There's Something About St. Tropez (43 page)

Later, Laureen said, “Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“What's up?”

Bertrand couldn't bring himself to tell her. What if she didn't believe him? What if she said he'd done the murder and that was how he knew? Gathering his courage, he pointed to a large rock where the point of land near Chez La Violette met the sea. “When we get there, maybe I'll tell you.”

Laureen nodded. She respected his silence.

Bertrand's steps slowed. The rock was getting closer and closer. Soon, he would have to confess.

“Here we are.” Laureen arranged herself on a slab of rock sticking out over the water. “Oh look, Bertrand,” she cried, leaning over. “Look, you can see all the little fish. Why, it's so clear you can even see the bottom.”

Bertrand leaned over to look. Tiny fish darted in and out of the crevices and the sandy bottom was rippled like a woman's wavy hair.

Laureen wiggled farther out, with her head hanging over the water. “I feel like a mermaid,” she cried, flinging her arms wide and flipping her legs in imitation of a fish-woman. Then she lost her balance. She clutched at Bertrand, who clutched at the rock. Together they teetered on the edge. Bertrand got a grip on the rock with one hand and on Laureen with the other. He gave her an almighty push backward that sent her reeling.

“Oww,” she said, crossly. “That hurt.”

Bertrand glared at her. She didn't care that he had saved her.

Then Laureen screamed. Her fingers searched for the necklace. Searched some more. She screamed again.

“Bertrand!
My necklace
.
It's gone
.”

Bertrand looked at her empty neck. Then into her empty eyes. Blank as the blue sky. Laureen had lost what was to her the most precious thing in the world.

He hung his head over the edge again. The water was clear as glass but there was no sign of the necklace. He lifted his head and looked at Little Laureen. She was still clutching her naked neck, eyes blank with panic.

Bertrand stood up. He stripped off his white polo shirt, his sneakers and his glasses. “I'm going in to find it,” he said. And made a shallow dive off the edge.

“Oh!” Little Laureen yelled. “Oh, Bertrand!” Then she jumped into the water after him.

They met face-to-face under the clear water, which turned their skin green. Bertrand's long hair floated straight up. His eyes looked huge. He grabbed Laureen's arm and kicked hard, splashing them upward like corks out of a champagne bottle.

He held the necklace triumphantly over his head. “I found it,
Petite Laureen
,” he yelled. “I found it.”

Sitting on the edge of the rock, Laureen leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her tears mingled with the seawater. That necklace had been fastened on her neck by her mother. They'd bought it together in Tiffany the very last time her mother had been able to go out. Afterward, she had taken Laureen for lunch, triumphantly wearing her new necklace, and allowed her to skip the salad and just eat fries and a chocolate shake. Her mother had sipped lemon tea and they had chatted about everything. Well, not everything. Laureen knew that now. Two months later her mother was dead.

Laureen looked at Bertrand. “It was because I wasn't wearing my tutu,” she said.

He shook his head, puzzled. “What was?”

“Losing the necklace. Mommy couldn't protect me because she didn't know where I was. Without my tutu, she couldn't find me.”

Bertrand understood. Little Laureen really believed that her mother was looking down from heaven and that she could pick her out wherever she was by the brightly colored tutu.

He held out the necklace and said, “Let me put it on.” Laureen bent her head and he slid it round her neck, straightening out the myriad fine silver chains, centering the heart perfectly in the hollow of her throat. After a struggle he got the clasp closed, then sat back inspecting his handiwork. Laureen gave a grateful sigh and smiled at him.

“I'm going in again,” Bertrand said. “I saw something else down there.” And he jumped off the rock.

Laureen crouched at the edge, peering anxiously after him. The sand was all kicked up now and the water was no longer clear. She was glad when she saw Bertrand's shape wiggling around. And then he popped up again, spitting water.

“Look what I found.” He held something up.

She leaned over and took it from him.

It was a handbag. White, quilted and with the CC logo that, Texan child that she was, Laureen knew meant Chanel.

Bertrand hauled himself onto the rock next to her. Laureen twisted the fastener and opened the bag. Stunned, they looked at the contents, then at each other.

“Euros,” Bertrand gasped.

“Tons of them.” Laureen poked a finger at the wet notes. “Finders keepers,” she said. “Sort of like a reward.”

But Bertrand knew what this was. This was what the man on the boat had given the woman before he killed her. They were her “share of the guilt.”

With a panicked cry he grabbed the bag from Laureen and hurled it down the beach.

He hadn't noticed Pirate galloping toward them. Eager for a new game, the dog got the bag in his teeth and began to shake it. Wet euros spun into the air, settling soggily on the sand.

“Hey, dude,” Mac said to Bertrand. “What's going on?”

 

61.

 

 

It was the first time Mac had seen Little Laureen without the tutu. In fact she looked as though she were wearing pajamas.
And
she was soaking wet. So was Bertrand, who was wearing only his shorts. Mac grinned. At least they hadn't gone skinny-dipping.

But now it wasn't only Bertrand who looked frightened; it was both of them. They were avoiding looking at him, watching Pirate instead, who had a great game going, tossing bits of paper into the air.

Mac caught one on the way down, smoothed it in his fingers. It was a five-hundred-euro banknote. He looked at the rest of the money scattered on the sand like confetti at a wedding, then up at the two of them, staring warily back at him.

