There's Something About St. Tropez (44 page)

They scuttled thankfully off up the stairs, and Mac got Sunny on the phone.

“Lover,” she answered, with a purr in her voice. “I missed you.”

“Can you be down here in five?”

Something in his voice alerted her to trouble. “Two,” she said, clicking off.

The dogs were tangled in their leads. Mac unraveled Pirate. He picked up Tesoro, who was in one of her more understanding moods and gave him a quick lick instead of bared teeth.

“Thanks,” he said. “I could use that.”

Sunny was already running down the stairs toward him. She was in a blue halter top and white shorts with her signature red Dior daytime lipstick and large sunglasses. “Sorry, no time for a shower.” She kissed him, leaving a kissy imprint on his mouth that she wiped off with her pinky.

“Nice perfume, though,” he said, hugging her and hearing Tesoro, crushed between them, growl.

“It's the usual,” she said. “Always good in a no-shower situation. So anyway, what's up?”

“Caroline Cavalaire.”

Mac took her elbow and led her through the hall into the courtyard, already liberally dotted with breakfasters.

They took a seat at what had become the group's table, the long one by the fountain with a glimpse of the interior dining room, as well as of the terrace.

Sunny ordered coffee. “
Le plus fort
,” she told the waiter, “
avec du lait chaud à côté
.”

“What does that mean?” Mac asked, mystified.

“Strong and with hot milk on the side. It's better than ordering a
crème
, you can judge exactly how much milk you'd like. So, why did you drag me out of bed because of Caroline. She been caught gambling again?”

“This time I think it was with her life.”

Alarmed, Sunny clutched Tesoro closer. Pirate, as usual, was sitting on the edge of the fountain, taking a small lap here and there to keep cool.

Mac put the white euro-stuffed bag on the table. “Seen this before?”

Sunny stared but did not touch. “Caroline's Chanel bag.”

He opened it and Sunny looked at the wads of wet banknotes. Then, blankly, at Mac.

“Bertrand was diving off the rocks, right here at the beach. He found it.”

“But . . . but . . .” Sunny was floundering for an explanation but Mac told her not to bother. He told her what Bertrand had seen and about the woman run down in the dinghy.

“I believe that woman was Caroline,” he said. “And this is her bag.”

“Oh my God,” Sunny said, horrified.

He held up a hand. “Wait until you hear what else I have to tell you. I just met Madame Lariot.”

Sunny's chin jutted, her eyes were on stalks. “
What?
”

“The real Madame Lariot, all of ninety and a lady, and most definitely not a rental scammer.”

“Then who is she?”

“She's the victim of stolen identity. And I believe our Caroline was the one who stole it. Listen, Sunny, Caroline worked here at the hotel, she had access to all old Madame Lariot's private information: her passport, her bank accounts, her credit card numbers. What she didn't have I'm willing to bet she conned Madame Lariot into giving her. An old lady like that, she'd been coming here for years, she would have trusted Caroline with anything.”

He said, “Caroline knew Chez La Violette was empty. She opened bank accounts in the name of Madame Lariot, giving all the correct stolen references. There was no reason for anyone to suspect anything because Caroline never gave the address in the ad. And when we, the lucky ones, dreaming of our holiday in the sun responded and paid our money, she took it and ran.”

“But Mac, our rental-scam Madame Lariot was middle-aged, dowdy, brown hair, glasses . . .”

“Yeah. And Joel Krendler is disabled and in a wheelchair with the purple-shadowed eyes and pale skin of a chronic invalid who rarely leaves his house. Don't you see, Sunny, the brown hair, the shapeless clothes, the glasses—it was all a disguise.”

It suddenly dawned on Sunny exactly what a terrible thing had happened. “Oh my God,” she wailed. “And now somebody killed Caroline.”

“But not for our rent money. She probably has that stashed in a bank vault.” Mac pointed to the damp euros. “I'll bet there's at least ten thousand dollars there. Somebody else gave this to her. ‘Your share of the guilt,' Bertrand told me the man said. Obviously Caroline threatened to tell the truth. But he got her first, before she had a chance.”

“You mean the man deliberately ran her down in the dinghy?”

Mac nodded. “And now I have to decide what to do about it.”

He thought for a bit, then said, “Sunny?”

“What?”

“Our Madame Lariot went to Zurich and tried to sell a stolen painting, a Seurat, to a collector.”

“Oh, my, God,” Sunny gasped, remembering. “So she did.”

“Caroline was more than a con woman. She knew how to get her hands on the stolen artworks.”

“And was dumb enough to try to sell them.”

“And, I believe, got caught by her accomplices,” Mac said.

“You'll go to the police, of course.”

Mac thought about it. “My problem is young Bertrand. He's frightened to death, terrified they'll lock him up.”

“Of course they won't.”

“But I want
you
to tell him that, then go to the police with us.”

Sunny spotted the two children weaving their way through the tables. “Here they come,” she said quietly.

“
Bonjour
,
madame
.” Bertrand stood by the table until Sunny patted a chair and told him to sit down. Little Laureen was back in her orange tutu.
Sunny handed the Chihuahua to her and, subdued, the girl took the dog without a word.

“Okay,” Sunny said cheerfully. “Let's order breakfast, then I'll tell you what we're going to do.”

“You're not sending Bertrand to jail.” Little Laureen's chin was firm and she held her mouth in a tight line, prepared to do battle.

“No, sweetheart, Bertrand is not going to jail. He's done nothing wrong. In fact, Bertrand, you're quite the hero. You saw something bad happen and you told Mac about it. After all, Mac's a famous detective. You knew he was the one to tell. Then you found the handbag.” She pointed to it, still on the table and saw the boy flinch. Mac quickly removed it and put it on a chair.

