Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

  I found myself growing curious about Jeff’s current sleeping arrangements. If these bedrooms were unused, where did the man rest his head at the end of the day? And where was that blue guest room where I would sleep?

  Expecting these questions to be answered when I opened the last door in the hallway, I discovered a second foyer, much less grand than the first.

  “Just how big is this place?” I asked the dog, rather stunned. “Where does it end?”

  The change in decor was immediately noticeable. For a moment, I almost panicked, thinking I had wandered into someone else’s home by mistake. Gone were all of the Louis XVI touches. The walls were blissfully ivory, and in such an unadorned state, were easy on the eyes. I also noticed was that all of the doors here, save for one, were open. The powder room here was simple, but attractive. The hall closet had jackets and coats hanging on hangers. Men’s jackets and coats. For some reason, that made me happy. Would I have been devastated by a pink windbreaker or a pair of heels? Probably.

  The first bedroom I came to was large, its walls painted the color of good butterscotch candy, amber richness that I found inviting. There was definitely a masculine feel in here, I decided, as I inspected the room. This had to be my host’s sleeping quarters.

  The gleaming hardwood floor was covered by a generous-sized Persian rug in a bold, colorful tribal pattern. A king-sized bed with a saddle brown leather headboard was positioned against the wall to my left; it was dressed with a diamond-quilted blue bedspread and crisp ivory linens. A gateleg table sat on one side, with a lamp made from an old earthenware jug. I noticed there was no companion table on the other side and wondered if this was a sign that Jeff slept alone. Surely if he entertained his lady friends in bed, he’d make sure they were properly accommodated.

  In the nearby corner was a rather handsome nineteenth century highboy chest, its craftsmanship obvious. The brass handles, with their dark patina, looked original. I thought it might be a Cornwall family heirloom, something passed down from generation to generation.

  A single-drawer cherry writing desk faced the bed. A couple of notebooks and some papers were laid to one side, tiny yellow Post-It notes attached. I could see the occasional comment scribbled in blue ink. In a home with so many unused rooms, it was interesting that he chose to work and sleep here. This was obviously where he was most comfortable.

  On the wall above the desk hung a very large painting of verdant mountains, framed in dark mahogany with a thin gold edging. It was signed by Lily Zhang-Braff. I found myself drawn in by the play of light on color in the landscape and guessed it was well-known scene in the Catskills. It was the only piece of art I had come across on my tour of the condo, and as such, I thought it defined Jeff’s taste.

  Afternoon sunlight slipped in though the open slats of the dark wood plantation shutters that covered the sliding glass door. I settled myself in the brown leather club chair and invited Kary to join me as I studied yet another uninspired terrace. Perhaps a bronze armillary sphere would make an interesting sculptural element out there. Jeff struck me as the kind of man who would appreciate an historical reference to celestial navigation.

  I sat for a good long time in that chair. I liked it here, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the busy world.

  On an antique washstand next to me, there was a copy of Halting Heroin in Rural America: Disrupting Organized Crime by Nikolas Skerba, a former DEA agent. Colorful Post-It flags spilled out from the first half of the book. This appeared to be research material for another one of Jeff’s thrillers. I could picture him here, feet up on the ottoman, picking up the spiral notebook every now and again to write down his thoughts. It was easy to understand why he chose this spot. This was a good place to sort out one’s thoughts.

