Reluctant Witness (2 page)

My name? I actually paused
to consider this. What was my name? Why couldn’t I recall
it?
Think hard. You know this. Picture it
in your mind.
You were named after a
flower. Genus Calendula officinalis. Pot marigold. The common,
ordinary garden variety planted in flower boxes and beds across
America.

“Marigold. My name is Marigold.”

“She must be worse off than she looks,” said
the man who had rescued me from that disastrous downhill trip. I
could see him now, with his crinkled eyes and gray hair. He was
dressed in street clothes. “She thinks she’s a flower.”

“Maybe she was without oxygen longer than we
think,” said the second paramedic. “What was the response
time?”

“Six minutes,” my rescuer informed him.
“Dispatch took the call at 10:07 and we arrived on the scene at
10:13. We still don’t know how or why she was wet.”

“Trunk,” I muttered, even as I found myself
nodding off. “I was in the trunk.”

That was the last thing I said before I lost
consciousness.

Chapter Two

How long was I out? I blinked, suddenly alert
to the eerie silence. Was I dreaming? Glancing around, I took in
the details. No, I was in a hospital bed in a darkened room,
feeling toasty now, with only a soft glow from an overhead light by
the built-in cabinet. The glass door to the hallway gave me an
uninterrupted view of the uniformed hospital staff moving about in
the nurses’ station. I was thirsty, my lips parched. As I tried to
sit up, I heard sounds close by. The creak of a hospital lounge
chair as its wooden feet scraped the floor. Footsteps.

“Hey, you’re awake,” said Badge 143. “You
want me to call the nurse?”

I nodded, unexpectedly feeling teary-eyed. I
wanted to cry, but nothing came out. I was woozy, so I eased my
head back onto the pillow as he pressed the call button.

“Yes?” said a disembodied voice through the
speaker.

“She’s awake and she needs something, but
she’s having trouble speaking.”

“The nurse will be right in.”

A tall man in blue came in, followed by a
short woman with a cart and a smiling physician in a white coat
with a clipboard.

“Welcome back to the world of the living. How
are you feeling, Ms. Doe?” Dr. Kuthrapali asked me, her smile
bright and cheerful. I licked my lips and tried to find my voice,
but the only thing that came out was a groan. “Not to worry. It
will take some time to get you back up to speed. We’re going to
take it slowly. We’ll start you on clear liquids and see how that
goes. You were very, very lucky. Dr. Morton was on duty. He’s one
of our best plastic surgeons, and he was able to save your
ear.”

Badge 143 waited until the hospital staff was
out of earshot before he confided to me that I was in the hospital
under an assumed name. “As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re
Jane Doe. We’re still checking on that Marigold alias.”

“It’s not an alias,” I insisted. “My name is
Marigold....Marigold Flowers. I live in Lake Placid, New York. My
twin sisters are named Violet and Pansy. My mother is a landscape
architect. My father is a botanist.”

“For real?”

“For real. Even the last name is genuine. My
grandfather, Harold Whitson Flowers, is a botanist, too. If you
don’t believe me, you can look it up on the Internet. I’ve got a
blog. It’s called ‘Garden Parties’.”

“Does that mean you’re in the flower
business, too?”

“Me? No. I’m a special events coordinator,
better known as a party planner.”

“You’re a caterer?”

“No, I’m the one who coordinates with the
caterer. I’m like a general contractor on a construction job.”

“Oh,” he nodded, “the go-to guy.”

“Exactly.” What had I been working on when
that dreadful woman forced me at gunpoint to climb into the trunk?
I couldn’t recall.

The next few hours seemed to be an unending
stream of people poking and prodding me, with the occasional cup of
clear broth or apple juice thrust into my hand. Badge 143, who
turned out to be Hank Larkin, left just after midnight, when his
replacement arrived. Philomena Papadopoulos was a forty-something
New York state trooper. She came into the room with a thermos of
coffee and a briefcase, a confident presence in her black jeans,
white sweater, and Uggs.

“Hello, Jane Doe. I’m here to make sure
nobody tries to get you again. You feel free to go back to sleep.
I’ll be working on reports, catching up on all my paperwork for
next week’s court cases.”

“Oh...okay,” I replied, wondering if I’d be
able to keep my eyes open much longer. My lids felt heavy. I was
teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and I found it exhausting
to track her movements. She plopped her gear onto the seat in the
corner of the room and strode over to my bedside.

“Do you mind if I borrow this?” She pointed
to the bedside table. Her sharp gaze fastened on me and never let
go. Was I a suspect? Surely no one thought I had caused that car to
go into the pond.

“No, feel free.”

After wheeling it over to her temporary
office, she unzipped the briefcase and extracted a laptop before
she got to work, stopping only briefly to make a comment when she
caught me watching her.

“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.

“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.”