Authors: Roberta Latow
‘No, it never occurred to me to do so. How stupid of me.’
‘I somehow don’t think you are at all a stupid woman. You speak well, are handling this unpleasant and awkward situation calmly, you have your fear under control – no, not stupid at all. Educated, successful, would be my guess, and wealthy, by the cut of your clothes. Now, let’s see what else we can find out about you, miss. I can’t keep calling you miss. Why don’t we give you a working name, at least until we find out who you are and we can use your correct one? Is there any particular name you would like?’
‘No,’ answered Candia.
A policeman entered the room carrying a tray bearing three cups of coffee, a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar, and placed it on the sheriff’s desk. ‘Help yourselves, ladies,’ said Bridget.
Candia rose from her chair to pick up a cup and went to stand by the window. She liked what she saw of Newbampton, just as she had liked what she had seen from the bench in the quadrangle. It was a lovely New England town, just as her mother had described it to her when she was a little girl. It had remained etched in her mind. Her mother had only passed through it, stayed one night at the inn, and had never seen it again. Newbampton had become her mother’s fantasy retreat from the hectic life she led and now it had become her own refuge.
On the far side of the quadrangle she could see a line of attractive shops: Jessica’s Hand Laundry, Town and Country Clothes, Devlin’s pastry shop, Beverly Atwood’s Arcade, Robert Johnson Rare Books, Tanner’s Tea Shop, the Maple Sugar Store.
Cissie joined Candia at the window. ‘How about —’
‘Jessica,’ interrupted Candia. ‘Jessica will do.’
‘Is there a reason why you have chosen Jessica?’ asked Bridget.
‘Yes. Jessica’s Hand Laundry was the first sign I saw and I like the name Jessica.’
‘Well, there are no clues there for us to follow up,’ Bridget remarked. ‘What do you see for a second name, Jessica?’ she asked, rather facetiously, Candia thought.
‘I’ll take Johnson. I’ve always liked rare book shops.’
‘Ah, you remembered something, you like rare book shops. A clue that might be worked on.’
‘Oh, my word, I forgot, I have to open the shop,’ said Cissie, rushing back to the desk to dispose of her cup and saucer. ‘Listen, Jessica, come to the shop when you’re done here. Lunch, my treat. I’m sorry to have to leave you but I have a business to run. You’ll be all right in Copley’s hands – oops, I mean the sheriff.’
Jessica liked the mischievous glint in Cissie’s eyes. She also liked Bridget Copley. She was obviously a woman in charge and nobody’s fool. Jessica watched her now and listened as she asked for someone called Raburn to come to her office.
‘Now, let’s get down to it, Jessica. Why were you sitting in the cold for all those hours do you think?’
‘I was waiting for the shops to open so I could make some inquiries as to how I could find a place called Rose Cottage.’
‘Rose Cottage! Now that is interesting. How do you know about Rose Cottage?’
Jessica reached for her black alligator handbag, opened it and pulled out a substantial iron key. Attached to it was a brown tag. She passed it across the desk.
Bridget read aloud from the tag. ‘ “The bearer of this key has the right to reside indefinitely in Rose Cottage and to do with the contents as she sees fit.” Jessica, this is extraordinary. And certainly a big clue that might lead us to finding out who you are.’
Not on your life, Sheriff, thought Jessica. ‘Do you know where Rose Cottage is?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I do, and so does most everyone else in town. Rose
Cottage is a well-known landmark in Newbampton, one of the town’s great mysteries. The Newbampton Savings and Trust Bank has been for decades the custodian of Rose Cottage. They pay out funds to the local realtor, Ben Wheeler, to keep the property in good condition. The money is drawn from an account marked Rose Cottage, which no one can get their hands on. Its original deposit was one hundred thousand dollars. I’m not revealing any secrets, it’s a well-known fact which periodically comes to light when someone tries to claim the money.’
‘You’re not suggesting —’
‘No, no, not at all, just putting you in the picture. To the locals Rose Cottage has been for generations a puzzle as to who really owns it and if it would ever be lived in. Now you arrive in the middle of the night, suffering from amnesia, in possession of a key that bears the name Rose Cottage. But it doesn’t say in which town, state or even country the house is. How did you know it was Newbampton, Jessica?’
‘I didn’t, nor do I wholly understand the message of the key. I assume because I have the key in my possession I have the right to stay there. Am I wrong about that?’
