The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (30 page)

“Well, look at you,” Mahoney said, opening the door to her. “You look like my high school prom date.”

“I should have known better than to bother.” Phyl sighed resignedly, walking up the stairs.

“I see you took my advice about color,” he added mockingly. “On you red looks good. In fact,” he said, eyeing her long suntanned legs and smooth shoulders appreciatively as she slipped off her shawl, “on you it looks terrific.”

She twirled for him, smiling. “Am I really okay? You said dressy, but I wasn’t sure.”

He shook his head admiringly. “Doc, let me tell you Connors just got married today. But when that hot Irishman sets eyes on my scarlet woman, you may find you’ve caused the quickest divorce in history.”

She laughed. “You look pretty fancy yourself tonight, Mahoney.” She fingered the satin lapels of his tuxedo. “Like a late-night talk show host. Or maybe a political candidate? Or perhaps the next mayor?”

“Not this week, babe. It’s been a toughie. It must be the summer madness. It happens every year about this time. There’s a mini heat wave and people go crazy and start killing each other. There are more bodies stacked in the city morgue than you or I would care to think about. And not one of them in the ‘solved’ account.”

He took a couple of glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator. She watched him.

“Talking of butts,” she said, with a cheeky grin, “yours is looking pretty good, Mahoney.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said coolly, pouring the wine.

She caught sight of the champagne label and said, impressed, “You went to all this expense just for me?”

“Nothing but the best,” he replied, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Oh, by the way, Coco is asleep on my
bed. You’ve been away so long she’s almost forgotten you.”

“Well, I haven’t forgotten her,” she said, rattled.

“So? What’s with Mr. Hawaii?”

Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes. “I haven’t come here to discuss my private life.”

“Why not? You got something to hide?”

“Mahoney!” She glared at him with exasperation.

“You want
me
to talk about him then? I thought he was cold—
icy
, in fact. I also thought he was rude, arrogant, and possessive. I thought he was just too fuckin’ jealous for his own good.” He looked at her and added, “Or yours.”

“Mahoney!” she exclaimed again, her blue eyes blazing.

He shrugged. “Well, you asked me—”

“No, I did not!” Their eyes met, and she began to laugh. “Oh, hell, you’re right about him,” she admitted finally. “He is possessive, and he is jealous.” Her smile was replaced by a worried look. “In fact, Mahoney, sometimes he scares me, he’s so jealous.”

“Does he have any reason to be?”

She shook her head. “You know what’s really worrying me? He thinks I look like his mother.
And I do.
”

Mahoney shrugged, not understanding. “So what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a bit creepy, that’s all. He hated her. He told me all these horror stories, about how promiscuous she was, how she flaunted her affairs. He said everyone knew about her. She even drove one guy to kill himself….”

Mahoney whistled, impressed. “It doesn’t take a top psychiatrist to figure that one out, Doc.”

“It’s not like that,” she said defensively. “Most of the time he’s charming, warm, and sensitive. He’s handsome, urbane, a respected businessman. His ranch is his life.”

“He just hates his mother, that’s all.” Mahoney
wasn’t smiling now. “Look, Phyl, if you
feel
there is something wrong, then believe me there
is.
Trust that old gut instinct.”

“You mean, he’s really thinking about his mother when he’s in bed with me?” she asked in a small, frightened voice.

“Why didn’t you ask
him
that?”

“I did, almost. I asked if he wanted me because I looked like Rebecca, and he just laughed. He said it wasn’t true. I have to believe that, Mahoney.”

He nodded. Phyl was a woman who did not give her favors lightly. Even though she was a psychiatrist, she was a woman and unable to accept the possibility that Brad might have some perverted reason for wanting her in his bed.

“Anyway, I left him. At the airport.” She shrugged. “He was mad because I wouldn’t let him fly me home. So I guess it’s good-bye.”

Mahoney grinned. “Then there’s no need to worry.” She was still frowning. “Okay, tell me your next problem,” he said.

“Oh, Mahoney, I wasn’t there for Bea.”

“True. But she has come to terms with that. It was just circumstances.”

“It was
unforgivable.
Besides being my friend, she’s my patient. I behaved irresponsibly.”

“Hey, we’re all human.”

