There's Something About St. Tropez (18 page)

“Alone,” Bertrand said.

She gave him a long look over her shoulder but did not reply.

In the semidarkness Laureen thought Bertrand's huge pale-rimmed glasses gave him the look of a spacewalker. Blind and blundering. And what were those things strung around his neck?

“Are those
binoculars
?”

Bertrand patted his chest. “They are.”

“They're weird.”

“They were custom-made. The lids protect the lenses. They were used for bird-watching many years ago. They were probably used in World War Two by the airmen who parachuted into enemy-held France. These were brave men's binoculars.”

Laureen said nothing and Bertrand guessed she must be impressed. “They probably belonged to an American airman,” he said, inventing as he went along. “He probably used them to help capture a whole town and saved the lives of many of my countrymen.”

Laureen stroked the dog. “Probably,” she agreed.

Bertrand slid down the slope, dragging Pirate. He walked through the sand to where she was sitting. He heard Tesoro's warning growl and Laureen telling the dog to be quiet.

“You say
Tais-toi
,” he told her, squatting in the sand a few feet away, afraid to get too close in case she told him to go away like most kids did. “That means ‘Be quiet' in French.”

“It means “Shut up,' ” Laureen said.

He stared at her, surprised that she knew. “That too, but it's not polite to say shut up.”

Pirate rolled in the sand then got up and began briskly to dig a hole, though he had trouble because of the missing leg and fell into it.

“Poor thing,” Laureen said.

Bertrand thought her orange tutu must be full of the sand kicked up by Pirate now. “Why do you wear that ballet dress?” His voice had a squeak of nervousness. He was not used to asking people personal questions but he needed to know.

Laureen stared at the waves. She touched the silver Tiffany heart at her throat. Changing the subject, she said, “My mother gave this necklace to me.” She turned her head to look at him, her hand still on the silver heart.

Bertrand nodded. He understood that it was special. A memory of her mother.

“Where did your mother go?” Laureen asked.

He shrugged, trying his best to look nonchalant. There was a long silence while they looked at each other. Laureen had told him about her necklace. She had been honest and now Bertrand knew he had to do the same thing. “She's just gone,” he said.

“Gone where?”

Bertrand's stammer gave his anguish away. “I don't know. Maybe Italy. With a man she met here.”

“You mean she just went? And left you here
alone
?”

Bertrand turned his face away, unable to look at her.

Laureen guessed he was fighting tears. “I'm sorry,” she said.

Bertrand didn't know whether she meant she was sorry for asking, or sorry his mother had gone, and he did not reply.

“We're kind of alike,” Laureen said. “You and me.” She thought for a bit, then said, “I don't even know your name.”

“Bertrand.”

“Where did you get the binoculars?” she asked after a while.

“I stole them. From Chez La Violette.”

“Are they your most treasured possession?”

He nodded.

“Why did you go to Chez La Violette?”

Bertrand shrugged. “I was exploring. I do it all the time. At night, when I can be alone. I observe people, what they do, who they are. And how strange they are.”

Laureen's china blue eyes widened. “You go
spying
?” She stared at him. Then, “You're weird,” she said.

Bertrand felt the blush burn his cheeks. He had said too much, trusted
too far. Scrambling to his feet, he marched clumsily back through the sand, tugging Pirate after him.

“Sorry.
Je m'excuse, Bertrand
.”

Her voice filtered after him into the night. But it was too late.

 

23.

 

 

When Mac and Sunny got back to the hotel, the dailies were stacked on the wooden rack by the reception table,
Nice Matin
and the local St. Tropez gazette, as well as the Paris papers. Mac stopped to look at the blazing headlines.
FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND EUROS OFFERED FOR SOLVING LOCAL MURDER AND ART THEFT
.

Caroline was not on duty this morning, another young woman had taken her place, petite and dark-haired with that superb olive skin and dark eyes typical of the Mediterranean, where for hundreds of years Italy and France had coexisted.

The name on her badge was Renée. Mac went over and asked if she could tell him what the article said.

“But of course, sir. It's Mr. Reilly, isn't it? And Miss Alvarez.” She gave them the same big smile Caroline had.

“What it says is that Monsieur François Reynaud, the owner of the house where the murder took place and whose valuable paintings were stolen, is offering a very big reward for the capture of the killer of his friend and return of the stolen paintings. He says the stolen artworks are valuable but not as valuable as the young life that was also ‘stolen.' ”

Mac said, “I heard there have been other robberies, along the coast.”

“Yes, but none before with a shooting.” Renée shuddered.

Mac turned to look as he heard a masculine voice saying,
“Bonjour, madame.”

Sunny was gazing up at a good-looking guy, tall, suntanned and Euro-smooth in that sleek athletic way of a yachtsman or a polo player. He was
dressed simply in shorts and a striped polo shirt and wore a thin gold watch, light-years away from the heavy Rolexes usually seen around. There was something about the man's simplicity that let you know he was rich.

“Bonjour.”
Sunny was giving the guy that upward flirty glance that sent a pang of jealousy directly to Mac's heart. He told himself to quit with the caveman reaction and pretended to read his newspaper, though of course he was still listening.

“I haven't seen you here before,” the man was saying. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

Sunny said she was. Then with a glance in Mac's direction, she added, “I'm with my fiancé.”

