There's Something About St. Tropez (23 page)

 

 

It was nine o'clock and Belinda and Sara were waiting for the others at the courtyard table by the fountain. They were studying the night's menu.

Belinda had chosen to sit with her back to the wall, facing out so she could observe exactly who entered and left. She was wearing a sleeveless red silk jersey wrap dress with a ruffle down the front and silver sandals. She had not told Sara that it had crossed her mind, when she chose to wear red, that bloodstains from a possible bullet wound might not show.

Sara had not even wanted to come down but Belinda had insisted. She'd made up Sara's face for her, disguising the swollen eyelids with a taupe shadow and a thin stroke of brown eyeliner, though she could do nothing about the reddened eyes themselves. A rosy blusher and Belinda's favorite lipstick, Guerlain's Beige Sensuel, had transformed Sara from faded monochrome portrait to a charming color study. With her brown bangs and thick shoulder-length bob, wearing the peachy silk dress bought in St. Tropez, Belinda thought that, despite her trauma, Sara now looked part of “the real world.”

“You realize you could go anywhere, looking like that?” she said.

Sara glanced up from the menu. “What? You mean? Like,
anywhere
?”

“Anywhere in the entire world. In fact I'd bet if your boss at the medical center saw you now, he wouldn't even recognize you. Who's that glamour girl, he'd say, looking very puzzled and quite pleased at the same time.” Belinda was doing her best to cheer Sara up and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the younger woman smile. “Okay, so what are we going to eat tonight?” she asked, checking the menu.

“Perhaps I'll just have the fresh tomato basil soup.” Sara's stomach was still in knots and she wasn't feeling too hungry.

“Okay, the soup.” Belinda ran a finger down the list. “After that, I recommend the
noisettes
of Alpilles lamb, it's some of the best in the world. And perhaps a small green salad, then cheese—it'll be good, I already spoke to the chef and it comes fresh from the best supplier in Nice. Then we'll see about dessert.” She beamed her big smile at Sara. “How does that sound?”

Sara put down her menu. “It sounds like a lot.”

“Trust me, you'll enjoy it.” Belinda had already summoned the waiter and was ordering two bottles of Château de Bellet rosé. “Make sure it's very cold, Gustave,” she said. She knew the names of all the waiters and had already made friends with the chef, as well as with the hotel manager, the chambermaids and the gardeners. In fact Belinda knew everybody, and everybody certainly knew Belinda. It was just the way she was: charming, outgoing, friendly. And a great tipper.

“Tipping always pays off,” she told Sara now. “Listen, I was once a hair-stylist, right? I know from firsthand experience. You have to remember these people are working for their living and they look to you to augment their wages. It's expected, and it's necessary.”

“Okay,” Sara said. Personally, she always left the small change at Starbucks and was careful to leave exactly fifteen percent when she dined out locally. “The boyfriend never tipped,” she volunteered. “He said it was unnecessary and that they'd already gotten paid.”

“Bastard,” Belinda said. “And quite in character. Ah, here come the others. With the man of the moment,” she added, looking not at Nate, but at Mac.

Never in her life had Belinda been so glad to see a man. Well, perhaps that wasn't
quite
true, but in this case it was Mac Reilly she was glad to see, because, though she was keeping her cool for Sara's sake, inside Belinda was trembling. She knew the husband meant business.

“
Bonsoir
, Belinda, Sara.” Holding the Chihuahua, Sunny greeted them with a smile, then edged round the table to kiss them, French-style. She took the chair next to Belinda, and with a brief good evening the three men sat opposite, facing the fountain. Pirate circled the table smiling his goofy hello then perched on the edge of the cool stone fountain, looking like a grizzled Bacchus.

Little Laureen was given the seat of honor at the end of the table, which suited her just fine because from there she had a direct view of the dining room and Bertrand. Bertrand had not arrived yet but the thought of their
midnight rendezvous bubbled excitedly in her mind. She eyed Tesoro longingly, but Sunny was busy talking and did not offer to let her hold the dog.

