by Lee Magner
“I understand you two know each other,” Lefcourt observed, speaking to Owen.
Mariana watched in surprise as Owen curtly nodded his head.
Chapter 10
Anselm Brock was a gray-haired man with a middle-age paunch and the remains of what had once been a muscular build. He was modishly attired in buff wool trousers, a dusky red dress shirt with white collar and a brown tweed sports jacket of the type commonly seen at local steeplechases. His tie was a unique oblong knit woven of complementary shades of brown, beige and red. His dark brown dress shoes were as highly polished as a new car. He sported tinted prescription glasses with gold wire frames most often seen on the young and flamboyant.
The insurance-investigation business must pay well, Mariana concluded, startled by his unexpectedly dapper appearance.
“I believe I owe you my thanks, Mr. Brock.” Mariana said, recovering from her surprise and smoothing it over with a welcoming smile. She politely extended her hand in appreciation.
Brock shook it firmly. His plump, well-manicured hand was callused and his grip strong, much to Mariana’s renewed amazement. And from the way he was enthusiastically pumping the handshake, he was obviously pleased by her response to him.
“I’m glad to be able to help, ma’am,” he drawled. “My associate and I were very happy to find your purse.”
“Your associate?” Mariana echoed, trying to extricate her hand without immediate success. “Then you don’t do your own digging when you go out in the field like this?” she asked.
Brock chuckled. “Not if I can help it. Not anymore,” he replied. “We decided that your purse was most likely thrown out of the car when the vehicle first started tumbling down the mountainside, based on where we found it, by the way.”
Owen had a vivid flashback of that moment and shot a look at Mariana. He saw her swallow and try to keep her smile bravely in place.
Anselm Brock, unconcerned with their reactions, plowed on.
“You might have even inadvertently dragged it out when you pulled her out of the car, Blackhart. Then the force of the mountain slide itself carried the item away from you, mixing it with leaves and branches and mud. That made it hard for the earlier searchers to find it. Since the rain’s stopped, we were able to get into some areas too slippery for the police,” he explained. “We were just damn lucky to stumble onto it,” he said flatly. “Maybe fate led us to it”
“In any event, she has it back.” Owen motioned for them to come farther inside the house. “Let’s go into the living room. It’s not a hell of a lot more comfortable than standing in the foyer,” he said dryly. “But you can sit down in it.”
They went into the living room and sat down amid the boxes and the few pieces of furniture. Lefcourt handed Mariana the purse.
“Why don’t you look at the contents,” he suggested kindly. “I take it you haven’t completely remembered everything?”
“That’s right Just fragments. But more every day.”
Anselm Brock folded his arms in front of his barrel chest and eyed Owen speculatively.
“This must have been déjà vu for you, Blackhart.”
Mariana saw Owen stiffen.
The insurance investigator saw the mystified expression on Mariana’s face and immediately launched into an explanation.
“I guess you have no way of knowing about that, unless Owen told you.”
Owen’s stony face became positively granite.
Mariana had snapped open her purse in an attempt to divert the insurance man’s comment, but that didn’t derail him at all.
“Owen here was as good as engaged to a society girl up in New York some years ago. One of Portia Willowbrook’s protégés. But the young woman drove off one weekend and disappeared. Took them years before they finally found her body.”
Mariana felt cold all over. She tried not to betray her feelings. It seemed unfair to do that, in front of Lefcourt and Brock. She forced a sympathetic expression onto her face.
“That must have been a terrible experience,” she murmured.
Brock nodded. “For a while, there were rumors that she’d had second thoughts about Owen, and he was questioned as a suspect in her disappearance,” Brock added helpfully.
Mariana stared at Owen. He was looking thoroughly displeased with Brock’s revelations.
“And then the papers started recounting how he searched for her personally, relentlessly, for months after her disappearance. It would have bankrupted anyone else. But you made it a personal quest, didn’t you, Blackhart? First he was branded a suspect and then pitied as a desperately suffering lover.” Brock shook his head and sighed. “Life can be hell, can’t it?”