‘No, I don’t think you are, but we must check with the bank and see what they have to say about the matter. Jamie Dunwoody is the president of the bank and the man we must see but he doesn’t get in until ten o’clock. So, in the meantime, let’s check the contents of your handbag.’
Jessica was handing her bag over the desk to Bridget when Jim Raburn entered the room. The sheriff introduced Jessica, and explained that he would be in charge of her case. He would start the ball rolling with a check on the missing persons list. He took a seat and, pen and notebook in hand, waited for the sheriff to continue her investigation.
‘Would you rather check the contents of your handbag yourself?’ inquired Bridget.
‘No,’ answered Jessica.
‘Can you tell me anything about this handbag?’ she asked.
‘It must have been very expensive. It’s alligator skin lined with suede,’ answered Jessica.
‘I may be a small-town sheriff who can’t even dress herself without the help of Beverly or Cissie Atwood’s Arcade but I do read
Vogue
at the hairdresser’s. I am always fascinated by the sort of women who can afford thousands of dollars for a Hermes alligator handbag such as this – the H clip on the front tells us it’s Hermes. And this label inside tells us it was made in France.’
‘I never thought to look for a label. It’s just my handbag, the way my clothes are just my clothes.’
‘Ah, your clothes. They’re stylish and expensive. Shall we have a look at their labels? I hope you’re writing this down, Raburn. “The amnesia victim was carrying a Hermes handbag of alligator skin – very expensive. She was wearing a short black suede jacket with sleeves of sable.” Would you mind, Jessica, if I examined your jacket?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Jessica, and Bridget walked round the desk to remove it from her shoulders.
‘The label reads Fendi, no hint as to where it was purchased. Do you have any idea where you might have bought it, Jessica?’
‘No,’ she answered as she watched the sheriff feeling through the lining for something that might be hidden, turning the sleeves inside out and examining them as thoroughly as she could without actually ripping the lining from the garment.
‘Do you mind standing up? I want to read the label on your dress.’
The black cashmere dress was by Yves St Laurent. Bridget made no comment. She eyed Jessica’s shoes. ‘Look, would you mind going into the bathroom, undressing and checking the labels on your shoes and your undergarments and writing them down on a piece of paper?’
‘Is this really necessary?’ asked Jessica who was beginning to feel irritated by this close inspection of her clothing.
‘You don’t have to but they could give us clues.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It just seemed a bit intrusive.’
When Jessica returned, she read from the slip of paper: her black, alligator, high-heeled shoes were by Maude Frisson: her black silk slip, bra and knickers had no labels. ‘I think they must have been custom made,’ she said and handed the paper to the sheriff.
‘Well, you don’t give much away there, Jessica.’
‘No, I don’t, do I? I’m beginning to feel quite depressed about that. I think what has happened to me is just beginning to sink in.’ The part about feeling depressed was true. The close examination of her clothes reminded her of who she had been and what she was running away from.
‘We’ll do all we can to help you find who and what you are, where you belong,’ said Bridget reassuringly. ‘And there’s a great deal to be thankful for: you seem well enough, and it appears you will have a roof over your head. Think of that. Now, let’s see what else you have in your handbag.’
She pulled out a lipstick and a wallet containing six dollars and forty cents, a white linen handkerchief trimmed with lace.
‘Well, not many things floating around in this handbag. It appears to me that you’re a cash poor rich girl. The contents of your handbag suggest it’s possible you were in quite a hurry, grabbed your bag and ran. No woman I’ve ever met kept such an empty handbag. Where’s the comb, mirror, face powder, blusher, the sunglasses, gloves, a rain hat? No, not the rain hat, you’re surely not the type to carry a plastic foldaway rain hat. What woman in this day and age goes anywhere, amnesia or not, without a string of credit cards, a driver’s licence? And yet you took this large and quite heavy handbag. Why this handbag
when you had so few things to take with you? An interesting question.’
Jessica knew very well why she had grabbed that handbag and had no doubt that in a matter of minutes so would the sheriff. In a way, Jessica was quite amused at the thought of seeing Bridget Copley’s face when she discovered the secret of the Hermes handbag. The plot was thickening fast. Jessica had never thought of her escape as an engaging plot, merely a change of life. But now, she could see her secrets as intriguing mysteries begging to be solved.
