“Oh, I know. On television, the cops always sit in a chair in the hallway. I find it hard to concentrate with all the activity. It drives me nuts. Don’t worry. Nobody will bother you. I’m quick on the draw.”
Other than the occasional hushed conversation on her cell phone, Philomena labored on quietly through the night. I dozed fitfully at first. Time after time, I jerked awake, thinking I was back in that frigid water, but as I began to feel better, I found a deeper, more restful sleep, and by six, I was almost my old self again. If only I knew who that really was.
By nine, the scrum of young interns who piled into my room had all leaned over me and examined my ear, making the appropriate comments to show they approved of Dr. Morton’s work. The surgeon himself showed up twenty minutes later.
“I was able to save the ear, just barely. I might have to go in one more time and do some snipping and tucking,” he advised me. “We’ll know better in a couple of weeks.”
After consuming toast, tea, and more apple juice for breakfast, managing to keep it down, I was checked again by the attending physician at noon and declared ready to be released.
There was only one problem. The cops still didn’t know what to do with me. They had an unidentified body in the morgue and had yet to formally question me about what happened.
“Look, we’re going to err on the side of caution here,” said my bodyguard. “We’re still checking your story about the trunk. We found no purse or cell phone. If you’ve got the number, we can try to track it.”
“Sure. Let me think....” I paused, waiting for the digits to pop up in my head, but nothing came to me. Why couldn’t I remember? “I’ve got nothing.”
“Is there a number that we can use to contact your parents?”
“They’re in Europe, on a river cruise. It’s their fortieth anniversary gift to each other.”
“In the middle of winter?” the disbelieving cop wondered.
“Castles and Christmas markets. They embarked in Frankfurt and they’re due to disembark in Nuremberg. After that, they’re heading to the Swiss Alps for a chocolate festival. My parents work overtime in the summer. This is their off-season.”
“I guess that makes sense,” she decided. “Larkin told me about your blog. I checked it out. What about your sisters? You want me to get in touch with them?”
“Violet is based in Vienna. She’s a violinist, but she’s on an extended tour with her orchestra.”
“Of course she is,” Philomena smiled slyly. “And Pansy is a pianist, and she’s in Paris.”
“Ah, if only I had a nickel for every time I heard that one, Philomena. So original.” I rolled my eyes. It’s not like it’s my fault that I was named for a common garden plant. “Pansy is a trauma surgeon at the Landstuhl Army hospital in Kaiserslautern.”
“A physician. I was close,” Philomena chuckled. “My sisters and brothers aren’t nearly as impressive. I’ve got two teachers, a cabbie, and...surprise surprise...a short order cook in the family diner.”
“Greek food. How stereotypical,” I replied with a smirk.
“Tell me about it. I spent my high school years waiting tables and working the grill. I used to see gyros in my sleep.”
“I worked in a sandwich shop my aunt owned. When she started catering, I went along for the ride. That’s how I became an event planner. I was filling in the gaps and coordinating the action.”
“A working girl? With those clothes, I pegged you for a pampered princess.”
“I’ve worked all my life.”
“No college degree?”
“Actually, I have an MBA,” I admitted with a shrug. “I got it just in case this thing with the parties didn’t work out.”
“Just curious. How many parties do you do in a month?”
“It depends on the time of year. If it’s June or July, I have weddings galore. December is corporate party season. February and March are generally the months where nothing much happens.”
“Thanks.” Philomena picked up her cell phone from the tray table and dialed. “You just convinced me you’re telling the truth.”
“So? What now?”
“We get you out of here.”
Philomena waited in my room with me while the discharge papers were all signed. At one fifteen, with my instructions and follow-up appointment card in hand, I was wheeled down to the waiting patrol car and loaded into the back seat.
Half an hour later, after a quick stop at a pharmacy to get my prescriptions filled and to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, and assorted toiletries, I was driven to the state police barracks and dropped off at the front door.
“Wait inside. I’ll be right with you,” Philomena instructed me as she dropped me off at the curb.
I hung around the front entrance of the building, with my bags in hand, as people came and went, wondering what the next step would be for me. I still didn’t know how I came to Windham, or even why. What was so important about that town? Or was it just coincidence that the hired killer’s car plunged into that pond? Had she merely pulled off the highway for a break? And if that was the case, how could I explain the man who tried to snatch me, claiming to be a cop, or the bullet that struck me?
My bodyguard joined me in the lobby five minutes later, walking through the doors as she finished a call on her cell phone. “My boss wants to talk to you about the case.”
I followed like a lost puppy as she wound her way through the maze of hallways, until we came to a stairwell. We climbed to the next floor and headed silently down the carpeted corridor to the third door.
A quick rap of her knuckles on the wood yielded a muffled reply from the other side of the door, and seconds later, she led me through an outer office into a windowless room. A rather large man sat in a leather desk chair, filling it with his bulk. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, his blue eyes steely. He didn’t seem like a man who had an abundance of patience.
“Have a seat.” He moved things around on his desk, as if he were composing his thoughts as he positioned each item just so. “I’m Inspector Vidal.”
I sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, while Philomena perched against a wall of file cabinets.
