Chapter Three
Maggie woke from a dream of dark turbaned men riding on giant green frogs that leaped over a scimitar shaped moon. She sat up suddenly and said, “What happened to the Arabs?”
From upstairs came Allie’s sleepy voice, “Did you say something? Are you awake? I’m not.”
“No, no. Stay asleep. I was just dreaming.” However, she found she could not go back to sleep. The light was dim, but when she looked at her watch, Maggie discovered it was nearly eight o’clock.
Outside a heavy fog encased everything. Maggie rose and folded up the sofa bed. Tiptoeing, she found a heavy robe on the bathroom door, put it on, and made tea. She sat on the sofa sipping Earl Gray and thinking about the events since she left Florida. What had happened to the dark turbaned men and their limos?
The phone broke her musings. She put down the cold tea and answered.
“Allie? Oh, is that you, Mrs. McGill. This is Ed Martin. I have the most distressing news. Is Allie there?” Ed was speaking rapidly and loudly.
“Hello, Ed. Yes, she’s here. Just a moment.” Calling upstairs, “Allie, it’s Ed.
Allie picked up her bedside phone, “Hello, Ed. What’s up?” Sleep still in her voice.
“I think it’s best if I speak to both of you. Stay on the line, Mrs. McGill. I have some distressing news. Brigitte Fouchet is missing.”
“Missing?”
“How? What? When?” Allie sounded more awake now.
Ed’s concern could be heard in his voice. “I don’t have all the details, but apparently Brigitte left their hotel in San Francisco to do some shopping. That was yesterday and she still hasn’t returned. They haven’t any idea what’s happened to her or where she may be. Andre is beside himself. They’re very much in love. This was their honeymoon, after all. She went out for a short shopping trip and that was the last time she was seen. No one knows more.”
“Oh, how dreadful! Poor Andre!” Maggie was remembering the honeymoon couple on the plane, remembering how happy they seemed, how much in love.
“Have the police been contacted? What do they say? Do they have a plan?” Allie asked.
Ed answered, “Yes, they called the police when she hadn’t returned for dinner. But the police weren’t particularly helpful. I guess she hadn’t been gone long enough for them to intervene; however, I believe now they’re doing the standard missing person stuff. Not much comfort for Andre. He’s gone all silent and morose. Besides being tragically sad, this is embarrassing. As if it weren’t enough, the Fouchets’ room was broken into Saturday night while they were at the conference. Nothing was taken, but the room was pretty messed up.”
Allie came downstairs, wrapped in a blanket, the cordless phone pressed against her ear. She looked at Maggie and raised her eyebrows. Maggie shrugged and nodded her consent.
“Ed, something sort of weird happened to us yesterday. I don’t know how there could be a connection with your news, but here it is.” Allie gave Ed a bare bones account of yesterday’s adventure. “We’re seeing green cars every time we turn around. Strange, huh? We can’t decide whether we need to be concerned or not.”
Briefly Maggie told Ed about what she was beginning to think of as her turban experiences. “As I was waking up this morning I was wondering what had happened to the Arabs. We haven’t seen a turban for a couple of days. I’m not complaining, but I was wondering about it this morning. And now that Brigitte is missing, well, I just sort of wonder . . .” Maggie stopped, not sure what to say next. “Do you think there possibly could be any connection?”
“We don’t have a clear picture yet, do we? But, it sort of fits together.” Ed said.
“Ed, is there anything we can do for Andre? I feel so badly for him. What a dreadful thing to have happened! I understand what you’re saying. I feel embarrassed, too.”
Ed’s deep voice said, “We’re doing what little can be done. Of course, Andre insists on staying in his hotel room, hoping she will call. Hopefully, the police will turn up something soon. In the meantime, you two should keep your eyes open and take care of yourselves.”
***
Andre Fouchet sat on the edge of the hotel bed, his head in his hands. He could not recall ever before feeling so frightened and angry and impotent. Brigitte. He would never forgive himself if Brigitte were . . .. He could not bear even to think of her being frightened or hurt. The telephone interrupted his thoughts. He grabbed it, a drowning man going down, “Yes?”