Owen gave the insurance man an implacably cold look.
“Yes,” Owen replied, through barely unclenched teeth. “Weren’t you here to talk about Mariana’s purse? And her accident?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, indeed,” Brock agreed. “But I thought it was a great twist of fate that you finally had a chance to save a young woman. The other lady died, after all. Didn’t they conclude that she’d died of exposure? After apparently being carjacked? But the perpetrators had knocked her too hard on the head and then panicked when they realized she needed medical care. Anyway, that was the theory.”
“You seem to remember it all very clearly, Mr. Brock,” Mariana said.
“Oh, it was big news for months,” Brock assured her. “Besides, I knew Owen and his boss by reputation. We all worked the same part of town back then. Like I said, it just strikes me as poetic justice that he could save you and kind of make up for the woman he lost.” Brock glanced at Owen. “That other lady was tagged as a Jane Doe, too, wasn’t she, Owen? At the county morgue, when they finally came across her body.”
“Yes,” Owen replied succinctly.
“Well, this Jane Doe has a happy ending,” Brock exclaimed, thumping his knee enthusiastically.
Mariana nodded automatically. “Yeah,” she numbly agreed. But maybe not as happy an ending as she’d believed a few minutes ago, she thought.
Owen looked at the bleak expression in Mariana’s eyes and repressed the urge to angrily toss Brock out of the house. Hell! He’d known that Anselm Brock had an uncanny knack for creating problems with his penchant for rambling gossip. If that wasn’t bad enough, Brock always had possessed an unerring instinct for setting people’s worst nightmares out into public view at the most delicate moments. He had no social tact at all. It helped him tear openings in the masks of people he investigated, which made him highly successful in his field. However, at the moment, Owen was cursing himself for not having told Mariana about this first. He’d wanted to forget about the past. He should have realized that bad news followed you forever.
Lefcourt was watching the conversation with growing interest. However, he glanced at his watch and reluctantly intervened.
“Uh, I hate to interrupt, folks, but I have to get back to the office this afternoon, so maybe we could come back to the present case?” he said with a faintly apologetic smile. “Back to our Jane Doe, here?”
Mariana felt a sudden chill at the mention of Jane Doe, and she crossed her arms in front of her for warmth.
“Look inside the purse,” Lefcourt urged her. “I think you may have a surprise in store.”
Owen’s eyebrows drew together in a straight line. He didn’t like the sound of that, and he definitely didn’t need any more surprises this morning.
Mariana stared down at the purse in her hands. She’d already opened it, and now she examined it more closely.
It was a wine red leather purse. A hand-tooled geometric design still showed in soft relief against the water-brittled, dirt-smudged material. The lining inside was gritty with drying mud that had seeped in through the flap. When she’d lifted the closure moments ago, a fine, dark, powdery residue had sifted down onto her lap.
Mariana wasn’t as consumed with curiosity to see the contents as she would have been a day or two earlier. After all, she’
d remembered her complete name and where she was from, and she was gaining confidence that she eventually would remember everything. Anselm Brock’s comments about Owen’s past had been much more riveting than the prospect of seeing her driver’s license.
There was a wallet inside the purse. And a pen and pencil. And a small, water-stained pad of blank, chartreuse green self-sticking notes.
Mariana removed the wallet and ran her fingers over it. It did seem vaguely familiar. It was plain black leather, with a small insert of plastic sleeves for holding credit cards, wallet-size photographs and a driver’s license.
She flipped open the wallet and looked at the license.
She lifted her gaze and glanced first at Lefcourt and Brock, then at Owen, then back to the license. Disbelief was stamped on her face.
“This can’t be,” she protested huskily. She shook her head, denying what she was seeing with her own eyes. “This is...me...in the picture,” she murmured. “But this isn’t my name.”
