. I did watch the numbers, so I’m pretty sure it went to a room on the fifteenth floor.”
Just one floor above mine—though that could be complete coincidence, I supposed. “Do you think it could be Michelle herself?”
“I doubt it. I’ve spent a lot of time in and around this hotel the past couple of days, and I haven’t seen anyone who looks like her—or Lenny. And I can’t imagine they’d take that risk.”
“Which would mean someone else is working with them. I know the FBI guys aren’t staying here. They’re at the Days Inn. But Phelps is here, and Mr. Haliakis might be—I didn’t think to ask him where he was staying.”
“Haliakis? What does he look like?”
“Young guy, dark. He actually looks a lot like Lenny.” I didn’t add but even more handsome.
“I don’t think I’ve seen him, then. Hmm. Who have you told about my involvement so far?”
I blinked. “No one. Tom just knows you were on the dive boat during my lessons. And I haven’t mentioned you at all to the FBI, Phelps, or Argus Haliakis.”
“Good. Then none of them will know to avoid me. In fact, it’s probably best if we’re not seen together, assuming we haven’t been already. If any of them are working with Michelle, their not knowing about me gives us an element of surprise when they make their next move.”
It made sense, even if the idea of keeping my distance from Ronan was a little scary right now. “And what do you think that next move will be?”
“Hard to say. I’d like to think that it will be to follow the instructions in our note, but we’re clearly not dealing with idiots here. They may contact you again with some kind of counter proposal. Or they may try something more direct. You need to be alert and very careful, Wynne. Especially since I won’t be right there with you.”
“Oh, thanks. I feel so much better now.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. But I’d rather have you scared than careless. I don’t think you’re at any real risk at the moment, if that helps. But we don’t dare get cocky.”
With a nod, I stood. “I guess I should go upstairs, then, and see if I’ve been left any more messages.”
“Good idea. And I’ll go check out the fifteenth floor. I might get lucky.”
“I guess we communicate by phone if there are any further developments?”
He frowned, thinking. “I’ll have my phone off while I’m lurking around on the fifteenth floor, and then I plan to contact a buddy of mine on the local police force. He may be able to convince the desk clerk to tell him whose room that note went to. How about I give you a call in a couple of hours? And if anything comes up on your end, you can text or leave me a voice mail.”
“All right. Assuming I don’t hear anything, I guess we go through with the rendezvous tomorrow that we set up in the note?”
“Right.” His eyes made another quick sweep of the lobby, then came back to me, concern lurking in their blue depths. He reached over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Talk to you soon, Wynne.”
His manner made me even more nervous. If Ronan was acting that spooked, I should be terrified. I hoped he was right that I wasn’t at real risk just yet. Even if we screwed up tomorrow and didn’t manage to nab Michelle or a co-conspirator when they came for the ring, surely the person most likely to suffer was Stefan Melampus.
I waited until Ronan had gone to the elevators, then got up and strolled toward the piano bar, trying very hard to look casual. In fact, I was trying so hard, I’m sure I’d have looked suspicious if anyone had been watching me. Luckily, no one appeared to be doing so.
The bar was in a fairly open area, which made it tricky to approach it without being seen, but I walked behind another couple until I reached one of the big pillars lining the open-air walkway. I leaned against the side away from the bar, then cautiously peered around it.
There were Tom and Phelps, in profile, fortunately, so neither was looking directly my way. They appeared to be deep in conversation over a pair of martinis. Obviously, Tom considered this one of those occasions that merited an exception to his no-drinking rule.
Reassured that those two were safely out of the way for a while, I retraced my steps back to the lobby, keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who looked the least bit like Michelle Melampus or Lenny—or the least bit suspicious. No one qualified, unless I counted the woman railing at the reception clerk about her feather pillows.
I considered staking out the lobby just in case anyone important to the case did show up, but finally I had to admit that I was stalling. The truth was, I was afraid to go up to my room alone—again. Which was silly, of course. Shaking my head at my fears, I headed for the elevators.
There was no particular reason to think Michelle and company even knew which room I was in. Surely, if they did, they’d have searched it by now, just as they’d searched my original room? Which meant that my room was probably the single safest place I could be right now.
At least that’s what I thought until I keyed open the lock and saw the folded sheet of paper lying on the floor, just inside the door.
I stared at it for a long moment, steeling myself, before picking it up and unfolding it. It was typed, or, more likely, printed off a computer.
“Mrs. Seally,” it read, “you were unwise to ignore my request. If you don’t want to be responsible for harm befalling your daughters, you will follow these instructions carefully. Bring the ring and take the road past the California Lighthouse at midnight tonight. Say nothing to the police or the FBI. If you doubt my resolve, I recommend you speak with your daughters.”
My heart pounding, I hurried to my cell phone, which I’d stupidly left in the room when I’d gone to dinner earlier. I had a voice mail from Bess, but rather than listen to it, I immediately called her.
“Mom?” Her voice was higher than usual, and a little shaky. “You got my message. Good.”
“I haven’t listened to it yet. What’s going on?”
“Deb told you about the house being broken into and all, right? And the picture that was stolen?”
“Yes, I had her call the police about it.”
“Well, the picture was returned about an hour ago—to me.”
I tensed. “To you? You mean, at your apartment?”
“Yes. And . . . and it was . . . it was slashed, Mom. Like someone took a knife to it, over and over. It’s ruined. And I’m scared.”
Cold, clammy terror washed through me. I fought to keep my voice calm and matter-of-fact when I spoke again.
“Bess, I want you and Deb to go to Grandma’s house, and then call the police and tell them about this. Then I want all three of you to go somewhere for the night—a hotel, out of town. It doesn’t have to be far. But let the police know where you’ll be and see if they’ll have someone keep an
eye on you. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Mom, what’s going on? It sounds like you know who’s doing this.”
I hesitated, choosing my words, then said, “I don’t know who, exactly, but I do think it has to do with something that’s going on here in Aruba. And I think I can take care of it.”
“What do you mean? What’s been happening in Aruba?”
“It’s a long story. I found something, and some bad people want it. I think that picture was slashed to scare me into giving it to them—which is exactly what I’m going to do.”
“But—”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get home, Bess. But right now, I want you to call Deb, get to Grandma’s, and do exactly what I said. Okay? Promise me?”
“I promise. But Mom? Please don’t get hurt, okay?”
At her plaintive tone, the years rolled back, and I was reassuring a four-year-old instead of a twenty-four-year-old Bess. “I won’t, sweetie. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll call you in the morning, I promise.”
I hung up and looked at the clock. Ten forty-five. Because of all my foolish skulking and dithering downstairs, I had barely an hour to get to the lighthouse.
I found Ronan’s number in my cell phone, but when I called it, his phone went straight to voice mail, which must mean he still had it off.
“Ronan, it’s Wynne,” I said. “The bastards are directly threatening my kids now, so I’m going to give them the ring. I’m supposed to meet them up past the lighthouse at midnight. Don’t try anything heroic that could get my girls hurt, okay? But I wanted you to know, just in case anything . . . goes wrong.”
I shut my phone and stared at it, willing back the tears of frustration and fear that were threatening. If only Ronan had answered. I was sure he’d have a plan, or at least a few words of encouragement.
Then I thought of someone else I could tell. I had to scroll through a bunch of incoming calls, but finally I found the one from Argus Haliakis. I still wasn’t sure just how far I could trust him, but Stefan deserved to know what I was going to do.
