Benef

ARTIE’S PIERCING, COLD STARE TOOK HIM BY SURPRISE. HER EYES plunged daggers through him, as though facing an enemy.

“Since I’m not sure where to begin, let’s just begin,” Artie growled. He gave her only a hint of a nod.

Her words sharp and biting, she continued. “I’m sure you know that Carole’s dead. You know, the FBI agent in charge of Smythe’s case. My best friend, my confidant, our go-between.”

He slowly nodded, his eyes barely showing the fear that now gripped him in a vise.

“Of course, you do. You also know that my life was threatened.”

He closed his eyes and offered a single nod.

“And, of course, you remember Smythe. Cute, light brown-skinned woman, buzz haircut, Malcolm X looking black glasses, about 5’6”, my girlfriend?” Artie grit her teeth. “The woman I’ve been hired to protect!”

“Of course, I know her, and I know you, Artie. Why are you so angry?” He searched her eyes, wondering what had happened to cause Artie to show such fury toward him.

“It’s been almost a year, that’s why! We’re into early fall, damn it, and you never once revealed that you were my financial benefactor to protect Smythe! Why not?!”

A slight frown formed around the edges of his mouth. He looked down at his hands. He held them together, his right hand over his left in an effort to ease a slight tremor that had begun to surface. The tremors were the result of a slow-moving degenerative disease which would one day take his life.

“Answer me! Why not?”

“It brings me too much pain to discuss the why; suffice it to say, it is as you say,” he offered quietly.

“I’m having a hard time trusting you right now. Just so you know, I have my security detail posted just outside. You will tell me,” Artie growled.

The baker stood in the middle of his shop. He had just closed up for the day when Artie knocked on his door. He opened the door and welcomed her in, stating he had nothing to offer her. She flatly explained that she wasn’t there for food or drink, but for information. As she entered, she locked the door behind her.

“May I sit?” he asked. “It has been a long day.”

Artie nodded. The baker moved to a booth toward the front of the shop, and Artie took a seat across from him. The lights were dimmed low. Artie glanced around, noticing the shop was eerily aglow from the street lamps outside.

“It is a story of love, Artie,” the baker began, his sorrow cracking his voice at his memory. “But let me preface that my intention has always been to protect Smythe. You must believe me.”

“Then why the secrecy, Joao? Smythe trusted you. She thought of you as this kindly older gentleman baker, the kind of which stories are written about. She confided her most precious inner thoughts to you. How could you pretend not to know the details of the case, or of her? How could you pretend to be so wise? Or were you just pretending to befriend her? Damn it, Joao, you betrayed her!”

“You are incorrect, Artie. I did not know the intimate details of the case. I only knew them as Smythe herself told them to me. Once I learned of her experience—what she saw and what she felt—only then could I counsel her.”

The veins in Artie’s neck were beginning to protrude, and her ribs ached from the long days in preparation for Smythe’s second travel excursion outside the valley. She was physically weakened, refusing to acknowledge even to herself the severe extent of her injuries. She needed rest, but she was singularly focused on engaging in this conversation; her heart broken in jagged pieces at what she believed was the baker’s betrayal of trust to Smythe.

“Joao, you were her benefactor from the beginning. That’s why the FBI didn’t place her in WitSec. My company came in at my friend’s urging with the necessary monies already in place because of you. You knew, at least from the beginning, that her life was in danger.”

“Yes, this is true, but all that she has gone through I was unaware of until she said so herself. As I discovered the ruthlessness of him, the two physical threats against her, that is when I needed to add more money for security. And I am willing to do so again, if need be.”

“Why!” Artie demanded, slamming her fist on the table.

“Let me start from the beginning, please,” he implored.

His story wound through the decades of his life. He described his entry into the United States, immigrating from Portugal to Hawaii 35 years ago. His father, an outsider to Hawaii, came to the islands employed by sugar plantations. As he grew into adulthood, he came to understand the colonization of the Hawaiian islands and could no longer remain there. He watched as, year after year, those in power stole lands from the Hawaiian people.

He considered himself a simple man who only wished to bake and, unable to contain his grief in Hawaii, he moved to the valley. It was his single wish to open a simple bakery and delight his customers with his mother’s old recipes; recipes she was eager to pass onto a willing son. After a several years of working for other bakery shops, he saved enough money to open his own.

Over a very short period of time, his bakery became tremendously popular, outperforming all other bakeries in the city. He was not surprised by the success because the Universe had placed a vision on his heart. All he had to do was execute it. It also helped that word of mouth about his shop traveled near and far by many from Hawaii who had also made their way to the valley. That was enough for him. He met his wife there in that tiny shop. She was a customer, and after first sampling his pastries, she made it a daily habit to visit the shop.