The rosé was chilling in a silver bucket next to the table with its pretty coral-colored cloth and a bunch of iceberg roses in a pink bowl. A waiter hurried to light the hurricane lamps and fill their glasses. Badoit water was poured, and baskets of bread distributed along with little pots of tapenade, the typically Provençal spread made from olives and anchovies, which tasted, Sunny thought, like sunshine from the hills where the olive trees grew, sort of greenish and gold, a little tart, a little salty.

The waiter was a small compact man in a sailor-striped T-shirt with a red bandanna tied around his neck,
matelot
-style. His dark eyes twinkled into theirs as he glanced expectantly round.

“
Mesdames, messieurs
,” he called for their attention. “Tonight our specialty is
daurade
, a sea bream caught fresh this morning. Also we have the John Dory, again line-caught today by our local fishermen. We have
gigot
, leg of lamb, roasted to pink perfection. We have the purple asparagus, grilled and finished with homemade hollandaise. There is a
tian
of our locally grown baby vegetables: eggplant, courgette blossoms, squash and tomatoes, roasted with herbs from our own garden, thyme and rosemary. The fish can be gilled or pan-roasted, as you prefer, and of course with a hint of garlic and herbs.”

“Eh bien la petite,”
he said, starting with Laureen, holding court at the head of the table in her pink tutu. “What would you like?”

“Spaghetti Bolognaise, please.”

“Little Laureen.” Billy's voice had an exasperated edge. “Why not try the fresh fish?”

“No thank you.” Laureen was polite but stubborn.

The waiter smiled. “
Bien sûr
, of course,
les spaghetti
.” This was a family hotel and he was used to children.

The others mostly ordered the
daurade
, though Belinda chose the lamb and Sara, who was still feeling rocky, simply the
tian
of baby vegetables. She had never been a drinker but now she took a long sip of wine, looking tensely at Mac over the rim of her glass.

Mac lifted his own glass in a toast. “To all of you,” he said, “who I have come to think of as my own bunch of International Waifs and Strays.”

“To the Waifs and Strays,” Belinda agreed.

“Or even the Misfits,” Sunny added.

Billy's big laugh rang out. “What d'ya say, Little Laureen? You think we're misfits? Waifs and strays?”

Laureen's serious blue eyes met his. “Yes,” she said.

“I know I am,” Sara said.

“What about you, Nate?” Sunny thought he was looking smart tonight in white jeans and a very French cotton shirt in a pale blue and white check, sleeves rolled back showing tanned forearms. She'd bet Belinda had had something to do with that.

Nate lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “I've never thought of myself as a waif or stray, nor as a misfit.”

“Then why are you here?”

Billy's question took Nate by surprise. He looked down at his plate where a crusty piece of baguette awaited.

“Well?” Sunny knew why he was here, but because everyone else had come clean in public about why they had rented Chez La Violette, she wanted Nate to speak up too.

Nate helped himself to tapenade. “The same reason as everybody else I guess,” he said finally. “I'm here to find myself, find out what life has to offer. Real life, that is.”

Just then the waiter interrupted with a salad of delicate mixed greens, the flavor enhanced with finely chopped fresh mint, lightly dressed with the best
niçoise
olive oil and a hint of lemon.

“Summer on a plate,” Sunny said, but she noticed that worried little crease between Mac's brows again. He was obviously not thinking about the food and she knew where his mind was.

Looking round the table at them, Mac said, “So now we have not one, but
three
problems. The first is Chez La Violette, whose owner, Joel Krendler, denies all knowledge of the rental scam. I'm inclined to believe him, though there is something strange about him and I'm investigating further. Which leaves us with the same problem. Where is Madame Lariot?”

They ate their salads in silence, waiting for what might come next.

“The second is the husband, Jasper Lord, who as evidenced by Sara's nasty experience this afternoon, is on Belinda's trail and will stop at nothing to get her back.”

A shiver ran down Sara's spine as she momentarily relived her terror. She took another gulp of wine.

“The third,” Mac said, “concerns the art theft and murder that took place nearby on the night of the storm. The night you all arrived.”

They looked up now, puzzled by the last addition.

“What does that have to do with us?” Billy asked.

