There's Something About St. Tropez (47 page)

She didn't think that was too bad for someone who had not really ever spoken French well, and who in any case had not spoken it for years.

Anyhow, this Frenchwoman understood because she said,
“Madame, depuis des années, personne n'avait demandé de parfum de violette
. Nobody has asked for violet perfume for years.”

“
Mais madame, je m'appelle Sonora Alvarez. Je venais de Californie spécialement pour ce parfum. Je vous implore, madame, si c'est possible, aidez-moi.
”

Sunny was actually begging her, claiming she had come all the way from California in search of the violet perfume.

The door cracked a touch wider. A bespectacled eye met hers. “
Oui, c'est ça
,” the woman said, finally opening the door wide enough for Sunny to enter.

The hall was dark and smelled of about a thousand different flowers. And the woman was not old, perhaps in her fifties, tall, thin and elegant with her dark hair pulled back into a bun and wearing blue-rimmed half-glasses. Her eyes were dark and she had a Spanish look, with a fringed rose-patterned black shawl thrown over one shoulder and a chic slim black dress that, Sunny noticed, emphasized her very good figure.

“Pardon me for seeming rude,” the woman said, now in perfect English. “But my father is ill and I did not want him disturbed.” She held out her hand. “Geneviève Mouton-Craft. Now, tell me again, Madame Alvarez, how I can help you?”

Sunny apologized for disturbing her and told her what she was searching for.

“I don't work in the family business,” Geneviève Mouton-Craft explained. “I live in Paris. My father is ill and that's the reason I'm here so early this summer. Normally, I would come with my children in July. Unfortunately,
mon père
is the only one left who knows this business. When he goes, then so will our
parfumerie
. It's been here for over a hundred and seventy years,” she added with a sad look in her eyes. “But I have no talent for it, and my life took me in another direction, my own family, work . . .”

She shrugged and Sunny said she was sorry to disturb them, and of course, she would leave right away, but Geneviève Mouton-Craft put up a hand to stop her.

“
Mais non, madame
, let me see what I can find out for you.
Mon père
worked in his business for almost sixty years. If we ever produced that perfume then he would know. Excuse me while I go and ask him.”

Leaving Sunny in the hallway, she hurried away, returning five minutes later.

“I have news,” she said, smiling. “First, though, my father wishes to know why you want this particular scent.”

“Because I believe it was made for a very special woman, the chanteuse La Violette.”

Geneviève nodded. “If this were a quiz designed by my father, you would have given the correct answer. This house made that perfume only for La Violette, oh so many years ago, more than even my father can remember. It was a special blend of Parma violets, the rare variety first produced by an Italian, the Comte de Brazza. Pure white blooms with pale blue tips and a sweetly delicate perfume. Apparently La Violette decided she must have a scent that matched her name, and when this house produced the Parma violet scent for her, she fell in love with it. She used it all her life. It became, as they say, La Violette's signature. When she left the room, they said her scent lingered, tantalizingly so for the many men who were in love with her.”

Sunny said, “Then you know the story of La Violette?”

“Only that she was a charmer with many lovers, and that she came to a sad and lonely end. Her story is one of the legends of this part of France.”

“Well, thank you, at least now I know about La Violette's perfume. And you know what,
madame
, I could still smell it, in her old villa. That's how I knew about it.”

“You were in La Violette's villa?”

Sunny smiled. “Only briefly. It's a long story.”

Geneviève held up her hand again. “One minute,” she said and hurried back into the dark interior of the house, leaving Sunny once more, standing in the front hall.

A few minutes later, she was back. “My father asked me to give you this.” She handed Sunny a square cream-colored box, imprinted in deep purple with the name of the perfume house,
Les Belles Auteurs, du Fleurs de Parfum
. And the
title La Violette
.

“Oh my God.” Sunny was stuttering, she was so overwhelmed. “Can this really be it?”

Geneviève nodded her well-coiffed head. “My father wanted you to have it. He said anyone who remembers La Violette well enough to speak her name should have this. It's probably the very last bottle, kept more as a reminder of the product than for anything else.”

“How can I ever thank your father?” Sunny clutched the precious box to her chest. “You must let me pay for this.”

“He wouldn't dream of it.” Geneviève laughed at the thought. “He wanted me to thank you for bringing back a little of our past glory. That's all.”

They shook hands and Sunny found herself walking, dazed, through the little cobbled courtyard, hearing the ancient wooden door slam behind her, through the low stone arch and onto the narrow street. Her car waited in the sunlight in the square at the end. She went and sat in it, then took a long look at the box.

Hardly daring, she opened the top flap and removed the bottle. It looked as pristine as the day it had been produced, right here in the little atelier down the street. It was obviously Lalique, a square
flacon
engraved with Violette's name, and with a beautiful frosted stopper in the shape of a Parma violet, each petal perfectly delineated. The perfume inside was the delicate pale color of the violets.

Sunny held the bottle to her nose. Even though the stopper kept the perfume tightly enclosed, she believed she could smell it. That faint, haunting scent of La Violette.

On her way back, she stopped at a smart florist in Cannes and ordered a large basket of Parma violets to be delivered to Madame Mouton-Craft.

“With my thanks and to rekindle old memories,” she wrote on the card.

 

67.

 

 

Mac had found no trace of Joel Krendler. He had not checked into any of the grand hotels a man like that would normally frequent. He was either in a villa, or on a yacht.

“Like for instance, Valenti's
Blue Picasso
,” Mac said to Lev.