The voice, speaking English, was cold, no emotion, little inflection and just a trace of an accent, “Doctor Fouchet, listen very carefully. Listen. Do not speak. You are meddling in things that do not concern you. We want you to return to France. You can resume teaching there. Forget the job here. We will help you return. We have something you want. Your wife. If you want to see her again, do exactly as I say. Ask no questions and do not deviate from my instructions. Tell no one about this call. This afternoon at 3:30 exactly, leave your hotel and go to the St. Joseph Hotel. Just beyond the lobby you will see a bank of telephone booths. At exactly 4:15 go to the fourth from the last and wait. You will receive further instructions. Remember. Tell no one.”
“Wait. What about Brigitte? Is she all right? Where is she? How do I know she is okay?”
A frightened small voice in French, “Andre, oh Andre. I am so frightened. Andre, I . . ..” Brigitte broke off with a gasp!
Cold, impersonal and infinitely frightening, the voice said, “Remember, if you want to see her again. Do as I say. And tell no one!”
“If anything happens to her I’ll . . ..” Andre shouted as the connection was broken. He dropped the telephone and began to pace rapidly up and down and in circles around the room pounding his fist against the palm of the other hand. “Merde! What am I to do? Brigitte, Brigitte . . ..” Then, gradually his pace slowed and he began to think as he walked slowly around the room, not seeing, not hearing, but focused interiorly, beginning to plan and to hope again.
Andre did not hear the first few knocks, but finally he was pulled from deep thought by insistent knocking at the door. He stopped pacing, straightened, ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his clothes. He walked over and opened the door.
“Dr. Fouchet?” A tall, slender man in a rumpled gray suit asked. “My name is John Landis. I’d like to talk to you about an important matter. May I come in?” The man seemed courteous, almost reticent; however, there was a quality about him that made it difficult for Andre to refuse. Andre ushered him into the room, and motioned for him to sit in one of the two easy chairs. Andre took the other chair and waited.
“Dr. Fouchet, could you tell me where your wife is?”
“She went out shopping. Why do you want to know?”
“Now, Dr. Fouchet, we know from the missing persons report you filed that she left the hotel almost 48 hours ago and that you haven’t heard from her since. I’d like you to know that I, uh, we, deeply regret what’s happened. I know you must be very concerned.” John Landis’ gray eyes were sad and apologetic. “Do you have any idea where she may have gone?”
“Who are you? How do you know this information? Why do you want to know?” Andre’s accent became more pronounced.
Landis shifted in the chair and pulled a small leather case from his inside pocket. He handed it to Andre, “I’m with the CIA and we would like to help you find your wife.”
“Why? Why has the CIA concerned itself with two ordinary French citizens on vacation?” Andre asked cautiously. “What can you do anyway?”
John Landis smiled apologetically and said, “You see, it’s like this . . ..”
***
By noon the fog had lifted and the sun shone brightly. Allie was in her office, catching up on photography business and Maggie lounged lazily on the deck. Blissfully, she watched the breeze ruffle the leaves high overhead in the giant eucalyptus tree that sheltered Allie’s home. Beyond the leaves the sky was intensely blue. A bird was chattering high above her but she couldn’t lo
cate it. Allie stepped out. Maggie murmured, “There must be some way to do this for a living and work every now and then just for fun.”
Allie laughed. “If you figure it out, let me know. I’ll sign up. Speaking of work, I have to run in to Westwood to the lab. They’ve messed up some of the proofs and I need to get it straightened out. Those proofs should go out today. Want to go along?”
“Sure,” Maggie stretched and got up.
While Allie straightened out the problem at the lab, Maggie strolled around Westwood, peering into shops. She wandered into a large and cavernous art gallery. After the bright sunlight it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer interior. The young woman clerk smiled and greeted Maggie. The front part of the gallery was hung with original paintings. Rather too loud and abstract for Maggie’s taste.