“Much like Smythe does. Only Isabella wasn’t only interested in the pastries,” he said. “She seemed to have a genuine interest in me, but I worked such long hours and could not court her apart from our encounters in my shop. So, I devised a plan. I would ask her if she would come and work for me. I knew she had a good job and probably made more money there, but I was desperate to see more of her. To my delight, she said yes. We worked long hours together, but we were happy. I married her, and we had a beautiful daughter together.

“As time went on, our tiny shop became too small for its popularity, and we decided on a larger one. We skimped and saved until we purchased this one, and have been here ever since.

“Our next adventure was to save enough money to send our daughter to college. We were so happy, so proud of her. When the time came, she studied business. She was kind and compassionate, just like Smythe. She was determined to franchise our shop so that her mother and I would not have to work the long hours anymore. She had such big ideas. She was accepted into University through a scholarship and graduated with high marks. So proud we were! She then started to work for a local bank in town. She wanted to add enough money so that the money we would have used for her college could be used to help us franchise the shop. It was then that things went horribly wrong.

“Somehow, I do not know where or when, but she started to date the man that Smythe is going to testify against. One day, my daughter called me and said she unexpectedly visited his place of business to bring him a surprise lunch. She said she saw him shoot a man to death. She was so scared, Artie. She did not know what to do. I told her to go to the police, but she was too afraid. When I pressed her on why, she said she did not trust that the police would do anything. She had met a couple of his friends, and they were somehow connected to law enforcement. This frightened me, Artie. I told her to pack her bags and go to the airport, and I would purchase a ticket in her name. I said I would send her to Portugal, my ancestral home. There, my family could watch after her. Artie… she never made it there.”

The baker lowered his eyes, his smile turning to a frown.

“What happened, Joao?” Artie flatly asked.

“Once we hung up from each other, we had no more contact that night. I assumed she made her flight and would call me once she arrived in my home country. But she did not call. When I called my family, they said she never arrived. I called her home, but she did not answer. I hoped she had caught a different or later flight. I checked with the airline, but she never claimed her ticket. I knew then that something bad had happened. I called my Ohana on the island of Kauai, believing she may have chosen to go there instead, as I took her there many times as a child. But she was not there.

“I went to her apartment, but she was not there either. I went to her business, and still nothing. So, I went to the police, but they did not seem to understand the gravity of the situation, except for one young detective. He said he would quietly look into the matter, but then I never saw him again. Over a month went by. Finally, a news report came out about some hunters in the mountains. Near a deep crevice, a decomposing female body was found. My heart sank. I knew it was my daughter. The police notified me days later. It tore my heart to pieces, Artie! And it ultimately killed my Isabella. She died of a broken heart a month later.” The baker remained perfectly still and quiet, his sorrow palpable.

“He did this to my family, and I had been looking for a way to pay him back,” He said through gritted teeth.

The baker sat for just a moment, adjusting his shirt collar and wiping his brow with a napkin. He closed his eyes, feeling the rhythm of his beating heart. A heart that lost its love. He had not felt the heaviness of his anger for so long, and the memory of his family’s death was a searing ache that he had never spoken of before now.

He stared at the top of the table that separated him from Artie’s wrath. In almost whispered tones, he continued. “The thing is, the Universe does not reward hatred or revenge. This, I knew, but yet I still hated. I hated him for so long. I worked night and day and simmered in my hatred until I almost went insano. Um, insane, I mean.

“It was the Universe, however, that finally saved me. Day by day, I came to understand my hatred could not bring my daughter or my wife back to me. I saw the hatred in my heart had only blackened my spirit. Of what use was that? After my wife died, I sold our home and moved into the apartment above the shop. It was, and still is, all that I need,” he said, pausing for a long moment deep in thought.

“So, when you found out Smythe was the key witness in this man’s trial, you saw an opening,” Artie said.

The baker lifted his head and met Artie’s eyes. It was time for him to tell her what she must know.

“I saw an opening to do good, yes. Yes! He was never brought to trial in my daughter’s death, but I knew he was the one responsible. I had received a call from an ohana. Akamu is his name. He had given some papers to his son’s son to bring to the valley. Akamu had lost touch with him and was worried. He said these papers were very important to the island, and Alika was supposed to have given these documents to his people. Artie, Alika was killed by this man. So, yes. I saw my chance to do good.

