Blue Coyote Motel (43 page)

“I appreciate the call, Detective. I hope she’s alright. She was a nice lady. If anything comes to mind, I’ll call you.”

All Ralph could think about was that Maria was gone. Nothing that he knew of Maria fit the picture of a woman capable of killing her husband, taking the money, and leaving the country. He prayed that there was a rational reason for all of this. She had been his dream woman, his private fantasy. She was the only thing that had kept him going during his long drives and his loveless marriage. Maria gone? He felt like he was the one who was dead. Secretly loving someone was lonely, and knowing he would never see Maria again made it even lonelier.

CHAPTER 41

Because of time zone changes, Maria landed at Orly airport in Paris the day after leaving Phoenix. She had slept most of the way, keeping her carry-on bag close at hand. The bhurka had served its purpose and she was anxious to get rid of it. She needed to keep it on for one more plane ride and security check. If the US authorities showed her picture to the French airport security, the burkha would effectively hide her face.

The one thing she couldn't do anything about was her passport. Maria knew that counterfeit passports were readily available in the States, but it had been more important for her to leave the United States than to stay there and get a fake one. There would be a trail to Marseilles and there was nothing she could do about that. Maria had plenty of cash and she knew that if you paid cash, you generally weren't asked for identification. When she got to wherever she was going, she would begin to form a new identity. She would color her hair immediately and look into getting some plastic surgery. Contact lenses could change the color of her eyes. She hated the thought, but it probably would be a good idea for her to gain about twenty pounds. She mulled over possible new names as she thought about her new identity.

When her plane landed in Marseille, Maria went into the airport women's restroom, entered one of the stalls, and pulled the burkha over her head. No one was in the restroom so she put it in the covered wastebasket and slung her carry-on bag over her shoulder. Dressed in jeans, jacket, and sweater, other than being uncommonly beautiful, she looked like any other American tourist. Once again, she wrapped a scarf around her head and put on her big Jackie O. sunglasses.

She told the taxi driver to take her to the Sofitel Hotel, which she remembered from a recent magazine article she had read about Marseille. She paid cash for three nights and declined to show identification or give them a credit card. Maria's instincts had been right. If you had enough cash, no one asked any questions, however, she did need to cut up her credit cards. That was something she hadn't had time to do when she left the Blue Coyote. Even though she'd slept on the plane, she still felt jet-lagged. She rode the elevator up to her room, pulled down the bedcovers, and quickly fell asleep.

When she woke up she felt refreshed and ready to begin her new life. She started a list of what needed to be done. The list was long, but one of the first things she had to do was find a permanent place to stay.

Maria had grown up in a bilingual household and Spanish was the language her family spoke at home. She had taken French classes in high school for four years, more than completing her foreign language requirement. She soon discovered that she had an ear for languages and they came easily to her. Even though it had been several years since she had spoken French, when she looked in the telephone book there were very few words she didn't know or couldn't guess at their meaning. There was a lot of similarity between Spanish and French. Maybe that's why it had been so easy for her in high school.

Maria got dressed, went to the concierge and asked him where she could find a real estate office. The language encounter with the concierge confirmed that she would be able to easily communicate in French.

She walked up and down the streets near the hotel, orienting herself. After a couple of wrong turns she located the real estate office that the concierge had recommended. Rather than enter the office, she decided to return to it on the following day, as she needed to take care of some other things before she was ready to talk to anyone.

She found a drugstore and bought a hair coloring kit and some scissors. At the women's clothing store next door, she purchased a couple of tunics and some very plain slacks. Everything in her railed against the dowdy look she was beginning to achieve, but it was critical that no one remember her. She needed to blend into a crowd.

Before she went to the real estate office the next day, she needed to come up with a name. Maria decided she would go to the French Office of Immigration and Integration and tell them that all of her personal identification had been stolen from her while she was on the plane, that it must have happened when she went to the bathroom during the flight. She wore a money pouch beneath her clothing, but her passport, driver's license, credit cards, and social security number had all been stolen from her carry-on luggage. That was the story she planned to tell. She just hoped they'd believe it.

Walking back to her hotel, Maria stopped to eat at a brasserie located at the corner of Palais du Pharo and Boulevard Charles Livonbistro. She pulled the door open and was greeted by aromas of garlic and rosemary. Bouquets of lavender were everywhere. While she waited for her meal, she took out a pen and paper and continued with the preparations needed to reinvent herself.

Arriving back at her room in the Sofitel Hotel, she cut her hair; her beautiful long black hair laying in clumps on the bathroom floor. She couldn’t help but cry as she prepared the light brown hair dye. Next she got out her make-up bag and tossed it in the wastebasket. She needed to look plain, so there would be no need for makeup. Looking in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. Maria was gone. Finally, she needed to get rid of her credit cards. She cut them up into fine pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

The next morning she dressed in her new clothes. There was nothing to equate the beautiful young Hispanic woman with the mousy woman she had become. She took a cab to the French Office of Immigration and Integration where things went smoothly. They believed her story and gave her a one-year residence card, which the French called a "carte de sejour." She had become Elena Johnson.

At the real estate office, a middle-aged Frenchwoman named Simone asked if she could help Elena. She introduced herself and told Simone that she was interested in renting a cottage in Provence. Did she have anything available?