The rear of the gallery had racks of prints. Flipping through them, Maggie lost awareness of where she was, even of time passing. She was startled when she became aware of the large man standing beside and just a little behind her. She could smell the heavy scent of his cologne. Really, why was he standing so close! Not at all polite! As she turned to speak to him, she saw black eyes staring coldly at her out of a bearded swarthy face. In accented English he said, “Mrs. McGill, you must stay out of things that do not concern you. Give us the picture. Forget the French couple. Go home. You have been warned.” He turned and walked rapidly to the rear of the gallery and was gone.
“What? Who are you?” Maggie demanded. “What do you mean? Come back here at once!” But he was gone. She looked for a clerk, but saw no one. Maggie hurried through the gallery and out onto the street.
She ran up to the clerk who was chatting with a young man and asked, “Who was that man who was in the gallery?”
The clerk looked confused and shook her head, “What man? What do you mean? Is something wrong?”
“There was a man in the gallery and then he left through the back!”
“No. We don’t permit people to come and go through the back. You must be mistaken.” The young woman shook her head again.
Maggie’s voice quivered as she tried to explain the situation to the clerk, “Well, there certainly was someone, a bearded dark man, and he left through the back. I don’t know how he got there. I just looked up and there he was!”
The clerk looked doubtfully at Maggie, “I don’t know how he could have got in. I’ve been here. No one went in except you. It’s been a quiet afternoon. The back always is locked. You must be mistaken?”
Mistaken. Maggie remembered the self-doubts of a few days ago. She took a deep breath and with a calm voice said, “No, I am not mistaken. There was a man in your gallery. He was not very nice. He left through the rear. And now I am leaving, too.”
Maggie hurried back to the photography lab and met Allie just as she was coming out, her arms loaded with packages of proofs. Without a word, Maggie took some of the packages. After they had dropped them in the car’s trunk, Allie asked, “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
They got in the car and Maggie jammed the white hat down so hard on her head that the little flower nearly fell off. “No, I haven’t seen a ghost. I’d almost prefer that to what I did see.” She described the incident in the gallery. “Something is going on and somehow I seem to be connected to it. It involves Andre and Brigitte Fouchet. What picture? That man certainly could be Middle Eastern. What’s more, I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. I’m beginning to feel very angry about the whole thing.” Maggie’s voice rose and her face was flushed with determination.
Allie glanced at Maggie. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s getting serious. I wonder if we should tell the police or something. I’m not sure what we can tell them. So far, as far as we know, there’s been no crime. Of course, harassment is a crime. But, aside from the man in the green car, we can’t prove anything.”
“What shall we do? Is there anything we can do? If we contact someone in authority, who should it be?” Maggie asked, so absorbed in her thinking that she hardly noticed their progress down San Vicente Boulevard. After a silence, “Well, at least the Arabs are back. At least, I assume he was an Arab.”
Allie looked at her grimly and nodded. “If there’s nothing more you want to do while we’re out, let’s go home and call Ed. I’d like to know if there’ve been any new developments about Brigitte Fouchet’s disappearance. If she’s been found, then this could be a very different thing.”
They picked up dry cleaning and groceries on their way. With their arms loaded, they entered the house from the carport. The office door opened with difficulty, as if something were against it. Allie looked at Maggie, raised her eyebrows and pushed harder. “What . . ..?”
The office was a shambles. Piles of papers were lying against the door. Allie’s files had been opened and the contents scattered around the room. Her desk and worktable, orderly when they had left, were covered with papers. Drawers were hanging open. They pushed the door open and stepped into the room, silent, faces white with shock. Through the open door they could see into Allie’s bedroom. It also was in disarray.
“Do you think it’s safe to go in?” a shaky squeak from Maggie.
“I don’t know,” Allie whispered.
Quietly they backed out of the house. Still whispering, “Let’s go next door and call the police.”
“Best idea. Much safer. This is too scary!” Allie agreed.
