Reluctant Witness (34 page)

“You have no jurisdiction here!” snarled the
local cop to the man from Interpol. It didn’t bode well for the
immediate future.

“No? Are you willing to risk your career on
that, mon ami?” There was a menacing tone in Jean-Claude’s reply,
signaling that he was willing to do whatever it took to stand his
ground. I tucked myself into an even tighter ball in the trunk,
fearing the worst. Sure enough, it arrived in the form of a
question -- just four words that spelled disaster for me.

“Where is Madame Beaumont?”

My heart started pounding as my stomach
churned frantically in a sea of panic. Alain had initiated a search
for me, and now I was being hunted like the proverbial rabbit. What
if Jean-Claude decided I was not worth saving? Would he betray me
to save himself? I found the answer came quickly and
reassuringly.

“How the hell should I know? Why don’t you
ask Monsieur Beaumont?” The French inspector mustered his disdain
for the island inquisitor’s outrageous insubordination by
dismissing the query with undisguised disgust.

“He says you kidnapped his wife.”

“He says....Do you see her here? Perhaps all
that drinking has finally taken its toll on Alain and he is
imagining things that never happened. Now, I will ask you again,
and be careful how you answer me -- do you have reason to believe I
have committed a crime?”

There was a long silence. I heard the sound
of footsteps on gravel, walking around the car. They seemed to
pause by the side of the car. I held my breath until I heard the
man take five steps away.

“Let him go, Maurice,” said the nervous
young policeman. “It’s not worth it.”

“Are you telling me my job, Renny?” Maurice
was now very angry with his subordinate.

“No, no. It’ just that....”

“It’s just that what?” demanded the senior
officer.

“You can see for yourself there’s no one in
the car, sir. The back seat is empty.”

“Perhaps she is in the trunk,” Maurice
suggested with an air of desperation as he approached the back of
the Citroën again.

“But wouldn’t the victim be banging on the
trunk lid, sir, to escape? Monsieur Beaumont insisted that his wife
was kidnapped. Surely she would take advantage of this moment to
escape her captor, wouldn’t she?”

“Let’s test this young man’s theory. Allow
me,” said Jean-Claude. Seconds later, an unexpected bang caught me
unaware as his strong hand struck the trunk lid, causing me to
flinch. “Madame Beaumont, are you in there? Would you like these
nice policemen to set you free? Bang once for yes, twice for
no!”

“He could have drugged her!” Maurice
growled, unwilling to concede.

“Ridiculous! This is getting completely out
of hand. You, mon ami, are pathetic, grasping at straws! How much
is Alain Beaumont paying you to set me up?”

“Pardon?” That sudden, offensive attack
seemed to startle Maurice.

“Or perhaps you think I tossed her over a
cliff! Maybe you would like me to accompany you all over the
island, so we can check every possible spot to conceal a hostage!
How do we know you don’t have the lady in your trunk! Perhaps it is
you who plan to kill her and stage the scene! Don’t imagine I will
stand by and allow you to plant the evidence!”

“Sir,” a new arrival hailed the ranking
policeman, “Monsieur Janvier wishes to speak with you on the
radio.”

“Un moment, Noiret,” said the senior island
policeman. “I shall return.”

“And I will be waiting for you with bated
breath!” replied the exasperated driver tersely.

The seconds turned into minutes as we all
remained in limbo, stranded by circumstances, while Maurice
conversed with his superior back at police headquarters. I could
see no graceful exit for the Guadeloupe policeman, nor easy excuse
or logical explanation for letting Jean-Claude go. Maurice would
have to either accept defeat by acknowledging he was in the wrong
or deliberately destroy his career by insisting on pursuing the
faulty claim.

I found my alarm growing as I ruminated on
the matter. Was the island policeman acting this way simply because
he had received what he believed to be a genuine complaint from
Alain, a plea for my safe return, or had my husband corrupted him?
Was Maurice one of the officers who enabled Le Scorpion’s network
to thrive on Guadeloupe, offering his protection services in
exchange for cash or contraband?

