There's Something About St. Tropez (16 page)

Krendler maneuvered his chair closer to Mac, indicating he should take the chair next to him.

“You are here only because of your show, Mr. Reilly,” he said. “Normally, I do not entertain people I don't already know, nor do I encourage publicity.”

“Then I thank you for taking the time, sir.” Mac decided to get quickly to the point. “I'm here to talk about Chez La Violette.”

“That old bugbear.” There was almost a groan in Krendler's deep voice. “I knew one day it would come back to haunt me.”

Sunny spoke up, surprising herself. “
Haunt
is an odd word to choose for Chez La Violette.”

For the first time, Krendler looked at her. He seemed to appreciate what he saw because he said, “It was originally owned by a woman as beautiful as yourself, Ms. Alvarez.”

Sunny was surprised he had even remembered her name, he'd ignored her so completely. She felt herself turning pink. Damn, she never blushed. This man was unnerving her.

“Thank you.” She put her pretty Limoges cup back on the galleried silver tray, managing to spill its contents. She stared anguished at the tea, dripping all over the place.

Krendler said to Mac, “Would you please push that bell by the fireplace? Edwards will take care of the mess.”

Mac pressed the bell and gave Sunny an encouraging brows-up grin. The butler was there in a second which made Mac wonder if he'd been listening at the door.

“Why did you say you knew Chez La Violette would come back to haunt you?” he asked.

Krendler's fingers drummed the arms of his wheelchair as he thought about the question. “I bought Chez La Violette ten years ago,” he said finally. “Immediately before the accident. After which I became confined to this
wheelchair. I knew the villa was in bad shape but the location was charming, there were plenty of rooms and the grounds were perfect for entertaining. Almost as soon as I bought it part of the roof collapsed and had to be replaced. The chimneys were found to be out of line and needed restructuring. The walls were cracking. It had taken me four years to battle through France's Napoleonic Code to get full title to the property and now it was falling around my ears.”

He looked at Mac. “You understand the Napoleonic Code? Where a property by French law is left not simply to one person, but to an entire family, maybe even to generations of a family. Each one has a share and each one has to be tracked down and persuaded to part with his share in order to make a whole title.”

His dominating dark eyes met Mac's again. “Not an easy task, I can assure you. And now you come to me with more troubles?”

Mac told him exactly what the trouble was.

Krendler listened, then said, “I lost interest in Chez La Violette. I've not seen it since I completed the purchase. To tell you the truth I wanted to put it out of my mind because it seemed from the day I bought it, everything in my life went wrong. Chez La Violette became a kind of jinx, you might say.”

“Then why not sell it?” Sunny asked the logical question.

“Simply put, my dear Ms. Alvarez”—Krendler's voice was smooth as silk as he gave his full attention to her for the first time—“simply put, it's because I was afraid even to think about it in case something else went wrong. Isn't there an old English saying . . . ‘Better to let sleeping dogs lie'? That is exactly the way I feel about Chez La Violette.”

“And what about the ghost of Violette?”

Krendler's dismissive half smile put Sunny in her place as a silly fanciful woman. “I find people will believe exactly what they want to believe,” he said.

He turned to Mac. “As for the rental scam you're involved in, all I can tell you is that I know nothing about it. That problem is for you to solve, Mr. Reilly.” He gave him that hard penetrating stare again. “After all,” he said, smoothly, “that's your job, is it not?”

Mac gave Sunny a quick sideways glance that she knew meant let's get out of here. She got to her feet, smoothing down the skirt of her little black dress. She was glad she had worn the kinky red suede gladiator sandals with the towering heels that made her legs look great. Give this hard old bastard something to stare at, which she knew he was doing from under hooded eyelids.

“Thank you for taking the time to see us,” Mac said, taking a final glance around the elaborate, yet cold, room. It felt like a room that had never been lived in.

This time Krendler rang the bell for the butler. “Good luck with your detecting, Mr. Reilly,” he said, and they both caught the mocking tone of his voice.

He did not offer to shake their hands, but Sunny could feel his eyes on her as she walked out.

“Don't like him,” she said, relieved as the big front door closed behind them.

“Whatever makes you say that?” Mac said and they both laughed.

It was a perfect night. The trees in the square whispered in the breeze and darkness settled like a velvet blanket over the beautiful city.

Arms round each other's waists, they flagged down a taxi, kissing some more as it sped toward their dinner destination.

“
I
know something about Mr. Joel Krendler,” Sunny said at Le Comptoir over a welcome glass of Ruinart champagne. “He was wearing makeup. Pale foundation, the thick stage kind, and even”—she paused, glass half-raised to her lips—“even
eye shadow! purple
!”

“Now I wonder,” Mac said thoughtfully, “why he would do that.”

 

20.

 

 

Le Comptoir was casually modern, with a few tables spilling onto a small terrace and a well-known chef who promised a more daring take on the usual bistro fare. Sunny liked it. “No fuss,” she said. “No excess, no black-framed Paris photos. And the champagne's good.”

But Mac's mind was still on Krendler. “Did you notice anything peculiar about that house?”

Sunny dredged quickly through her memory of the ice green room. “Was I supposed to?”

“Krendler had bad art on his walls. Like those copies of Chinese mandarins you can buy in Hong Kong's Stanley Market for a few bucks.”

“I like those.”

“There's no accounting for taste.”

“What else?” She took another sip of the Ruinart, liking it even more on the second taste, and glancing at the neighboring tables filled with attractive well-dressed people, into their own conversations and the food.

