There's Something About St. Tropez (27 page)

 

36.

 

 

Sunny's tears dropped onto the copy of the newspaper article. She said in a wobbly voice, “Do you really think beautiful La Violette was a
collaborator
?”

“She had a Nazi lover and went onstage and sang for the Germans.”

“But so did lots of artists, movie actors, ballet dancers, opera singers . . .”

“Opera singers,”
Mac said. “Back to that again. Ironic, wouldn't you say, that Joel Krendler, the patron of the arts, lover of music, would not have made Chez La Violette into a memorial to its famous owner?”

“Its
once
-famous owner.” Sunny wiped the tears away with a fist. She said, “Nobody remembers La Violette now. She never became the legend Piaf did.”

“Violette died a long time ago,” Mac said. “And her career ended long before that. After the war, life as she knew it was finished.”

He lay back, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thinking about it.

Sunny was caught up investigating a possible crime from the past, while he was investigating the present. Some vacation!

He said, “So now we have a fourth mystery. Did Violette really collaborate with the enemy? And if so, why was she arrested and then let go? And if she was innocent, why was she never publicly vindicated?”

Sunny's long lashes still held the dregs of her tears and Mac thought she looked like an exotic Tinkerbell, sparkled with fairy dust. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly. She was so caught up in Violette's story, he knew he had to help her.

“Where did she disappear to?” Sunny said. “Did she kill herself? Or
did she run away, start a new life, somewhere else, in a country where no one knew her?”

“Like Argentina.”

South America was where many escaping Nazis and collaborators had run before they could be captured and brought to trial. “Maybe,” Sunny said, doubtfully.

Mac knew she was doubtful because in the final paragraph in the article, the writer had questioned whether the house was haunted, and if so, was it by Violette herself. Which meant he believed Violette had died there. He took the photocopied newspaper story from Sunny's hand and checked the byline again. The writer was a Mr. Craig Henley-Forsythe.

“About as English a name as you could get,” he commented. Then, on an impulse, he went to his laptop and Googled Craig Henley-Forsythe. To his surprise, the information flashed immediately onto the screen. Apparently, Mr. Forsythe was by way of being quite famous himself.

 

Craig Henley-Forsythe, journalist. Younger son of Sir Robert Forsythe of Henley-on-Thames, Berkshire, England. Born 1929. Honoured with an OBE by Queen Elizabeth II in 1980 for his pioneering work in journalism and the arts. Known for his critical and informative reviews of ballet and opera, but also for his investigative story pieces on artistic legends of the past and present, Dame Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev, Maria Callas and Luciano Pavarotti, as well as many other well-known artists of stage and screen. Mr. Forsythe counted among his friends such disparate luminaries as Fred Astaire and Marilyn Monroe. Now retired, Mr. Forsythe lives in a thatched cottage in a Berkshire village, not far from where he grew up.

 

Astonished, Mac said, “This reads like an obit. I swear the guy must have written it himself.”

“Perhaps he did, and perhaps it is. Maybe he died.”

“If he did it would say so here. I think Mr. Henley-Forsythe, younger son of Sir Robert and opera critic supreme, is very much alive. And judging from his story about Violette, he's very good at what he does.”

Whether Forsythe's phone number would be listed was a long shot, but Mac got onto inquiries immediately. Two minutes later he was listening to the phone ring in a thatched English cottage, and then the answering voice saying “Yes?”

“Mr. Forsythe,” he replied, “you don't know me but my name is Mac Reilly.”

There was a long pause. Forsythe was probably wondering whether or not to talk to a stranger. He surprised Mac, though.

“I know who you are,” Forsythe said. His voice was thin but firm. He was obviously an old man but still in control. “We get your show here in England, you know. I congratulate you, sir. I find it fascinating.”

“Thank you.” For once Mac was stuck for words, but he needn't have worried, Forsythe simply continued.

“I can't think of any reason in the world you might be calling me but, advanced in years though I am, I confess I'm secretly hoping you're about to ask me to assist you in solving some incredible crime. And hopefully it's out there in Malibu, where life seems always to be lived to the hilt by the young and glamorous, or coming to a bad end by the slightly older and less glamorous. What do you say, Mr. Reilly?”

Mac heard him chuckling down the phone and instantly liked him. “Actually, sir, I
was
about to ask for your assistance. But I'm not in Malibu, I'm in the South of France. St. Tropez, to be exact.”

“St. Trop, they used to call it when I was young. Meaning, Reilly, as you probably know, ‘Too much.' Though I never found it that way myself. I always had an eye for a pretty woman and there were always plenty of them there.”

“Still are, sir. And I'm sure they would still be interested to meet you.”

Forsythe's laugh boomed unexpectedly down the phone. “Reilly, there's no need to flatter an old man. Now, tell me the real reason you're calling me, on a Saturday night when I've just settled in front of the TV with a glass of good claret and a handful of cheese straws. Made 'em myself of course. I always prefer homemade.”

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. I'll tell you quickly why I'm calling.”

Mac filled him in on the Chez La Violette rental scam and the connection with Joel Krendler.

Forsythe sounded thoughtful as he said yes, he had heard of Krendler, though he did not know him personally. “But, now I come to think of it, no one does,” he added. “The man is known to be aloof, keeps himself to himself. Especially after the accident. I believe he's now in a wheelchair?”