“You see, the money of my creations never once stopped flooding in. My shop is so busy. All day long, every day, it so busy. When I heard of an eyewitness of Alika’s murder at the hands of this man, I closed my shop one day and met with the FBI agent in charge of the case. I said I wanted to help in any way I could, and that I had money. I said the witness will need protection, and I explained what he did to my daughter and that I knew Alika. She seemed very interested in this. I offered money for protection to the one who identified my daughter’s killer. But your friend brushed me off, insisting that they would protect her. No more than a few days later, I received a call asking if my offer still stood. She explained your company to me. I just met Smythe this year before she witnessed the murder.

“Artie, I could not spend all of the monies that I had in the short time that I have left. Smythe is such a kind person. She reminds me so much of my daughter—only difference is in their ages. And she has chosen a path that will ultimately be for the good of all. It makes me happy to help. I did not know it was Smythe I was protecting until she came in months ago with you and told me she was the eyewitness. It was then that I figured it out and that you were her protector. The Universe has rewarded my patience.”

“You knew this Alika?”

“Not directly, no.”

“Do you know where the documents are?”

“No, I do not. I only know he had them.”

“Does this Aku—”

“Akamu.”

“Does he know where they are?”

“No, he does not know. I asked him if I could help. He said I could not, and asked that I say nothing of this to anyone. I speak Akamu’s name in confidence. You must tell no one.”

“Joao, I can’t go into specifics about the case, but it is important to find out where those documents are.”

“As far as I know, they are lost, Artie. Lost. I am an old man, and Akamu is an old man. The documents—if they are still around—are for the young to find and make right what has been made wrong.”

“You are not an old man, Joao.”

“Artie, we all have a day appointed to us from God our Source. I do not know when my day is; however, doctors tell me that I will meet that day soon. My hand trembles more, and the weakness in my legs is getting more severe. My life is as a simple baker. This shop allows for the creative energy of the Universe, my God, to work through me. The Universe has rewarded my diligence to root out hatred from my heart by allowing my creations to put a smile on many faces throughout the day. My friend, I could not ask for more, except perhaps that I had my wife and daughter beside me.”

The baker released his left hand from the grip of his right. He looked through Artie to the distant past, remembering and tracing the facial features of his beloved wife and daughter. He smiled at the thought and said, “They shared my love for baking, for life itself. Do you know why my pastries are so popular?”

“Because they’re delicious.”

The baker’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, my friend, for those kind words. But it is more than that. Each type of pastry has unique healing qualities. My mother taught me about the herbs she uses for each one. There are just enough in each batch of dough to have a unique effect,” he explained.

“There are drugs in your pastries, Joao?”

“No no no, my friend. Please, let me show you.”

He rose from his seat and walked gingerly toward the kitchen of his shop, gesturing for Artie to follow. As she trailed behind him, it was only then that Artie truly began to see the physical deterioration of her benefactor. His cautious walk was coupled with a limp that dropped his foot with a louder than normal tap to the floor.

I understand the limp now.

In the kitchen, Joao reached above a countertop into an open-air stainless-steel shelf and removed a single small Mason glass jar with what appeared to be crushed seeds held within it. He poured a minute amount of the seeds into the palm of his hand and pushed the seeds around with his index finger.

“I put a much smaller amount into a particular type of pastry dough. This one is said to have physical healing properties. At least, that is what my mother taught me. And it seems to be so. I have watched many of my guests who have had missteps and have bruised themselves or suffered from pain all recover in just a few short days. Your injuries were extensive, too, but you will recover quickly.”

“The pastry that Smythe brought to me,” Artie mumbled to herself more than anyone.

Artie remembered that in addition to the box of malasadas Smythe returned with, she also held a bag with two pastries of the same type. She offered them to Artie, stating that the baker said they had healing properties. Artie didn’t know how much healing was contained in the pastries, but her stomach was grateful, and she consumed both of them before returning to Smythe’s apartment.

“Yes.”

“I remember feeling slightly more energized. The pain had dulled, and I could move without feeling so encumbered.”

“I do not understand how they work; only that they do. They are common herbs which are found in nature. The ingredients are clearly marked on my board but, alas, no one reads them. At any rate, it is better to repeat the herb daily for a few days.”

“Will they not help you?”

“Indeed, they have. Trust me; I would have not been able to keep my shop open for as long as I have without them. But, no, they will not stop the progression of the disease. I do not know enough about them to do that.”

Artie’s eyes narrowed, and she stared with dispassionate interest toward Joao.

“Trust you? An interesting choice of words. You lied to me, and you lied to Smythe. It’s a bit hard to trust you right now, although I am trying.”

“Artie, I never lied to you or to Smythe,” he replied.