Owen, who’d remained standing while the others had sat down, came to her side and reached down for the wallet to see for himself what had so shocked her.
The name on the driver’s license was Maryanice Roualt. The license had been issued by the state of Maryland. That was because Maryanice Roualt’s home address was in Maryland, just west of Washington, D.C.
Mariana frowned and slowly shook her head. She looked up at Owen, as if he could explain this new turn of events to her.
He, too, however, was perplexed. He squatted down beside her, so that he could look straight into her eyes.
“The photograph resembles you,” he said slowly. He looked from Mariana to the license photo and back to Mariana.
Mariana laughed in dismay and gaped at him as if he’d suddenly misplaced some of his intelligence.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, amazed he’d try to soften that rather obvious news. “But this isn’t where I live! And that isn’t my name! I’ve remembered those things.”
Lefcourt interrupted. “Uh, I believe you left me out of that discovery?” he said.
“Mariana Sands. From somewhere around Phoenix, Arizona,” Owen supplied.
Mariana could have hugged him for the firm way he said all that. At least Owen believed her.
“There’s an explanation for this,” Owen said, tapping the wallet with his index finger. He laid his hand on her knee and looked into her eyes. Softly, he promised, “We’ll figure it out.”
She blinked at the tears that threatened her. His tenderness undid her, she realized. She swallowed hard and nodded.
“I can contact the Phoenix police and try to get information on Mariana Sands,” Lefcourt volunteered. “Have you tried to get a phone number for her?”
“Not yet.” Owen straightened and went to the kitchen. He dialed information for Phoenix and asked the operator for any Mariana or M. Sands listings. He jotted down a number and came back to the living room. “She’s listed, all right.”
Mariana felt a surge of hope.
“I, uh...” Lefcourt cleared his throat. “I called the Montgomery County Maryland police about this late last night. That’s where the address on the license is located,” he explained. “No one’s reported Maryanice Roualt missing,” he said apologetically.
“It’s certainly disheartening when no one notices that you’re unaccounted for,” Mariana grumbled with a sigh.
“Would you like me to take you over there to see this address?” Lefcourt volunteered. “I can take you first thing tomorrow morning, if you’d like. Like I said, I have business back at the office that I can’t put off today, but I’d be happy to drive you over tomorrow and spend the whole day trying to sort this out with you.”
“I’ll take her,” Owen interjected firmly. He straightened and continued examining the contents of the wallet.
Mariana looked out the window and saw a car pull into the driveway behind Lefcourt’s police vehicle.
“Maybe you’d like to do that this afternoon?” she hinted.
He glanced down at her, then followed her gaze to the newcomers.
“The press seems to be here already,” he muttered.
Brock straightened his tie and beamed. “How do you s’pose they heard about our finding the purse?” he wondered aloud.
“My office didn’t tell them!” Lefcourt emphatically assured them. “We’ve tried to protect Miss Mariana here from people she wasn’t ready to face. We only release information to the press or any nonpolice inquiries with Mariana’s, er, Ms. Maryanice’s, consent.”
Mariana smiled at Lefcourt reassuringly. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for that, Sergeant.” She grimaced. “And please, keep calling me Mariana. I’m sure that’s my name. Maryanice—” she shrugged and looked at them all in consternation “—Maryanice doesn’t sound...”
She’d been about to say that Maryanice didn’t sound like a name she was accustomed to using, that she didn’t know a soul by that name. However, as the name had rolled off her tongue that last time, suddenly it did seem familiar. There was an echo of that name buried in her past. A face. A person. It didn’t seem like it belonged to her, but to someone else, someone very much like her. As she focused on that sense of familiarity, searching for the memory attached to the name of Maryanice, the illusion evaporated like fog in the warmth of the sun.
Mariana frowned, wondering what lay hidden in her past that was connected to the name of Maryanice. She looked at Owen. He’d seen the peculiar expression chase across her features and he was watching her carefully. She smiled a little and shook her head. She held out her hand and closed her fingers. She smiled ruefully, shook her head and shrugged.
