The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (6 page)

“I’m trying,” she said, desperately casting around in the blank that was her mind for any stray memories.
“All I can think is that you don’t look a bit like I imagined a detective should look.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at her. “The leather jacket’s just a disguise to fool the felons, make them think I’m one of them.”

“They’ll never believe it.” She smiled back. “You look too nice to be a criminal.”

“You’d be surprised how ‘nice’ a lot of criminals can seem. That’s how they persuade lovely girls, like you for instance, into letting them take them home. Or out on a date.”

She knew he was angling for a response, and she only wished she could give it to him.

“Maybe I wasn’t the sort of girl who got picked up in a bar and let a guy take her home,” she said doubtfully. “Do you really think I was that dumb?”

“No, I don’t. But you sure as hell are pretty. Who knows, somebody might have followed you.”

He was getting nowhere, and she heard him sigh as he looked down at the yellow pad with only a few brief notes scribbled on it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really want to help. I want to know who I am. Maybe I’m not remembering because I feel safer. If nobody knows who I am, nobody will want to kill me.”

He shrugged as he stood up to go. “Run that one by Dr. Phyl,” he said. “It’s more her line of work than mine. One more thing, though. When we found you, you were wearing light clothing—too light for San Francisco in early March. And the rest of the country was under ice, apart from a couple of hot spots. Maybe you had just arrived from a warmer climate. Mexico? Florida maybe? Or Hawaii? The Far East? I’ve checked the airlines, but you’d never believe how many women travel alone to these vacation resorts and how many flights there are each day. We’re checking them all, individually, but if you happen to dream you are on a
flight tonight, just let me know which one it is. It’ll save a hell of a lot of time.”

He winked cheerily as he went out the door, and she laughed even though it made her head hurt.

But she still did not recognize her face in the mirror. And she could not recall getting on a plane. And she had not recognized her clothes when he showed them to her.

She had flinched in horror from the bloodstained T-shirt and sweater, but she had touched the red leather sandal and read the label inside: “Stéphane Kelian, Paris.” She felt Mahoney’s eyes riveted on her as she hesitated, running her finger along the label.

“Paris?” she said, searching her brain to explain the tingle of emotion she was feeling. But there was nothing, and she burst into tears.

Phyl had arrived then and practically shoved Mahoney out of the room.

“Brute,” she called after him down the shiny hospital corridor.

“Give me a break, Doc,” he cried, backing away, arms outstretched pleadingly. “I’m just a guy doing his job.”

“Ohhh!”
Phyl was all but speechless, and the girl’s tears had turned to laughter at her outraged face. That was when Phyl had suggested hypnotizing her.

“We’ve taken every test, tried everything,” Phyl said, “and frankly, we’re getting nowhere. Retrograde amnesia such as yours often responds to hypnosis. But do you think you are ready for it?”

“Ready to know the truth, you mean? For better, for worse?”

Phyl nodded sympathetically. “For better, for worse. Either way I want you to know you can count on me for support. Whatever happens.”

“I know.” The bond between them had grown into friendship over the brief time they had known each
other. One woman looking to absolve her past; the other seeking it.

Phyl breezed through the door, carrying a huge bunch of mimosas. Today was the day of the experiment. “It’s the first thing that really triggered a memory,” she said, setting the flowers on the table. “Maybe it will help.”

She drew the curtains and sat opposite the bed in the darkened room. “Are you nervous?” she asked, patting her hand comfortingly. The girl nodded. “No need to be. Just relax. Empty your mind and listen to my voice.”

She did as she was asked. Phyl’s voice was low, soothing, rhythmic. The girl’s eyes closed on command, and she was taken back in time, such a long way, such a long time ago….

“Where are you now?” Phyl asked gently.

The girl drew in an amazed breath. “Oh, it’s a lovely place, so beautiful. It’s the place I love most in all the world.” Her voice was light, childlike.

“And where is that?”

“A long, long way. Oh, yes, it’s a long way away. It’s so peaceful….”

“Do you know where it is?”

Her voice faltered. “Where, I don’t—I’m not sure….”

Phyl saw she was disoriented and said quickly, “Tell me what you see in this lovely place.”

“I see a child, sitting on the steps of a wonderful pink villa. I hear the sound of a hundred songbirds. I feel the coolness of the marble against my legs and the warmth of the sun on my face. And oh … I can smell the mimosa…. There’s just the sound of the birds and the rustle of the tall trees in the breeze … and—and something else.”

Phyl leaned closer. The girl’s expression had changed from innocent happiness to frozen fear.
“What is it?” Phyl said urgently. “You can tell me, you can trust me with your secret….”

“Footsteps on the gravel. Someone is coming up the driveway. Getting closer, closer…. A great dark cloud is looming over me, stifling me, shutting out the lovely pink villa and the light…. There’s only the scent of the mimosa….”

Tears flowed down her cheeks, and Phyl watched her quietly for a moment. “Poor child,” she whispered. “Do you know who it is coming up the drive?”

The girl shook her head, crying silently.

“Is the child you?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I just don’t know who it is.”

“Do you know how old the child is?”

“
Non, je ne connaît pas.
”

Phyl blinked in surprise. “You answered me in French. Do you speak that language fluently?”

“
Oui. C’est le même pour moi, français ou anglais.
”

“And can you tell me where you learned to speak French so well?”

“I—I don’t know.”

She was distressed again, and Phyl asked one last question: “Do you have a French name?”