Sunny said, “You gave Mac the bag and the money and he promised to take care of it. Now. All we have to do—you, me, and Mac—is to tell the police.” She threw a glance at Little Laureen. “I don't think we'll be needing you, sweetheart, you can stay here and take care of the dogs for us. Mac and I will take care of Bertrand.”

She smiled round the table. “There. Now that's resolved. Bertrand saw a very bad thing, something no doubt he will never forget. But it's also something very important that he cleverly helped to solve.”

Feeling a little better, Bertrand polished his glasses on a corner of the tablecloth. “But who was she?”

Mac hesitated. He did not want to upset the boy by telling him it was probably Caroline. “We're not sure yet, Bertrand. That's for the police to find out.” It was the truth.

“You okay with that?” he asked, and Bertrand nodded.

“Good, then let's order some eggs and toast. And how about some of those crispy hash browns or whatever they're called in this country?”

“
Pommes frites
,” Little Laureen said, cheering up. “And could I have some pancakes please?”

 

63.

 

 

Mac called a general meeting of the Misfits for nine o'clock that night, in the courtyard over dinner. Passing through the hall on their way there, he noticed Renée had been replaced by the man who usually acted as night concierge. The two bellboys were huddled in a corner, heads together, talking in low tones. The barkeeper kept a smile on his face as he mixed his drinks and served ice-cold beers, but the atmosphere was subdued.

Caroline Cavalaire's body had washed up on the rocks farther down the coast, near Hyères. Because she had no relatives, the hotel manager had been called in to identify her. A drowned person is not a pretty sight, swollen and bloated, the skin greenish tinged. The young woman was barely recognizable as the pretty blond receptionist. The manager had gone home to fortify himself with a double whiskey or two, and the news had spread round the staff like wildfire. No one knew what had happened, or why, only that the woman they had worked with was dead.

Mac's session with the local police had filled in a few gaps, but also posed a few questions. Bertrand, holding tightly to Sunny's hand, had told his story and, to his surprise, had been praised for his actions.

“Well done, my boy,” the police captain had told him, slapping him on the shoulder. “You are a brave lad. Your mother will be proud of you.”

Bertrand knew that wasn't so, but having gotten it all off his chest, he felt better.

Later that afternoon, Mac had accompanied the police to Caroline's apartment. The garments she'd worn in her role as Madame Lariot were hanging
in her closet and the wig and glasses were in a box. Caroline wasn't too good at hiding things: all the documents, the leases, the canceled checks, the real Madame Lariot's personal information, her checking accounts et cetera, had been documented and stowed in a small desk under the window.

Caroline's closet was also stuffed with the expensive clothes she'd bought with the stolen money, and in a small wall safe they discovered a collection of fine jewelry, the emerald and diamond ring she usually wore to work, the diamond chandelier earrings she'd worn at the Caves du Roy, a diamond bracelet and other smaller pieces. Caroline was obviously a woman who liked the finer things and the temptation to get them had proved too strong.

“Much good it did her,” Sunny said sadly, when Mac told her this, at nine as they walked out into the courtyard, where the others were already seated. Nobody smiled, not even Belinda.

“What's going on?” she whispered. “It's like somebody died in here.”

Mac looked round, making sure Little Laureen was not there.

“She's having dinner with her friend.” Billy nodded to where the two were sitting at Bertrand's corner table, eating large plates of spaghetti Bolognaise.

“I'm afraid somebody did die,” Sunny said, and heard Sara gasp.

“It's Caroline Cavalaire,” Mac said.

“The pretty receptionist?” Nate looked astounded. “A car accident?” he guessed.

Mac held up a hand, slowing him down. “Let's get some wine here, then I'll tell you exactly what happened.”

Half an hour later, after he'd told them, they sat silently, sipping the Vieux Télégraphe Nate had recommended, trying to take in the events of the day.

“Okay, so I don't care about the money,” Belinda said finally. “But why the hell did somebody have to go and kill her?”

“That is exactly what we now have to find out. Fortunately, the police are also investigating.”

“So we're no longer on our own?” Nate said.

“Right. We're not. Let's just leave it up to them.” Mac tested the wine again. Then, anxious to lift the moment, he said, “Wonderful wine, Nate. Thanks.”

“I only discovered it a couple of days ago,” Nate said casually. “When I bought my house.”

Four pairs of eyes got him in their sights. Sara sat innocently back, hiding a smile.

“You did
what
?” Belinda said.

“Oh, you know, bought a house. In an old fortified village called Bonnieux.”

“But I know it,” she cried. “I've been there. It's adorable.”

Nate had never heard a village called “adorable” before.

“Nate, I can't believe it.” Sunny was smiling at him. He could see she was thrilled.

“I don't know how it happened,” he confessed. “It just seemed meant for me.”

“I so admire that,” Sunny said. “Making a fast decision.”

Nate gave a wry smile. “A decision that'll affect the rest of my life.”

She leaned over and patted his hand. “For the better, I'm sure,” she said softly.

“So when can we come and see this house?” Belinda was desperate to get away from the subject of the murdered girl. Inside she was trembling, thinking,
My God my God
,
that could be me
,
it so could be me
. . .

“Whenever you like. We'll organize an expedition.” Nate was ordering another bottle of the good red and dinner was being discussed.

The two children were playing poker at their table, already into ice cream and watching them, Billy was glad they had not been told about Caroline. He determined they never would.

“Not a bad day's work,” Mac said to Sunny, just as his phone rang.

“Hey, buddy,” Ron Perrin said. “Wanna know some more about your boy Krendler?”