“Good news, Noiret!” Maurice sounded smugly
cheerful upon his return. “My boss has taken full responsibility
for the outcome of this case. On his orders, I am to let you
go.”

“A wise decision,” Jean-Claude replied.
“Now, if you will pardon me, I must be on my way. I have an
appointment to keep.”

“At this time of night?” Maurice was
suddenly interested once more.

“Of course at this time of night!”
Jean-Claude retorted, clearly aggravated by the challenge.

“With whom?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I
promised Mademoiselle Menard I would join her for a nightcap.”

“Nanette Menard? The singer?”

“Oui. She is my girlfriend. Bon soir.” A car
door opened and Jean-Claude got behind the wheel.

“Bon soir,” Maurice repeated, sounding
rather concerned, as the engine started up and the Citroën drove
away, with me still concealed in the trunk.

I had plenty of time to adjust to the news
about Nanette and the handsome Interpol officer. I forced myself to
admit my romantic feelings were just a school girl crush on a man
who had showed me kindness and rescued me from my tormentor. I
still needed to find safety, and if Jean-Claude could provide it,
who was I to refuse it?

Ten minutes later, I heard the
click-click-click of the indicator as we turned left and the car
pulled off the road and onto a rougher surface. A moment later, the
trunk lid popped open and Jean-Claude extended his hand to me.

“I told you I would keep you safe,” he told
me, his tense smile illuminated by the small trunk light. “Come,
come. We must get to the plane before Maurice has time to contact
Chartier.”

There were four others waiting for us by the
small plane on the runway. I recognized the de Havilland Beaver. It
was used to spray organic fertilizer on the orchards for Le
Papillon. At the controls was Guy’s friend, Laurent Gagnier.

“Hurry, Nora. We must get you out of
here!”

“You are working with Jean-Claude?” I asked
the grim-faced pilot sitting in front of me, stunned by the
revelation.

“Mais oui. Before he met that horrible death
at sea, Guy told me of his suspicions about your husband, madame.
How could I not help to avenge his death?”

“Oh, how I wish I had never met him,” I
groaned, “let alone married him! He is the epitome of evil!”

“Technically, Nora, you married Alain
Beaumont,” Jean-Claude reminded me.

“Are you telling me I am not his legal
wife?” I gasped. “We’re not really married at all?”

“I am, chérie. Now, take off your
clothes.”

“Ready for lunch?” The sound
of Nancy’s voice unexpectedly yanked me back to reality. With great
reluctance, I dragged myself away from the last few chapters
of
Vanilla Orchid Magic
.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Let’s go explore St. Augustine. There must
be a nice restaurant with a waterfront terrace.”

We ended up at South Beach Grill, parked
under a colorful umbrella, sitting at a table facing Crescent Beach
and enjoying fish tacos while we indulged in some people watching.
There was a light breeze that came in from the water, keeping us
comfortable. After lunch, we strolled on the sand, barefoot,
enjoying the chance to explore St. Augustine.

“So, what do you think? Is it time to get
your stitches taken out?” Nancy asked me when we got back to the
parking lot.

“Jeff said I needed an alias for that,” I
replied. “Does that mean I’m getting a new identity?”

Chapter Thirty
One

“What it means is I found a physician who
takes private patients who pay in cash when their out-of-network
doctor visit isn’t covered. You let me do the talking. Don’t
volunteer any information on the injury. Got it?”

“Got it.”

We sat in the waiting room of a walk-in
clinic for twenty minutes, the first appointment after the staff
returned from lunch. Nancy made a big point of fussing over me, the
worried mother hen, peppering the physician with questions about
whether I would need future surgery on my ear.

“Let me take a look,” the young physician
replied. Examining my ear, she clucked a few times before deciding
that I was stitched up by a very experienced plastic surgeon.

“Considering the amount of tissue damage,
it’s actually quite amazing that it has healed so well. You must
have been very careful not to get the stitches wet.”

“I’ve never gone that long without washing my
hair before,” I admitted with a smile.

“I’m so proud of my little girl,” Nancy
gushed. “Darla’s been such a trooper!”

