There's Something About St. Tropez (31 page)

She stepped across the threshold. Silence surrounded her like an invisible wall, locking out the song of the birds and the cheerful chirrup of crickets. It was as though she had entered another world.

Glancing apprehensively behind, she decided to leave the door open for a quick exit, while at the same time telling herself that of course she didn't
need one. There was no Nate Masterson brandishing a sword today, and no ghosts either. Still, she was glad to feel the reassuring shape of her cell phone in her shorts pocket just in case she needed to call for help, though
of course
she would not.

All the shutters in the house were closed on the inside. The only light came from the open front door.
Something moved behind her
. Sunny jumped round just in time to see a rabbit take off with Pirate after him. Smiling, she told herself again how silly she was.

When the dog came panting back she put him on the lead and walked across the hall to Violette's room. This time when she ran her hand down the wall to find the light switch, the lamp did not go on by itself. Only the twin chandeliers lit up, but so many of the bulbs were out the room was still in semidarkness. Dragging a reluctant Pirate with her, Sunny unlatched the shutters and threw open the French door.

Feeling as though she had undergone some sort of ordeal, she stood for a while, breathing the fresh clean air. The view was beautiful, of a turquoise creek and the mingled aquamarine and crystal sea lapping the shore. A breeze fluttered the thin voile curtains, bringing with it that haunting scent of flowers. Yet when Sunny looked she saw there were none around, only heavy bushes of hot pink bougainvillea, long neglected so now they draped across the flagstones. A waist-deep lawn of chamomile ran down the slope, bending under the breeze like a silver green sea, and tall poplars fluttered delicate leaves with a faint tinkling sound.

A filigree white wrought-iron table and a pair of matching chairs, chipped and blackened, stood on the terrace, and Sunny imagined the beautiful Violette in a chiffon peignoir, her long red hair tied back with a satin ribbon, sipping her morning coffee from one of those wide, handleless bowls the French used, perhaps planning a party for her guests. Maybe the beautiful young German lover had been with her, discussing the music for her next concert?

Not knowing exactly what she was expecting to find but hoping for more insight on Violette, she went back inside. Underneath the decades of dust and the grime, the dove gray paneled room had undeniable appeal, a kind of eccentric charm as unique as the woman herself. Sunny poked around, checking empty desk drawers, running her hand along dusty bookshelves, opening a door that revealed only an empty closet and a large mirror. Sighing, she gave up.

The enormous bed with its crumbling silvery silk drapes drew her and she climbed the four wooden steps and flung herself onto it. Arms crossed over her chest she gazed up at the pleated canopy. Dust motes flitted through a beam of sunlight and all was silence.

“Where, oh where,” she asked out loud, “would a woman keep her most secret papers? Her journal? Her treasured photographs, her mementos?”

The answer flew into her mind as though sent by messenger. Why, under the mattress of course! That classic hiding place where throughout time women had stashed their treasures, their savings, their illicit love letters.

Forgetting the steps, she tripped and almost broke her ankle as she leapt from the bed and pulled back the coverlet. She stared at the mattress. This was not one of your modern-day supersprings; it was a relic from another era with a striped ticking cover and a Paris label proclaiming it to be stuffed with “pure horse hair.” Dismayed, Sunny knew it must weigh a ton.

She managed to get her hands underneath, but when she attempted to lift, the mattress didn't move. She shifted her position, lowered her shoulders, hefted again. Only an inch. Frowning, she glared at the mattress. It would take four people to turn this lump. She managed to lift it just enough though to get her hand underneath. She felt around and her fingers closed on a small square object. She pulled it back and looked at it. A dark blue velvet box.

“Oh . . . my . . . God,” she exclaimed loudly.

It opened as easily as if it had been used yesterday. And inside was a ring. Not one of Violette's serious jewels, just a small gold signet ring. A crest was engraved on it: an eagle and fox facing each other on a checkerboard shield. The elaborate letter
M
swirled over the center, with a
V
to the left and a
K
to the right. The
V
was for Violette, of course, but Sunny had no idea who the initials
M
and
K
could be for.

Nervous, she slid the ring on her finger, half-expecting to hear a clap of thunder, but all that happened was that it was too big and even on her middle finger it slid around.

Wondering what else might be hidden under the mattress, she had another go at it, but it was impossible to lift. Violette would have had a problem hiding much under there.

Sunny smoothed the fraying silvery coverlet back into place, then on an impulse climbed up and lay on the bed again. She stared up at the canopy that had sheltered the famous chanteuse for so many years, telling herself that Violette had lain here just like this; that Violette had asked herself the same questions women always ask of themselves, when things go right, and when they go wrong.

Closing her eyes Sunny tried to imagine what life was like for the beautiful singer when she was young and in love and all the world was at her feet. Sunlight pressed against her closed eyelids sending strange patterns, reds
and golds . . . She was drifting backward in time, into a kind of sleep . . . The scent of flowers hung on the air like a drug, that same lovely violet scent. The bed draperies rustled delicately.

Sunny jolted upright. It was as though she had returned from another world. She leapt off the bed, grabbed Pirate's lead and ran for the door. Then she remembered—she had left all shutters open.
She had to go back in there
. Telling herself not to be so ridiculous and that the flowery scent must be coming from the garden, she ran back inside, slammed the French door shut, turned the key in the lock and latched the shutters across it.

