The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (28 page)

He patted Scott’s shoulder. “You’ve had a long journey, son. You’re tired, and I’ll bet you’re hungry. How about you and I going down to the kitchen and rustling up some food, maybe going to check out that pool?”

Scott sniffed back his tears noisily. He still didn’t look at Nick, but he followed him downstairs. He sat at the kitchen table, his head lowered, as Nick checked the refrigerator and the freezer.

Nick gave an amazed whistle. He took out a couple of packages. “Good old Aunt Millie,” he said with a grin. “She knew what her two American kids would like all right. Hot dogs and french fries.”

Scott’s eyes lifted with interest, but he didn’t say anything. Then Julie ran into the kitchen and climbed onto a chair next to him. She cradled a green plush frog in her arms, watching silently as Nick and Bea prepared the food.

At last they carried their plates out onto the terrace, and everyone sat around the table, trying to force down the food, but they were all choked up. Even Nick ran out of anecdotes. Scott and Julie stared at their plates in silence.

Nick threw Bea a despairing glance and saw there were tears in her eyes. He knew she was on the brink of breaking down. It was all too much: Millie; the funeral; the children.

“Look!” Julie suddenly yelled. She pointed. “Over there.”

A big dog crept from the bushes at the edge of the lawn and stood watching them, sniffing the air hopefully.

The dog was long-legged and curly-coated, shaggy, unkempt—and hungry. After a moment hunger got the better of its caution, and it gathered its tattered courage and sidled toward them, crouching low until it was almost on its belly. It lay down at Scott’s feet, put its nose carefully between its paws, and raised big, soulful brown eyes to him.

Scotty stared at the dog. He thought the expression in its eyes was like the one he saw in his own eyes in the mirror. He suddenly wanted that dog more than he had ever wanted anything in his life before.
Except to be able to turn the clock back.
But the dog was a stray; he knew these people wouldn’t want it in their fancy villa. The dog could never be his, and that’s why he couldn’t touch it.

Looking at the dog, Bea thought it had a lot in common with her and with Millie’s two young orphans. They didn’t say a word, but she saw the longing in their blue eyes and knew she had found at least one way to break the ice around their hearts.

“All right, mutt,” she said, “you’re in.”

Scott pushed back his chair with a whoop of delight. He flung his arms around the dog. The lump in his throat was magically gone, and as the dog licked his hand, he caught himself in mid-laugh.
I’m laughing
, he thought, astonished,
I’m laughing again.
And he punched Julie on the arm and said, “He’s gonna sleep on my bed.”

“No, mine.”

“Mine.”

“You can share him,” Bea said quickly.

“What shall we call him?” Julie demanded excitedly, watching Scott feed him their hot dogs. The dog devoured them and sat, one battered ear askew, happily begging for more.

“He’s such a mutt,” Bea said, laughing. “How about Poochie?”

They were finally acting like kids again instead of
emotionally exhausted midgets, and she thanked heaven for the dog. She glanced at Nick, and she knew the same thought was going through his mind.
What next? What would happen to Scott and Julie Renwick now that Millie had gone?

Millie’s attorney, John Hartley, arrived from New York two days later. He was an older man, white-haired and stiffly pompous, and he had been Millie’s legal adviser for decades.

“Mrs. Renwick had suffered from a heart complaint for several years,” he told Bea. “Everything that could be done for her had already been done. She knew she might die at any time. That’s why she refused to give up the cigarettes she enjoyed, even though she knew they were bad for her.”

Bea suddenly recalled her first meeting with Millie, at the Fifth Avenue apartment that rainy day. “… it’s not alcohol that will kill me,” she had said, “it’s these blasted ciggies.”

“She wrote this letter for you. It arrived just before she died,” Hartley said. He handed her an envelope and sat back with hands patiently folded, while Bea read it.

Bea looked sadly at the attorney. “She was so good,” she said quietly. “A true friend.”