“
I’m a doctor!
” she yelled, still angry with herself. “
I should have been there.
”

“Listen, it worked out,” he said soothingly. “Everything’s okay. No more breast-beating, all right?”

Phyl raised tearful blue eyes to him. “I missed Millie’s funeral.”

He sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She nestled her head in the crook of his arm, and he heard her sniffing back the tears. “Go ahead, babe,” he said, sighing exaggeratedly. “Let it all out. You’ll feel better.”

He heard her giggle through the tears, and she said, “Oh, stop it, Mahoney.”

“Your mascara’s running,” he said, looking at her critically.

“Oh. Oh, damn.”

“A good curseword like ‘damn’ can surely relieve your feelings,” he said mockingly.

“Prick,” she retorted, pushing him away.

He laughed. “That’s my girl. Come on, Doc. Fix your face. We’ve got a wedding to go to.”

The celebrations had begun at four-thirty that afternoon at the Hibernian Banqueting Rooms, and by the time Mahoney and Phyl arrived, around nine, the place was jumping. The band, augmented by several members of the SFPD, was blasting Beach Boys’ hits, and half the room was singing along. The dance floor was crowded, and the bar was five deep, and fresh supplies of Italian goodies were being ferried across to the buffet that ran the length of one wall. Irish and Italian flags celebrating the union hung like banners from the ceiling, and swags of red roses were intertwined with shamrocks. The bride, gorgeous in white silk and lace and ten yards of sequin-studded veil, was sitting with her new husband and their families at the head table. Mahoney pulled Phyl through the crowd to pay their respects.

“Connors, you old bastard, she finally made you an honest man,” he said, hugging his colleague. He looked admiringly at the bride. “I always told Connors you were too good for an old mick like him. You look wonderful, baby. A beautiful bride.”

They laughed, and he took Phyl’s hand and introduced her. “This is Phyllida Forster, known as Phyl,” he said. She threw him an amazed glance, wondering how he knew her proper name, and suddenly found herself engulfed in a bear hug from the bridegroom.

“Jeez, Mahoney,” he said admiringly. “Where’d you
find her? I tell ya, she’s too classy for an old mick like yourself.”

“But you’re
Dr.
Phyl,” the bride, Sandra, exclaimed.

“Not tonight,” Phyl assured her. “Tonight I’m just this old mick’s date.”

They laughed, and Connors said, “Save me a dance for later, Dr. Phyl. I’ll let you analyze me anytime.”

Most of the men on Mahoney’s shift were propping up the bar. Benedetti saw them coming. He nudged the guy next to him and said, “Look what Mahoney has caught himself.” They turned as one man to look, and appreciative grins appeared on their faces.

“Whaddid ya have to do to get her here, Mahoney?” somebody yelled. “Put the cuffs on her?”

“Okay, wise-ass,” Mahoney said, “we all understand you don’t know how to behave in front of a lady, but we’d appreciate it if you would try. Allow me to introduce Phyl Forster.”

“The doc,” Benedetti said reverently. “Can I ask ya one question, ma’am? What the hell are you doin’ with a jerk like Mahoney? There’s half the SFPD here tonight be happy to take over from him, anytime you say.”

“Thank you, guys,” Phyl said demurely, accepting a barstool and a host of compliments and banter from Mahoney’s colleagues.

“She’s one of us tonight,” somebody said, pinning one of the mock SFPD detective badges that decorated the tables on her. “Clinton,” he yelled to the barman, “a drink for Detective Forster.”

“So,” Benedetti said, moving closer, his beer belly bulging over a turquoise cummerbund, “tell us how you happened to meet Mahoney.”

“It’s a long story,” Mahoney said, “and too racy for your delicate ears.”

“How about a dance, Doc?” someone said. He whirled her onto the floor to the beat of “La Bamba”
and danced with her until someone else tapped him on the shoulder and took over.

Half an hour later Phyl finally made it back to the bar. She sipped a glass of water, fanning her hot face with her hand.

“All right, you guys, enough is enough,” Mahoney warned. “The lady needs food.”

He took her hand and led her through the crowd, stopping every couple of minutes to introduce her to his friends.

The buffet tables were laden with every kind of seafood, as well as enormous platters of lasagna, cheese gnocchi, pâté-stuffed ravioli, eggplant parmigiana, stuffed tomatoes, salads, half a dozen different breads, and bottles of red wine. That was on the Italian side. The Irish were represented by poached salmon and Galway oysters, Colcannon and soda bread, and Guinness and Paddy’s. The tables were decorated with flags and shamrocks and roses, and the hospitality seemed never-ending.

