Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  “Thank you,” Howard said, accepting the card, glimpsing at the handwritten number on the back before stuffing it in his pants pocket.

  “And don’t pressure her for an answer to your proposal,” Doctor Christensen emphasized as Howard walked him to the door.

  “I understand.”

  Before stepping out he leaned into Howard, lowered his voice, “A couple things. Has she ventured into the kitchen yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Given her fainting spell, you might want to discourage her from going in there until tomorrow.”

  “No problem.”

  “Either intentionally or unintentionally, she’s suppressing feelings ... I suspect regarding the man who was her prison guard then ended up rescuing her. I believe his name is Marshall Watters. Has she talked to you about him?”

  Howard’s face deadpanned. “No. No, she hasn’t.”

  Sighing and reaching for the doorknob, “Very well. Good night.” Before closing the door, he popped his head back in, grinning, “Oh, and I hope congratulations will be in order ... just not tonight,” he said with a snicker, closing the door.

  Returning to Jewels, Howard parked in the wingback chair the doctor had vacated. “Belinda, would you excuse us, please?”

  “Oookay,” Belinda replied, a hint of indignation in her voice as she pushed herself out of the couch. Turning to Jewels, “I’ll start cleaning up.”

  “Thank you,” Jewels replied with a thin smile.

  Propping his elbows on his knees, fingers splaying wide, Howard slowly tapped his fingertips together waiting for Belinda to leave the room.

  Eyes smoldering in his direction, she marched out.

  Leaning his body closer to her, “Julia, why haven’t you asked me why I was at the rescue sight?”

  Nervously shifting her position on the couch, “I don’t know, I guess I never really thought about it.”

  “Weren’t you surprised to see me? The fact I was part of the rescue team, the MTAF rescue team no less, should have you curious about my background. Yet, you’ve asked me nothing. Surely that reporter mind of yours has questions.”

  Gnawing on her bottom lip, she stared down at the sofa cushion. Of course she was curious. And of course she had questions. Tons of questions. But she knew her inquiries would eventually lead to hurting Howard deeply and she didn’t want to do that. He didn’t deserve it.

  “And I’m surprised you haven’t asked me about Marshall Watters. I was his SEAL team leader and have known him for many years.” Chuckling, “I think I’m kind of like a big brother to him.”

  Remaining silent, she picked at the piping on the edge of the couch as if loosening a bit of imaginary caked-on food. Dread inched up the back of her throat. Was her obsession with Marshall Watters about to be exposed at the horrific expense of a man who had been her rock for the last two weeks?

  Lowering his voice, he took up her hand in his, “Julia, is that what I am to you, too? A big brother?”

  Unable to look him in the eyes, all she could do was swallow the lump in her throat. Blatantly and knowingly she had used Howard Dyson for her own designs and benefits. Busted. Party over. Time to pay the piper.

  Releasing her hand, he collapsed his back into the chair, sighed. “You’re in love with Marshall Watters aren’t you?”

  Raising her head to finally look at him, “I’m so sorry,” she said, bursting into tears and burying her face in her hands.

  Slapping open palms on his thighs, he quickly stood up. “Well, I think this calls for a farewell, Miz Andrasy. My letter of resignation will be on your desk by morning,” he said without emotion, briskly walking toward the door.

  Leaping off the couch, “Howard, wait,” Jewels called, running after him.

  But he didn’t pause or look back. Just walked out, closing the door in her face.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  8:47 P.M. IN THE LIVING ROOM. Curled up on the couch, sitting side by side, Jewels had poured her heart out to Belinda, who, like the best of friends, listened and consoled her, though the issue of Marshall Watters remained a dilemma. “Maybe Doctor Christensen will have some ideas,” Belinda suggested, throwing her hands up gesturing she was at a loss.

  Sighing, “You’re probably right. Tomorrow I’ll call him,” Jewels said, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back. “As for the moment, I can only imagine the mess in the kitchen, shall we clean up?”

  Leery: “Uh, are you sure you want to go into the kitchen?”