The agent told her that she had received a call earlier that morning from a gentleman who was an artist and had decided to move to northern France. He was anxious to rent his cottage. She hadn't seen it yet and was planning to take a look at it that afternoon.

"Would you like to accompany me?" Simone asked. "If you've not been to Provence before, I think you'll enjoy seeing the countryside and then, who knows, maybe you'll even like the cottage."

They agreed that Elena would return after lunch and the agent would drive them to see the cottage. The ride through the countryside was breathtakingly beautiful. Acres of vineyards, olive trees, and lavender fought one another for Elena's attention. Old stone homes and wineries were everywhere. She fell in love with the beautiful Provence countryside and knew she had made the right decision when she decided to make France her new home.

After an hour and a half, Simone pulled off the highway, entering a two-lane dirt road. Ahead of her, Elena could see a small village, which they drove around, continuing up a small hill. Near the top was a charming stone cottage with bright blue window shutters, surrounded by a stone wall with brightly colored flowers covering it.

Their knock on the door was quickly answered by a man who appeared to be in his 40’s. He was of average height, but what caught Elena's attention was his bright red hair, which was pulled back in a long ponytail. His name was Michel. A tall woman wearing a Chanel scarf came in from the herb garden outside the kitchen and warmly greeted them, asking them to call her Suzette. There were packing boxes everywhere. It looked like they would be moving in a day or two.

Michel told Simone and Elena to take their time looking around. He apologized for not being able to show them the cottage and grounds, but said that they had to get the boxes packed as the movers were coming the following morning.

The cottage was perfect. It had a large room with a huge fireplace, a kitchen that had recently been renovated, two bedrooms, and a large bathroom with a claw foot tub. The location of the house was very private, but still within walking distance of the village

Michel and Simone discussed the rent. Elena told them she wanted to rent it and asked Michel when he and Suzette were going to move out. They told her that they would be leaving the following afternoon, after the movers had finished, and Elena could move in then.

While Michel and Simone filled in the blanks on a simple lease form that Simone provided, Elena strolled down to the village which consisted of a small market, church, petrol station, post office, bakery, bistro and about seventy-five or so homes. Beautifully colored flowers and vines trailed up the stone wall leading down to the village. Bikes filled the cobblestone streets, which were too small for modern cars. In the center of town was a stone base with a plaque attached to it honoring the men who had died in World War II. It was like taking a step back in time and it was a step Elena was more than happy to take.

She returned to the cottage after her brief walking tour of the village. As she stood in front of the cottage and once again looked down at the picturesque village, she took a deep breath and began her new life.

EPILOGUE

“This is Sean Moriarty, may I help you?"

"Hi, Mr. Moriarty. This is Detective Lawrence. You may remember that I called you a few months ago about a murder at the Blue Coyote Motel. I wanted to bring you up to date.

"The final autopsy results on Jeffrey Brooks came back. It looks like he concocted some drug that was similar to one he'd been taking for a manic-depressive mental condition. We located his psychiatrist, who told us Jeffrey hadn't kept his annual check-up appointment. Our lab tests discovered a drug in his system that doesn't match any drug presently on the market. We had it analyzed and it looks like Jeffrey miscalculated one of the ingredients he put in the drug. He was badly overdosing himself. The drug, in the huge amounts he took, would have caused anyone to slide into a state of mental insanity. We believe that's what happened to him. Apparently, he was a brilliant scientist, but it's ironic he was responsible for creating the drug that caused him to become mentally insane.

"We've never found Maria and we're getting ready to put the file in what we call cold cases. We think that Jeffrey probably went completely mad and she killed him in self-defense during some sort of confrontation, and then fled the country because she was afraid of being prosecuted. We found a knife at the scene of the murder which might have been part of the confrontation. Jeffrey’s prints were all over it. It's sad because an attorney probably could have made a good case for self-defense for Maria. Guess we'll never know exactly what happened. She's completely vanished and her trail goes cold in Marseille. Have you thought of anything else?"

Sean was relieved to hear that Maria was free and not surprised that Jeffrey was responsible in some way for his own death. He mused that it was karma at its best.

"Wish I could help you, Detective, but I've told you everything I know. I'm just sorry for both of them. What a tragedy," Sean said.

"Well,” Detective Lawrence said,” I'm sure you'll never hear anything from Maria, but if you do, you know where to call, and again, thanks for your help."

Sean made a mental note to tell his Wednesday night session what the detective had told him. The last bad chapter of a bad book was thankfully at an end. Before he even thought about it, he realized he was saying a silent prayer.

“Our Father…”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To thank all those who encouraged me to write this book and to all who read to this page. I am indebted to those who vetted the book, Susan, Jacquie, Mike, Noelle, and Tom, and to those who encouraged me to take my time with it. To my editor, Amy, and my graphic artist, Regina; to Barry, for giving me guidance on how to get from A to Z; to my family for their support and to my dog, Rebel, who was extremely gracious when I would feed him late because I’d been wrapped up in the book. But most of all, I thank Tom, my husband. Once he read it, he insisted that the book see the light of day and encouraged me every step of the way, spending hours editing, fine-tuning and pointing out things I’d missed.

To each and every one of you for reading it, thanks!

ABOUT DIANNE