“Place of birth,” he demanded, pen in hand. The yellow legal pad in front of him was blank, save fore the name Marigold Flowers.
“Norfolk, Virginia.”
“Date of birth,” he wanted to know.
“June 6, 1976.”
“Home address,” he demanded.
“Ah....” I closed my eyes, squeezing the lids tightly, trying to picture the place I lived. I could only remember one thing. “It’s in Lake Placid. On a street that hugs the shore. My apartment is on the second floor.”
“Describe the building,” Philomena prompted me.
“I don’t know. There’s brick on the exterior. And a balcony.”
“Elevator or walk up?” she queried, trying to jog my memory.
“Walk up. Third door on the left. Number 24.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“Not a car. A van. A Ford Transit Connect, in Race Red, to be exact.”
“License plate?”
“Mmm....”
“Gee parties,” I replied.
“Spell it,” Inspector Vidal instructed me.
“G...P...A...R...T...Y...Z.”
“Well, it should be easy to find, since it’s a vanity plate. That will give us your address. Phil....”
“On it, boss.” The female detective pulled out her laptop and got busy. She took a seat behind me, tapping away. I folded my hands in my lap demurely, not really sure what comes next.
“Let’s move on to the incident in the park.”
“Okay, but I’m not really sure I’ll be much help. I don’t know who that woman is or why she put me in the trunk.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I nodded. I was certain that I was telling him the truth. That’s why his next comment caught me off-guard.
&nbs
p; “Does that mean you also don’t know how she came to have a bullet embedded in her forehead, Marigold?”
“What?”
“She was shot,” was his measured reply, as his eyes lit on me. I could see him carefully scrutinizing my every move, my every twitch.
“But...but I didn’t hear a shot!” That came out of me unexpectedly.
“What did you hear? Give me the blow by blow.”
“Um...I don’t remember everything, just bits and pieces.”
“What’s the first thing you remember?” Vidal leaned forward. Placing his hands on the desk, he made a church and steeple with his fingers. “Start there.”
“I was cleaning up after a party at a rental venue,” I told him, as I went into my memory bank, scrambling to recall the details. Why was it so hard to think about it? Leaning back in my chair, I shut my eyes on the fluorescent light fixture attached to the ceiling above and imagined that darkened ballroom once more. There were boxes stacked by the rear door, where my red van was waiting. “...at the Gilded Nest. It was a wedding, a small one, with only fifty guests.”
My assistants had packed up the candelabras and the chair skirts, and even the bunting. The crystal pendants that had festooned the table toppers were in their lined boxes, ready for me to load in my van. The white feather-covered dove decorations were secured in their cases, their satin ribbons carefully folded.
“Go home,” I had told Arturo and Lily.
“We should wait for you,” he insisted. “It’s late. You’re the last one here.”
“I’ll be fine. You two have to pay the babysitter. Go, before it costs you another arm and a leg.”
“Are you sure?” Lily was exhausted. Between caring for an active two-year-old and working on this party, she had been on her feet for twelve hours and I could see the circles under her eyes. At least tomorrow was Sunday. They could sleep in.
“Of course I’m sure. I’ll be here another ten minutes at the most. What can happen in ten minutes?”
Chapter Three
“What did happen?” Vidal prompted me. I shook my head. I wasn’t sure. “Did you get in the van and drive away?”
“No. Someone was waiting...in the dark...in the hallway.”
That was all that my mind needed to picture the scene once more. Suddenly I was back there, at the Gilded Nest in those last few minutes, just before the maelstrom of madness struck with a viciousness that was stunning.
Arturo and Lily had insisted on helping me load the van with the rest of the boxes, so we each made a couple of trips. After shuffling everything into place for the trip home, making sure everything was secure, I shut the van door.
“Ready?” she had asked. Lily was eager to get home. I couldn’t really blame her.
“I have to get my purse, make a final check, and shut off the lights. You two go ahead. I’ll be fine,” I promised them, looking down at my watch. “If you go now, you won’t owe the sitter for another hour.”
Her husband was less than thrilled at the thought of leaving me there on my own, but I shrugged him off. In hindsight, I’m glad I did.
“What is there to worry about? Look at this place. It’s amazing!” I answered cheerfully, with a sweep of my hand. The Gilded Nest, one of my all-time favorite party venues, was a banquet hall adorned with amazing architectural details and elegant furniture. In winter, the outside of the charming Adirondack lodge was frosted in twinkling white lights. Bushes and trees sparkled, giant snowflakes lined the long drive to the parking lot, and the eaves of the roof dripped with illuminated icicles that cast a warm glow upon the white horizon. Just looking at the place gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.
“How can anything bad ever happen in a place like this? It’s magical!” I had laughed, believing those words as I spoke them.
I waited as they got into their car and fastened their seat belts. Lily started the engine and put the car in gear. As it rolled past me, I waved to the couple inside.
“You be careful, Marigold,” Arturo said to me through the open window, concern etched on his face. Had he somehow sensed what was to come? Is that why he was so nervous about leaving me alone?