They were on their way to Port Grimaud, the massive marina village complex farther along the coast. Through his contact, Lev knew Krendler was not in Monte Carlo, nor was he in St. Tropez. They figured Port Grimaud was just far enough away to be off the smart-yacht map, and big enough for him to stay out of sight. It was a long shot but Mac knew that in this game long shots were sometimes worth pursuing.

“Y'know what,” he said to Lev, negotiating his way into the left overtaking lane and passing a Porsche with Spanish number plates, whose driver gave him the finger. He'd noticed Porsches did not like to be passed. “I've not even had time to take Sunny to the beach yet, and we've been here forever.” Thinking of the events of the past few days he added, “At least it seems like forever.”

“I guess I should say it serves you right for getting involved with all these people,” Lev replied.

Mac overtook again. “I didn't get involved with them. They got involved with me.”

“And of course you couldn't say no.”

Mac knew Lev was right. That was his trouble. He never could say no. “Sunny thought we might get married out here,” he said.

Lev threw him a surprised glance. “I thought you two were fine the way you are.”

“So did I.”

“Women,” Lev said.

“You don't appear to have women problems.”

Lev grinned. “If I do I keep 'em to myself. Take the next exit.” He indicated the sign coming up.

Port Grimaud was off a very busy road with rental apartments and condos, town houses, shops, cafés, restaurants, ships' chandlers and yacht sales offices. It was a town in its own right and it was crammed with summer people and boats. Edging his way through, Mac was beginning to wish he'd never come.

“I could sure use a beer,” Lev said as Mac squeezed into a parking spot that was too far from the waterfront but all he could find. Summer in the South of France was in full swing in this area, with tribes of children, distracted parents, backpackers and campers, all seeking sun and sea and probably he guessed, also a cold beer.

It was a walk to the waterfront where boats were stacked edge to edge, the owners sitting on their aft decks drinking iced martinis or champagne or beer, eating fresh shrimp and watching the people in the cafés opposite enviously watching them. The cafés also stretched the entire length of the harbor, with balconied condos rearing up behind them, taking advantage of the sea view. If you could get past the boat masts to the sea that is. Mac and Lev joined the crowd in a terrace café called, inappropriately, the Marlin.

“Didn't know they fished marlin in the Med,” Mac said, remembering fishing trips off Baja, Mexico.

“They don't, but I guess nobody around here knows that, and if they do they don't care.”

They took seats at a table in front with the passersby practically in their laps. The Marlin was a popular place, either that or it was lunchtime, and it was the only table free. Mac ordered a Kronenbourg and Lev a Stella, and they sat back looking at the boats through the constant passing parade. Mac ate a ham sandwich and Lev a cheese omelet. They had to admit that it was pretty good, and the icy beer cooled them down.

Mac said, “Krendler has a dog. And dogs have to be walked. He can't stay hidden on the boat all the time.”

“Unless he kills off the dog.” Lev glanced at him over his omelet. “You told me that was the pattern.”

“I've heard it is. But he got off the plane with a brindle greyhound and that's what we need to look for.”

“First, let's check the yachts. The
Blue Picasso
is big, a seventy-footer. There's only one place it might be.”

They walked the length of the harbor to the deeper mooring. It wasn't easy spotting the
Blue Picasso
amongst all the big boats, and they walked all the way to the boatyard, where yachts were up on ramps, being refitted or painted, or fixed. The
Blue Picasso
was not up on a ramp. She was tucked away behind the boatyard, all by herself in a deepwater mooring. And on her deck stood a small brindle greyhound.

“Bingo,” Mac said, high-fiving Lev and grinning.

“So what do we do now?” Lev asked.

“We wait and see what their next move is. Trust me,” Mac said. “They're sure to have one planned. And it'll lead us to those stolen artworks.”

“So you think Krendler's the mastermind?”

“I'm willing to bet the farm on it.”

“Tell me, what made you think Krendler was involved?”

“It all gets back, as it always seems to,” Mac said, “to Chez La Violette. Krendler bought that house over ten years ago. I believe he used it as his headquarters when planning the robberies. I think the fast black speedboat was brought in to transport the paintings by sea instead of by road from the robbery location to the
Blue Picasso
, then to a secret place. Where that is I don't yet know. And what I want now is for Krendler to lead us to it. I'm sure that's why he's here.”

Lev nodded. He guessed no one would suspect they were transporting stolen goods by sea on a high-class sailboat.

Mac said, “I'll bet you that that black speedboat is here too, somewhere.” He shrugged. “No matter, it's gonna turn up again and then we'll turn them over to the police.”

“Why not now?”

“Because now, all I've got is a theory. And anything could happen.”

“So why would they kill Caroline?”

“Y'know, I think it must have all started out as a simple seduction. And in her own way Caroline was as immoral as Valenti, with her rental scam, stealing old Madame Lariot's identity, including her bank accounts. We don't know yet how much was taken from those, by the way, but you can bet that's what she did. Caroline liked the good life and she was determined to get it.”

Lev's face was expressionless. He'd heard stories like this before.

Mac said, “That poor French boy, Bertrand, was unfortunate enough to witness the murder.”

“Valenti was paying her off,” Lev said. “I guess he didn't expect her to get mad and make a run for it in the dinghy.”

“So he ran her down. She's gone. Clean as a whistle. And Valenti is nowhere to be seen. Then Krendler shows up for the final act.”

“So how will they sell the paintings?”

Mac shrugged. “There are collectors around the world, men—and women—obsessed with a certain artist, who will pay just to own a painting. They keep them in a secret room, or locked away in a steel walk-in safe where they go alone, to look at them, simply to feel them in their hands, to gloat over their mad possessions.”