“Couldn’t quite catch the memory?” he guessed softly.
She nodded.
“If your office didn’t intentionally or accidentally let slip my discovering the purse, why are the ladies and gentlemen of the press sniffing at the front door?” Brock drawled, getting them back to the issue most of interest to him at the moment.
“An interesting question,” Owen agreed. “Why don’t I ask them?” He smiled, but his eyes were narrowing in a predatory manner at odds with the gleam of his teeth. “Why don’t I talk to the reporter while you two finish up with Mariana?” Owen suggested.
“Good idea,” Lefcourt agreed.
“If they want to talk to me, I’ll be too happy to oblige,” the insurance investigator offered amiably. Seeing the sharp frown taking form on Lefcourt’s features. Brock hastened to clarify his statement. “Of course, I won’t talk about the purse or the accident. Just the value of insurance investigation. In general.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Owen promised, smothering his sarcasm with great effort. “But when I finish with them, I assure you, they’ll be leaving.”
Mariana wondered what he could possibly say to guarantee that, even if they were here to talk to him about his legal problems, rather than her indefinite dependency on his charity. She was reasonably certain that was the source of the reporter’s arrival, even if Brock and Lefcourt had no reason to suspect that motive.
Owen returned the wallet to Mariana.
“We’ll talk later,” he said firmly. “After our visitors leave.”
Then he turned away and headed for the people leaning on his doorbell.
He opened the door and stepped outside, forcing the reporter and photographer to move back and give way to him as he went outside. He was still barefoot and tousled looking, Mariana realized. Although, with Owen, that somehow it didn’t seem like much of a disadvantage, she thought, half smiling.
Mariana turned her attention to Lefcourt and Brock.
“So exactly what did you two want to ask me?” she asked.
Lefcourt needed to make sure he recorded any returning memories that Mariana had experienced since the last time he’d interviewed her. While she could remember some things about the drive through the mountains and Owen’s pulling her to safety, there was little she could add to the accident report.
<
br /> Brock was focused on the same topic. When he asked where she had been going that night, Mariana still wasn’t certain she knew. There was just the overwhelming urgency of getting to that church and phoning someone. That had begun to crystallize.
“Are you sure that you remember that intention?” Lefcourt asked cautiously. “Could you just be accepting what that guy, Kelton, told you? Kind of creating a memory because it’s easier than not knowing?”
Mariana shook her head. “I’m sure I was going there. And I’m sure I was running away from that man in the drawing,” she said. She looked at Lefcourt anxiously. “Can you find out who he is without his being able to come back and find me through you?” she asked worriedly. She shivered, just thinking about it, feeling foolish being afraid when she didn’t know why she should be afraid of him.
Lefcourt smiled at her reassuringly. “We’ll be careful. Don’t you worry, Miss Mariana. If we can find out who he is and where he is, we’ll check him out without his knowing we’re asking about him.” He looked a little chagrined. “I just hope we can identify him, ma’am. With just a face to go on, and trying to keep this discreet, he may be hard to tack a name on...unless he’s a well-known criminal in one of the neighboring states.”
Mariana nodded. “How long will it take for you to hear anything back from the police in Phoenix?” she asked hesitantly.
“That’s hard to say, but if I get bold of someone this afternoon, they may be able to get back to us in a few days, if we’re lucky. That’ll give them time to check around, organize a report and phone me. It depends on how many more urgent problems they’ve got,” he added apologetically.
“Of course. Well, that’s really helpful. I’ll just hope there’s no crime wave in Phoenix this week,” Mariana said, smiling with what optimism she had left.
“Now...how about those things in the purse?” Brock said, looking pointedly at the contents spilling across the purse on her lap.
Mariana opened the wallet and fingered the health-insurance card in the plastic sleeve.
“Maybe I’ll be paying my medical bills sooner than I’d thought,” she observed humorously.