  An odd look scampered across Jewels’ face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well...,” Belinda paused, cleared her throat, “that’s where, you know, it started.”

  “Doctor Christensen said I had to confront my memories, realize they were only memories and couldn’t hurt me, then move forward with my life,” Jewels proclaimed with certainty.

  Eyeing her with skepticism, “Ooookay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Give me a second,” Jewels said, closing her eyes and relaxing her body. Inhaling and exhaling several long slow breaths she visualized walking into the kitchen, confronting the rush of memories Doctor Christensen warned would surely flood her mind; memories that included visions of Tank dressed head to toe in black and holding a huge knife, followed by the violent slaughter of her dear pet. It’s only a memory. I’m safe. It’s only a memory. I’m safe. I can do this.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes. “I’m ready,” Jewels said confidently. “Please let me do this myself. If I need you, Belinda, I’ll call out for you.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER. Victory was hers. She had confronted the terrible memories of the kitchen and controlled her fears. The healing process was progressing.

  As for the current state of her kitchen, it was a train wreck of party aftermath. Though Jewels had attempted to help Belinda with the clean up, she wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, jammed an icy can of Diet Coke in Jewels’ hand and pointed for her to sit at the breakfast nook. “Supervise,” she ordered.

  Jewels didn’t argue. She was tired. Practically exhausted. Yet forced spurts of small talk with Belinda, who was working feverishly like a Chinese immigrant in a sweat shop. Every so often Jewels’ eyes cut to the spot on the travertine floor where Boo-Boo’s blood had spewed. Now, of course, there was no evidence such a horrific act of violence had ever occurred. If only her memory could be cleansed so easily.

  During the quiet spells between the idle chit-chat, Jewels’ mind drifted. Mindlessly she picked at the pop can top while staring blankly down at it, recapping the evening. The day had been fun and enjoyable, until Howard proposed, then it nosedived into disaster. Of late, chaos and mayhem seemed to follow her wherever she went. Perhaps she attracted it. Even caused it. Guilt ridden over how the evening had gone sour with Howard, she shifted thoughts to Marshall.

  Clearing her throat, “Belinda, you did let Marshall Watters know about the party tonight, didn’t you?”

  Looking up from loading the dishwasher, “I never talked to him personally, but I left a message for him at the MTAF headquarters about a week ago and another reminder last night.”

  Jewels scratched the top of her head.

  “I’m so sorry, Jewels. Maybe he’s working a case and will show up in a few days, or maybe he couldn’t get a flight out of D.C. or...,” Belinda said with a shrug, continuing to stack plates in the dishwasher.

  A speck of disappointment festered within her heart, like a tiny wood splinter under a fingernail. Marshall Watters knew about the shindig and hadn’t shown up. She had hoped—expected—he would. Time out: who are you fooling, Jewels, she thought in mental reprimand. Doctor Christensen said I needed to be honest with myself and honestly, there’s no speck of disappointment. No. I’m experiencing a rip-your-heart-out, throw-it-on-the-ground, stomp-it-until-it’s-pulverized kind of disappointment. Perhaps deservedly so. Had she caused Howard to feel the same way?

  Just before eleven o’clock the kitchen was sparkling clean. Belinda toss
ed the last of the wet dish towels into the main floor washing machine, just off the kitchen. Wiping her damp hands on her butt, she turned to Jewels. “What do you want me to do with the flowers and balloons in the entry?”

  “Please just leave them. They’re so festive. I’d like to enjoy them for a few days.”

  Belinda nodded. “I thought I’d stay here tonight, brought my overnight bag and everything.”

  Smiling, Jewels stood up. “Oh, Belinda, you’re a true friend, one heck of an amazing secretary, and the best little sister a gal could have. But, no thank you. I need to do this alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Are you going to be okay ... really?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jewels said with a laugh. “Besides...,” pulling out the amber bottle from her jeans pocket, “the doc gave me something to ease anxiety,” she said, waving the bottle at Belinda.