Bridget gazed across the desk at ‘Jessica’ and did not believe for one minute that she had amnesia. But belief was not proof. She placed the tips of her fingers together and tapped them against her lips as she contemplated first Jessica and then the handbag. Then she raised the handbag from the desk and examined it closely. ‘There had to be a reason why you chose this particular handbag to run away with.’
‘Oh, you think I was running away from something.’
‘Or towards something. Don’t you think that’s a distinct possibility?’
‘I haven’t the vaguest idea.’
‘This is quite the most handsome handbag I have ever seen. So elegant and impressive. The skin has been worked and padded out to make the normally tough hide look supple and soft as butter. Padded, one wonders, with what?’
Bridget examined the interior of the handbag closely. She ran her fingers over the soft suede and marvelled at the craftsmanship of the double piping that trimmed it. She gently pushed and pulled at the piping, which seemed slightly loose, and it slid to one side, thus freeing the catch that released the interior panel.
‘Bingo!’ exclaimed Bridget.
Jessica rose from her chair as the sheriff removed the panel and asked Jessica and Jim Raburn to witness what she had found – two layers of cotton wool and sandwiched
between them ten slim bundles of one hundred dollar bills. The panel on the other side was quickly discovered, removed, and the same amount of money revealed.
‘You become more intriguing by the minute, Jessica,’ said Bridget as she neatly laid out two hundred thousand dollars on the desk.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ agreed Jessica.
Jim Raburn was too stunned by the sight of so much money to say anything. He merely wrote down the amount that the sheriff had counted out.
‘You realise I will have to confiscate this money until I’ve run a check on the bills to see if they’re stolen or if anyone is looking for them.’
‘You think I’m a thief?’
‘No, I don’t actually, but I have to make sure you’re not. Can you tell me anything about this money, what it’s doing in the lining of your handbag?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what do you think about having all this money in your possession?’
‘That it, like the handbag, its contents and my clothes, belongs to me. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, after all. I am more surprised that I have only six dollars and forty cents in my purse than such a sum of money in the lining of my handbag. My clothes, if nothing else, indicate that I am used to large sums of money.’
‘And devious ways of hiding it. Someone, somewhere, has been very clever with your handbag and I am certain it wasn’t Hermes.’
‘Your insinuations are starting to bite, Sheriff. I am beginning to feel more like a suspected criminal than a
victim. And I would like that to stop now. I came to you for help and until you can discover who I am, I would greatly appreciate it if you would give me the benefit of your doubts and keep my welfare in mind. I understand why you feel you must confiscate my money, for the moment, but I hope you appreciate that I still need your help to try and get some sort of life together while I am here in Newbampton in search of who Jessica Johnson really is.’
Jim Raburn had never heard anyone speak to Bridget Copley like that before, and he had known her all his life. He waited for an explosion.
It never came. The sheriff was quiet, the tips of her fingers touching again as she moved them back and forth against her lips. This beautiful creature sitting across from her was certainly a formidable character, she thought, and clearly no thief. Did she have amnesia? Bridget doubted it, but whatever the case, she liked this woman, respected her, and she would help her both as a friend and as a sheriff who followed procedure.
‘Let me state your position,’ she said. ‘You are quite right, the money is yours until or unless proven differently, and once it is confirmed at the bank by Jamie Dunwoody that you have the right to live in Rose Cottage, you have a residence. As far as I am concerned, you are wrong to think I view you as a possible criminal. Now, let’s go over to the bank and see if Jamie can shed some light on you and Rose Cottage.’ Bridget rose from her chair, adding, ‘I think it would be a good idea if sometime before the end of the day you got to meet Luke Greenfield over at the hospital. You’ll like him, he’s a charmer, and a very good doctor. He will be able to assess your condition and help us to understand what we can expect from it. Good idea?’
A doctor? An examination? As Candia she had not thought about this but as Jessica she understood at once that this was what she should do. ‘I think it’s probably necessary for me to seek some kind of medical help,’ she said easily.
‘Yes, of course it’s all right, Sheriff.’
The two women were walking from the office when Jessica placed a hand on the sheriff’s arm and asked her, ‘How long before you return my money? Six dollars and a little change will hardly buy me a meal.’
‘I don’t know, you have to give me some time on that, Jessica. But for your immediate needs we’ll raise some money for you from social services. You’re an unusual case for our town and I’m not sure about what we can or cannot do for you. You might have to find a job, or maybe, if you have the right, you can sell off some of the furniture in Rose Cottage. But let’s worry about that after we talk to Jamie.’