“Correct,” Mac said. “I wonder, sir, do you remember that accident? Where it took place, and when?”

“Oddly, I do. I happened to be in the South of France at the time, doing a story on the Cannes Film Festival. It was May of 1988. Mr. Krendler fell off a
boat, got caught between that and the dock. It didn't make the newspapers because he wasn't that important then, and at the time Cannes was filled with superstars.”

Mac said, “Sir, I know you never met Violette, but reading your article it's almost as if you knew her.”

“Indeed, I felt I did. Violette was the kind of woman who got under a man's skin. A woman who, when she loved, did so with all the passion of her being. I believe she was quite a woman, Mr. Reilly.”

“And do you also believe she was a Nazi collaborator?”

Forsythe hesitated. “I believe Violette did what she felt she had to do.”

“You mean she was in the Resistance?”

“No, I don't think so. Not officially anyway. Had she been, they would certainly have come to her defense when she was accused and put in jail. No, what I mean is I believe Violette did what she could to help her friends, working on her own.” He stopped and thought for a while, then added, “And for her lovers, of course. There was a young German piano player, you know, handsome, blond. He accompanied her on her tours. I always wondered about that.”

And now Mac did too. He said, “Tell me, sir, was Violette that gorgeous?”

“That's what they said. And judging from the old photos, how could she not have been? With that mass of long red hair, the sheer height of her, the long legs, the impeccable breasts.” Forsythe heaved a long sigh. “It makes a fellow quite nostalgic, just thinking about it,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “And now, if you don't mind, Mr. Reilly, since you are not about to offer me employment as your assistant, I'll get back to my claret and my television program. I still like to watch ballet, you know, and the opera.”

“What's your favorite, sir?”

“My favorite? That would be Callas in the early days, in
Norma
. But, today, Renée Fleming in just about anything. If you're going to have a voice like that you should have a face to match is what I say.”

Mac thanked him and still chuckling, Forsythe said goodbye.

Mac looked at Sunny. “Violette may have been in love with the German piano player. And Joel Krendler lied about the date of his accident. It was in 1988, right here in the South of France. He fell off a boat and got his leg trapped. He wasn't so well-known then so it didn't make the international news, though we can check the archives in Nice again. Anyhow, that was more than twenty years ago, and not the ten he claimed. Which is also the date he said he bought the house.”

“But why would he lie?”

Mac smoothed the puzzled frown from between Sunny's brows with his finger. “That, my beautiful Sunny, is what we have to find out.”

Her eyes said a mute thank-you and he kissed her again, holding her close.

After a while he said, “Sunny?”

She pushed away from him, alarmed. “What?”

“You know I'm an all-American guy?”

“Right?” She was suspicious now.

“Truth is—I feel like a steak tonight.”

Sunny punched him on the shoulder. “
What
? You mean no Louis Fifteenth? No supreme-Michelin-starred South of France cooking?
Here
? In the South of France?”

“Well . . . if you insist.” He still sounded reluctant and Sunny laughed. “There's another restaurant in the hotel, Le Grill. Now, I'd say a place with a name like that would have a steak, wouldn't you?” Then, remembering her Paris days and the thin, blue, barely cooked beef the French called a steak, she added, “Though you might have to beg them for it,
and
explain exactly how you want it cooked. And then it'll probably still come with roasted artichokes and braised fennel or something, though I'll bet if
I
ask
very
nicely”—she tilted her head, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes, demonstrating—“I could even get them to cook some french fries in duck fat.”

Mac rolled his eyes, already in steak heaven. “They call 'em french fries here?”

“Pommes frites.”

He snuggled her closer. “Now I know what to ask for.”

Mac's phone rang. Sunny heaved a sigh. Didn't it always?

Mac said, “Hi, Lev.”

“Just landed. On my way to St. Trop. Thought I'd let you know. And I already have my guys on round the clock.”

“Never one to lose a moment, huh!' Mac laughed. “See you there tomorrow, my friend.”

 

37.

 

 

Lev Orenstein deplaned at Nice airport and made his way quickly through immigration and customs. He had only one carry-on bag and had nothing to declare. He knew the Riviera, having been partly brought up there. He spoke perfect French and many of his own men worked full-time there, guarding the very rich, and sometimes the controversial.

He strode through the Salle d'Arrivées, a tall, commanding figure who could have body-doubled for some of the movie stars he kept guard over. Six-four, with a shaven head and deep dark eyes that missed nothing, he had a charming smile that he used to good effect, and he also had a surprisingly soft heart.

The man waiting to greet him by the door at Arrivals was short and stocky, with the shoulders of a bull and a face to match. He wore sunglasses, but then so did everyone else on the Mediterranean. He had on a discreet gray shirt and white shorts. He could have been anybody, anyone at all, except he was one of the best bodyguards on the Riviera, and beneath that shirt he packed a Walther P99 Compact, for which, as a licensed bodyguard, he had a permit. He also had a Taser gun in his pocket, next to the can of Altoids which he chewed on a permanent basis. His name was Federico Manini and he had the best breath of any guard on the Côte d'Azur.