There's Something About St. Tropez (37 page)

“Anyway the ghost is only supposed to be of the old singer, Violette. She built the villa but I'll bet if she saw it now she wouldn't bother to come back and haunt it.”

They were walking alongside a wall. Bushes of night-blooming jasmine grew over it and Laureen stopped to sniff. Maybe Chez La Violette wasn't so bad after all.

Bertrand grabbed her hand again and pulled her onto a narrow path that led through the bushes. A wooden gate, half-open, was in front of them. They edged through and stood looking round.

The swans'-head fountain was silhouetted against the pale bulk of the villa and somewhere a startled bird cried out.

“It's the kitchen garden,” Bertrand whispered, thrilling to the sound of his own voice in the dense silence.

“Bertrand?” Laureen was also whispering.

“Yes?”

“What do we do now?”

To tell the truth, Bertrand didn't know. The house looked dark and intimidating and the stories of the ghost haunted his mind as the ghost was supposed to haunt the house. But of course he couldn't let Laureen know he was scared.

“We'll go inside,” he whispered back, and with a quick “Follow me,” he led the way. He stopped at the kitchen door. Laureen was right behind him, practically stepping on his heels.

Bertrand felt around in the pot of geraniums for the key he knew the janitor usually left. It wasn't there. He took off his glasses, polished them on his wet T-shirt and put them back on again. The empty house looked as intimidating as before.

“Bertrand?”

He sighed exaggeratedly. “Yes?”

“I'm scared.”

He managed a laugh, a muffled sound that caught in his tight throat. He was scared too. “Silly,” he said, gripping her hand tighter. “Come on, I know how to get in.”

“Bertrand?” Laureen trotted reluctantly behind him.

He sighed again, as though girls were tiresome beings who didn't belong on such an adventure. “Yes?”

“I don't think I want to go inside.”

They rounded the corner to the rear terrace. He said, “The lock on the French door is broken, we can get in there.”

“Bertrand?”

This time he groaned.

“I want to go home.”

“Hummph,” he said scornfully. “What are you? Some
girl?
”

“Oooh. No. No, of course not.” Laureen wasn't going to be called a wimpy girl and she tiptoed, still barefoot, after him, a boot in one hand—Bertrand was still carrying the other.

She saw it first. Through the window. A flicker of light. Just a flicker, moving in the darkness. Then it was gone.

“
Bertrand!
”

“Shhhh.” He crept toward the paned glass door. Then he saw it too. A light. Moving across the room. The hair on his neck stood on end. He took a step back, heard Little Laureen's “
Oooh, Bertrand
.” And then she screamed.

He clamped a hand across her mouth. “
Taissez vouz
,” he hissed, then he
grabbed her and together they ran back round the corner to the kitchen garden, down the path and through the wooden gate onto the road.

Bertrand could hear Laureen gasping for breath and her hand gripped his as though she would never let go.

“It was the ghost,” she wailed between gasps, as they fled down the leafy path that led onto the beach.

They stopped to catch their breath, leaning against the trunk of an umbrella pine, hidden deep in its shade. Looking back Bertrand saw no one. He looked out to sea. The lights of the fishing boats promised a security that land did not at this moment. Closer in, he saw the outline of another boat, dark on dark against the sea, low in the water and sleek as a fish. There were no lights on it.

Laureen stumbled silently alongside him as they walked back down the beach.

“Was it the ghost?” she asked finally.

“Of course not.” Bertrand didn't want her to be scared anymore. “Lots of people go there. You know, like lovers and things.”

“You mean like boyfriend and girlfriend stuff?”

He nodded. “Yes. And other people. I know because I've seen their beer bottles, and their footprints all over the house.” He was exaggerating. He had once seen a beer bottle, but that was in broad daylight and he'd guessed the janitor had left it there. “And things were moved,” he added. That was also true, but again he blamed the janitor.

“I'll bet it was the ghost,” Laureen said.

“Ghosts don't drink beer.”

She guessed that was true.

“Bertrand?”

“Yes.” He strode on.

“What about our Secret Society of the Euro Duo?” She couldn't remember the exact title.

“Our new headquarters will be at my lair.”

Laureen breathed a sigh of relief. She definitely did not want to see any more ghosts.

“Bertrand?”

He stopped and looked at her. He was sorry she had been scared, and sorry he had been too. He didn't want to see any more ghosts either.

She said, “Maybe we shouldn't have drunk the Cosmos.”

“You're right.”

“Serves me right for stealing them.”

He nodded.

“I promise I won't steal anything ever again.”

“Okay.”

They were near the Beach Bar now. Bertrand checked to see if anyone was there. Laureen looked too, especially for Lev's secret agents who might be anywhere. “Coast clear,” Bertrand whispered.

He gave her back her boot and she gave him back his cape.

“Go on, run,” he said. “And remember, keep to the bushes, don't let anyone see you.”

He watched her tutu bobbing out of sight, straining his ears for any cries of alarm. Nothing. With a sigh of relief, he set off for his lair. Though he would never have admitted it to Laureen, he believed he had seen a ghost. This had been one of the most frightening nights of his life.

 

51.

 

 

Mac was up early to walk the dogs. Leaving Sunny still sleeping, he pulled on a bathing suit and beach sandals, planning on a swim on the way back.

On his way out he spotted something lying in the hallway; one of Little Laureen's cowboy boots. She must have dropped it last night. He picked it up and saw something stuffed inside. His eyebrows rose. It looked like wet underwear to him. Mac grinned. He'd bet Billy didn't know his daughter had been midnight skinny-dipping, and probably with the weird young French kid. He left the boot outside Laureen's door and, dogs in tow, ran down the stairs.

