The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (8 page)

“A chance in several million, but I learned the hard way a long time ago never to discount
any
possibility. That little cat needs a litter tray, if you don’t mind my speaking frankly, Doc. Better fix it real fast so she knows where to go. Then you’ll never have any problem with her.”

“Spoken like an expert.”

“Yeah, well, I have three of my own. That and opera and cooking keep me from being too introspective. Well, I’d better go. I’m due in court in half an hour. See ya, Doc.” He paused at the door. “By the way, I’m following up the French connection with the passport and immigration authorities. If Bea is French, we’ll soon know who she is.”

8

B
ea felt like an amateur in the game of life. She knew how to do everyday things, even what music she liked, and how to cook. Nothing fancy, but she was capable enough, and she remembered recipes, many of them French. She remembered the familiar faces of TV personalities, the names of authors whose books she enjoyed, movies she had liked. But she didn’t know where she had seen those faces before or where she had read those books or in what movie houses in what towns she had seen the films.

“Don’t worry about it,” Phyl told her. “It will come to you bit by bit. Remember you are on R and R leave here, rest and recuperation. I just want you to get strong again and enjoy life.”

But even though Phyl sounded confident, Bea wasn’t at all sure that her memory would return, because every time she tried to cast her thoughts back she came up against the same blankness. It was as though her mind were covered by the same black cloud as the child on the steps of the pink villa she had dreamed about. Because she was convinced it was only a dream. If that villa had ever existed, she would have remembered
it. And if she were the child, she would have known who she was.

She had not told Phyl that. Phyl still thought it was a breakthrough. And certainly the fact that she spoke French as easily as she spoke English was a remarkable discovery. And it was good Parisian French, the experts had deduced from her accent, though she didn’t recall ever being in Paris. It was the only definite thing from her past. Unless it was not a true memory but just a second-nature reaction, something locked into the computer part of her brain that never disappeared, like knowing how to cook.

Phyl had said that it might be an asset that would prove useful later, though she refused to say why. Anyhow, Bea did not want to think about later. She didn’t want to think beyond the moment.

She had been at Phyl’s a month and had rarely left the apartment, but this evening Phyl said she was taking her shopping. Bea didn’t know whether she was looking forward to it or not. The idea of the crowded stores and people staring at her cropped head, of making choices, walking in the street, eating in a restaurant terrified her.
Real life terrified her.
She liked it here, in Phyl’s beautiful apartment. It was big, light, uncluttered.
Safe.

Mahoney rang from downstairs to announce his arrival. He had gotten into the habit of dropping by from time to time. “To check on the cat,” he said.

“To visit
Phyl
, you mean,” Bea said, teasing him. She laughed at his embarrassment. “Come on, Detective Mahoney, admit it. I can’t blame you, she is gorgeous. And wonderful. And generous.”

“And an occasional pain in the ass.” Mahoney grinned, letting the kitten clamber up his leg, claws clinging to his jeans. He scooped it up and sat it in the palm of his big hand, and it stared arrogantly around, claiming its victory.

“And anyway, how do you know I’m not working
undercover, pretending I’m here to see Coco when in reality I’m checking on you? Seeing if you’re holding out on me and have remembered everything?”

“I’m not holding out,” Bea said seriously. “I really can’t remember a single thing about the past. Not even”—she hesitated, and a flash of fear crossed her face—“not even who tried to kill me.”

The door slammed as Phyl breezed in, home early to take Bea shopping. Since Bea had moved in, Phyl’s whole life had changed. Here she was, the dedicated loner who kept her emotions to herself and valued her privacy and independence above all, sharing her home with the victim of a murder attempt and a Siamese cat. Furthermore, she liked it. She liked having someone yell hello when she came home and the appetizing smells of cooking coming from the kitchen and Coco scampering eagerly to greet her, claws skittering on the polished boards. She didn’t even mind the cat hairs on her black jacket.

Somehow in these weeks together they had helped each other. Phyl, the smart psychiatrist who locked away her own emotions and her past by burying herself in her work, and Bea, the girl with no past and a threat hanging over her future.

Phyl yelled hi as she flung her raincoat onto the sofa instead of hanging it neatly in the closet, as she would certainly have done a few weeks ago. Today she was going to begin Bea’s rehabilitation. She had plans for her. And over dinner, after the shopping expedition, she was going to reveal what those plans were.

She sighed when she saw Mahoney with Bea.

“Not you again, Mahoney,” she said scathingly. “How are they ever managing at the police department without you? Or are you just on your way to solving the crime of the century?”

Mahoney sighed exaggeratedly, and Bea grinned, watching them spar. He folded his arms wide and quoted in a melodious voice:

Then he said solemnly, “Doc, someone should tell you that aggression does not suit you. Seems to me Swinburne had the right answer.”

“I’m not your ‘mistress,’ so don’t quote European poets to me, Mahoney. And if you’re here to collect on that dinner I owe you, I’m sorry but I already have a date.”

Mahoney grinned. “Yeah. Bea told me. Shopping and dinner. Sorry I can’t join you. I just came by to make sure you’re treating Coco right. And to tell you that we’ve drawn a blank at passport and immigration. Every Frenchwoman in Bea’s age-group entering the country prior to her—to the incident has been accounted for. Meanwhile, I’m still working on the thousands of names on the airline manifests of women traveling to San Francisco in the week prior to that. Every name is being checked against its real-life owner. We’ve also inquired about private aircraft. There were plenty that night. From Mexico, Baja, Palm Desert, and Hawaii. All were piloted by their owners, and none was carrying a female passenger.”