  Eyebrows lifting with concern and disbelief, “Oooookay. You’re the boss,” Belinda said, a tinge of speculation in her voice as she engulfed Jewels a long friendship hug. “You call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “I will,” Jewels said, tears gathering in her eyes. Walking Belinda to the door, she thanked her again.

  Jewels watched the tail-lights of Belinda’s car disappear down the driveway. Closing the door and engaging the deadbolt, she leaned her back against it, scanning her home. As far as she could tell, every light in the house was on and decided right then she would leave them all on all night.

  Haunted by Tank’s promise to collect revenge on her, she pounded in the code for the house alarm. “Not gonna make the same mistake twice,” she said, watching as the little green light lit up, indicating the system was armed.

  The house was silent and void of life. She was alone. And lonely. Feelings she hadn’t experienced since the night after Robert’s funeral resurfaced, like a discarded rubber tire once buried in a landfill. Worse yet, no furry friend to console her. Before, at least she had Boo-Boo. Now, no one.

  Opening the pill bottle, she flattened the palm of her left hand and lightly tapped the side of the container until a tiny white pill rolled out. “Wow. That’s small, don’t even need water to swallow this,” she told herself, popping the pill in her mouth. After replacing the pill bottle cap and stuffing it back in her jeans pocket, she strolled over to the fancy bombe cabinet nestled between the stairs and swinging doors to the kitchen.

  Snatching the remote for the Bose sound system from the black marble top of the entry table, she turned on the radio, B98.7. “The Sign,” by Ace of Base was playing.

  In time with the perky beat, she added a bit of a light spring to her feet as she pushed through the swinging doors. Just then it dawned on her someone had repaired the one she had ripped off the hinge and made a mental note to find out whom to thank.

  Now alone in the house for the first time since the kidnapping, she reentered the kitchen. Goosebumps sprouted on her arms as her body tensed. For a heart-pounding moment, she relived Tank ripping open Boo-Boo’s throat.

  The background music faded to silence in her mind. Palms sweat. Covering her face with her hands, she wilted into one of the bar stools around the expansive island and burst into tears. Suddenly, as if someone had poked her in the butt with a straight pin, she sprang to her feet, her face a picture of terror. “My gun,” Jewels shrieked, just then realizing she was defenseless.

  The police had confiscated the Glock she shot Tank with as evidence and had yet to return it.

  “For goodness sake, Jewels, you have an entire safe full of guns,” she said aloud to calm herself.

  Dashing out of the kitchen, she dodged the flower arrangements decoratively placed about the floor and plowed through the half dozen balloons that had lost the lift of helium. Grabbing onto the handrail, she leaped up the stairs two at a time.

  Down the hallway she sprinted to her bedroom.

  Luckily the lights were already on.

  Entering the bedroom, her eyes fixed on the big rose colored Fort Knox safe standing in the corner. Instantly she was flooded with more terrifying memories. Reactively her shoulders scrunched up to ears and arms crossed over her chest as her body became paralyzed. Her heart thumped erratically. Fingers turned to ice. She sucked short gasping breaths, reliving the kidnapping sequence: the hot breath of the masked monster overcoming her, the agony of her hands and feet being bound, the horror of the rubber ball being stuffed in her mouth....

  “Stop it, Jewels,” she blurted out, thrusting her hands down to her sides and standing up tall. “It’s okay. Breathe. Just breathe,” she said, attempting to reassure herself she was just reliving bad memories and there was no danger lurking for her now, just as she had practiced repeatedly with Doctor Christensen.

  Gulping a few long breaths, she exhaled through flushed cheeks, now wishing she had taken Belinda up on her offer to stay.

  “You can do this, Jewels,” she continued to reassure herself, pasting her back against the bedroom wall and inching her way toward the gun safe. “Once you have a gun, you’ll feel more secure. More in control,” she promised.

  Reaching the gun safe, she entered the code on the electronic keypad, opened it, visually perused the shelves. Her eyes stopped at a hard plastic black box, her second favorite handgun: the Heckler and Koch P7M8. It was often referred to as a squeeze cock because of a unique safety built into the front of the handle to cock the gun. The gun won’t fire unless there’s a firm firing grip around the handle.

