There's Something About St. Tropez (20 page)

Laureen lifted a surprised eyebrow; what did this have to do with her?

“Five hundred thousand euros,” Bertrand added, awed.

Turning back to his newspaper, he reread the information, then sat back against the rock, skinny legs stuck out in front of him, like Laureen. He said, “Five hundred thousand euros is a lot of money. Mr. Reynaud must be very rich.”

Laureen had paid thirty euros in St. Tropez for Tesoro's red jeweled collar. Her daddy had said it was a lot of money, something to do with “the exchange rate,” but she'd told him it was worth it for Tesoro, and besides he could take it out of her allowance. Not that her allowance was very big; Daddy said he needed to keep her on a tight rein, like a pony, so she would know the true value of money.

Bertrand was silent, staring out to sea. A passerby strolling along the beach saw them and laughed, calling out to them that they looked like a pair of rag dolls dumped on the sand, bringing them abruptly back to embarrassed reality.

Bertrand had been thinking about his mother, who really was hardly a mother at all, just some woman who, as she constantly complained, was burdened by having to look after him. That five-hundred-thousand-euro reward
could pay off the terrifying hotel bill. He could live here at the Hôtel des Rêves forever.
That reward could buy his freedom
.

Bertrand gave Laureen a penetrating look from behind the pale plastic glasses and she realized suddenly that his eyes were blue too, though paler than her own. They spoke their usual mixture of English and French, though Bertrand's English was superior.

“We could do it,
petite Laureen
,” Bertrand said. “We could catch those robbers.”

“
We
could? But how?”

“I know everyone round here. I see everything.”

“You mean with those weird binoculars?”

“They are valuable antiques. I told you the story.”

“You told me you spied with them.”

“Only for my Scientific Experiment. One day it will be useful, a study in”—he grasped for a phrase—“in human relations.”

“All my relations are humans.” Laureen was always practical.

He dismissed that impatiently. “Not
relatives
. . . relations . . . how people behave.”

“How do we get the reward?” she asked.

“The artworks have not been found. It was very rainy that night. You remember, the night of the big storm?” Laureen nodded again. Bertrand said, “How could the thieves run away with big paintings in that rain? They would have been ruined.” Laureen nodded again, eyes wide now as she realized where he was going. He added, “If it were me, I would have hidden them right there, where they stole them from.”

“But the
flics
would have found them by now.”

Bertrand saw his theory disappearing under her logic. “Maybe not hidden them right there at the house they stole them from,” he conceded. “But somewhere near there.”

“In the rocks you mean, like in a cave . . .?”

Bertrand didn't think there were any caves near St. Tropez, but he said yes, perhaps in a cave, though it would have to be a dry one.

“What we need to do,” he said, “is keep a watch on everybody.”

“The way you do now.”

He nodded, trying to think of what else they could do to catch the thieves. “We must be like James Bond,” he decided.

“Secret agents, you mean?” Laureen was already imagining herself in her best tutu, the orange one, creeping through a dark cave, binoculars trained on the stolen paintings, glowing expensively as bats flew all around them.

“I don't mind bats,” she said to Bertrand, who gave her a funny look and told her there were no bats in sea caves, maybe an occasional octopus though.

His eyes clouded as he thought about it. “But they couldn't keep paintings in a cave near the sea, they would be ruined. It would have to be something waterproof, solid, and very secret.”

“Like a storage facility?” Laureen knew all about “storage facilities.” They had one on the ranch where the workers' families kept things that wouldn't fit into their houses and that they didn't want to get rid of.

“We'll have to go out at night, searching,” Bertrand decided.

“Okay.” Laureen was game. She would say good night to her father, then sneak out.

Bertrand looked at the tutu. “You'll have to wear dark clothing.” Her pudgy fingers skimmed across the raspberry pink tulle. She said nothing. “Otherwise you can't come,” he added firmly.

She gave him an anguished look and he said, “Oh, okay, I'll let you wear my cape over the tutu.”

Laureen breathed again. “When do we start?”

“Tonight. At midnight. I'll be waiting for you at the gates.”

Bertrand did not have a plan but he knew he would think of something. The two of them would traverse the back lanes, keeping an eye out for suspicious persons and secret storage facilities.

They were so caught up in their plans that neither of them remembered that the robbers were also killers. And that one man was already dead.

 

27.

 

 

Nate parked the Ducati near the carousel in the place des Lices, where the big market took place every Tuesday and Saturday morning, bringing swarms of gourmets for the wonderful produce, much of it grown locally by smallholders, as well as for the bargain cashmere sweaters and linen dresses, sandals and faux jewelry, Panama hats and “Souvenirs de St. Tropez.” Today though, there was no market and it was almost empty, just a few moms whose children were riding the carousel, and a woman in jodhpurs and a red shirt leading a large black horse around the back of the buildings on the opposite side to Le Café, which was where he was heading.

His head thundered from too much red wine followed by a great deal of brandy, imbibed the previous night in the trendy Bar du Port in the company of Billy Bashford. It had been worth it though; he had enjoyed himself, girl watching and even flirting which was not hard to do since the women in St. Tropez all seemed to be dedicated flirts. In his view though, none of them compared in looks or charm, to Sunny Alvarez. He still treasured the memory of the hours spent alone with her at Chez La Violette, and he almost regretted that the villa had turned out to be such a dog, though he had to concede the Hôtel des Rêves was pretty special, and certainly more comfortable.