“How did it happen?” the doctor wanted to
know. Before I could even open my mouth, Nancy gave a dramatic
rendition of my horrible car accident, right down to the frightful
phone call she and my fake father received when they were out to
dinner with friends. Nancy was so persuasive, I almost found myself
believing the concocted tale. It was obvious that my doctor
did.

“Sounds like you were lucky to get to the
hospital so quickly.”

“Darla was!” Nancy was at it again,
describing the shock of finding out her daughter had been in such a
frightening car accident. “I can’t tell you how scared we were when
we first set eyes on her lying on that gurney!”

“What other injuries did you suffer?” asked
the woman in the white coat, examining me. I saw Dr. Magrib’s
assistant ready to type the information into my chart. “I’ll just
have a look.”

“Actually, there’s no need. She has an
appointment in two weeks with her own doctor back home. He’s the
one who recommended we get the stitches out now, said she’d feel
better. He thought this trip to Florida would do a lot to bolster
her spirits and get her back on the road to recovery. My husband
couldn’t say no, not when he found out about the great
golf....”

Nancy repeatedly and skillfully steered the
conversation away from me and onto the subject of parenthood, adept
at pretending to be my mother. “Do you have children, Doctor?”

“I do. I have a twenty-eight-month-old girl.
What an active child she’s proven herself to be!” the proud
physician told us.

“So you know how worrisome it can be when
your children are in danger,” Nancy declared. “Why, I remember when
my son was that age. We took him to the beach with us one day, and
while we were setting up the cabana tent, he wandered down to the
water....”

Twenty minutes later, after she carefully
picked out every stitch, gently tugging at the stubborn ones, Dr.
Magrib declared me healing nicely.

“Please call if you have any more problems
while you are down here,” she instructed me. Nancy made the
appropriate parent noises as we departed.

“We will. Thank you for everything. It’s such
a relief to know Darla’s on the mend.”

“Yes,” I nodded on the way out of the exam
room, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It was nice to meet both of
you.”

“You too,” we answered in unison.

We stopped at the front desk so that Nancy
could pay the bill in full, counting out the twenties. She waited
patiently while the receptionist wrote out a receipt,
double-checked it, and then folded it and tucked it in her wallet.
Once we were outside, we both breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” she
declared.

“Darla?” I looked at her, feigning horror.
“What kind of name is that?”

“I’ll have you know you were named after me.
It’s my middle name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I quickly
backpedaled.

“You should talk, calling yourself Marigold
Flowers!” she laughed. “What kind of lame cover name is that?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick it. It was
thrust upon me by the WitSec program.”

“More like the witless security program, if
you ask me. Why did they pick that particular name? It’s bound to
invite questions.”

“I know,” I replied. I hurried to fall into
step with Nancy. A full head taller than me, she kept up a brisk
pace crossing the parking lot. “It never made much sense to me
either, any more than having the Rhode Island team remain in charge
after I was moved to Lake Placid did. I mean, who goes from Margot
Floyd to Marigold Flowers? It’s dumb.”

Nancy stopped in her tracks,
putting a hand on my arm. “You’re telling me the team that handled
you before your fiancé died continued to handle you after they
moved to New York
and
they were the ones who assigned you that ridiculous
name?”

“Yes. Why?” Nancy seemed to be flummoxed by
the thought. She wasn’t the only one. “I begged them to change it.
They even insisted that I start another party planning business,
even though I thought it might make me too easy to track.”

“That goes against all good sense for witness
security. Any hit man or woman trying to locate you is going to
have a very easy time of it. Why would they want to make it so
easy? Unless....” Nancy got behind the wheel and started the
engine.

“Unless what?” I asked, sliding into the
passenger seat, all too aware of my vulnerability.

“Maybe they wanted you to be found. I’ve got
to talk to Lincoln,” she replied. “There’s a big chunk of the
puzzle that’s missing from this equation.”

“There is?”

“Marigold, did you ever engage in any
behavior the WitSec team might have perceived as a security breach
on your end?”