‘I wonder if I can ask a favour of you, Sheriff. This is a small town, can we keep my circumstances to ourselves?’
‘We can try but I doubt we’ll succeed,’ said Bridget. ‘Cissie will have already spread the word that an amnesia victim has landed in town. And Rose Cottage, open and being lived in, something the town never expected to see? I would suggest that the best way to quash questions and assumptions is to let it all hang out. No memory is a pretty effective insurance policy against inquisitive minds – but a policeman’s instinct tells me that you’ve already worked that out,’ and with a faint smile on her lips, Bridget ushered Jessica out of the station.
Jamie Dunwoody was sitting in his high-backed leather swivel chair gazing out of the window and thinking about his golf game when Bridget Copley strode into his office.
Jamie swung round to face the room. ‘I might have known it would be you, Bridget. You’re just about the only one who gets in here unannounced,’ he told her with a smile on his face.
‘Dreaming about your golf game again, Jamie? Thought you’d be having an easy, uncomplicated day? Forget it. This is Jessica Johnson, and this, Jessica, is Jamie Dunwoody, president of this bank five generations down the line.’
Jessica was amused by the casual manners, how everyone knew everyone else’s little quirky ways and had the time and inclination to enjoy them openly. She had worked with presidents of banks in Paris, London, Hong Kong and New York all her adult life and had never come across such easy-going behaviour. It was very appealing and although it was quite foreign to her she felt it was just what she needed to begin again.
Jamie Dunwoody was an attractive, white-haired man in his mid-fifties. He walked round his desk to shake hands with Jessica and invited her and the sheriff to sit down. ‘What can I do for you ladies?’ he asked.
Without a word, Jessica reached into her handbag and withdrew the iron key. Holding it in the palm of her hand, she presented it to Mr Dunwoody. By the expression on his face, it was obvious that the key meant nothing to him. But his expression changed when he took it in his hand and read the tag dangling from it. He went back to his chair and said into the intercom on his desk, ‘Cherry, get Mr Tomkins to go down to the safe and open the deposit box room. I want him to bring me the safe deposit box belonging to Rose Cottage.’
One hour later, it was established that the bearer of the key, like someone who has possession of a bearer bond, was indeed entitled to all rights to the house.
Jessica placed the key into the front door lock of Rose Cottage. She felt a shiver of excitement; she had dreamed about this secret place since she was a child. She was familiar with the house from photographs sent to her through a complicated system of communication she had years ago organised between the bank in Newbampton, London solicitors, a Paris advocate and a Chinese friend in Hong Kong, but the reality was more exquisite than she had ever imagined.
Rose Cottage was a three-storey, white clapboard,
seventeenth-century New England mansion. It had been restored and furnished under the direction of museum people, and the blend of fine eighteenth-century American antiques, English Chippendale, antique Chinese porcelain and collections of period jade and ivory created an aesthetically beautiful home that was both warm and hospitable.
Except for the white dust sheets, which Jamie Dunwoody kept whipping off the furniture, one would have thought the inhabitant of this handsome house had been away for no more than a month’s holiday. As the black shutters were opened and the sunlight poured in, the rooms sprang to life and filled Jessica with a vitality she had never known.
‘Do you sense having been here before, Jessica?’ asked Bridget.
‘No,’ Jessica answered, and her excitement suddenly turned to weariness. She felt all energy drain from her body.
Her weariness was visible enough for Mr Dunwoody to ask, ‘Are you all right? Do you need a chair?’
What she needed was to lie down. Bridget, Jamie, and Jessica made up the four-poster bed in the master bedroom with linen they found neatly stacked in a tallboy. With a promise to return for Jessica in three hours’ time so they might take her to see Dr Greenfield, the sheriff and the banker left her alone.
A lovely combination of euphoria and drowsiness settled over Jessica as she lay between the white linen sheets under a cream-coloured cashmere blanket, her head resting against large, soft, feather pillows trimmed with ecru lace. It had seemed such a little lie, pretending to have no memory, and now it had taken over her life. She did not regret it. Without it she might have weakened and run back to Pierre, and succumbed to her addiction to the depraved, erotic life he provided for her. She had seen herself becoming more and more enslaved by lust and by her career successes; her voracious appetite for both had seemed
impossible to satisfy and it was this that had persuaded her that she must escape if she was to survive. And if her survival had to depend on a lie, so be it.
Her eyelids fluttered, then closed and she fell into a deep sleep.
