Reluctant Witness (38 page)

In order to succeed, I threw myself into an
intensive study of the agricultural prospects, covering everything
from product packaging to pest control. I learned as much as I
could about the issues surrounding organic farming on the Big
Island and set about getting to know my prospective workers.

Many Japanese-American families had worked
the land for several generations in Hawaii. I was lucky enough to
find a passionate farm manager in Haruto Narushima, better known as
Harry. Armed with a B.A. in organic farming and Masters in
agricultural economics, eager to have the chance to develop a new
company from the ground up, he agreed to work with me. I was
determined to do what my father had accomplished in Guadeloupe, to
create a company where the employees were motivated to work hard
because they were shareholders of the company. Harry was
enthusiastic about our prospects, but also realistic about the
effort it would take to launch the company. Perhaps if I had only
set out to create a coffee company, he would not have gone the
distance with me. But the chance to also grow organic spices and
cacao made the challenges all the sweeter to him. Better still,
Harry was willing to be the public face of the company, to be our
spokesman, our navigator, and even our ambassador, lessening the
chances I might inadvertently be discovered by Le Scorpion or one
of his associates, or even any of the coffee producers I had met
over the years.

He had a wife, Kiki, who agreed to work
part-time as my assistant, and two children, a six-year-old and a
three-year-old. Some days, after putting her older son, Kenji, on
the bus, Kiki would arrive at the house with the toddler in tow,
put her in the corner of the dining room with a box of toys, and
get to work. Akari loved to walk the fields with her father on his
inspections, chattering to him non-stop as only a three-year-old
can. The little girl became a favorite of Véronique, often
accompanying her on errands. We had a good supply of picture books
and I often spent my coffee break reading to her while she sipped
her milk and nibbled her cookie. When the story was over, it was
nap time in one of the guest rooms. By three, Kiki would depart
with Akari in time to meet Kenji’s bus when the boy got home from
school. It was a good working relationship. Kiki was smart and
funny, but most of all, ambitious. She had studied business at the
University of California Los Angeles and craved the opportunity to
use those skills. I was more than happy to put her to work.

By the second month, at Harry’s behest, the
company bought three acres of established Blue Mountain coffee
trees from an organic farmer, Bob Johnstone, who was looking to
downsize as he moved toward retirement, and we agreed to acquire
the rest of the land over the next five years. In the meantime, we
would purchase Bob’s entire coffee harvest to sell under our estate
label. Harry was ready to move forward with package design and
marketing. All that was missing was a name for our company.

And then one day I was in Honolulu for a
meeting. With two hours to kill before my flight back to Kona, I
decided to visit the Foster Botanical Garden, where I learned about
the Butterfly Society of Hawaii, dedicated to encouraging the
creation of butterfly habitats on the islands. I suddenly had an
inspiration. Our organic farming could work toward fostering a more
nurturing environment for these beautiful creatures. It would be my
way of honoring my parents, whose lives were cut short by Le
Scorpion. We would landscape the grounds at the entrance to the
farm to nurture our winged visitors, planting lantana, pickleweed,
rattlepod, and other host plants. We would become the Hawaiian
Butterfly Coffee and Spice Company. Every package of our coffee,
cocoa, and spices would feature a local artist’s rendering of one
of Hawaii’s butterflies. There would be American Ladies and Painted
Ladies on our coffees, Banana Skippers and Fiery Skippers on our
cocoa and gourmet chocolate bars, and a variety of sulphurs,
hairstreaks, and other fritillaries on our spice packages.

I wasn’t sure how Harry or Kiki would view
the concept, but much to my delight, they were thrilled. The
butterfly is a very popular symbol in Japanese culture, and they
felt it was a lovely way to honor their own ancestors. We found an
artist to create the labels and were soon ready to take the next
step in building our company.