  A thick dictionary, so big it would take two hands to lift it up, was placed on the lower shelf of the washstand. Its frayed cover had been repeatedly patched with cloth tape. For a man like Jeff, who could easily afford the newest and best of everything, keeping such a well-worn book seemed to demonstrate an unexpected sentimentality. I was beginning to understand the man who lived here. Despite the popular reputation he had for being a sought-after bachelor who loved the ladies, Jefferson Cornwall was a man without many pretentions behind closed doors. I found that quite comforting.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The guest room, when I finally found it, was another charming surprise. The first thing I noticed was the beautiful ruby red Oriental rug, decorated by geometric blossoms in shades of blue and navy. Bedside chests, topped by elegant cut crystal table lamps, sat on either side of a mahogany sleigh bed. A darker blue tone-on-tone damask chair with a matching ottoman was positioned beside a round pedestal table and a brass candlestick lamp, making it an inviting spot to sit and read. The walls were a soft robin’s egg blue, interrupted only by blue-and-ivory toile drapes that framed yet another set of sliding glass doors. Peeking out, I saw the terrace shared with Jeff’s bedroom. Something told me this room had been furnished to please a woman’s sensibilities. Who was she? Had she helped him pick out the furnishings or had he decorated it to please her when she visited him?

  I hadn’t really seen any other indications that Jeff had many female visitors here. There were no frilly drapes or toss pillows. This, like his master bedroom, offered a serenity that I enjoyed. I felt at home here instantly. Could the woman have been Lisbeth Causley, his mother?

  Looking around, I saw no dresser for my clothes, but I did see a door across the room. It opened up to a large walk-in closet that was very functional, with both shelves and hanging rods for clothes storage.

  I also discovered, much to my delight, a large tiled bathroom with a jetted tub and a glass-enclosed walk-in shower. The walls were painted the color of warm sand. A stack of blue Egyptian cotton towels sat on the sink counter.

  “This is more like it,” I declared, pleased by what I found. There was a single mirror installed above the sink. I took a moment to check my reflection. It was a relief to see only one of me.

  Kary was curled up in the blue chair when I emerged from the bathroom. He glanced up briefly before closing his eyes once more. I could understand his desire to slumber. It had been a long day for the tiny dog.

  But I was not done exploring yet. Curious about where the rest of the unfamiliar hallway led, I left my bedroom quietly, so as to not disturb the dog. Following it around the corner, I found a long, narrow galley kitchen, functional if a little plain. The limed oak cabinets were well-made, the counters tiled in white. The appliances were a few years old, but certainly in decent working order.

  The kitchen opened up to an intimate sitting room with a sofa, a small dining table with seating for four, and a wall-mounted flat screen TV. Here again was access to an outside terrace. As best I could tell, it connected to Jeff’s bedroom and the guest room.

  A door beside the wrap-around kitchen counter attracted my attention. I assumed it was a pantry, but when I turned the knob, I found a slight resistance. With a gentle push from my shoulder, it yielded, and I half-stumbled into a large, empty, but very formal, library with a wall of display shelves, and beyond it, the very grand living room I had seen earlier. I had come full circle on my house tour. Jeff must have been telling the truth about wanting the grand condo for entertaining guests. Did that mean he planned to keep the second condo as a separate sanctuary? He might have made a fortune from all those thrillers, but he was still down to earth when it came to the home he chose for himself. That just made him even more intriguing to me.

  On a whim, I crossed the grand living room, determined to see what lay on the opposite side. Another room, almost a mirror image of the library, but without the bookshelves, sat empty. It was probably a dining room. Doubling back to the center of the grand living room, I encountered a large windowless alcove, framed by more columns, and defined by more of the same wainscoting. Was it a second sitting area, or maybe a media room?

  Beyond this, surprisingly, was a large, updated kit
chen with built-in Sub-Zero refrigeration, a Wolf commercial six-burner range, and hand-rubbed custom cabinets. The granite counters were definitely more impressive than the tile counters of the other kitchen. Standing there, I could imagine a catering staff at work, producing an amazing meal for invited guests.

  I heard a sound behind me. Little Kary trotted into the kitchen from the opposite end of the room, through the door from the foyer.

  “You must be thirsty,” I told him. “Would you like some water? I know I could use a cup of tea. Let’s see what Jeff has to offer.”

  Peeking in a cabinet, I searched for tea bags, but came up empty. I checked the refrigerator. The only things it contained were several bottles of water, soda, and beer. No food, no condiments, not even a piece of rotten fruit or moldy cheese.