“She was indeed a good woman,” Hartley agreed. “Most people saw only her frivolous facade. They never knew how many charities benefited from her generosity—and always anonymously. But now, Miss French, to the contents of Mrs. Renwick’s newly drawn will.”

He cleared his throat, looking at her over the top of his half glasses. “Mrs. Renwick wanted you to have the Villa Mimosa. She did not leave it to you in her will; she had already purchased it in your name. She made it clear from the very beginning that she wanted this house to be yours and yours alone. She says here that she hopes it will bring you everything you ever hoped it would, including happiness.”

Bea’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“Mrs. Renwick also left you the sum of five million dollars because, as she said, she wants you to have a future, since you have no past.”

“Five million dollars.”

“Exactly. But there is a condition: Mrs. Renwick wants you to take responsibility for the children. She asked that you bring them up as if they were your own. She felt that by doing so, she was
ensuring
that you had
a future. You would have a home, a family, and sufficient money to provide for your lifestyle. After further substantial bequests to universities and hospitals and various charities, and of items of jewelry, both to you and to Dr. Forster, the remainder of Mrs. Renwick’s fortune, amounting to around two hundred and fifty million dollars, is to be placed in trust for the children, Scott and Julie Renwick.”

Later that day, after the attorney had left, Bea told Nick her news. “Millie was sorry for me, not having a past,” she said tearfully. “So she wanted to give me a future. And now look at me, the chatelaine of the Villa Mimosa, and ‘mother’ of two kids who barely know _me.”

“And a
millionaire
,” Nick said, stunned. “
And
you are the ‘mother’ of two
extremely rich
little kids.”

“My God, Nick, what shall I do?”

Nick put his hand under her chin. He lifted her face, smiling encouragingly at her. “Do what you always do,” he said. “Call Phyl. She’s probably at her office by now. After that,” he continued, “I suggest we crack open a bottle of champagne and drink a toast to your dear good friend and surrogate grandmother, Millie Renwick.”

Bea tried calling Phyl’s work and home numbers endlessly but still only got the answering machines. Worried, she placed a call to the San Francisco Police Department and asked to speak to Detective Mahoney.

Mahoney picked up his phone on the first ring. “Yeah?” he said, sipping his third cup of coffee in half an hour. He propped his feet on his cluttered desk and tilted his chair, teetering back and forth lazily. “Jesus,
Bea French.
How the hell are ya? And
where
the hell are ya? This line’s so good I swear you’re down the hall.”

“I’m still in France,” she said. “At the Villa Mimosa. Oh, Detective Mahoney,” she wailed, “Millie’s dead
and she’s left me all this money and two children and I don’t know what to do…. I’ve been calling Phyl and she’s not there and I’m so concerned—”

Mahoney sat up suddenly alert. “Okay, honey, take it easy. You just tell me all about it, and then we’ll see what to do.”

She spilled out her story and said finally, “Then I couldn’t get hold of Phyl to tell her and she missed the funeral, and now I still can’t reach her, and oh, Detective Mahoney—”

“Fine. Okay, Bea. First thing is don’t worry about Phyl. I happen to know she’s with some guy she’s crazy about. I guess she forgot to tell you about Mr. Hawaii, huh? This little vacation was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and she just stayed on a bit longer than she’d planned. She’s going to be heartbroken about Millie and about missing the funeral. That’s a tough break, and Phyl’s not being there made it harder for you.”

“Nick was with me,” Bea said, sounding calmer now. “He helped.”

“Yeah. Good for Nick. You like him, huh, Bea?”

“He’s a nice guy,” she said a touch defensively.

“Now where have I heard that before? Listen to me, young Bea French. Millie must have loved you a lot to do what she did. Trusting you with those two orphaned kids. She figured it was three of you against the world now, instead of just one. And from the vibes I’m catching about Nick, maybe it’s even four. Those sound like pretty good numbers to me. So keep your chin up, babe. Be glad you had Millie’s friendship and love.” He grinned. “And after those words of wisdom, I’d better give you the doc’s number in Hawaii.”

