The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (10 page)

M
ahoney telephoned Phyl a few days later. “I’m calling in my marker,” he said confidently. “Remember? You promised me dinner?”

“In exchange for Coco. I remember. And since I’m a woman who always pays her debts, Mahoney, you can name your time and place.”

He could sense she was smiling. “Tomorrow,” he said. “And anywhere as long as it’s not McDonald’s.”

She laughed. “Tomorrow,” she agreed. “Pick me up at seven-thirty.”

“Seven-thirty,” he said, uncrossing his fingers, marveling at his good luck because he hadn’t really believed she would say yes.

“And, Mahoney… it won’t be McDonald’s, so try to look decent for once, will you?”

He laughed out loud as he put down the phone.

He rang her doorbell promptly at seven-thirty the next evening. She opened it and stood silently, taking in his smart dark suit, white shirt, and flamboyant red-flowered silk tie. His dark hair was still wet from the shower and showed track marks from the comb. If she’d wanted, she could have seen her face in the shine
of his shoes. He was clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other.

“You look like a cop pretending to be a solid citizen,” she said, amused.

“Yeah. Well, you’re softening up a little yourself,” he replied, grinning as he saw her blush. Her dark hair was loose tonight instead of in its usual tight knot. She was wearing black as always, but this time it was a gauzy low-cut dress with a slinky skirt, and she smelled of lilies and gardenias.

His eyes admired her as he handed her the bouquet. “You smell better than nature’s roses,” he said.

“It’s Bellodgia,” she replied coolly. “A bit old-fashioned, but it suited my mood tonight. And thank you for the beautiful roses.”

They were pink with a hint of cream, and their velvet petals were just beginning to unfurl.

“They’re called Oceana,” he said. “I thought they were like garden roses, a bit old-fashioned. Like your perfume. Seems I got the mood right for the night.”

He gave the paper bag to the cat, who was wrapping itself around his legs, purring. “And this is for young Coco. To keep her busy while the doc is out.”

They laughed as the kitten swiftly tore out the catnip mouse and tossed it into the air, pouncing after it.

Phyl offered him a glass of champagne.

“A wonderful choice,” he said, tasting it appreciatively. “And not obvious. Laurent Perrier is a fine old house, and its Grand Siècle ranks with the best.”

Phyl stared at him with astonishment. “Is there no end to your surprises, Mahoney?” she demanded. “I would not have recognized Grand Siècle in a blind tasting. How on earth did you?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just one of those things they teach you at cop school.” He grinned teasingly. “No, I didn’t mean that. I spent a year in France after college, part of it in Epernay picking grapes. Every bar and café sells champagne as a matter of course, so I got
to taste all the small growers. I liked it so much I made a point of visiting all the grand houses. I have a reasonable palate and I knew what I liked, and this happened to be one of them.” He shrugged again. “So you see. No mystery. Just a lucky shot on your part that you picked my favorite.”

“I almost wish you were doing the cooking,” she said wistfully. “You’re hard to beat.”

“Anytime you say, Doc. Just whistle and I’ll be there, trying out my Italian specialties on you. Marcella Hazan’s wild mushroom risotto, Roger Vergé’s Petites Niçoise farcis and pistou soup, my mama’s old-fashioned vegetarian lasagna. And the best desserts this side of Rome.”

“Tiramisu?” she asked jokingly. It was one of her favorites.

“Hate the stuff, but if you like it, Doc, you shall have it.”

“Not tonight,” she said, collecting her jacket. “And it’s getting late.”

Mahoney’s eyebrows rose when he saw the long black limousine waiting at the curb. She threw him a mocking grin as the driver held the door open. “You didn’t think I was going to let you drink and drive, did you? After all, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your not becoming mayor.”

He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder before getting in next to her. “At least it’s black,” he said nervously. “If any of the guys spot me, I hope they’ll think I’m on my way back from a funeral and not that I have a sideline as a pimp. Doc, limos were not in the deal. A simple dinner was all I asked.”

“And that’s what you’ll get,” she replied serenely. “The best simple dinner you’ve had in a while, I’ll bet. Though maybe not,” she added, remembering his spaghetti. “And would you mind, just for this evening, calling me Phyl instead of Doc? Somehow it suits the occasion better.”