He took off the goggles and the helmet, running his fingers through his dark hair as he strode toward the café. He spotted Belinda Lord, sitting at one of the tiny tables on the terrace, watching him. There was a mocking smile on her face that made him uneasy and he glanced down at himself, checking if something was wrong.

“Well, well, if it isn't the bumblebee.” There always seemed to be a laugh in Belinda's low throaty voice. “Come join me, Nate, why don't you?”

“Thanks.” He pulled up a chair next to her and they sat side by side, looking out onto the square. The leaves of the plane trees fluttered as the wind picked up, blowing away paper napkins and sending the waiter, cursing, running after them.

“I recommend the espresso,” Belinda said. “And looking at you, I'd guess you needed it. First though, you'd better try the ‘secret ingredient.' ”

Nate raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Belinda held up her hand. “It's a certain cure for what, if I'm not mistaken, is ailing you.”

Signaling the waiter Belinda ordered coffee and a Fernet-Branca. When it came she shoved the small glass in front of Nate, who picked it up and gave a sniff.

He pulled his head back, stunned. “Jesus.”

“Aw, come on now, be a big boy. Take your medicine.”

Her nose crinkled as she laughed at him, her ice blue eyes full of mockery. With her blond cropped hair, smooth tan skin and long legs in white shorts, she looked the epitome of the South of France woman.

Nate threw back his head and tossed down the “medicine.” “Jesus,” he said again, coughing. “That's terrible.”

“We all have to suffer for our sins.” Belinda patted his knee soothingly. “And trust me, in ten minutes you'll be a new man.”

He gulped down the espresso and ordered another. “I wish it were that easy.”

This time Belinda's eyebrows raised. “Really?”

Nate put on his glasses and gave her a long serious look. “I came here to find out who I am.”

“Hmm, a mistake many make here in the South of France. Myself included. Once upon a time.”

Nate waited for Belinda to expand on that but she did not, so he said instead, “Where's Sara?”

She groaned. “It's like we're joined at the hip, Belinda and Sara, the new duo.” She shrugged. “I lent her the Bentley, told her to go for a drive, practice becoming a rich woman.”

“You lent Sara
the Bentley
?”

Nate had a sudden vision of Sara, bug-eyed behind the wheel of the expensive car, maneuvering slowly along the crowded quai Suffren with a pileup of stalled cars behind her, drivers honking angrily.

“Hey, I already smacked it up, what's another dent or two? Though come to think of it, Sara will be ready to kill herself if she gets as much as a speck of dust on it.”

“So tell me exactly how she's going ‘to become a rich woman.' ”

“Same way I did, by marrying it.”

Nate made no comment but Belinda sensed his disapproval. “Listen,” she said, “I gave value for money. I was a loving wife, I was chic, always perfectly made up and ready to hit the town in whatever city in the world, even though sometimes,
many times
, I would rather have curled up with a good book and a cup of tea.” She watched Nate from narrowed eyes. “Didn't expect me to say that, did you?”

Nate shrugged. “I don't like the idea of women pursuing men for their money.”

“Oddly enough, I didn't. It was Mikel who pursued me.”

She called for croissants. Biting off the crisp end piece, she ate one thoughtfully.

“I only like the corners,” she told Nate. “Wasteful, I know, but I'm making hay while the sun shines, as they say. Actually, I wonder who
did
say that. Anyhow, pretty soon I'll have to start practicing to be poor again and eat up all my crusts.”

“Poor
again?
” Nate helped himself to a croissant. The headache had receded and he felt better.

“You are looking at a former suburban hairstylist—we called ourselves hairdressers in those days, an Essex girl made good. Sort of like in that old movie
Educating Rita
. You remember, the one with Julie Walters? Though now I think about it I don't think she was a hairdresser.”

“Do you always talk in old-movie speak?”

“Hey, don't knock it. That's where I spent my life. I
lived
those movies. It's where I got my education, in the cinema, ‘movie houses' you probably call them.” Nate smiled but didn't correct her. “I've been everybody from Pretty Woman to Marie Antoinette.” She met his eyes again. “Trust me, Nate Masterson, I can be anybody you want. That's part of my success with men.”

“You don't think much of yourself, do you?”

“On the contrary, I've learned my worth—and it's not my weight in gold. Though I do
like
the gold,” she added wistfully, as though seeing it disappearing before her eyes.

She signaled the waiter for a brandy, sipping it thoughtfully, her eyes still on him. “Feeling better?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I am. Thanks to you.”

“Tricks of the trade,” she said. “So what about you?”

“What
about
me?”

She looked him up and down. “So who are
you
, Masterson, anyway? Besides the Wall Street confidence trickster.”

“I was not a confidence trickster.”

“They are
all
confidence tricksters. Or else gamblers. And you avoided my question.”

“I guess I am what I am. Rich enough, successful enough . . .”

“And a lonely man.”

Their eyes linked. “That too,” he said quietly.

“I told you people came here to find themselves.”

“A mistake you said you had already made.”

She leaned over, touched his hand. “I don't want you to make that same mistake, Masterson. You know, you're not so much different from Sara. Neither of you knows how to go out there and get what you really want.”

Nate laughed. “My trouble is I don't
know
what I really want.”

“Then it's time we found out.” Belinda eyed him up and down critically again. “First thing, you have to lose the Lycra. Come on, Masterson, we're going shopping.”

And, just as she had with Sara, she swept up her purse and Nate and headed for St. Tropez's best boutiques.

 

28.