Little Laureen gave him a condescending look. “
Daddee
, haven't you heard? There's a really big reward for the robbers' capture. Five hundred thousand euros.”

Billy glanced astonished at his daughter. “And how do you know that, sweetheart?”

Laureen shrugged her shoulders looking down at her untouched salad. “I just know.”

“To answer your question, Billy,” Mac said, “it really doesn't connect with Chez La Violette. At least not yet.” He had his own theories but he wasn't ready to explain right now. “Anyhow, our first priority is to protect Belinda. You”—he indicated Belinda with his glass—“must never go out alone. In fact it would be better if you didn't leave the hotel, at least for the next few days. The husband is very smart, he'll be on your tail before too long. Meanwhile we need to keep you safe, right here. And meanwhile, also, I have a contact at Interpol who's checking out Mikel Markovich a.k.a. Jasper Lord. The French are a tolerant race but they do not allow international crime on their turf, and you can bet the husband is up to no good.”

Belinda's laugh sounded a touch bitter. “ ‘Up to no good.' That's probably the understatement of the year.”

“Did you never have even an inkling of what was going on? How and where the husband made all his money?”

“He told me real estate. That, and caviar and Russian vodka.” Belinda sighed. “What did I know? I may look the role but I'm no good at reading people, I never even questioned him.” She looked suddenly forlorn. “He was nice to me, you know, in the beginning. I liked him. My big Russian bear, I called him. He treated me like a lady, sent huge bouquets of flowers, and diamond earrings in a red leather box from Cartier, wrapped in newspaper like the fish and chips I'd ordered. He told me I was beautiful and he paid me the biggest compliment any man can give a woman. He asked me to marry him.”

“And then he took you over.”

Belinda ran her hands distractedly through her short blond crop. “Jasper controlled me. Everything from what I ate to what I wore, even to what I thought! I was going crazy. And when I rebelled Jasper got violent and I knew it was time to go.”

Sunny patted her arm sympathetically. “He's a control freak. You were right to leave.”

“It took a couple of black eyes before I got up the courage though.”

“Jesus,” Billy's shocked voice cut in. “The bastard,” he added vehemently.

“
Daddeeeee
. . .” Laureen glared at him.

“Sorry, baby. Heat of the moment.” He leaned across the table and patted Belinda's hand. “We're here now, sweetheart,” he said kindly. “Don't you worry about a thing.”

“Not only that,” Mac said, “I'm arranging security for you. I'll know more tomorrow. Meanwhile, tell me, was the husband interested in art?”

Head to one side, Belinda considered. “He owned paintings, Russian mostly, there was a beautiful garden scene and a kind of scary nude. Oh, and a Botero bronze, you know the typical thing, a huge rotund figure, this one lying down, resting on one elbow, head propped on a hand.”

“That's a famous piece,” Nate said. “I've seen ones like it in the Museum of Modern Art.”

“But you wouldn't say he was a collector? There were no auction catalogs lying around, information on art gallery openings, things like that?”

“He wasn't interested. I think he simply bought what you were supposed to buy, as long as it cost a lot. Everything Jasper did or has can be equated with money. By that I mean price. I guess he thought I had a price too, only it turned out to be too expensive for me. And now I'm trapped here in this hotel. I can't go anywhere.”

“If you're gonna be trapped it might as well be at the Hôtel des Rêves. And from now on Belinda, one of us will always be with you,” Billy reassured her. “Right, Nate?”

Nate was thinking of the good time he'd had with Belinda that day, and how things might suddenly turn out very differently. “Right,” he said.

“We'll work out a roster,” Billy said. “Then we'll always know exactly where Belinda is and who's with her.”

They were discussing how to do this when Laureen spotted Bertrand on his way to his corner table by the window.

Sunny caught Laureen looking at him. She said, “Little Laureen, would you like to ask Bertrand to join us?”

Laureen's shocked eyes swiveled her way. “No. Oh no.” Then, because her mother had taught her always to be polite, even when it was something you didn't want, and what she didn't want right now was to share Bertrand with the others, she added, “Thank you.”

“Then there's the art theft,” Mac said.