There's Something About St. Tropez (42 page)

He lay back on the sparse grass. Small rocks bit into his back and he shifted until he found a comfortable spot. Then his eyes closed and he was fast asleep.

 

Bertrand wasn't sure exactly what it was that woke him, some sort of noise. He sat up and looked round. The luminous dial of his watch said it was five
A.M
. The horizon was just beginning to turn gray and the lights of the fishing boats had disappeared. Bertrand knew they would already be back in port, sorting, cleaning and marketing their catch. There was still one light out there, though. As he looked it came closer. A low, sleek, dark speedboat and, by the roar of its engine, a powerful one. It swirled inshore then cut its motor, idling close to the rocks beneath Bertrand's hill. He wished he had his binoculars. Curious, he crawled on his belly to the place where the hill descended into the sea.

The boat was a black beauty, fifty feet or more he guessed, with a small windowed saloon cabin. Steps led from the stern to a dinghy bobbing behind. The usual red and green riding lights had been switched off. In fact the only light came from the tiny cabin, through whose windows Bertrand could just make out two people. Then that light went off too.

He strained to read the boat's name but it was too dark, and anyhow it was swinging as though no one were in control.

Suddenly a woman emerged from the cabin, followed by a man. Her hair swung like the boat in the sudden wind and her long dress fluttered around her legs. The man stepped close to her. He grabbed her shoulder and she thrust him violently away.

She was shouting now and the wind carried her voice to the shore. “I'll tell everything I know,” Bertrand heard her say.

The man laughed mockingly at her. “Here's your share of the guilt,” he said, holding something out to her.

She hesitated, went closer, snatched it from him, and thrust it into her bag.

Then their voices were blown away and Bertrand did not hear what they said. But he saw the woman run to the stern, pull in the dinghy, hitch up her
long skirts and climb clumsily into it. She tugged at the outboard motor and, without looking back, pushed off in the direction of St. Tropez.

The speedboat's engines came alive, roaring like a lion and making Bertrand jump. Then it too turned out to sea. In seconds it had caught up to the dinghy. Bertrand did not see what happened next but then the engines roared louder and it sped fast out to sea.

When the spray from its wake died down, Bertrand took another look. The speedboat was already far away, zooming across the horizon. The water was ruffled by the small wind that came with the dawn. There was no sign of the dinghy. Nor of the woman.

Bertrand drew a horrified breath. Had the man run her down?
Had he murdered her?

He shook his head violently. No, no of course not. He'd probably picked the woman out of the water . . . Bertrand just hadn't been able to see that was all, it was too far away . . .

Bertrand took one last look, then terrified, he ran as fast as he could back to the hotel. He would never speak of this. He could never tell anyone what he thought he had seen. Because of course he had only imagined it. Hadn't he?

 

59.

 

 

Mac could not sleep. He was up before the birds, checking the hotel's newspaper stand in the front hall. It was too early for the papers even to have been delivered. He glanced out the glass doors. The sky was a chalky gray, not yet a hint of blue; too early for the sun to have risen. Still, a walk on the beach in the cool dawn would be invigorating, clear his befuddled head, give him time alone to think things out. Because things around here were certainly getting complicated.

He tugged on the dogs' leads. “Come on guys,” he said, strolling toward the doors, just as young Bertrand Olivier shot through them, wild-eyed, ashen-faced, hair standing on end.

“Bertrand!” Mac's voice was sharper than he'd meant it to be, but he was alarmed. His first thought was what was the kid doing out at five-thirty in the morning? Then, what had happened to frighten him?

Bertrand hesitated. For a split second his eyes met Mac's, then he dashed past.

Mac grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, dude, what's going on?”

Panicked, Bertrand shrugged him off and ran for the stairs. He ran down the corridor to his room, fumbled with the key in the lock, finally got it open, slid inside and locked the door behind him.

He leaned his back against the door, heart thudding in his throat. He took off his glasses and threw them on the floor. If he were truly blind then he would never have seen what he believed he'd seen. He could never tell anyone about it. No one. Especially not Mac Reilly. The police would come, they would ask him questions, they'd take his binoculars, maybe they would even believe he
had killed the woman. Her body was sure to come to the surface before too long, they would know she had been murdered. Then they would put him in jail, his mother would say he'd disgraced her . . . the stepchildren would take over . . . he was not part of their family . . .

Still with his back against the locked door, he slid to the floor, knees under his chin. He thought about Laureen. She was his friend. Perhaps there was somebody he could confess to after all. It was a risk, but one he decided he would have to take. If he lost Little Laureen's friendship, he would simply go to jail and never complain. There would be nothing left to complain about. No one left to talk to.

 

Mac walked the dogs all the way to the point, allowing them to run at will, tossing a ball in the water and watching Pirate struggle to swim, doggie-paddling with his two front feet as though he were normal, while Tesoro simply jumped back every time a small wave so much as touched her dainty paws.

The encounter with Bertrand had disturbed Mac. The boy had not even stopped to say hi to Pirate, who Mac knew he loved. Bertrand was badly frightened. Mac had seen it in his eyes, half-hidden though they were behind the big glasses; he'd seen the power of his fear in his tightly wound body; he'd seen the adrenaline moving him through that front hall as though demons were after him. Mac knew all about fear, he'd experienced it himself when confronted by a dangerous situation with seemingly no way out; and he knew it was that kind of fear he had seen in Bertrand.