Mac said, “You'd expect a Monet or two, or a Damien Hirst, not that dim Victorian Scottish landscape over the fireplace, complete with the dead deer, and a few modern ‘daubs.' ”

Sunny shuddered prettily.

“And how about that life-size bronze of the greyhound?”

“Probably in memory of his dog,” she said, all sympathy.

“The guy's either a cheapskate or a fraud. You tell me which.” Mac stared expectantly at her.

“Er . . . well . . . hum . . . it's like this . . . Truthfully, I don't know.”

“And nor do I.”

Sunny breathed again. “Oh, thank God. For a minute there I thought you expected me to solve the mystery of Mr. Krendler.”

“Why do you think he's a mystery?”

“Jesus!” Sunny glared this time. “You're the detective, not me.”

Their eyes met, his thoughtful, hers irritated. Then he laughed. “Sorry, babe. But that's a very expensive house in a very pricey bit of Paris, with a butler and a maid, and who knows what else.”

“Perhaps the man simply has no taste,” Sunny said, helpfully. “Y'know, maybe he's just an opera buff. You saw all those signed photos of celebs.”

Mac's brows furrowed again as he tasted the Sancerre he'd ordered. He accepted it with a mere thank-you to the waiter, instead of with his usual discriminating comments. Mac was a serious wine buff; he was here in Paris drinking French wine and he wasn't even noticing it. Sunny knew something was definitely up.

“To Violette, who brought us together in France.” She lifted her glass eliciting a smile from Mac, and took a sip of the flinty-edged white wine. “A very good choice,
Monsieur
Reilly, TV Private Investigator extraordinaire.”

Mac gave her a keen glance. “So how do you think Krendler
really
knew about my show?”

Sunny heaved a sigh. He wasn't about to leave this alone. “Why not exactly the way he said? Anyway, how else could he have known?”

“Google.”

“But why?”

“He wanted to know what he was in for if we met. Was the TV detective going to interrogate him about Chez La Violette and his connection with the rental scam?”

“Of course you were. But now we know he's too rich to bother with a minor financial fraud like that.”

Mac thought for a bit then said, “Did he really think we wouldn't notice the eye shadow?”

“Probably. That room was a sort of twilight zone, I could barely see him. But wait a minute, don't actors use blue eye shadow to make themselves look ill? Sort of Elizabeth Barrett Browning consumptive. Or Camille?”

“You mean Krendler wanted to look more frail than he really is? And anyhow, who is he
really
? And
when
did this accident occur? And what
exactly
happened? There's something not right.”

“But his story is so plausible,” she said. “The accident, the trouble with Chez La Violette, the jinx—”

“A hard-edged businessman like Krendler talking about ‘a jinx'?” Mac raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I doubt ‘emotion' has ever played a role in the man's life. And anyway, how did he make his money? What about wives, ex-wives, children?”

“Dogs,” Sunny added, helpfully.

Mac gave her an approving nod. “Dogs can tell you a lot about a person. Take Tesoro, for example.”

“Must we?” Sunny definitely did not like the direction this conversation had taken, but Mac was laughing at her.

She was getting rather tired of Joel Krendler and she studied the menu instead, pleased it was a gastronomic “tasting” menu so they didn't really have to make choices, they could simply relax and enjoy. But now, to her annoyance, Mac had taken out his iPhone and was text-messaging.

“This is not what we came to Paris for,” she complained.

“Just getting Ron Perrin onto a bit more research on Krendler. I figured billionaires always know about each other.”

“Ex,” Sunny said.

“Okay. Ex-billionaires.”

Mac concluded his message. “And you're right, this is not what we came to Paris for.”

Sunny said softly, “You know what? We have a wonderful room all to ourselves at the Ritz.”

“With no dogs fighting.”

“How about that?” Sunny's smile lit her face in the way Mac loved.

“Of course we have to go for a walk later,” he said.

“The river Seine, Notre Dame . . .”

“Montmartre, the Latin Quarter, the Folies-Bergère.”

They were laughing and Joel Krendler was temporarily forgotten as the waiter served a delicate cream of celery soup with foie gras and truffles, then topped up the wineglasses.

All was right in their Paris world.

 

Much later, they were back in their room at the Ritz. A bottle of champagne, the Heidsieck rosé Sunny liked, was chilling in a silver bucket, but they weren't looking.

Mac ran his hands over Sunny's hips. Thrilled, he realized she was wearing a garter belt. He hitched up her skirt. Fishnets! Oh. My. God.

She posed in front of him, hip jutted, long legs even longer in five-inch
red heels, and with that delicious gap between stockings and black silk panties. He couldn't wait to get his lips on her.

“Like it?” she asked with a cheeky grin, tossing back her hair in a mock-abandoned gesture and pouting sexily.

Mac groaned, reaching for her.

She held him back with one finger. “As good as a Pussycat Doll?”

“Better.” He was on his knees in front of her. She was looking down at him, smiling that secret smile. There was a gleam in her eyes that Mac knew meant Love me, baby, it's all I want, you are all I want.

He said the words for her, sliding off the black silk boy shorts, slipping the straps of the matching bra from her shoulders. He almost didn't know where to start, her body was so tempting.

He needn't have worried. Sunny simply took over where he had left off.

“Clothes,” she said, scattering them to the wind. “Clothes are only the temptation.
No
clothes is the reward.”

And then she proceeded to give him his reward.

 

21.