As I waited for Jean-Claude to return, I
found the weeks passed quickly. My heart was no longer heavy. There
was new reason to believe that life could and would go on, that I
would be safe on this island. I was making connections here. I was
meeting my neighbors and fellow organic farmers. At night, I slept
soundly, listening to the waves crashing on the rocky shore. I
ached to see him again, barely content with the occasional note or
phone call, but as the weeks passed I began to feel a growing
excitement. He was coming home to me. He would be here soon. It was
just a matter of weeks, of days, before I would find him walking up
the garden path.

On the last day of the third month, it
happened. After not hearing from him for nearly three weeks, he
just appeared, like a mirage. I was sitting on the lanai, sipping a
cool drink in the afternoon shade. Blinking hard, I thought I had
imagined him.

“Bonjour!” he cheerfully called out. “Guess
who is home!”

I couldn’t wait to wrap my arms about him,
to feel the sinewy strength of his muscular body against mine. Our
lips met in a passionate kiss that took my breath away. Jean-Claude
had made his way home to me, safe and sound.

Some time later, as we lingered over dinner,
our hands entwined, he gave me the news. I knew he was excited by
the way his eyes gleamed.

“Three days ago, Guillaume Chartier was
arrested in Basse-Terre and flown to Paris to stand trial.”

“Really?” I felt my heart flutter.

“Really. He ordered one of his minions to
murder Guadeloupe’s police commissioner. The hit man just happened
to be an informant for us. We were able to record the conversation.
With a couple of other operatives flipping on Chartier, it’s
unlikely he will be free any time soon. We should celebrate,
Nora.”

“Indeed we should.” The full impact of this
hit me hard. I squeezed his hand, suddenly unable to speak, and
wiped away the tears that rolled down my cheeks.

“Marry me.”

I was not expecting a proposal. As I gazed
into those eyes, there was no mistaking the passion that burned
brightly. Suddenly I knew I couldn’t bear the thought of him
leaving me again. Nor I could bear the thought of leaving the
Hawaiian Butterfly Coffee and Spice Company behind as I followed
him to France. Once more, I found my heart was breaking.

“But you are a policeman,” I sobbed, “and I
am a farmer.”

“Was a policeman,” he smiled. “Now I am a
businessman.”

“You are?”

“Absolutely,” he smiled. “By the way, the
French government has seized Le Papillon Coffee and Spice Company
and all of its assets. Because you are the owner of record, the
farm and its orchards belong to your estate. I arranged for your
lawyers to put it through probate, so that your cousins will
inherit. It is to be sold at a private auction within the next six
months, to one of the legitimate coffee growers on Martinique.”

“But I don’t have any cousins,
Jean-Claude.”

“You do now, ma chérie,” he winked at me.
“When the sale goes through, we will take the profits and purchase
more land here for our new future, our new family.”

“Children? But what if something goes wrong
here? What will we do?”

“We’ll still be together. There’s always
Tahiti...Bora Bora...Fiji....”

“The South Pacific will be our oyster.
Lovely,” I sighed, stroking his hand with great affection.
“Paradise.”

“Indeed. But you have not given me your
answer yet. Will you marry me, Nora Hazen?”

“Mais oui!”

For the first time since Jared’s death, I
slept like the proverbial baby, feeling almost safe again. I hit
the snooze button three times. Nancy finally came to check on me at
quarter to eight.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay,” I smiled, sitting up
in bed and stretching. “It’s a new day and I’m raring to go!”

Chapter Thirty
Four

“Good for you, Marigold. I’m glad to hear
that. Now hurry up and get dressed, so we can go grab some
breakfast before Rocky gets here. Terry and I are playing golf
while he meets with you.”

We were at the Fairways Café when Rocky
phoned, wanting to know where to find us. He was sitting in his
rental car in the parking lot, a few hundred yards away. A few
moments later, he joined us on the terrace.

“You folks enjoying your vacation?” he asked
jovially, as he pulled up a chair and set down his briefcase.

“I knocked a stroke off my handicap,” Terry
replied. “I must say this case has been rewarding.”

“I’ll just bet,” said the security chief for
Roaring Kill Productions. “How would you like the chance to make it
two strokes?”

“Meaning what?” Nancy wanted to know. I
thought I detected a slight eagerness in her voice. “We’re staying
down here?

