EIGHTEEN

WE followed Madame to a remote area marked for Employee Parking. On the way we saw a few clients of the hotel, but no sign of those promised security patrols.

Our trek ended in front of an ugly steel door in dented gray. It appeared to be a janitor’s closet; but when Madame released the lock, the door opened into a tastefully appointed waiting area with a small private elevator.

Using the same key, Madame activated the elevator. As we filed into the mirror-walled car, I realized everyone was staring in my direction, waiting for me to exhibit a glimmer of recognition or explode into a psychotic episode.

In truth, I felt nothing, identified nothing, remembered nothing. Though I was told I’d been here before, I had no recollection of the experience or who had accompanied me here.

On the second floor, the elevator rumbled open to reveal a crisscross of yellow crime scene tape, which didn’t make much sense to me.

“Why is there police tape here?” I asked. “Annette was accosted in the parking garage, wasn’t she? Not up here.”

“The detectives in charge of the investigation wanted fingerprints, DNA, and any other physical evidence taken from Annette’s last known place of business—and that business was with you, Clare. I was informed the police completed their work here last week.”

Without hesitation, Madame ripped the ribbons aside, and we stepped into a fashionably old-fashioned hallway with a polished hardwood floor, accented by a blue Persian area rug.

The entrance to the hotel’s private Gotham Suite was marked by a plaque only partially obscured by more crime scene tape. Once again, Madame sent the yellow ribbons drifting to the hardwood. Finally, she unlocked the double doors, threw them open, and hit the light switch, illuminating the suite’s main room.

The high-ceilinged space was designed for business meetings with a long, boardroom-type table dominating the room. A credenza, holding a computer with a large flat-screen display, was flanked by decorative wall panels (each carved with one of the Palace’s five famous gargoyles). Tall windows, facing Central Park, lined one side of the room while framed artwork covered the opposite wall.

What surprised me, however, were the wedding decorations. A round table draped in white linen had been set up near the windows, where a banner with white bells declared, It’s Your Wedding Day!

The arrangement on top of the table had been beautiful once. Now the flowers sagged from a crystal vase gone dry, stems bent from the weight of dead blossoms.

Beside the vase sat a bowl of brown and shriveling apple slices and a plate of salt-free soda crackers, ingredients that helped clear one’s palate when sampling different pastries. This, I didn’t deduce. Somehow I knew it, though I couldn’t recall how.

I also knew, when sampling sweets, I preferred a liquid solution made with unseasoned polenta, the palate cleanser of choice for the International Chocolate Awards.

And how in the world did I know that?

With no answers forthcoming, I turned my attention back to the table. A binder of elegant wedding cake designs lay open with a dozen pastry stands set up around it. Each stand was topped by a glass dome with a mini cake sample beneath. All of the cakes were cut with several wedges missing. On a wheeled cart next to the table sat a pitcher of water and a drained pot of French pressed coffee.

“This is a lovely private tasting Annette arranged for you,” Madame marveled. “Do you recognize anything?”

“Nothing, and I don’t understand the theme. Was I catering a wedding reception? Who’s getting married? Was it you, Esther? You mentioned a fiancé?”

Esther opened her mouth, but a quick glance from Madame shut it again.

“Was it my daughter?” That must be it, I decided. Joy is getting married!

“Don’t speculate about future events,” Madame warned sharply. “Keep your mind focused on the concrete details in front of you. These were part of your very recent past. Perhaps the key to unlocking your memory is right here. After all, everything is exactly as you and Annette left it.”

“It couldn’t be exactly as we left it—” I scanned the room. “There are no cups, glasses, dishes, or silverware. Any tasting would need them, yet they’re all missing. The crime scene unit must have taken them, along with samples of the consumables, to be tested for drugs or toxins . . .”

Even as I said it, I wondered how I could know such things. Then I noticed Madame and Esther sharing a glance.

“What?” I said. “Do you two know why I know that? Have I been catering police banquets or something?”

“Or something,” Esther said.

“That’s not an answer,” I returned.

“Don’t let it upset you,” Madame soothed. “From what I’ve learned about your condition, dissociative amnesia can wipe away autobiographical memories, yet leave the things you’ve learned completely intact. A person may remember how to drive a car, for example, but not recall how she learned, who taught her, or when.”

“Like Jason Bourne,” Mr. Dante said.

“You mean the Robert Ludlum character,” I assumed, “from the Bourne books?”

“And the blockbuster movies,” Esther noted.

“Movies?” I blinked. “There are Jason Bourne movies?”

“Forget it.” Esther waved her hand. “Oops, sorry, no offense!”

“It’s forgotten,” I said. “Lately, it appears, I have a knack for it.”

Esther smirked. “No dent in her sense of humor.”

“Yes, she’s still our Clare,” Madame pronounced, and then narrowed her violet gaze on me. “Bourne is actually an apt reference. The professor I spoke with about your memory loss even mentioned him.”

“Why would he do that? Bourne’s story is fictional.”

“But his condition was inspired by fact. Ludlum himself claimed the idea for Bourne came to him after he suffered a twelve-hour bout of amnesia. And many believe Ludlum borrowed the name of his antihero from a real man named Ansel Bourne, a preacher who suffered a famous case of amnesia in the nineteenth century.”

“Was it like mine?”

“Not exactly. You can still recall your identity. Ansel’s case was more drastic. He left his Rhode Island home in January for a trip to Providence. Somewhere in his travels, he lost his memory. He continued on to Pennsylvania, where he began living with another family and working as a confectioner using the name A. J. Brown. Two months later, A.J. woke up as Ansel again, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him. He still believed it was January.”

“I can relate.”

“Don’t give up, dear. And don’t let anxiety cripple you. Try to trust what you know. And understand that how you know it may be unclear until your memories return.”

“Okay,” I said, but once again I experienced that surreal dissociation between understanding a thing and accepting it. Madame’s use of the word until was hopeful, too, but what if my memories never came back?

“Look on the bright side,” Madame cheered. “Your instincts and observations about this scene were spot-on. My police source informed me that no toxins or adulterants of any kind were found in anything you and Annette consumed in this suite.”

“So what’s next?” I asked.

She turned to Mr. Dante. “I want you to go back to the hallway and keep watch. Alert us if you see or hear anyone coming from any direction.”

“Why?” he asked. “What else are you going to do in here?”

“Something secret, my boy. Something I want as few to know about as possible. Now, hurry and do as I say.”

As soon as Mr. Dante left us, Madame closed the double doors behind him and swiftly walked the length of the boardroom table.

“Do you know what she’s up to?” I whispered to Esther.

She showed me her palms. “No idea.”