He lifted a hand in a polite salute to Mac. “I hope you're enjoying your vacation,
monsieur
.” He offered his hand. “Gianni Valenti.”

“Mac Reilly.” They shook hands and Mac said, “Then you're staying at the hotel too?”

“I'm on my boat, the
Blue Picasso
. You can see it out there. The draft is too deep to moor closer. I come in on my dinghy for lunch or a drink, dinner sometimes, and maybe some company. It can get a bit lonely on a boat.”

Looking at the big sailboat floating gently on the swell, Mac thought it was unlikely Valenti would be lonely for very long. Women must be dying to get on that boat with him.

“You must come out sometime, both of you and have a drink.” Valenti showed a perfect set of white teeth in a smile that would have made a Hollywood starlet envious, yet Mac could swear they were natural. Either that or he had the world's best cosmetic dentist.

“I'd like that.”

“Give me a chance to show off my boat.” Valenti turned to Renée. He gave her his thoroughbred smile. “Caroline is not here today?”

“It's Caroline's day off, Monsieur Valenti.”

There was a sudden commotion and everyone turned to see what was happening. Pirate cantered lopsidedly across the hall, emitting something between a woof and a squeal of delight as he hurled himself at Mac. Behind him came Little Laureen, holding Tesoro tightly to her chest.

Laureen's tutu was raspberry color today, the satin bodice a little too tight, the drooping tulle skirt ankle-length for a change, and she was wearing flip-flops instead of the ballet slippers.

Sunny wanted to hug her but the distance Laureen placed between herself and other people made her hold back. Meanwhile Tesoro was giving her that same blank look as Laureen.

She said, “Thank you for looking after Tesoro so well.”

Laureen stroked the Chihuahua's sleek brown fur then passed the dog reluctantly back to Sunny. Then Bertrand came running, calling Pirate's name. He stopped when he saw them. His big glasses slid down his nose as he hung his head. “I lost him. I'm sorry.”

Mac said, “It's okay, you didn't lose him. Pirate lost you.”

Bertrand nodded, but he looked ashamed at letting Mac down.

Valenti nodded and with a wave went on his way.

Little Laureen looked longingly at the Chihuahua, then she too turned and walked away. Bertrand picked up a copy of the local newspaper and followed her into the garden.

“Well,
they
seem to have found each other,” Sunny commented.

“A perfect match,” Mac agreed, as the odd pair drifted slowly down the path to the beach, trailed by the perfect pair of white peacocks.

 

24.

 

 

“Maybe I could help him,” Mac said to Sunny.

They were back in their room, unpacking, which in Sunny's case consisted of shifting her clothes from the bag onto a chair. Mac, of course, had hung his up right away.

Sunlight filtered through the half-closed green shutters and the scent of Provençal lavender wafted delicately as Sunny flung herself against the pillows, rescued by Mac from the armoire.

“Help who?”

“Mr. François Reynaud, the art collector with the murdered friend.”

Sunny hid her face in her hands, groaning. “You promised no murders on this vacation.”

“It's not exactly
my
murder. I'm just interested that's all, thought I'd give him a call . . .”

“You don't have his number and a man like that's not likely to be in the book.” Sunny crossed her fingers, hoping she was right.

“I already thought about that.”

“When?”
They had only been in the room five minutes.

“Walking up the stairs. I'll bet Allie Ray knows him, and if not then Ron Perrin will know somebody who does. I told you before, billionaires always know each other.” Mac had his iPhone in hand. “I'll get Allie to call him, give him my name and number, tell him I'd be pleased to help in any way I can.”

Exasperated, Sunny flung herself backward, arms and legs askew. It was
a done deal. Murder, as well as a rental scam, was now part of their summer vacation.

“You look like a snow angel on that white bed,” Mac said.

“I'd rather be a beach bum. I've got the best bikini in the world and I haven't even had a chance to show it off yet.”

“Soon, I promise. Oh hi, Allie, it's Mac. Yeah, how are you? Up to your eyes in manure? Well, that makes a change for America's Golden Girl. You're growing delphiniums and lupines.
And
clematis and passion fruit, as well as the vines? So what's Ron up to while you're doing all this gardening? He's the manure carrier. Plenty of horses round there huh . . . Well, that must be a fragrant job for an ex-billionaire. Right,
and
a jailbird, but you're right, it is better than doing time. When are we coming to visit?” He glanced inquiringly at Sunny who nodded back at him, pleased. “Pretty soon, we'll get there, Allie. You know we miss you.”

Sunny noticed that Mac said “
we
miss you” but she knew he meant
he
missed Allie. The two had become very close when Allie had turned to Mac for help, a couple of years ago, in Malibu. There was no need for jealousy though, Allie was also her friend now, and Mac was always loyal to his friends.

She listened as Mac asked Allie for the favor and Allie agreed to pass his message on to Ron. She said she knew he must know about Krendler.

“Sunny sends love.” Mac finished the call and closed his phone.

“Done deal?” Sunny asked.

“Let's wait and see.” He came to lay on the bed with her, an arm flung over hers, his leg pressed against hers. “Did I ever tell you I love you and that you are the most understanding woman I ever met?”