  “Maybe there’s something in the other kitchen,” I remarked. We retraced our steps, slipping through the secret passage in the library.

  Once back in the galley kitchen, I poked through cabinets. “Now, where would he keep the tea, if he had any?”

  In the first cabinet, I found dishes and cups; in the next, cereal, canned soup, and even a box of Twinings orange pekoe bags. The refrigerator was filled with staples. I even found a pint of light cream.

  I pulled down a Roaring Kill Productions mug, filled it with water, and tossed in a tea bag. While it was heating, I made my way to the main foyer, to retrieve my suitcase and briefcase. These I deposited in my bedroom, taking out the bag of dog kibble and dishes. Jojo had also packed a small bag of doggie treats. I slipped one to the delighted pup as we made our way back to the kitchen.

  “Would you like some water?” I filled the water dish and placed it on the floor, out of the way. Kary immediately lapped up the liquid, obviously thirsty “No doubt you’re hungry too. Hang in there, boy. Dinner’s on its way.”

  He showed his consternation by stepping on my feet as I stood at the counter, cutting open the bag of dog food. Putting a quarter cup of kibble into his food dish, I stood back. Not surprisingly, the food was quickly vacuumed up by the hungry pup.

  “We’ll save the rest for dinner time.”

  “I see you’re making yourself at home,” said Jeff, coming through the secret passage from the library.

  “I am,” I agreed, popping open the microwave door. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. That’s what I want you to do, Marigold. Listen, I just came in to tell you that we’re still in the meeting. It might be a while. Think you can continue to amuse yourself?”

  “Mmm,” I smiled. “Jojo gave me one of your mother’s books to read: The Secret of White Jasmine. It looks promising.”

  Jeff smile, cocking his head. “Oh, that one’s pretty good, but my personal favorite is Vanilla Orchid Magic. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that I helped with the research.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did. My father was in the middle of mid-terms and couldn’t go, so I spent a month and a half in paradise, helping my mother. How could I refuse? Guadeloupe is an amazing island. But it’s the story that really appeals to me. Of all the books my mother wrote, this one had the greatest effect on me as an author. I have a copy, if you’d like to read it.”

  “I think I would,” I replied, tipping my cup of tea in his direction. “I’m just about done with the first book.”

  “Good. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” Jeff turned and hobbled down the hall, no doubt on his way back to the den, to retrieve it from his bookshelves. Watching him leave, I was struck by how debilitating his injury really must be. Without the smiling face and charm to distract me, I could see his gait was profoundly affected. It must be frustrating for a man in his prime to be so hampered by a body that didn’t work as it once did, to work as it should. And yet, Jeff clearly didn’t want pity.

  “Found it!” he called to me a moment later, coming down the hall. He held it above his head, waving it in the air. “Here you go.”

  “Great.” I took it from him, our hands briefly touching. As if struck by lightning, my eyes were drawn to his. I gazed into those brown eyes and I imagined his fingers on my skin. Some forgotten hunger, buried deep inside me, seemed to awaken in that moment of unexpected clarity, making me all too aware of my instinctive need for sustenance.

  “We should finish up in thirty to forty minutes, Marigold. How about we call out for some chow after that?”

  “That sounds good.” I managed to reply, still feeling that electrifying charge that had passed between us.

  “You’ll find some menus in the drawer by the refrigerator. Take a look through and pick out a restaurant; whatever appeals to you. I’m up for anything.”

  He was already out of the kitchen before I had time to react. I sighed. Was it just me who felt it? I put my cup down on the counter and got out the folder marked “menus”. Jeff had collected fliers from a dozen or so restaurants, everything ranging from barbecue to Italian. I flipped through the myriad of choices and settled on Bistro Niko, swayed by the description of the unusual French dishes. With my decision made, I put the rest of the pile back into the drawer.

  “That’s done. It’s time for some reading. Care to join me, little guy?” With my mug in one hand and the new paperback in the other, I headed back to the guest room to curl up in the blue damask chair.