“Omission is the same as a lie. We’ve been coming here for months. Months! You had plenty of opportunities to take me aside and reveal who you are.”

The baker slowly shook his head.

“Why? Why not reveal yourself?” Artie asked gently.

“Because of Smythe.”

“What do you mean?”

The baker remained silent, and it was in the silence that Artie noticed his expression took on a graying sorrow. A soft melody that Smythe would hum while writing began to quietly play in Artie’s mind. The baker simply bowed his head and withdrew into himself. After a few moments, he peered into Artie’s eyes. Artie closed hers, and, in a moment of clarity, she suddenly understood the answers to her question.

“It would have been that much harder to protect her. She would have wanted all of the resources that you provided for her to be used for your own protection and health,” she quietly said.

“You understand.”

“You still could have told me.”

“And then you would have had a lie of omission to maintain in your relationship with her. I have watched with great joy as you two have drawn closer together. I could only hope that you would find each other in love through all of this. No, Artie, you could not know.”

“I won’t be able to keep this from her,” Artie said gently.

“I know, and I am prepared for whatever disagreement she will put up.”

“What of the suspect’s understanding of you? Does he know you are the father of the woman he killed? That you knew the grandfather of Akamu?”

“Not that I am aware. No one knew except for your friend, the FBI agent. She asked for Akamu’s information, which I provided, but only after speaking with Akamu. Smythe is incredibly kind and compassionate, and she is only beginning to understand who she is. She will do good by removing him from the valley, but beyond that, she has much good to offer the world. You must leave no detail unexamined on your part. If you need additional security, hire them and let me know. Do not bother the FBI.”

“The cost so far has been astronomical, Joao. It has even surpassed my financial resources. I would not have been able to offer the level of protection that we’ve provided without your backing. How much longer can you afford to do this?”

“I have more monies than you,” the baker said with a twinkle in his eyes. “All is well.”

“I will trouble you no further.”

Pausing for a moment, Artie added, “Joao, I am going to further restrict Smythe’s movements. In particular, her ability to see you. It is as much for her protection as it is now yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do, my friend. I only hope she does. Tell my daughter all is well, and one day we will see each other again. And thank you, Artie, for my protection. I have noticed them in and out of my shop.”

Artie rose from her seat and slowly made her way to the door, the baker following behind her.

“I’m not saying we won’t order our malasadas, but she won’t be here to see you personally; after all, your malasadas are life,” she said, walking out the door.

Joao watched as she entered her waiting SUV, closing and locking the door behind her. He stood at the door as Artie’s vehicle drove away. “I will have your healing pastries waiting for you, my dear Artie,” he softly said.

Artie returned to Smythe’s apartment and found her in bed reading. She was winding down for the evening, and the lack of Artie’s presence allowed her to concentrate more fully on the heady subject she was absorbing from her new book find. Artie bolted the front door behind her, double-checked the indoor security measures she had installed in the apartment, and quietly headed back to the bedroom.

“Hey there.”

“Oh my god, you startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Part of the trade, baby, I’m sorry. I’m going to take a shower,” Artie said, pointing in the direction of the bathroom.

Smythe rose from her bed and approached Artie.

“How about taking a bath? I think you need to soak for a bit.”

She lightly kissed Artie’s cheek as she passed her and proceeded into the bathroom, where she drew a warm lavender bath. Once Artie undressed, Smythe gently helped her into the bathtub and continued to allow the tub to fill until it covered Artie’s body completely. Artie leaned against the back of the tub, playing with the bubbles that conformed to her body’s displacement in the water. Turning off the tub water, Smythe turned to gather Artie’s clothes.

“Come back?”

“In a moment. Rest in the water for a bit. Let me add your clothes to the washer.”

Artie closed her eyes, allowing herself only to think about the baker’s condition.

How could I have not noticed the severity of his condition before now?

She continued to sit in the warm water, allowing her muscles to release the tension of the day. She thought of the baker’s healing pastry and decided that she would order a half dozen along with malasadas in the morning. She became aware of the hum of the washer, and within a few seconds, watched as Smythe entered the bathroom again. Smythe placed the lid down on the toilet seat and sat upon it.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired, but good.”

“Does it matter, or am I being too nosy to ask where you went? You seemed agitated as you left.”

Artie offered Smythe a gentle smile.

“You can ask. It concerned you.”

“Oh. I expected that you were doing something around Carole, meeting with her family or something.”

“The FBI made notifications to her mother. I called her earlier today. I’ll have to make arrangements to go out and see her in the next day or so and find out when the funeral is. Smythe,” Artie said before pausing. “What I’m going to say next may upset you.”