“My name? I have no name…. I don’t know …”

“It’s all right. Don’t distress yourself. But I want you to remember everything you have told me about the pink villa. You can wake up now. Come, open your eyes. Look at me.”

The girl’s eyes flew open. She put up her hand to touch the wetness on her cheeks. “Tears?” she said wonderingly. “Why was I crying?”

“
Peut-être vos mémoires sont triste?
”

“
Triste?
” She stared in astonishment at Phyl. Then she said, “My God, I spoke to you in French.
What does
it mean, Phyl?” She stared pleadingly at her. “Please tell me.”

Phyl went over what she had recalled about the villa. “Do you remember anything like that happening to you?”

The girl shook her head angrily. “Oh, God, I wish I did.”

“Don’t be upset. It’s progress. Quite a breakthrough, I’d say.”

“Really? You mean that?” She looked pathetically pleased at the small ray of hope Phyl offered. “Did I tell you my name?”

Phyl laughed. “No, not yet. But we can’t go on calling you Jane Doe forever. Why don’t you just go ahead and choose a name? Any name you please. Think of all the famous redheads throughout history.”

“Beatrice,” the young woman said thoughtfully after a while. “You know, Dante and Beatrice. She’s famous enough. Besides, I don’t feel like a Rita Hayworth or a Queen Elizabeth the First.”

“Mmm, Beatrice … Bea. Sounds good. And how about French, since it’s the first thing you have remembered?”

“Bea French. It sounds great.” She laughed, pleased, pushing her terror of not knowing who she was temporarily away from her. “Now maybe I’ll be a somebody again, instead of an anonymous nobody.”

7

I
t was 7:00
P.M.
two weeks later, and Mahoney had just finished his shift. Three hours late as usual.

“You know you only do it just to make the rest of us guys look bad,” Detective Valentino Benedetti complained. “Why can’t you finish on time like the rest of us?”

He was a tall man with a red face, a beer belly, and flat feet that were the bane of his life and the butt of every cop joke in the squad room. He was also known for working the fewest hours. Somehow he got away with it. Unless it was legitimate paid overtime, of course.

They were sitting at the bar in Hanran’s, attempting to solve the day’s problems over a beer.

“Why d’ya only drink that light crap instead of real beer, like Bud? What kinda cop are you anyways, Mahoney?”

“A tired cop, Benedetti, that’s what I am. I’ve just spent four hours hanging around court, trying to get an ignorant felon put away for robbing his grandmother and then tying her to the bedpost with her stockings. Surprise, surprise, she died. He pleaded not
guilty. He only meant to tie her up for a joke, he said. The fact that the stockings were tied around her neck and that she choked to death in front of his eyes meant nothing. He put on the performance of his life. Said he’s only nineteen, he loved the old lady, she had been a mother to him. It was just spur-of-the-moment kid stuff; he was a good boy really. And he had a stack of witnesses to prove it. As shameless a bunch of liars as you’re ever likely to meet. He got two years’ suspended sentence and fifty hours’ community work. Jesus, Benedetti! D’ya ever wonder why you’re a cop?”

They downed their beers in silence, contemplating the inequities of the American judicial system. Benedetti ordered two more, and the barman slid them down the counter, along with a bowl of pretzels.

“Y’ever hear what happened to the girl in Mitchell’s Ravine?” Benedetti asked, taking a deep swallow of Budweiser. “I mean, I know she didn’t die, and technically it’s not your problem. I just wondered if the assailant ever surfaced. Y’know, if he’d come back to try again in case she remembered who he was and told the cops?”

Mahoney shook his head. “I’ve been tied up for the last couple of weeks. We got nowhere on the airlines check, nowhere on missing persons, and nowhere on fingerprints. Nobody came forward looking for her, and as far as I know, she’s still in the hospital recovering from the head wounds. The interesting thing, though, was the dog bite.

“There are a lot of big houses in that area, and most of them have guard dogs. I had them checked, but suddenly they are all sweet family pets. All of them were in their nice homes being fed Alpo and steak and affection the night of the attack. At least that’s what their owners claim, and there’s no way to prove otherwise. And they all are solid citizens, families of wealth and standing, pillars of society.”

He grinned mockingly. “But you and I know all
about pillars of society, don’t we, Benedetti? We know never to trust a man by the cut of his clothes and the amount of money in his bank account. Because underneath he’s just a man.”

“Like you and me,” Benedetti replied gloomily, ordering another couple of beers. “Only without the big bank account.”

Mahoney put up his hand. “No more for me, pal. I’m going to call the hospital and see if I can pay my young Jane Doe a visit before they close for the night. Thanks for the beer.”

He strode through the crowded bar to the pay phone, dialed the hospital, identified himself, and asked to be put through to the nurses’ station on the girl’s floor.

“The patient is sleeping, Detective Mahoney,” the nurse told him. “But Dr. Niedman has just finished his rounds. Would you care to speak with him?”

“Sure. And thanks.”

Niedman came on the phone, sounding harassed.

“I won’t keep you, sir,” Mahoney said quickly. “I just wondered if you could bring me up-to-date on the progress of the Jane Doe from Mitchell’s Ravine.”

“Ah, you mean Bea French,” Niedman said tiredly.

“Excuse me?
Bea French?
” Mahoney almost yelled at Niedman. Nobody had bothered to contact him and tell him she had remembered who she was. “Is that her name then?”

“Not exactly. She and Phyl Forster invented it. After Dr. Forster hypnotized her and found she spoke fluent French, they seemed to think it appropriate.”