“Better get down from there and pick this up,” he said. There was a cold edge to his voice that sent them scrambling quickly onto their knees, hands darting for the bills.

Mac stood, arms folded, silently watching as they came and knelt in front of him and deposited the wet pile.

“And the bag.”

Bertrand ran to retrieve the white handbag from the rock where Pirate had tossed it. Thinking there was to be another game, Pirate whined and licked his face. Bertrand choked back the tears. He wanted to cry but he was a boy and boys didn't cry. At least, not often. He put the bag carefully next to the pile of notes.

Seeing his tight young face, Mac's heart softened. He didn't know what
the hell the pair had been up to, but Bertrand was more frightened than any kid his age had a right to be.

“Okay, get up,” he said. The two unfolded themselves and stood, brushing off the sand. Water dripped off the end of Bertrand's nose and from Little Laureen's skinny pigtails.

Mac took each by the hand. “Come with me.” He walked them back to their rock. “Okay, so we'll sit here and you will tell me exactly what's going on. Let's start with you, Bertrand.”

Bertrand gulped. He glanced at Laureen for support and she nodded. “Tell him,” she said.

“I was in my lair,” Bertrand began.

Laureen looked at him, surprised. She'd thought he was going to tell about the money. She translated for Mac. “Bertrand means his secret place, where he goes to be alone. It's on a little hill overlooking the water.”

“I fell asleep,” Bertrand went on. “When I woke the fishing boats were gone. The sky was dark, kind of gray dark and I knew dawn was coming. I looked at my watch. It was five o'clock.”

Mac remembered Bertrand running, wild-eyed through the hotel hall at five-thirty that morning. “You saw something out there at sea,” he guessed, wanting to make it easier.

Bertrand nodded. “A speedboat. Big, maybe fifty feet, black, or darker than the dawn anyway. And powerful. Its motor was what woke me, like a lion's growl.”

“A lion boat,” Little Laureen said, amazed. Her knees were hunched under her chin and she wrapped her arms around them, huddling into herself, trying to look smaller so maybe Mac wouldn't notice she was there. She wasn't sure what was going to happen but escape seemed like a good idea. And she was guilty, she
had
been about to steal those euros and help Bertrand get away from his mother.

“And then what?” Mac prompted, his eyes still on the boy.

“The boat came in close to the rocks. It had no riding lights, just a light in the saloon. I could see a man and a woman in there. Then she ran out on deck.”

His voice wobbled as he told Mac how she'd stood there, with her long dress blowing against her legs, how the man had thrust something at her and she'd put it in her bag. “Here's your share of the guilt,” the man had said, laughing.

Bertrand fell silent.

“And then what, Bertrand?” Mac prompted.

“And then she said she would tell everything . . . and she jumped into the dinghy and got the outboard going.”

Bertrand put his hands in front of his face. “The speedboat went after her. Fast. It caught up to her. I didn't see what happened but then the speedboat took off and the dinghy was gone.”

Bertrand gave Mac a helpless look. “I think he drowned her.”

Laureen shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Her horrified blue eyes stared at Bertrand.

“We don't know that yet,” Mac said, wanting to calm Bertrand. “Did you get the name of the speedboat?”

Bertrand shook his head. “I didn't have my binoculars and I couldn't see clearly with just my glasses and in the dark.”

Mac picked up the quilted white leather handbag. He also knew a Chanel logo when he saw one. And anyhow, he'd seen this one before.

“Monsieur Reilly? Will they put me in jail now?” Bertrand sounded resigned. Little Laureen put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

Mac said, “Bertrand, nobody is going to put you in jail. You've done nothing wrong.”

“We were thinking about stealing the money,” Bertrand said.

“But that was only so we could pay Bertrand's hotel bill and then he'd never have to go to boarding school and never have to see his cruel mother ever again.”

Laureen stood up for her friend and Mac liked that. He liked both these oddball kids. Meanwhile they had presented him with a dilemma. Obviously he would have to go to the police and tell them the story.

But first thing he had to get them cleaned up and into dry clothes. He would tell Sunny what had happened before deciding on his next move.

There was a flurry of activity back at the hotel. The two bellboys were hauling suitcases, and helping an old woman from the back of a large silver Mercedes.

Mac put a hand on each child's shoulder, holding them back, allowing the woman to be helped up the shallow front steps by her driver. She was very old, her face lined and yellowish in the bright sunlight as she fumbled her way up the two steps and into the hall, her gray chiffon scarf trailing like a pennant in the breeze.

Renée came out from behind the reception desk and kissed the old woman on both cheeks.

“Welcome back, Madame Lariot,” she cried. “Summer is not complete without you here. Welcome back to the Hôtel des Rêves.”

 

62.

 

 

Mac stopped. He turned to look at Madame Lariot. Tiny, thin, birdlike in her frailty, and ninety if she were a day. She was no rental scammer, scheming for a fast buck. This was a woman of means who obviously came every summer to the Hôtel des Rêves, where she was treated as an honored guest.
This
Madame Lariot was a victim, not a thief. A victim of identity theft. And he'd bet his last buck that Caroline Cavalaire was at the bottom of it.

“Go shower and get changed,” he told the kids. “Then meet me in the courtyard. We'll have breakfast and talk about what to do.”