Bea looked downcast; she’d had high hopes that he would find her name on the airline lists.

Mahoney patted Bea’s shoulder comfortingly and said, “I have to go, or I’ll be late solving that crime of the century and miss my chance at being mayor!”

Phyl was holding the kitten, and he stopped to tickle it behind the ears. “You’re looking good, Doc,” he said with an approving grin.

“Oh, thanks, Mahoney,” she said sarcastically again. “But I’m not sure I need your backhanded compliments.”

He laughed as he walked to the door. She turned her head as she felt his eyes on her.

“I don’t know, though,” he said consideringly. “Maybe it’s all that sitting I warned you about, or maybe it’s the home-cooked food, but I’d say your butt looks bigger.”

“Oaf,” she yelled after him as he slammed the door, laughing. “Beast. Asshole.”

The door opened again, and he poked his head around, looking shocked. “Doc, Doc, really. Resorting to bad language. You must ask yourself what that means….”

“Oh, you—you cop,” she yelled as he disappeared again, still laughing.

Bea was laughing, too, and despite herself, Phyl joined in. “Why do I like him?” she asked half to herself. “The man is a conceited chauvinist.”

But he had made Bea laugh, and she liked that. Her protégée was ready for her first outing, and she inspected her. She was pleased with what she saw.

Bea’s soft copper hair was growing in, finally hiding the hideous scars. Now it feathered softly around her face, making her look like a young Audrey Hepburn. Her velvety copper brown eyes were two shades lighter than her hair, and her skin was no longer the color of moonstones but of fresh cream. She was still too thin, of course. The bones were too close to the surface, showing every bump in her spine, the sinews of her long neck, her wrist and ankle bones prominent. But compared with only a month ago, she looked wonderful.

She was wearing jeans and a shirt Phyl had bought for her, and Phyl knew she would be a joy to dress. And she was right. Everything looked good on Bea’s tall, slender frame.

They covered the designer departments in the stores and the younger boutiques, and despite Bea’s protests, Phyl insisted on equipping her for every possible occasion, from casual to cocktail.

“But where am I going to wear all these lovely
clothes?” Bea demanded as they struggled back to the car burdened with yet more shopping bags.

“That’s what I’m going to tell you over dinner,” Phyl said briskly. “And if ever two women deserved a good dinner, we do. We have battled the stores bravely, particularly you, and emerged with the trophies of victory. Now let’s celebrate.”

She had booked a table at Stars, and Bea slipped the supple new bronze suede jacket over her T-shirt and jeans. She put on the dangling amber earrings Phyl had insisted on buying and a touch of the Prescriptives Havana lipstick the saleswoman had recommended.

“Well, look at you,” Phyl marveled as they took their seats in the restaurant. “You’re turning every head in the place.”

“I thought they were staring at you.” Bea glanced cautiously around. “This is wonderful,” she said, pleased. “But I wish you hadn’t spent all that money on me, Phyl. I promise I’ll pay you back, though. One day. When I get a job.”

“Speaking of a job, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Bea stared at Phyl with astonishment, as she ordered a bottle of wine and studied the menu.

“Here’s to you, darling Bea,” Phyl said, raising her glass. “To your recovery, to your health, and to our friendship.”

“It’s I who must thank you. For everything. For giving me a roof over my head, for the lovely clothes.” She looked gratefully at Phyl and added softly, “For my sanity.”

“It’s time for phase two of the recovery,” Phyl said. “You may find this idea a little frightening, but it will achieve two things. Both of which are important to you.”

Bea stared anxiously at her. She didn’t want anything to change; she just wanted life to go on as it was now.

Phyl said, “I have a friend, Millie Renwick. She’s as rich as a Rockefeller and mad as a hatter, and she’s the most upbeat person I know. She lives in New York, and she’s looking for a social secretary—someone to keep up with her appointments, make calls for her, and act as a traveling companion.” She laughed, remembering. “A general gofer is more like it, if I know Millie. She’s an old dragon, but it’s all on the surface. Anyhow, she’s planning a trip to Paris. And since you speak French and Millie cannot utter a word to save her life, who better for the job than you?”

Bea’s stomach clenched in sudden fear at the thought. She didn’t want to go to New York; she was afraid to go to Paris.

“I know Millie well,” Phyl said. “I’ve helped her through a couple of personal traumas and have tried to overcome her guilt at having so much money and indulging herself. Though you can take it from me, she gives away as much as she spends. There’s no more generous and charitable woman on earth than Millie Renwick. But I’m warning you. She’s an original. They don’t make them like Millie anymore.

“I want you to go alone to New York to meet her. Make the quantum leap all by yourself. If you’re ever going to get back into the world again, then this is the time to go for it.” She looked eagerly at Bea. “So? What do you say?”

Despite her fears, Bea knew Phyl was right. She smiled, a little sadly. “So that’s what all the smart clothes were for?”

“Millie is a clotheshorse, and she frequents only the best places: the best restaurants, the best hotels, and the best resorts. It can’t be bad now, Bea, can it?”

They laughed together, and then Bea said, “You mentioned there were two reasons my working for Millie was a good idea. What’s the other?”