“Thanks, Detective Mahoney,” she said, sounding relieved.

“
Franco
, please,” he said, smiling. “I thought we were friends now. After all we’ve been through together?”

“
Best friends
,” she said fervently.

“Call me if you need me, babe,” he said. “And maybe I’ll get over there to see you all one of these days.”

Mahoney put down the phone and glanced at the clock. It was exactly seven. He picked up the receiver again and dialed the Hawaiian number.

“Kalani. Good evening.” An Asian-accented voice responded immediately.

“Yeah, good evening to you. I’d like to speak to Dr. Phyl Forster.”

“Yes, sir. And who shall I say is calling her?”

“Tell her it’s Franco Mahoney.”

He propped his feet on the desk again and leaned back, anticipating her surprised voice.

“Who is this?” a man’s voice demanded crisply.

He guessed it was Mr. Hawaii in person, and he jerked into an upright position. “My name is Franco Mahoney. I wish to speak with Dr. Forster.”

“The doctor cannot come to the phone. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Yes, I do.” Franco raised a quizzical eyebrow. Mr. Hawaii sounded like an arrogant bastard. “Tell her Mahoney called. That’s M-A-H-O-N-E-Y,” he spelled slowly.

“It’s a common name, Mr. Mahoney. I know how to spell it.”

There was acid in his smooth voice, and Franco frowned. He was more than an arrogant bastard; he sounded like a first-class jerk. “Great,” he said abruptly. “Then if you would just ask the lady to call me, any time, day or night. It’s urgent. And she has my number. Okay?”

“I’ll give her the message,” the man said coldly, and the line went dead.

Mahoney slammed down the receiver. “Jesus,” he said, astonished. “The doc certainly knows how to choose ’em.”

He stalked down the hall to the coffee machine,
hands thrust in his pockets, staring at the floor, puzzling over the exchange of icy words.
That is some jealous guy
, he concluded, grabbing his fourth cup of coffee since six-fifteen. And it was only seven-ten. He had the feeling it would be a long night.

He was right. The first call came almost immediately: an arson attack in the Tenderloin. The fire was still raging out of control, and so far two bodies had been recovered.

He and Benedetti got down there fast, with Benedetti at the wheel of the Chevy from the police pool, fights flashing and siren blazing. “I dunno”—Benedetti grinned, satisfied, as the traffic parted for them—“sometimes it’s okay being a cop.”

Mahoney winced as they ran yet another red fight and swung around a corner with a screech of brakes. “Yeah. Except maybe ya should consider going back to driving school. Jesus, man, look out, will ya!”

Benedetti’s grin grew even wider as he glanced at his partner. “What’s the matter? You scared, Detective?”

“You betcha. With a maniac like you at the wheel! Remind me to ask for a different partner when I get back to the squad room. That way I might live longer.”

They saw the flames four blocks away and came to a stop just as the roof, in a flurry of sparks and glowing debris, caved in. “God help them, I hope all the fire department’s out of there,” Mahoney muttered.

“It’s all over but the shouting,” the fire chief told him. “Two dead so far, and all my men are accounted for. There’s no doubt it’s arson; there are gasoline-soaked rags all over the place.” He held out a piece of cloth for Mahoney to see.

Mahoney said, “Put it in the plastic, Benedetti. We’ll have it checked.” He scanned the crowd of watchers with narrowed eyes; arsonists almost invariably came to watch their own fires. That was their high. He didn’t know what they might be thinking about the people they had just killed, and he didn’t care. He just wanted
to put them away for as long as possible. But tonight he was unlucky. His famous sixth sense seemed to have deserted him. No one in the crowd of bystanders seemed to have even had the faintest guilty whiff of gasoline on him.

“Strike one,” he said to Benedetti. They started to head back just as the next call crackled over the car radio: a stabbing outside a bar. “Hey, any messages for me?” Mahoney demanded as they careened off again.