He was surprised to see Caroline Cavalaire at the reception desk, busy checking out a group of guests. She glanced up and her eyes met his. She nodded a quick
bonjour
and returned to her work.

Mac walked over to her. “Sorry I didn't hear from you yesterday, Caroline,” he said.

“Aah,
oui
.
Mais monsieur
, I was so busy all day. And I'm busy now. Besides, it was really not that important.”

“Glad to hear it, though it would have been better if you had called and told me.”

He saw the color rise in Caroline's cheeks. She said of course, but she simply had not had the time. “
Je suis désolée
,
monsieur
, I'm sorry,” she said, returning to the guests.

So much for that, Mac told himself, but he still had that uneasy feeling she was hiding something.

Outside, Tesoro trotted docilely next to him, while Pirate, let off the
lead, galloped joyfully ahead. Mac realized his footsteps were taking him in the direction of Chez La Violette. When they reached the long wall he pushed open the gates and walked up the gravel drive. He stood looking at the villa. It was, he thought, like the actress herself: once beautiful then old and broken down. And yet there was still an elusive air of magic about it, an aura of times past when in the prime of its beauty, the villa played host to the fashionable people of the world.

The front door was locked and he did not have the key. Carrying Tesoro, and with Pirate now sticking close, he tried the kitchen door. Locked too. Odd, he could swear he had left that open earlier. Still, the janitor had probably been round, checking on things; perhaps he'd locked it.

Shrugging it off, he walked back through the kitchen garden and out the green wooden gate, then across the lane onto the path that led to the beach. Hitching both dogs to a tree, he ran into the water, feeling little flickers of pleasure in every nerve as he swam.
This
was what the Mediterranean was all about: cool, salty, smooth on the skin. It was like the swimming equivalent of drinking the local rosé wine.

Exhilarated, he collected the dogs and walked along the shoreline, stopping at the Beach Bar for an early espresso. Back in the hotel he was surprised to find Caroline no longer there. Renée had taken her place. He called
bonjour
and asked what happened.

“Caroline had a phone call. Her mother is sick and she had to go to Avignon. She asked if I would take her place and of course, I said yes.”

Upstairs in their room, Sunny was sitting on the terrace, long golden legs propped on the rail, sipping coffee. Tesoro bounded onto her lap and she bent to kiss her, then turned to look at Mac.

He bent to kiss Sunny too. “Hi, honey.”

She said, “There's a red helicopter out there.”

Mac took a look, then got Lev on the phone.

“Looks like maybe Jasper Lord is scouting the beaches for his lost wife.”

“I told you you should have taken her back to Malibu,” Lev said.

“What? You think he wouldn't find her there? Belinda would be hitting all the high spots.”

“They're not too big on helicopters landing in St. Tropez,” Lev said. “It disturbs the posh locals.”

“François Reynaud has one.”

“He's one of the posh locals.”

Mac laughed.

Lev said, “Belinda hasn't emerged, she's probably sleeping late. Best thing she could do, considering. Anyhow, I'll check where the copter lands, and who the pilot is. Meanwhile, keep Belinda indoors. I'll get back to you.”

“Perhaps I should take Belinda with me,” Sunny said.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“Just thought I'd go back to the newspaper offices in Nice, see what else I can dig up on La Violette and that ring with the crest. Nobody would ever find Belinda down in those dungeons.”

She stretched, arms over her head, long black hair swishing around her shoulders. Mac thought she looked like something between a Playboy Bunny and a Botticelli angel.

The phone rang. It was his friend Alain Hassain of Interpol, saying that Joel Krendler's plane had been tracked, via flight plans, to various small airports in France. The closest and most recent was Toulon. “Between Marseilles and where you are,” he said. “And that was two days ago.”

Mac asked if Krendler ever flew to Zurich.

“He does frequently, for ‘business reasons.' Remember he's an international businessman, as well as an opera buff. In fact, in season, he often flies to Milan, where he's a patron of La Scala opera house. Just thought you'd like to know.”

Mac ended the call and said to Sunny, “This gets more interesting. Now why would Krendler, who claims not to have visited the South of France in a decade, fly into Toulon?”

Sunny shrugged and shook her head. “There's no international opera house there that I've heard of.”

“Exactly. There's more to Monsieur Krendler than just opera, and I'm beginning to think it might be art.”

Sunny's brows raised in a question.

“Art with a capital A,” Mac said.

“As in
stolen
Art?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, come on, Mac, that's a bit far-fetched.”

“Far-fetched is always good, leads the mind to better things. Bigger things.”

“Like rental scams.”

Mac laughed. “That's a different problem. I seem to have come to a dead end on Madame Lariot.”

“You mean she's gotten away with all our money?”

“Looks like it, babe.”

He went and sat next to her on the terrace. He put an arm round her shoulders. “Sure you want to go and spend the day in those newspaper dungeons?”

She gave him that upward long-lashed glance. “What else do you have I mind?”

“We could hang out here, spend time together, hold hands . . .”

“In the moonlight, you mean? Not a chance, Mac Reilly. Anyway, you've got some detecting to do.”

Mac sighed. He had failed on the Lariot scam and now he was involved in investigating the affairs of a man he had met only once and knew very little about.

“Why do I do this?” he complained.

“Because, my love”—Sunny deposited a kiss on his lips in between words—“you can't help yourself. I've become accustomed to it and I thought you might by now.”

Mac grinned and pulled her closer. “Now I know why I love you,” he said, running his hands down her lovely rib cage. That is until Tesoro gave him a quick little nip, putting a stop to that.