Reluctant Witness (23 page)

Opposite the laundry room was a narrow linen
closet, all of the shelves bare except for the lavender sachet I
found on one of the shelves.

What was it about seeing unoccupied rooms
that left me vulnerable to moments of self-indulgent reflection?
Walking through this unfurnished wing reminded me of the number of
times I had left one home for another. How many linen closets had I
filled in the years since I entered the witness protection program?
I could never allow myself to grow emotionally attached to my
possessions, be they towels or treasures. It was my responsibility
to take the cover I was given by my handlers and make it work for
me. Every major decision I wanted to make for myself required
approval by the people in charge of my safety. I had been
cooperative all those years. So why had I been kicked out of
witness protection now? What had I done that warranted such extreme
action?

Chapter Twenty
One

Recalling the events in my life, I had to
admit the bad times weren’t all because of the witness protection
program. In between transitions, when it seemed like everything was
finally copacetic, life had a knack for knocking me flat on my
fanny in unexpected ways. I flashed back to that tragic phone call
a few years ago, the one that nearly broke my heart.

“
Marigold, this is Dad. I’m
afraid I have some bad news, dear. Your mother’s not doing well.
The oncologist says it’s just a matter of months
now....”

Three weeks later, having given notice to my
boss, I moved back to Houston to become my mother’s caregiver,
severing my delicately forged ties once again. My father was
desperate; his government research project was at a critical
juncture and his team needed him to complete the study, since his
name was on the masthead.

I took over the day-to-day care of my ailing
mother, driving her to and from the hospital for treatments. We
took advantage of the good days and got out, even if it was just a
stroll around the block. I pushed her in the wheelchair. On the bad
days, my father and I often spent hours at her bedside, ready to
dispense medications to control the pain or hold her hand when
comfort was what she needed most. My father and I watched her slip
away from us, little by little, her body shutting down as she moved
towards death. We felt powerless to do much for her, but one
afternoon, as the sunlight streamed into the room beside her bed,
she smiled.

“
I’m not sorry,” she told
us, reaching out for our hands. Her pale skin was paper thin, her
long fingers cool to the touch. It seemed like I could see every
vein in her delicate wrist. “It’s been a difficult journey, but I’m
glad I had you with me. I just wish I had the twins with me,
too.”

“
I’ll see what I can do,”
my father promised.

It took some serious lobbying to get both my
sisters to Houston in time to say goodbye. The marshals weren’t
happy about the risk, but in the end, they made the arrangements.
Violet flew in two days later. She and her WitSec handler arrived
at the house in nurse scrubs. My other sister caught a flight to
Dallas and drove down a day later, accompanied by another marshal.
Pansy brought a medical bag with her and coordinated with the
medical team. She took charge of palliative care, managing my
mother’s pain. We had three days together. When it was over, the
family scattered once more, for the sake of security.

One of the downsides for the witness
protection program is that it’s not a simple thing to bury a body.
It’s not as if you can use real names for the obituary or the
funeral. There’s no such thing as a family plot as long as there’s
a danger to the survivors, because hanging around a cemetery can
get you killed. Professional assassins look for those kinds of
opportunities to complete their contracts. For that reason, my
family got creative.

The four of us met up at the Dallas
Arboretum the following week. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon. We
stood in the Boswell Garden by the stacked stone wall. My father
carried my mother’s urn. For a woman who had dedicated her life to
growing things, the rose garden was the perfect place to scatter
her ashes. As a handful of marshals looked on, we bid farewell to
the woman who had always been the heart of the family. Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust. I took comfort from the fact that when I
missed her most, I had only to click on the website and scroll
through the many photographs. My mother lived on in every beautiful
rose.

A month after my mother succumbed to the
disease, I was forced to make a decision. My father was still doing
classified research and if I stayed, the restrictions on me would
be significant. I wouldn’t be able to stray far from our house. If
I left, I would be free to build a new life with a new identity. I
was so torn.

“
You did right by your
mother and I appreciate it. Now it’s your turn to get back out in
the world,” my father insisted, hugging me tightly. “Don’t worry
about me. I’ll be fine. You go and have a wonderful
life.”

I took his advice. That’s how I found myself
on the other side of the country, thanks to the WitSec team. With
my savings account carefully transferred to a Newport bank, through
a series of covert moves designed to hide its origins and give it
legitimacy, I unpacked my things and restarted my career on the
Atlantic coast. I had a new name, a new cover story, and references
provided by my WitSec team. I had no more ties to my past, save for
the occasional family visits that were carefully orchestrated.