  Loading the magazine with 9mm hollow-point cartridges, she fed the magazine into the grip and chambered a round. With the gun in her hand, she instantly felt better. At least a little. The tension in her shoulders faded, as did the tightness on her face. Maybe the slight relaxation she was feeling could be attributed more to the tiny pill she had taken a little while ago than to the gun. Either way, the dissipation of anxiety was welcomed.

  Closing the gun safe door, out of the corner of her eye a spray of light shining through the front bedroom window caught her attention. Automatically she did a double take. Poking her head nearer to the window for closer inspection, she inhaled a short startled breath, whispered, “Headlights.”

  A vehicle crept down her driveway.

  Suddenly its lights went out.

  Gasping, her eyes widened. Was this Tank coming to collect the revenge he promised? Thank goodness she had armed the house alarm. Her white-knuckled hands drew the gun close to her chest. If not Tank, could this be Howard returning to talk? Maybe she shouldn’t take any chances and just lock herself in the bedroom, engage the Doorricade, and call nine-one-one ... just to be safe.

  Escalating fear took her common sense hostage. Her mind erased to blank unable to make a decision. Staring out the window, she stood wide-eyed. Frozen. Dumbfounded like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Peterbilt.

  DING-DONG!

  The sound of the doorbell liberated Jewels’ mind. Glancing at the digital clock glowing on top of the gun safe: 11:48, “Who would be calling at midnight?” she whispered, her gut in a knot.

  DING-DONG!

  The caller was obviously impatient. Probably Howard, but she wasn’t taking any chances. With the gun firmly grasped in front of her, she cautiously glided through the hall, down the stairs, kicking deflated balloons out of her path. At the bottom of the stairs, she could see the silhouette of a large man through the decorative etched glass in the door. Suddenly that helium gas feeling of her heading floating off hit. Was she going to faint again?

  DING-DONG!

  If that was Tank and he was coming after her, surely he wouldn’t keep ringing the doorbell, would he? No. This guy had to be Howard. Right? Still, she wasn’t going to let down her guard. Inhaling a few deep breaths in hopes of clearing the helium balloon sensation, she pep talked herself. “Come on, Jewels.” Reviewing the mistake she had made with Tank in her kitchen when she hesitated pulling the trigger, consequently only winging him, s
he continued to coach herself. “Be ready to fire. Front sight. Center of mass. Trigger press.”

  Swallowing hard, she mashed her back flat against the entry wall a few feet to the side of the door and compressed the gun close to her chest, aiming it toward the door. “Who is it?” she called through the closed door.

  “Jewels, it’s me. Marshall. Marshall Watters.”

  Was she dreaming? Her heart thumped double-time. Without regard to the house alarm, she bolted to the door, quickly disengaged the deadlock, and flung it open. Sure enough, Marshall Watters stood before her, but like she had never before seen him. Or imagined.

  A black Garth Brooks’ Stetson was perched on his head. A fancy black and white western shirt tailored to fit perfectly across his muscular chest was tucked into a pair of black Wranglers that looked painted on. An oval-shaped plate of a silver belt buckle rested at his small waist. Eel skinned Tony Llamas with three-inch competition heels adorned his feet. A vase of long stemmed roses rested like a baby in the crook of his left arm. He was a cowgirl’s version of the legendary knight in shining armor.

  Standing goo-goo eyed, mouth gaping and speechless, Jewels stared starstruck at him, gun aimed at his gut. The helium balloon sensation returning.

  AAAAARRRRRHHHHH! The house alarm went off.

  Unthinking, Jewels screamed, whirled around toward the house, accidentally tapped the hair trigger of the squeeze cock, discharging the weapon in Marshall’s direction.

  “Jewels! Don’t shoot me,” he shouted, his eyes wide with concern. Automatically his hands rocketed into the air as if under arrest as he rapidly retreated down the porch steps. The vase of two dozen yellow roses crashed to the ground.

  AAAAARRRRRHHHHH! The house alarm continued to wail.