stop in front of the courtyard. Inside, I could see a fountain shooting sparks of light back at the sun.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“That it is,” Cole agreed. “Does it trigger any memory?”
I glanced at him in surprise.
“Get used to the question, Brooke. The moment you step out of the car, you’re Cameron McKenzie, suffering from amnesia. Are you ready?”
I drew in a deep breath and pushed open the door on my side of the car. “Ready.”
My step didn’t falter once as we walked up the path past the fountain to the huge wood door of the house. Cole knocked. I counted to ten, and Cole had raised his hand to knock again when the door swung open to reveal a small, brown-skinned woman who was as wide as she was tall. She stared at me for a moment, but even as she tucked the towel she was holding into an apron pocket, her face brightened into a smile that was almost as wide as her girth. “Ms. Cameron, Ms. Cameron, you’re safe!” She grabbed my hands, drew me over the threshold and enveloped me in a warm hug.
For a moment, she held me tight and I caught the scent of vanilla. Then she drew back, studied me at arm’s length, then pulled me in for another hug. “They said you’d be back. Mr. James and Mr. Sloan—they weren’t worried. But I…”
When she released me, I saw tears in her eyes. This had to be Elena Santoro, the woman who’d been the housekeeper and cook for the McKenzies for more than forty years. According to Pepper’s information, much of the job of raising Cameron had fallen on her shoulders after Elizabeth McKenzie had died.
Elena rubbed the heel of her hand against her cheeks. “I was worried. I shouldn’t have.” For the first time, she seemed to notice Cole at my side.
“Ma’am.” He nodded at her and withdrew his license from his pocket. “I’m Cole Buchanan of Rossi Investigations. Ms. McKenzie here was mugged in San Francisco a little over a month ago, all her ID was stolen, and she’s been suffering from amnesia ever since. If the rest of the family is home, perhaps you could let them know we’re here, and I could explain everything all at once?”
“You were mugged?” She reached out a hand, hesitated and then dropped it. “You’ve lost your memory?”
“Yes. Hopefully, it’s only temporary. But when I woke up in the hospital, I couldn’t remember anything—who I was, where I should go….” Seeing the concern in her eyes, I felt a little twinge of guilt, but it didn’t seem to be interfering with my ability to lie. “I hired Mr. Buchanan’s security firm to help me find out who I was, and they finally did.”
“How awful.” She did take my hands then and squeezed them briefly.
“The family?” Cole prompted.
“Yes. But only Ms. Beatrice is here. Mr. Sloan went to Kentucky to pick up a horse and Mr. James is in Los Angeles, having his yearly checkup. Mr. James will be back later today, but Mr. Sloan isn’t expected back until tomorrow. Mr. Austin is in Saratoga Springs with Ms. Linton at the races. But Ms. Beatrice is in her office. I’ll get her.”
Elena bustled away down the hall. For the first time I had time to glance around the huge foyer. The hacienda’s interior was no less impressive than its exterior. The floor was covered with honey-colored tiles that offered a nice contrast to the gleaming dark wood of a staircase that swept up to a landing, then split off in two directions to the balconied second level. In the center of the foyer stood a round carved oak table, nearly the size of the one I imagined Arthur had gathered his knights around. On top of it stood a huge crystal vase filled with flowers.
Elena led Beatrice McKenzie Caulfield around the side of the table. My first impression was that Beatrice would have made a great snow queen. Her hair was nearly white, and fell straight and long from a center part almost to her waist. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue, her skin porcelain. Even her clothes were pale. She wore light tan work pants and a shirt in a soft material that seemed to flow as she walked toward us. Her white canvas shoes made no noise as she approached. She was a tall woman, slender, with an ethereal kind of beauty that reminded me of Tennessee Williams’s Southern women. Blanche Dubois—but stronger. Colder. I had a feeling that Beatrice would hold her own very well against Stanley Kowalski.
I also had the distinct impression that Beatrice Caulfield had been studying me just as thoroughly as I’d been studying her. When she stopped in front of me, she was the one who broke the silence. “Cameron?”
The word with its question mark came out in a soft voice that somehow matched the rest of her.
“Ma’am,” Cole began to tell my story about the accident and my memory loss.
Beatrice interrupted. “Why were you in San Francisco?”
“I don’t remember,” I said. It was amazing how memory loss came in handy. “Do you have any idea why I might have gone up there?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Cole continued, telling the part where I came to Rossi Investigations and hired them to find out who I was. He’d nearly finished when a large black cat appeared around the side of the oak table, walked toward us and halted at Elena’s feet.
“Hannibal, aren’t you happy to see your mistress?” Elena asked.
The cat stayed right where he was, and the look he gave me was not friendly. Did that mean he knew on some cat instinct level that I wasn’t Cameron? Here was a complication that I hadn’t counted on. Pepper and Cole had warned me there’d be more than one.
Elena scooped Hannibal up and held him out to me.
The cat responded by hissing loudly and taking a swipe at me with his paw.
“Evidently, he’s forgotten you already,” Beatrice remarked.
“Don’t you pay any attention to him, Ms. Cameron,” Elena hurried to say. “The two of you were thick as thieves. He just needs some time to get used to you again.” She set Hannibal down, and he shot off like a bullet.
I wished that it was as easy to read Beatrice as it was to read the cat. The woman had registered very little emotion at seeing me, but she hadn’t shifted her gaze from me once during the time that Cole had talked. I found it impossible to tell from her eyes, but I had a feeling that she didn’t harbor any warm feelings for Cameron. Definitely a snow queen, I thought.
Finally, Beatrice turned to Cole. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Buchanan? Iced tea?”
Cole smiled. “That would be great.”
Beatrice had Elena serve us tea on a patio off the kitchen that offered a view of the gardens and the stables in the distance. She was a good hostess and a good listener. By the time we were finished with our drinks, Beatrice knew pretty much everything that had happened to me in the weeks I’d supposedly been missing—everything we wanted her to know.
Finally, she rose. “James will be home late this afternoon. He knew that you’d be back, but I’m sure it will ease his mind to find out that he was right.” Then she turned to Cole. “Mr. Buchanan, if you’ll leave a card? My brother may wish to speak with you.”
Cole took a card out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She