And it had all gone well until that day that
Jared turned up dead on the floor of my condo. That was the
beginning of a terrifying journey for me, a wild roller coaster
ride from Rhode Island to New York. When the tide turned; I found
myself booted out of the official witness protection program run by
the United States Marshals and into an unofficial one run by the
Cornwall brothers.

“
What do you think, boy?” I
reached down and patted Kary, who waited patiently by the door for
me to follow him. I loved that little wag of the tail that seemed
to express his optimism. It was contagious. “Do you think we have a
chance here?”

As we continued to explore the seemingly
endless rooms, I thought more about the Cornwall men. They prided
themselves on doing things right. They were careful in their
actions and reactions. They asked so many questions. It was such a
change from how my Rhode Island WitSec handlers did things. Did
that matter? I gave it some serious thought.

Jojo had gone to great lengths to prepare me
for my cover story. She’d dressed me to play the part, but she’d
also made sure I sounded credible, even though I would only play
the part of Susan for such a short time. Tovar’s handling of my
transition from Margot to Marigold involved a ten-minute
conversation about Lake Placid, a promise to transfer my money to
the local Champlain National Bank branch, and references for my new
landlord. In terms of real support, it was sadly lacking, but I
chalked that up to the fact that Eve had gone out on maternity
leave sooner than expected and Shaun had retired ahead of schedule.
But what if there was more to the story than I understood at the
time?

The weeks and months right after Jared’s
murder were fraught with worry that I was in grave danger, even
after I arrived in Lake Placid. I was forced to throw myself into
my new cover at full speed, without even taking a breath. I could
see now I never had the chance to grieve for my fiancé, nor for the
loss of my own sense of self. When Jared died, the fictitious
Margot died with him. I lost the woman I pretended to be, only to
become Marigold Flowers. Did that add to all the confusion?

Obviously, my days as a party planner were
now officially over. It was too risky to go down that road again.
Still, I recognized the mental mix of dread, confusion, and
uncertainty I felt as I fled hired killers in New York was
beginning to lift. I contemplated what came next. Georgia was a
fresh start and it seemed promising to a heart that was hungry for
it.

What had changed for me when I got to
Atlanta? Jefferson Cornwall had thrown an unexpected bit of hope my
way. This unfinished shell of a home seemed to light a fire under
me. Every wedding I had ever done was scripted like the finest
play, to eliminate the missteps and highlight the love story. Was
it really all that different to transform this unoccupied
residence? Instead of directing the actors on stage, I would turn
my attention to building the stage itself. Maybe I jumped too
quickly at the chance to help Jeff with his condo because it
allowed me to feel like the real me, and that was what I needed
most right now.

The next room was dark, save for a thin
crack of light creeping in from under the covered window. I fumbled
along the wall, feeling for the switch, and when I flipped it, the
dazzlingly bright candelabra illuminated every corner of the little
princess bedroom. Looking up, I saw pearls and pink crystals
dangling from twelve white electric candles, each topped with a
lavender shade that was trimmed with pink ribbon.

But it was the mural that covered all four
walls that captured my attention. Against a wrought iron fence and
trellised archway, pink roses bloomed, their canes climbing upward,
in an enchanted garden, where little fairies darted here and there
on ethereal wings, their tiny faces no bigger than my thumb. A fat
frog, wearing a jeweled crown and dressed in a blue waistcoat,
squatted along side a toad stool on one wall. He faced a pink-eyed,
slightly loopy-looking white rabbit in a lavender dress, holding a
rose-covered parasol in her paw, on the other. By the closet door,
a pair of bluebirds decorated their white birdhouse with pink and
purple satin ribbons. Butterflies and bees fluttered among the
flowers in the garden and all the way up to the ceiling, where they
crossed the painted sky.

The window, obscured by yards and yards of
lavender silk adorned with tiny pearl accents, piqued my curiosity.
I crossed the room and lifted the balloon shade, gazing out at the
view. Here was another terrace, much smaller than the one off the
living room, but there was room enough for a patio chair or two,
and perhaps a couple of flowering bushes in planter boxes. At this
time of the day, there was enough shade to make this a pleasant
outdoor retreat.

I turned my attention back to this room,
considering the possibilities. As much as the mural offered a
whimsical charm, was it really something Jeff would want to keep? I
didn’t think so. I could imagine this bedroom as a quiet sanctuary.
I wondered what kind of light slipped through the window at
dawn.

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.