Smythe held her breath for a moment, her face expressionless.

“I met with the baker this evening. I needed to confront him.”

“Confront him? Artie, why?” Smythe asked.

“When we found Carole in her car, I found a piece of paper next to her right hand in the car seat. I had just enough time to grab it. Something told me that it was important, so I basically made a fool of myself and finagled my way close enough to take it before the entire area was sealed off. On the paper was Joao’s name and the word benef,” Artie said.

“What do you mean, Artie? What does benef mean?” Smythe asked, slightly confused. She looked down at the floor.

“Benef, benefec, benefector,” she silently mouthed. “Benefactor. Joao is my benefactor.”

“Yes. I don’t know if Carole knew she was about to die or not, but I think that note was for me, Smythe. When I put it together just like you did, I knew I needed to confront Joao about it.”

Smythe rejected even the notion that Joao was the benefactor providing the monies for her protection. How could he be? she thought. It seemed too shocking to comprehend. He wouldn’t mask his identity. Not from me. And if he was my benefactor, why would he hide it? None of this makes any sense.

All of this time, she thought Joao had befriended her, counseled her, loved her.

“What did he say?” Smythe asked, her heartache pained across her face.

“He confirmed it.”

Artie went into detail about her conversation with the baker, which included the murder of his daughter, the death of his wife, and his reasons for assisting in the protection of Smythe.

“He says he didn’t know that the person he was protecting was you until we came into the shop the day after the first attempt on your life occurred. Do you recall pouring your heart out to him then?”

“I do.”

“It was then that he discovered it was you that his money was invested in, and that it was me who was protecting you.”

Smythe took in a breath and released it. “I’m not going to pretend like I’m not, Artie. I’m in shock. I’m also saddened by his motivation for bankrolling my protection. I think that hurts the most.”

“Baby, there’s more.”

Smythe looked into Artie’s eyes. She suddenly felt weary, her heart grieving for her friend. To experience such tragedy—the thought of it all was more than she thought she could bear. But she wanted to hear it all; she even felt compelled to listen to it all. She sat very still and hung on every syllable Artie spoke.

Artie explained Joao’s deteriorating health, and that, given her conversation with him, death was imminent but not immediate, and he was insistent no amount of money would save him. Now unable to contain her grief, Smythe’s’ eyes filled with tears as she looked around the bathroom, searching for the strength to respond.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I knew something was wrong, but I thought it was just his age. I always wondered who would take over his business, wrongly believing he had children to take it over,” Smythe said, choking back tears. “Can we go see him tomorrow? I’d like to hug him.”

Artie slowly shook her head.

“Baby, we can’t. They just killed Carole. My gut tells me they’re coming for you. For all intents and purposes, consider yourself in a modified version of WitSec. After the trial, yes, of course, we can go see him, but until then, we just can’t.”

Smythe remembered her promise to Artie. She reminded herself she would double down on her efforts to follow Artie’s lead when it came to her protection. Faced with a deep need to see her friend, she found it difficult to keep that promise now.

She expressed her need to disobey Artie; that Joao was the closest thing to a real father that she had. She feared he would die before she had the opportunity to reconnect with him and asked Artie to reconsider. Artie, however, remained steadfast. She said she could not force Smythe to refrain from visiting the baker, but she hoped Smythe would remain in the apartment.

As the bath water cooled, Artie sat up and let the water begin to drain from the tub. The air around her felt heavy, and Artie found it difficult to hold up her own body weight. Smythe steadied her as she stood up and turned on the shower so she could wash her body. Once Artie was finished bathing, Smythe helped her out of the shower, dried her off, and got her dressed into a pair of sleeping boxers and a T-shirt. They got into bed and held each other.

“What if he dies before I can see him again?” Smythe asked again desperately.

“He won’t. He has quite a bit of time. I promised Joao we would still order our food from him. My team will pick it up and keep us informed of his appearance. How about instead of an in-person conversation, you send him notes with my team? He can answer them at his leisure. That’s the best I can offer.”

“Can I call him instead? Or I could buy him a cellphone with texting capabilities so we could text one another.”

“Baby, it’s too unsecured. Written, sealed notes delivered by my team only.”

“It hurts, Artie, but I made a promise to you.”

Smythe moved from Artie’s arms and rose from her bed. She padded into the dining room, where she turned on the overhead light. Finding a pad of paper and a pencil, she sat at the dining room table. Staring at the pad, she began to write. An hour later, she returned to a sleeping Artie. As she entered into bed, Artie took her into her arms and returned to sleep.