  Kary bounded ahead of me, his toenails tapping on the hardwood floor. The moment we entered the room, he trotted across the floor and leapt up into the chair with admirable agility. The little dog circled the empty chair twice and proceeded to sit on his haunches, waiting expectantly. Once I had removed my police-issued sneakers, I joined him, scooting him over a bit so I wouldn’t sit on him. Once I was comfortable, he got comfortable too, hunkering down at my side, his head on my thigh.

  I was about to lay Vanilla Orchid Magic on the table when curiosity got the better of me. Why was this Jeff’s favorite novel?

  The purple cover showed a frightened woman clinging to a man in moonlight. They seemed to be hiding from someone or something. Flipping open the first page after the title, I read the dedication. Serena Duvall thanked her son for his hard work in researching the history of coffee production, organic farming, and drug trafficking in the Caribbean. You are my hero, J. C., for persevering in the face of limitation. Was it written at a time when he was still in a wheelchair? Perhaps the opportunity to help his mother with her research was his salvation after his tragic accident, allowing him to rediscover himself as a young man with a future -- even if that future involved more surgery and a permanent disability. Unexpectedly, I found myself intrigued by my host’s past. Had it led to his burgeoning career as a best-selling author and successful television producer? Maybe that’s why he had a copy of Halting Heroin in Rural America on the table in the other room.

  “Four more chapters of The Secret of White Jasmine and I will be ready for this,” I informed my canine companion. Kary looked up at me with his big, brown winsome eyes and decided he belonged on my lap, rather than at my side. Once resettled, he gave a content little sigh as his head went down and he quickly fell asleep.

  “Poor dog. It’s been a rather challenging day for you, hasn’t it? You go right ahead and snooze.”

  Just after six, I turned the last page and closed the paperback. I was satisfied that creep, Alex de Becque, would no longer harm another woman. Lisbeth Causley had a knack for creating heroines with heart, and Belinda Darnell was a likable one. I wondered if I would ever have the guts to take on a villain like de Becque.

  “I wonder if they’re done yet.” I said aloud. Listening intently, I heard only silence and the occasional chirp of a bird outside. Gently scooping up the sleepy dog in my arms, I rose and carefully resettled him on the seat cushion. Padding down the hall to the main foyer in my stocking feet, I peeked around the corner. The door to the den was still closed. There were muffled voices on the other side of it, but I couldn’t make out the conversation. I went back to my bedroom and decided to start on Vani
lla Orchid Magic. Kary, back on my lap, contentedly dozed off again.

  The story was published in 1999, apparently just a few years after Jeff’s accident. It was the first book in the Serena Duvall Caribbean Dreaming romantic suspense series, all set in the islands. It didn’t take long for me to lose myself in the tale. The opening line of the first chapter skillfully managed to capture my attention.

  “Silence!” he hissed at me. “They will hear you and kill us both!”

  I felt the insistent hand cover my mouth and tasted the skin of those rough, masculine fingers on my lips. In the faint glow of moonlight, I couldn’t see his face, but as I fought his effort to subdue me, my hands brushed the stubble on his cheeks and tangled in the locks of his shoulder-length hair. How I longed to claw myself free!

  He held me fast, tucked into the shadows, his hot breath on my neck as he kept one arm around my waist. I struggled, only to find my arms yanked behind my back.

  “Stop it,” he whispered, his lips pressed against my ear. “Don’t you know they will slice your throat and dump you at sea as fish bait? Is that really how you wish to die?”

  Recoiling, I turned my head, desperate to see my captor. He loosened his grip on me, twirling me around until I could gaze up at the shadowy figure in front of me. As his hand came away from my mouth, I uttered the one question that mattered most to me.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Inspecteur Principal Jean-Claude Noiret, Interpol, at your service!”

  “Interpol? But...I am not a criminal!” I sputtered, my voice hushed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am on the trail of a very dangerous fugitive from justice.”

  “Here? On a spice farm?” I was dumbfounded. “But...who?”