He nodded solemnly as they drove north out of the city into Marin County. “You’ve got it, Phyl.” He shook her hand. “Meet Franco. And you know what? A guy could get very used to this kind of life. Beautiful women, limos, great meals… Maybe I’ve died and gone to paradise.”

“Don’t bet on it, Franco,” she warned.

It was an unusually warm May evening, and the windows of the Lark Creek Inn stood open to the balmy air. The candles on the table flickered in the soft breeze as they sipped a bountiful California merlot. “Edgy but beautiful,” Mahoney said. “Like you.”

“Thanks, Franco. Tell me why there is always something backhanded in your compliments.”

He sighed exaggeratedly. “I don’t know, Phyl. I guess you’ll just have to analyze me to find out what’s wrong with my psyche.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your psyche,” she retorted. “It’s your head that’s the problem. It’s swollen from all that media attention.” She leaned closer, interested. “Tell me, how do you do it? Solve all those unsolvable crimes?”

“Hard work. Intuition. Painstaking searches through the facts. Good eyesight—you need it for inspecting the crime scenes. And a bad memory for the daily horrors of it all.” He grimaced. “There’s no glamour about being a homicide cop, Doc. Except that created by the media.”

“Then why did you choose it? Instead of academia?”

“My Irish great-grandfather was a cop, and so was my Italian grandfather and my father. Seems I couldn’t beat the genes.”

“Or you wanted to do some good,” she suggested softly. “To help your fellowmen.”

He laughed. “Sure. I’ll accept that. Saint Franco. That’ll go down well in the squad room. Phyl, the truth is I’m just a hardworking cop who, for some reason I’ve yet to figure out, finds it satisfying to catch murderers
and crazies who feel they can play God and kill other guys just for a fix. Or for five bucks. Or for merely looking at them the wrong way. And rapists who shoot their victims so they can’t tell on them. And kids who tie their grandmothers’ stockings around their throats and watch them choke to death, in return for their meager life savings. A hundred and fifty bucks hidden under an ancient mattress. And what does a kid like that want it for? A pair of Nike airs and a cheap leather jacket so he can impress his friend’s girl, maybe buy her some coke and then maybe she’ll fuck him.”

Franco’s handsome face was grim, and Phyl stared in horror at him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “but you asked.”

“I understand.”

He looked admiringly at her. The breeze fluttered the candles, casting the light upward onto her face. Her shoulders and the swell of her breasts looked like fresh cream against the soft black chiffon. “You should wear red,” he said lightly, changing the conversation and the mood. “It would look great with your coloring.”

She looked down, embarrassed; the conversation was becoming suddenly personal. “Red is for Las Vegas hookers,” she said coolly. “Or overdressed old ladies on cruise ships.”

“Is that so?” His eyes mocked her. “Some of us think it is the color of roses and valentines. Now, I wonder what a good psychiatrist would make of that?”

“She would probably say that at your age you are still a foolish romantic, Franco Mahoney.”

They both laughed, and he thought how much he liked her cool independence. They talked, striking sparks off each other, as they ate simple roast chicken that he swore must have been bred by a chicken connoisseur and cooked by a real grandmother who knew her stuff.

“I couldn’t have done better myself,” he said, with a
satisfied sigh. “This was a very wise choice, Dr. Phyl. You know me better than I thought.”

“That’s my job,” she said with a mischievous smile. “But I insist you taste the bread and butter pudding. It’s simply the best.”

“If you say so, ma’am. You see, I’m just putty in your hands.” He laughed, enjoying himself hugely. “I could get used to this boy toy role: limos, wine, dinners, a beautiful companion who is paying for it all. Though it does seem a tad extravagant in return for a kitten.”

“Not just any kitten.” She took his hand across the table, and he looked at her in surprise. “You were right, of course, that night. You analyzed my silly, selfish, compartmentalized life accurately. I would never have dared be so truthful with myself. I might never have stopped thinking about the past and got on with the present. But because of you, and Coco and Bea, my whole life has changed.”

He looked searchingly at her. “You want to tell me about that past?”

