There's Something About St. Tropez (25 page)

At the hotel gates he said, “You go first. There'll be no one about at this time. There never is. Just keep close to the wall, and better take off the boots, they'll make too much noise.”

Laureen tugged them off, then slid away into the still-dark dawn. Bertrand was right, there was no one about and she hurried, unnoticed, back to her room closing the door silently behind her.

Still in the tutu, now stained with grass, she flung herself on the bed. Quite suddenly, sleep came to her, closing her eyes in welcome forgetfulness.

For Bertrand it was not quite so easy. In his room, with the sound of “Riders on the Storm” playing softly, he sat at his table and began to write in his journal, about his “Secret Scientific Experiments.” But it would never be the same. Real Life had caught up to him. He did not even know would become of him. Now he was truly Alone.

 

33.

 

 

Next morning, Mac and Sunny were enjoying a leisurely breakfast on their terrace. The coffee in a silver thermos was hot and strong and the basket of sweet rolls and breads tempting. Tesoro, of course, was snuggled on Sunny's lap, while Pirate balanced on a chair, inspecting French life taking place below, giving the occasional excited
wuff
whenever he spotted another dog.

“I'll gain at least five pounds,” Sunny complained, helping herself to another small sugar-dotted gem.

“It's worth it.” In his own habitat Mac was a blueberry-pancakes-breakfast kind of guy, but here, with a view of the calm blue sea, and with the scarlet geraniums fighting for supremacy over the climbing yellow-pink roses and the air heavy with their scent, the simple coffee and croissant filled his every need. He heaved a sigh of pleasure as he refilled his cup. “I'm a satisfied man.”

Sunny gave him that upward mischievous glance through her lashes. “Glad to hear it.”

“But . . .”

She groaned. “How did I know there had to be a
but
?”

Mac was reading the text message on his phone. “
But
. . . it seems I have business to take care of.”

Sunny didn't want to ask “what business,” but knew she must. “Okay,” she sighed. “So tell me . . .”

“I have to make an appointment to see the
préfecture
of police in Nice.” Mac was now rereading Raynaud's guest list. “I have a couple of questions for him.”

“And why would the police chief want to answer
your
questions?”

“Because I represent François Reynaud, and Monsieur Reynaud is an important man in these parts. And also, on another matter, because my Interpol contact just informed me that Joel Krendler's plane has frequently landed at several small airports in the South of France. Despite what he told us about never coming back since the accident.”

“Because of ‘the jinx,' ” Sunny said. “But what's Krendler got to do with Reynaud?”

“Probably nothing, but he's still a connection to our lost rental money.”

Sunny threw him a skeptical glance. “Come on, Mac, this is getting farfetched even for you.”

“So I'm wrong.” Mac shrugged. “You know me, I always go on that gut feeling, and a connection, however intangible it may seem, is still a connection. Besides, where else am I to look for a link to Madame Lariot?”

“If that's even her name.”

“I also want to get all the information from the police on the murder at Reynaud's place, and a list of exactly what was stolen. Plus any new insights on suspects.”

Sunny was sitting back in a chair, coffee cup in both hands, gazing at him and Mac said, “Want to come along for the ride?”

“Actually”—Sunny put down the cup and leaned her elbows on the table, looking him in the eye—“
actually
, I have a little investigating of my own to take care of. So, yes, I'll ‘come along for the ride,' Mac Reilly.”

Grabbing her hands, he pulled her toward him so that their faces were almost touching. “What ‘investigation'?”

“Oh, I'm curious that's all . . .”

Mac groaned. “For God's sake, tell me, woman.”

“I'm curious about Violette. You know, who she was. What she was. When she built the villa. And why she left it.”

“And why it's supposed to be haunted.” He knew that was what she really wanted to know.

“Right.”

“And where do you propose to do that, Miss Detective?”

“At the offices of the newspaper,
Nice-Matin
. I thought since she was local, they'd have something in their archives.”

Mac's phone vibrated and he checked his messages. “Good,” he said. “Lev Orenstein is on his way from New York. He'll be here tonight. I've put him in charge of Belinda's security.”

Sunny's eyes widened. Lev had trained with the Israeli Special Forces,
and was a triple black belt in karate. He owned and ran an international security company handling top people and with a strong antiterrorist commitment. Lev was quite simply the most experienced, and the best. It was Lev who had watched over Allie Ray when she was in trouble, and Belinda was lucky to have him on her side.

Mac was already dialing Belinda's cell phone.

“Who the hell is it at this time in the morning?” Belinda's weary voice answered.

“It's your very own detective, calling to tell you that by tonight you will have your very own security man, who also happens to be the very best in the business.”

Belinda pushed the airline eye mask onto her head and sat up.
“Really?”

“Really. His name is Lev Orenstein.”

“How will I recognize him?”

Mac laughed. “You can't miss him, he's six-four, bald as a coot, usually wearing aviators, a Tommy Bahama flowered shirt, jeans and sneakers. And in good enough shape to take on all comers. Okay?”

Relief swept the tension out of Belinda's spine and she sagged back against the pillows. “Thanks, Mac. Really, thank you.”

Mac knew how frightened Belinda was, despite the brave front she'd put on. “Better hope the husband doesn't cut off your bank account. Lev costs money.”