Now the only light came from the misty chandeliers. A bulb flickered, then died. The scent of flowers drifted on the air, heavy, seductive . . .

Sunny didn't know whether she dragged Pirate or Pirate dragged her but they were out of there in a flash, into the hall and through the front door, pausing only long enough to lock it.

Then they were running down the gravel drive. She leapt on the old bicycle and pedaled like mad, back to the everyday world of the Hôtel des Rêves.

 

42.

 

 

“
Why
are we going on Valenti's boat?”

Sunny and Mac were in their room and she was tugging on a pair of white shorts. She stood to button them, then slid her feet into navy canvas boat shoes. She had hoped for another night with just the two of them alone, but somehow this vacation had become a communal effort.

“We're going on Valenti's boat because he invited us. And because I'm curious about him.”

Worried, Sunny stopped in the middle of pulling a navy-and-white-striped tee over her head. “Uh-uh, don't tell me . . . not another mystery.”

“The only thing mysterious about Valenti so far is his relationship with the fair Caroline. And the fact that he has a very expensive sailboat out there. Quite beautiful.”

“Caroline or the sailboat?”

This time Mac laughed. “Which would make you most jealous?”

“Definitely the boat. I know how crazy men can get about things like that. Nothing's too good for it, no expense spared. And a boat's better than a mistress because it doesn't talk back at you and take you shopping.”

She smoothed the T-shirt then gathered her long hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She pirouetted in front of Mac, pointing a finger at her chest. “See. Low maintenance.” Then she collapsed on his lap in a fit of laughter. “Do we
really
have to go? I mean, can't we just sneak away? Send the others on their own?”

“Belinda's going. I need to be there.”

Sunny sat up straight. “What about Lev? I thought that was his job.”

“Normally it would be, but this time I'm in charge. Besides, it's a fairly safe environment, on a boat moored just offshore.”

“Unless the husband gets wind of it and shows up in his red helicopter to gun us all down. And by the way, doesn't everyone we've come in contact with on this vacation own his own plane?”

Mac kissed her. “Yes. But did I ever tell you, you have too active an imagination.”

“Probably. I mean, yes you did. But
this
isn't a product of my imagination.” Sunny went to the dresser and came back with the gold signet ring.

Mac ran his finger over the crest. “Where did you get it?”

“Where else? Chez La Violette.” She slid it onto Mac's left pinky. It fit perfectly. “There, you see,” she cried triumphantly. “It's a
man's
ring. I bet Violette gave it to the young German lover.”

“Wait, wait.” Mac put up both hands in protest. “Begin at the beginning.”

Sunny told him the story of her afternoon adventure at Chez La Violette.

“And I still believe it's haunted,” she finished, shivering as she remembered the flowery scent and the way the sun had seemed to press her eyes shut, the drugged feeling and her sudden frightened leap back into the present day and reality.

Mac knew Sunny was no scaredy-cat, but she was also definitely into this Violette thing and it wasn't good for her. His Sunny was brave and capricious and funny, and he had only seen her seriously scared a couple of times, both of which had involved bodies and murder. She did not scare easily. A good thing too, hanging around him, where danger always lurked.

“I don't want you going there alone again. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said in a small voice.

He took off the ring, checking the initials. “We don't even know Violette's full name,” he said. “She only ever seems to have been known as Violette.”

“I'll go back to the newspaper archives,” Sunny said. “There must be some true-life details somewhere there, about who she really was.”

Mac said, “Who she
really was
, was ‘the star.' I think she left that other orphaned girl behind and changed herself into the fantasy woman all men adored. La Violette must have soaked up love the way a sponge does water.”

“Like me.” Sunny snuggled on his lap, kissing the ear closest to her lips. “Do we have to go?” she whispered again. But Mac said they did and sighing, she followed him out the door.

“By the way,” he said, “I checked on who was paying for the utilities to be permanently turned on at Chez La Violette.”

Sunny shrugged and looked at him, brows raised.

“It's Krendler, of course. The man who claims he never visits the villa. Or the South of France.”

Sunny looked astonished. “You think he's the rental scammer?”

“Not that. But I'm willing to bet he's up to something.”

 

43.

 

 

“You can't wear that.” Belinda shook her head at Sara, who had just zipped up the Cavalli dress and was in the process of tying the green snakeskin sandals.

Sara looked up at her, dismayed. “But you told me this is the perfect outfit.”

“Not for drinks on a sailboat it isn't. Any sailor would kill you if you walked on his deck in those heels. Besides, it's casual, just a sunset drink. Put on the shorts, baby, and the flip-flops, and you're set.”

Sara shook her head. She simply didn't get it. Now Belinda was telling her to dress the way she had dressed before they met, which was the way she'd told her she shouldn't. And anyhow, what was so special about the deck of a boat? It was probably only made of plastic these days. Still, Belinda was wearing shorts and rope-soled espadrilles, and Sara pulled on a pair of denim cutoffs and a T-shirt with sparkly writing across the chest. She would never get the hang of this clothes business. Still, now she was ready and the two walked downstairs to the hall.