“Is there any problem with that?”

“Well,” Terry paused for a moment, thinking.
I could see him giving the subject serious consideration. “Are we
talking about a week, two weeks, or longer? If we’re going to be
down here a while, I’ve got to take care of some business back
home.”

“Me too,” Nancy told Rocky. “I’ve got
appointments. And my mother’s birthday is next Friday. I promised
to take her out to dinner.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you two plan on
going home for the week? I won’t have any trouble finding folks to
fill in for you. When you’re ready, you can come back. Sound
good?”

“Does it ever!” Nancy gave us a toothy
grin.

Rocky and I walked back to the hotel
together, leaving Terry and Nancy to start their daily round of
golf. I could tell there was something important on his mind, but
he waited until we were in the hotel room. I sat on one bed, he on
the other.

“Marigold, how many times did you travel to
Curaçao?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. It was usually spur of
the moment. Jared was like that. I think I went with him five or
six times. Why?”

“Do you remember where you stayed?”

“Usually we stayed at hotels in Willemstad.
Is it important, Rocky?”

“Very.” His dark eyes were intense as he
studied me.

“We were at the Renaissance twice, the
Marriot twice, and Blue Bay Beach once.”

“You never stayed at big house on the
beach?”

“No,” I laughed. “I’d remember that. Jared
always rented us either a small suite or a double room. Why?”

“You’re absolutely certain you never stayed
in a house.”

“Positive. Now you’re making me nervous,
Rocky. What’s going on?”

Rocky popped the latch on his briefcase and
withdrew a manila folder. He opened it up, turned it around, and
placed it in front of me.

“Do you recognize this place?”

There was a photograph of a distinctly
Curaçaoan home, rather grand, with a winding driveway and graceful
cement walls that curved around the steps up to the front door.

“Charming,” I decided. “It looks like
something you’d see in Willemstad.”

“It is. Are you familiar with it?”

“I don’t think so.”

Rocky took out nine more photos. There was a
beach hut, a living room, a master bedroom, a couple more guest
rooms, a chef’s kitchen, some bathrooms, and a terrace with an
infinity pool overlooking the ocean. “Does any of this look
familiar?”

“It looks like something
Jared showed me from
Architectural
Digest
.”

“But you never stayed here?”

“No. I mean, look at it, Rocky.” I pulled out
the terrace photo and showed it to him. “Why would I forget a
private oasis with a view? You don’t erase a memory like this.”

He pulled another folder out of his
briefcase, but held it to his chest, watching me carefully. I felt
the seconds tick past and waited. “Did Jared ever take you anywhere
besides Curaçao?”

“We went to Montreal twice, the Dominican
Republic once, Grand Cayman twice, and then after that, the rest of
the trips were to Curaçao.”

“And every time you went, you informed your
WitSec handlers?”

“Of course. It would have been irresponsible
not to tell them.”

“And you’re a very responsible woman, aren’t
you, Marigold?”

“I have to be,” I admitted. “If I’m not,
someone could get killed.” That point had been drilled into my head
as a teenager when my family entered the program. Real killers
intended to kill my father and that made the rest of us
vulnerable.

“Ever go to Cyprus?”

“The island in the Mediterranean? No. I’ve
only been to those countries I told you about, and only for long
weekends. I’ve never even been to Europe to see my sister play in
her orchestra. She always comes back to the States for our family
reunions. My other sister’s an Army trauma surgeon, so she
sometimes comes back for retraining or on assignment.”

“Could either of your sisters pass for
you?”

“I don’t think so. They’re both much taller
than I am, with different coloring. Pansy and Violet have blue eyes
and blonde hair. Me, I got my mother’s green eyes and auburn
hair.”

“I’m going to ask you something and I want an
honest answer, Marigold. Is this your signature?”

Rocky placed a piece of paper with
odd-looking lettering that I couldn’t decipher. “This looks Greek
to me.”

“It is the Hellenic alphabet, also used in
Cyprus. Do you recognize your signature?”

“Not really. I don’t think I ever signed
anything for Jared that wasn’t in English.”