“I will. Drive safely!” I called out to them. I stood there until the glow of the tail lights disappeared over the rise, hugging myself to stay warm. The only thing left to do was to go back inside to collect my purse from the tiny office, turn off all of the lights, and lock up.
Back in the warmth of the heated building, I crossed the dance floor to the massive stone fireplace and flicked the switch to the gas fire, extinguishing the flames, and then I navigated around the round, now naked tables, and hit the three wall switches for the decorated fig trees and main chandeliers. The remaining lights could be turned off as I left the building. I passed through the dark opening that was the hallway. There was a light on in the office, and its soft glow spilled out into the corridor. I entered the narrow room and found my way to the thermostat, turned it down to sixty, and then walked to the closet. There, on a hanger, was my coat. I slipped it on and then reached into the built-in nook to the right of the closet for my shoulder bag. Scooping it up and inserting my arm under the strap before shutting off the lights, I thought about getting home to my tiny rented apartment, about the long, hot bath I would take, and the glass of Shiraz I would enjoy as I read my new Donegan Bailey mystery. Tomorrow I would take it easy and catch up on the little things I had been neglecting over the last two weeks, I decided. I hit the light switch and stepped out into the narrow corridor. But I never reached the front entrance.
What had happened? Think, Marigold. What stopped you from going home?
The sound of my high heels striking the floor, that tap-tap-tap, was a comforting cacophony of sound in my aloneness. But then I heard it, just a tiny swoosh of movement that seemed to come from my left. I sensed that presence just seconds before the tall silhouette stepped out from behind the door to the kitchen. I screamed, startled.
“Who are you? What do you want?” My terror only grew as he came towards me. “I’m sorry, but the party is over. You’ll have to leave.”
“Leave? I don’t think so, Marigold Flowers.”
The next thing I knew, there were hands on me, on my throat, trying to squeeze the breath out of me...who was it? I couldn’t see his face, but I noticed his aftershave. It smelled of musky woods. He backed me against the wall, his forearm against my neck as he fumbled for something in his pocket. By then, my eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness of the hallway and I could see him grinning at me as I struggled. He brought out a small penknife, barely more than a Boy Scout would carry, and put it to my neck, the small, sharp, point nicking my chin.
“You and I are going to have a little chat, lady. And you’re going to tell me what I want to know, because if you don’t, I’m going to start cutting!” His breath, coffee-scented, was now hot on my cheek. He towered over me menacingly, squeezing the life out of me. Overwhelmed and under pressure, my knees began to buckle and I felt myself crumble. And just when I thought I would pass out, my fingers touched the handle of the mop against the wall, the one I had used to swab up a puddle of spilt Champagne, the result of a guest dropping a flute during the toast to the happy bridal couple. The fingers of my right hand gripped the wooden shaft tightly and I jabbed it upwards, quickly, desperately. I must have struck his face, because suddenly he let go of me, howling like a wounded coyote. Driven by instinct, unable to think clearly, I fled my captor, racing past him like a rabbit on the run, desperately hip-hopping down the hall, even as I tried to locate my key ring inside my shoulder bag. Where were those damn keys?
Even now, in this quiet office, sitting with these two plainclothes strangers, my heart was racing. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself. I can’t look. I don’t want to look. This is too awful. The seconds ticked on as I sat there. That cold dread was growing in my chest, gripping me like a vice.
“What happened next?” Vidal asked me. This time, his voice was gen
tler. “Take it slow.”
“I...I...I don’t want to know,” I stuttered. “Please!”
A terrible chill came over me as I sat there, and I started to shiver. I knew something bad was about to happen, something really, really bad.
“Marigold....”
“I can’t.” I hugged myself, wishing I was six years old once more.
“Sure you can,” Inspector Vidal insisted. “No one’s going to hurt you now. You’re safe here.”
His eyes fastened on me with a sharp and penetrating gaze, and even though his face was etched by the years on the job and an excess of familiarity with real crime, this New York state trooper had that fatherly tone in his voice, making me think it would be okay if I told him. He wouldn’t run away. He wouldn’t leave me behind. He wouldn’t desert me. I took a gulp of air and let it hit my lungs before I slowly pushed it out, and with it, some of my panic.
“I...ran into the ballroom....Someone else came through the door. He had a...a gun and he shot the man chasing me.”
“Do you know who the second man was?”
“Mmm.”
“Mmm what?”
“Do you know who he was?”
“Not really sure,” I hedged, suddenly worried. What was I worried about?
“Let’s move on. What happened after the second man shot the first?”
“Um,” I replied, hoping to stall for time. Why did I need time? Why couldn’t I just tell Inspector Vidal what had happened to me?
“Boss?” It was Philomena. She clutched her laptop in her hands. Had she found something? “Can we step out for a moment?”
“Sure,” he told her, still watching me, his head cocked to one side.
They were gone no more than thirty seconds or so. I was still shaking in my seat when they returned.
“Marigold, who was the second man?” Inspector Vidal asked me again. I looked up, shaking my head.
“I...I don’t know,” I insisted. An odd expression came over his face, changing his demeanor. He didn’t believe me.
Reluctant Witness Page 2