She glanced down, tracing the pattern on her knife with her finger. Her voice was so low he had to lean closer as she said hesitantly, “I was married, once. We were too young, of course. We were both doing our internships at Chicago General. It may be the busiest hospital in the country, especially weekends. The Saturday Night Special, they called it, though Friday was just as bad. People out drinking, fighting, slaughtering each other. We met there, in the emergency room over a multiple stab wound. He was Stanford, and I was Yale. We hated each other on sight, and so of course, we fell in love.”

She smiled sadly, remembering the sweetness of youth and love. “He was the old-fashioned type; he wanted marriage. And children. And a wife who stayed home to look after her family. The child came along almost immediately. A girl. So pretty, so sweet.” She glanced up at him, her face suddenly alight with love
for her child. “Oh, Franco, you know how most babies always seem to be crying? Well, not this one. She was a dream baby, right from day one.

“My husband’s family were well-to-do; they were financing their son through med school. It was different for me. I was abandoned when I was just a kid. I never really knew my own mother, and there wasn’t any father around. When she took off, I was taken into court and then put in foster care. I had seven different sets of foster parents between the ages of three and seventeen. And boy, how I missed my mother all those years. Even now… it’s hard to adjust to not being wanted.

“So you see, I was determined that wouldn’t happen to my little girl. I gave up my ambitions and settled down to become a full-time mom in a pretty little house in Dearborn. My husband worked eighteen-hour days; he was exhausted. I understood; after all, I had been there. I said we must go on vacation. Just the two of us.” There was an endless pause as Phyl silently stared down at the table. Franco waited, afraid to speak.

Finally in an emotion-choked voice she whispered, “We dropped the baby off with the grandparents in San Diego and kissed her good-bye. She waved her plump little arm at us and blew kisses as we went off to Mexico. Blue skies, the sea, perfect peace, just for a week or two.”

Franco saw the raw wound in her soul as she looked up at him with blank blue eyes. He reached out to her to take her hands in his. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, to tell her it was okay….

“We had been there two days when we got the phone call. She was sick. They suspected meningitis. There was no flight out until the next morning. There was no charter available for hours—”

“Don’t tell me,” Franco said, gripping her cold hands. “It’s too painful. I understand.”

Phyl didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were brilliant
with unshed tears. “She died before we could get there. She was just two years old. And all I could think of was that she must have been calling for me, Mommy Mommy…. And I wasn’t there.
Her mommy wasn’t there.
”

“Oh, God,” Franco said, sharing her anguish.

He could see her fighting for control. “It took years for me to be able to cope with it. Sometimes I wonder if it made me better at my job. Going through the pain? I try not to think about it, but somehow, when I saw Bea on television and they thought she was dead, it brought it all back again. And I thought about her mother, not being there, about her being told… her daughter was dead….”

“Thank you for telling me,” Franco said simply.

Phyl nodded. “It was just as bad for my husband. He thought we should have another child right away, but I couldn’t bear it. I went back to med school, back to the hospital grind…. We divorced a couple of years later. He’s a successful internist now, in San Diego. Married with four kids. And I am Dr. Phyl, focusing on almost anything but myself.”

“And maybe now that’s just what you should be doing. Thinking more about yourself as well as Bea. Life is for living, Phyl, and you are a woman with a lot to give. Give yourself a break, love yourself more.”

“And then maybe someone else can love me?” She managed a grin. “Remember me? The ice maiden? Oh, I don’t think so, Franco. I’ve chosen my course.”

He stared at her, seeing how beautiful she was with the tears still glistening on her long black lashes and her soft mouth tremulous with the pain of her love and the guilt she could not give up. He thought that beneath that invincible facade, Phyl Forster was the most vulnerable woman he knew. And one of the bravest and most lonely. He knew that one day she had to crack.

He gripped her hands more tightly and bent to kiss
her fingers. Somehow he hoped he would be around when that happened.

“Well, now you know the real me, and that’s enough of the past,” she said, blinking away her tears and giving him a brilliant smile. “Let’s talk about Bea.”

She took her hand from his and smoothed back her hair. “Let’s order that bread and butter pudding,” she said brightly, and again he admired her courage and deplored her foolishness.

She told him that Millie demanded all Bea’s time, and that suited Bea just fine because she still wasn’t sure who, or what, she was.