Mrs. Asherman, the neighbor, a stylishly coifed woman in her fifties, was solicitous and alarmed. She gave them tea while they waited for the police to arrive. “You know, I didn’t notice anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. I thought you’d been away for a while. I mean, your car was gone for a while. But today I didn’t notice anything.” She stammered on, “Was anything missing?”
“We didn’t go in. We couldn’t tell. It was a mess.” Allie looked more and more uncomfortable.
Time dragged on, slowly, so slowly that reality seemed to be fading.
Mrs. Asherman offered another pot of tea.
Maggie broke the uncomfortable silence, “Did the police say how long it would be?”
Allie shook her head, “No. They didn’t say.”
“Well, if anyone had been there, surely they’d be gone by now.”
“Yeah. I’m sure there’s no one there now. Let’s go.”
Mrs. Asherman twisted her hands together, “Do you think you should?”
Allie smiled at her neighbor, “Mrs. Asherman, thank you so much for your help. I’m sure it’s all right now. The police may be there already. We’re going home. Please don’t worry.” She looked at Maggie. They walked across the street to the guesthouse.
At the door they felt less confidant, but encouraged by each other’s presence, they once again entered the office. Nothing had changed. Their packages were where they had dropped them. The place was a mess. Cautiously they walked through the office, into the bedroom. It was in chaos. Downstairs it was the same. Books out of shelves, cabinets opened. The food had been taken out of the refrigerator. Even the deck had not been spared. Plants had been overturned.
They wandered through the house in silence, absently picking up a piece of paper or righting an overturned chair. Finally they looked at each other, faces stony with outrage and anger. “This makes me so mad!” Maggie said through clenched teeth. “Really, really mad! Where are the police? How long ago did we call? This is too much!”
Just then the doorbell rang. Allie and Maggie jumped simultaneously. Cautiously they opened the door to two men.
Hello, I’m Lieutenant Garcia and this Sergeant Jackson. Did you call? I understand you’ve had some trouble here.” Lieutenant Garcia was a short man with thinning hair and shiny brown eyes. Sergeant Jackson was taller and plumper, sandy hair, cut short, freckles. They both wore serious faces.
“We certainly have. Please come in. Sorry I can’t offer you a seat.” she said waving her arm at the chaos.
“Yeah, we see. Just tell us what happened.”
“I wish I could. My mother and I went out to run a few errands. When we returned this is what we found. We called you from a neighbor’s, but after a while we decided to come back and look around. That’s it, really.” Allie said.
“Your name, miss?” Sergeant Jackson was making notes in a spiral notebook. He continued, asking them their names, occupations, Maggie’s address in Florida and more information that seemed not particularly relevant to Maggie and Allie.
As they toured the little house, they heard an occasional ‘tsk’ from Lieutenant Garcia. “They made a real mess! Can you tell if anything’s missing?”
“No, of course not.” Allie seemed exasperated, “But nothing large or obvious is missing. The TV and DVD player are here. So is my computer, both answering machines, the fax, the copy machine. I have several cameras and they all seem to be here. I don’t have a lot of jewelry and only a few good things. But nothing of great monetary value. I can check on those.” She rummaged around pulling items out of the debris as she spoke. “There’re no drugs on the premises, unless you count aspirin,” Allie said anticipating the next question.
“This is how they got in,” said Lieutenant Garcia, pointing to scratches around the simple doorknob lock. You know, these things are pretty useless. You really ought to get some good dead bolts at least.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Allie, “but this has been such a quiet neighborhood up to now. I’ve always felt safe here.”
“Yeah, up to now.” Changing the subject, he said, “It doesn’t look like vandalism. Nothing’s been destroyed and none of the usual things have been taken. Looks like they were looking for something in particular. Any idea what that was?” Lieutenant Garcia asked quietly.
Maggie and Allie looked at one another, “No. No, of course not.” Then another look.
Maggie's Image (Maggie McGill Mysteries Book 1) Page 4