He entered the room and her heart began to race. He loved her so much, with heart and passion, lust, the light and the dark side of his nature. He loved her as no other living soul had ever loved her. She was swallowed up whole by his overwhelming desire to possess her.
To be adored like this was irresistible. It was also corrupting. For what woman could deny anything to a man who loved her like that? Especially one who proved his love for her time and time again, year in and year out, who moulded her to understand and enjoy her sensuality, who taught her to glory in her sexual lust and made her understand how vital it was to be in touch with her senses and to exploit them to the fullest. How easy it was for Candia to close her eyes to all else so she might be loved by such a man. How easy and rewarding Pierre made it for her to slip away from realities other than erotica, power, money and a clandestine existence. Just the sound of his voice, a look in his eye, a smile, the way he ran his fingers through his hair was enough for her to surrender herself to him. He possessed her body and soul.
Oh, how she wanted him. To feel herself dissolve under his touch, was there anything more thrilling? He went to her and passed his fingers across her lips. She trembled and parted her lips to suck them into her mouth. The taste of Pierre was like an aphrodisiac. He unbuttoned her blouse, slowly, deliberately, and then removed her skirt. He lay her on his bed and nibbled her naked flesh. His lust wrapped itself round her and she was gone, lost to the world, as she stepped into the erotic landscape he had created for her so many years before and from which there was no escape.
As his searching fingers, hungry mouth, caressing tongue worked their magic, she burned with desire to come, a steady stream of orgasm to anoint her soul. He took possession of her with every thrust until she became nothing more than an empty vessel for him to fill. She lived her sexuality to the fullest and waited and yearned for more, as a heroin addict waits and yearns for the syringe, the fix, to carry him through another day, another night.
‘This is only sex, and clearly not depraved enough lovemaking for you, my darling. All I want is for us to go where you want to be,’ he whispered in her ear.
She wanted to weep for the love of this man who had moulded her into the successful woman, the sexual being that she was. Instead she told him, ‘I love you. I’m so grateful for the love and passion you have for me. It’s what I live for.’
‘Then do this for me,’ he ordered.
And like the sexual slave she was, she willingly obeyed. She rose from his bed and walked into the adjoining room where she lay down and waited for his friend: a rough and virile young man whose sexual appetites bordered on the sadistic.
He entered the room naked save for bands of leather on his wrists. A long, knotted, silk cord dangled from his hand, and between his legs his virility proudly proclaimed itself. Her heart began to race with excitement for this man she disliked, feared even, for the power of his sexual passions, for the undercurrent of sexual danger that lingered like a perfume on his skin, for the imaginative, sometimes bizarre sexual fantasies he excited in her and which she was unable to resist.
He knelt astride her on the bed and hovered like a shimmering apparition over her body. She called out, ‘Devlin!’ trying to cover her anguish with his name. But her bristling desire was stronger than her fear of what lengths of pain and pleasure he would, in the name of Eros, inflict
upon her. She could see that certain glint in his eyes. Devlin relished, above all else, the sexual power he had over women. It set his senses aflame, fed his sadism.
‘The delights of the flesh, you’re crying out for them. I find you irresistible when you’re like this, bursting with pent-up passion, the need to come, drown in orgasm, bruised and burned by a rampage of sex,’ he told her.
He watched her quiver with anticipation. He leaned over her and caressed her breasts, ran his hands over her body, lowered his head to her breasts, fed a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard on it. She squirmed under his touch and whimpered while she tried to hold back from coming. Devlin slapped the swell of her breasts sharply. The pain made her wince. Then once more she felt the sting of his palm on her flesh and could hold back no longer. She came, and called out his name.
He took the knotted cord and teased her naked flesh with it in long and languid strokes as light as a feather dancing across her flesh. He smiled at her and kissed her tenderly on lips that were shivering with passion; he caressed every inch of her body, her thighs, legs, feet, her toes. He licked her with his tongue, and his whispers told her of his erotic intentions. Then he rolled her over and violated her with tenderness, his caresses so exquisite that she came again.
Now she needed more than being fondled in seductive foreplay to set her flesh and mind burning. Devlin knew this and relished her total submission to his sexual commands. He rolled her first on her side and explored her most intimate, most sexually sensitive female self. With searching caresses he sought out every erogenous place her body would yield, delving deeply into the soft, satiny, moist warmth of her cunt, her excruciatingly sensitive bud of a clitoris.