Mahoney piled Phyl’s plate with goodies, grabbed a bottle of wine, and led her to a quiet corner. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten today,” he said, sliding an oyster into his mouth.

“You’re right,” she said, contentedly doing the same.

They, ate hungrily for a few minutes, and then she said, “I like your friends.”

“Yeah, they’re good guys.” He grinned at her. “I guess they’re right, though. What is a girl like you doing with a beat-up old cop like me?”

Her eyes met his, and she said, “First, you’re not old. Or if you are, then that makes me old, too, and I refuse to accept that. Second, you’re certainly not beat-up, Mahoney.” She reached out and ran her fingers lightly over his face. “You must be the department pinup.”

“Yeah, well, anything seems good after Benedetti and his beer belly.”

“And third, you are a good cop, Mahoney. I know that.”

“Thanks for the compliments, lady.” Their eyes locked. “Just hold on there for a sec,” he said finally. He stood up and threaded his way through the crowd to the bandstand.

When he got back minutes later, the band swung into “The Lady in Red.”

“They’re playing our song,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

The lights dimmed, and couples began moving under the flickering old-fashioned mirrored ball in the center of the ceiling. Mahoney wrapped his arms tighter around her, and Phyl gave a happy little sigh. “You’re right,” she murmured in his ear, “this is like the high school prom. I haven’t slow-danced like this for years.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing,” he whispered back.

“Your friends are watching us,” she said.

“Let’s give the lecherous old buzzards something to talk about.” He pulled her even closer. She tilted her head back to look at him.

“Mahoney …”

“
Franco
, please. After all, this is an intimate moment….”

“That’s just what I was going to mention … I mean, I was wondering if the old Mae West saying was right: ‘Is that a bunch of keys in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’”

Mahoney unclamped one arm from around her. He grinned as he removed the handcuffs from his pants pocket. “Sorry to disappoint you, Doc. But if that’s what you want, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Oh, Mahoney,” she said, laughing, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I haven’t had this kind of silly fun since—well, it’s so long ago I don’t even remember.”

“Me too,” he said tenderly, looking down at her smooth dark head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a damn pretty woman, Phyllida Forster?”

“How did you ever find out my name?” she demanded. “I never tell anyone.”

“You forget I’m a cop. I have access to such things as names and dates and addresses and telephone numbers.” He grinned. “It’s on your driver’s license.”

They danced for a long time until there was a tap on Mahoney’s shoulder and the bridegroom, Connors, took over. Mahoney whirled away with the bride, and Phyl didn’t see him again for another hour while she danced her feet off with young Irish cops and tarantellaed with old Italian pappas. Back at the bar again she laughed at the jokes and banter and stories, queening it from her barstool surrounded by her admirers. She was having such a good time she didn’t even think of Brad Kane.

Just before midnight the detectives decided to shift base to Hanran’s, their local hangout. Phyl swept into Hanran’s flanked by San Francisco’s finest, and the outgoing shift, propping up the bar, turned to whistle and stare. “Here, babe, sit by me.” “Come on, honey, you don’t know what you’re missing.” “Drop Mahoney, lady, I can do it better,” they yelled, making way for her.

“Normally,” Phyl said, cocking her chin mockingly at them, “normally, fellas, I would say you are the biggest bunch of sexist pigs I have ever met.” They yelled and stomped, and she held up her hand for silence. “But,” she said with a smile in her voice, “tonight I think you’re paying me the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman. And I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“Yea, Doc,” they yelled, applauding and signaling the bartender to put up more of whatever she was drinking.

It was three in the morning when Mahoney finally
drove her home. Her head was on his shoulder, and she was grumbling contentedly about the discomfort of such a position in a Mustang. “For crissake, Mahoney, can’t you get a proper car?” she asked sleepily.

“You are talking about my pride and joy,” he said in a hurt tone.

“I know all about your pride and joy,” she murmured. “Don’t try and pretend those were really the handcuffs, Mahoney.”

He laughed as he parked outside her apartment building. “I should never have let you near those guys,” he said. “They’re coarsening you.”