He stood on the shoreline watching Pirate toss the ball into the air, and Tesoro daintily lick the salt off her perfect paws. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the roofline of Chez la Violette. The villa's windows gleamed a dull gray, not even reflecting the sudden burst of sunlight that illuminated the sky, changing it from pearl to opal to nail-polish pink. Then a hint of green, a touch of turquoise and finally a clean cloudless azure that met the Mediterranean in a lovely parabola. All that was needed was a rainbow and it would have been a landscape painter's fairy dream.

But this was no fairyland. And Chez La Violette was no dream. Somehow that house was at the core of all Mac's problems and as he started back down the beach, he determined to finally do something about it.

Back at the hotel, Renée was behind the reception desk again.

“
Bonjour
,
Renée
.” Mac stopped to collect the newspapers that had been delivered while he was out. “You're bright and early today.”

“
Oui, Monsieur Reilly
. Caroline is not back yet from Avignon and I'm substituting for her.”

“You're a good friend, Renée.”

She smiled. “Not really,
monsieur
. I don't know Caroline very well, but I'm sorry her mother is sick.”

“Ah yes, her mother,” Mac said thoughtfully, as he headed back to his room and “the sleeping beauty.”

He passed Bertrand's room and stood for a minute wondering whether to knock and ask the boy what was going on. He could hear the sound of the shower running and decided to put it off till later; perhaps the boy would have calmed down by then and be more willing to talk.

Morning coffee, keeping hot in its silvery thermos, had been delivered on a tray outside their door, with the usual basket of small sweet buns and croissants. Sunny's downfall, he remembered with a grin as he carried them inside, then out onto the small terrace where the fresh morning scent of the roses hit him full force and the sparkle of the sea promised holiday fun.

Some holiday.

He went back inside. The antique painting was propped on the table next to the bed. He had to admit it did look a lot like Chez La Violette.

Sunny lay flat on her back, barely covered by a crumpled white sheet, arms over her head, pink palms facing out, head tilted to one side under a tumble of glossy back hair, frizzing slightly in the humidity.

Mac promised himself not to mention the frizzing; he knew it would drive Sunny crazy.

Her full lips were parted and her eyelids flickered as though she were dreaming, sending those long lashes fluttering. If you didn't know her, you would swear Sunny's lashes were false. But there was nothing false about his girl. Every part of Sunny Alvarez was real, including her sunshiny soul.

Leaving her to sleep, Mac went back out onto the terrace, poured himself some coffee, took a seat, put his feet up on a chair, bit into a sugar bun and opened his newspaper. For the moment, all was peaceful.

 

60.

 

 

Bertrand let the icy shower water spill over his face and over his swollen eyelids, cooling his head that felt about twice its normal size, it was so stuffed with bad thoughts.

Half an hour later, dried off and cool, he put on a fresh polo shirt, a white one from the clean pile the chambermaid had left on the chair. He looped the ragged blue-striped silk tie through his droopy gray shorts and tied it in a firm knot over his bony hips. He took a look at himself in the mirror. He did not look any different from the boy he had been yesterday. Except he knew he was. Something he had never before recognized as innocence was gone.

He brushed his wet blond hair flat against his skull, polished his glasses on a corner of the bedsheet, wedged them back on his beaky nose and slid his feet into his muddy sneakers.

He checked the illuminated green numbers on his watch. It was almost eight-thirty. Too early to wake Laureen? He thought about it then shrugged. No matter, he couldn't wait.

He opened his door and peeked into the corridor. The chambermaid a few doors down with her cart waved and he lifted his hand back. Locking the door carefully, he pocketed the key and walked as silently as he could along the corridor to Little Laureen's room. He put an ear to the door. He heard cartoon music. The TV must have been on. He tapped on the door.

 

Laureen answered in a flash. She was wearing Day-Glo orange pajamas, sort of like baggy shorts and a loose top, with the silver heart necklace that she
never took off. It was the first time Bertrand had seen her in anything other than tutus. Except when he'd seen her in her underwear when they'd gone swimming, but that was different. Her hair stuck out in two mini-pigtails and her cheeks were pink from sleep.

She said, “Oh! Hi. What do you want?”

Bertrand blushed. He'd made a mistake. He should not have come, she didn't want to see him.

“I . . . I . . . w-w-w-wanted . . . t-to talk toooo you . . .”

He was stammering badly. Laureen sensed something was up. She looked closer, saw his red swollen eyes.

Turning back in to the room, she thrust her feet into her flip-flops, then came and took his arm. They walked down the corridor and the stairs, across the hall and through the open glass front doors.

Surprised, Renée watched the odd couple go by. Kids, she thought, smiling, and went back to her computer. More guests were checking in today and she was busy.

Marco, the bellboy, was on duty, standing on the steps, waiting for the checkouts, and later, the check-ins. He grinned when he saw the two of them, flitting past as though they expected no one to even notice. Weird, he thought, giving the glass doors an extra polish.

At the blue-painted Beach Bar, the cook looked up from fixing yet another espresso and saw them, as did his customer, a man from Paris and father of two children himself. Their eyes met and they smiled, glancing after the boy and the girl, wading through the water, still in their shoes. “Kids,” they said.