“The husband can't do that. I had the foresight some months ago to transfer a great deal of money and a lot of expensive jewelry to the Bank of England that nobody can touch.”

“Then that makes life easier. Okay, talk to you later.”

 

Within half an hour, Mac and Sunny were downstairs waiting for the valet to bring round their car. Mac went off to deliver the dogs to the hotel kennel and Sunny waved to Caroline who was back behind the reception desk. Caroline called
bonjour
with her usual pleasant smile.

Sunny noticed she was wearing her emerald ring today, plus she had a very nice handbag. Chanel, white, quilted, and very expensive. She thought Caroline's boyfriend must have money and apparently he was treating her right.

“We missed you,” Sunny said. “I hope you enjoyed your day off?”

“It was lovely, thank you. And you, Madame Alvarez, where are you going today? Somewhere pleasant for lunch, I hope?”

Sunny laughed. “I hope so too, though I'm eating so much I'm going to
go back home twice the size.” It occurred to her that since it was close by, perhaps Caroline knew the story of the villa. She said, “Caroline, I wonder, do you know anything about Chez La Violette?”

“Moi?”
Caroline looked surprised by Sunny's question. She frowned. “
Mais rien, madame
. I know nothing. Only that the reputation of Chez La Violette is not pleasant. It's not a good place, everyone knows it has ghosts. That's why it never sells.”

Sunny knew from Krendler that was not true but said nothing.

“You should be glad you didn't have to stay there,” Caroline added. “You would
not
have liked it, especially at night.”

“Just curious,” Sunny said as Caroline returned to her computer.

“Au 'voir, madame,”
she said, briskly, already busy with her work.

 

In no time Sunny and Mac were threading their way through the usual tangled St. Tropez traffic on their way to Nice.

“I thought we might have a nice dinner tonight,” Mac said casually. “Then maybe take in the action at the casino in Monte Carlo.”

Dismayed, Sunny glanced down at her sugar pink Lilly Pulitzer cotton minidress printed with a design of green palm trees. “Why didn't you
tell
me, Mac? I'm not dressed for it.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He took her in, in a quick sideways glance. “Anyhow, you look great to me.”

Sunny sighed. “Not great enough for a smart restaurant and the Casino.”

“So, go shopping.”

She laughed. Mac had the answer to everything.

He dropped her at the doors of the newspaper office and arranged to pick her up later, then took off for the police precinct.

Sunny pushed open the heavy glass doors, walked to the reception desk and told the woman what she wanted. She was led down into a basement that, it seemed to her, must run the entire length of the block, and pointed to the section marked “V.”

It did not take long to find what she was looking for. In fact there were pages and pages of files on “The Extraordinary Chanteuse, La Violette.”

Two hours later, Sunny had collected a great deal of information which she quickly photocopied on the machine provided, then tucked safely into her straw tote. Her brain was into overload and she was relieved to find Mac outside, propping up the wall, one leg crossed over the other, dark glasses on, and looking, she thought, exactly like a Private Eye.

“Have I got information for you,” she said, after a quick preliminary kiss.

“More than I have then.” Mac had drawn a blank with the cops. They had nothing new to tell, and all he'd come away with was the list of stolen artworks and the basic details of the crime scene. As with the previous art thefts, none of the paintings was recognizably famous, like for instance van Gogh's irises, or Monet's water lilies. All had been in private hands for years and only an expert, or a friend, would have known about them.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said to Sunny. She stared warily at him, hoping it wasn't another murder he simply
had
to investigate. He said, “I thought we'd save the long drive home and stay overnight.”

Sunny's spirits rose. “Where?”

“Where else but the best? The Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo. I've already booked it and made a reservation at Alain Ducasse's restaurant.”

She'd heard of it. “The Louis Fifteenth.”

“You can shop first for whatever you need, then a rest, a little late dinner, and then a little gambling . . .”

“I bet I'll win.”

“You betcha, baby,” Mac said.

 

34.

 

 

The Misfits were on the hotel beach, all in a row under blue canvas–swagged shade, sun-lotioned and lip-balmed, courtesy of Belinda who, though her tan was mostly spray-on, was ever careful of her skin and never left the house without such products. They were conveniently near the Beach Bar for those in need of sustenance, like for instance, Sara, who, Belinda observed, was already on her second glass of rosé and it was still only eleven o'clock.

Sitting up, she began to rub more lotion into her already glossy brown body, casting a shrewd look at Sara, who was sitting up, eyes hidden behind large sunglasses, mouth tense, fingers curled into tight fists.

“Better go easy on the booze,” Belinda warned. “It's no way to steady your nerves. That takes ‘resolve.' Trust me,” she added. “As usual, I know from personal experience.”

“You seem to have learned too much in your life, Belinda.” Sara took another sip of wine. So what if it was only eleven? Anyway, it tasted better than a double decaf skinny latte.

Belinda leaned over and took the glass from her hand. “Listen to me, Sara Strange,” she said sternly. “If you think I'm gonna sit here and let you drink yourself into oblivion because the husband's henchmen put the fear of God into you yesterday, you're mistaken. Get over it, girl. I promise it won't happen again. And by tonight we'll have our own security. You'll never have to worry again. Mac promised me.”