There's Something About St. Tropez (48 page)

“There's no accounting for taste,” Lev said.

“And that, my man, is what makes the crazy world you and I inhabit go round,” Mac said. “And I'm willing to bet it's also why Krendler has no paintings of any value on the walls of his Paris mansion. He's not willing to share them with anybody. He wants them all to himself, in a place where, in the deepest night and the darkest depth of his soul, he can possess them.”

“Jesus,” Lev said. “Let's get outta here. I think I'd rather be looking out for Belinda and taking care of Jasper Lord than Joel Krendler.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Mac said with a laugh. “Okay, let's go.”

 

68.

 

 

Nate had left early that morning for Bonnieux, on his way to look at his house once again. Malcolm had told him it would be at least a month before he could take possession but he already felt it was his. It was a cash transaction and the divorced German wanted out fast, which was all to Nate's advantage. He'd never felt this excited about anything before. Possessions had never mattered to him, even though his Tribeca loft was, as the real estate woman informed him, the last word in desirability.

He hadn't
desired
it but he'd bought it anyway, and it worked for him. It was still as simple as the day he'd moved in: just a couple of plain sofas, a big bed and a giant flat-screen. There were no personal photographs, no memories in cute silver frames because Nate had none, and no vases either because he never bought flowers. It was only now, when he opened the door and stepped into the pale-beamed, old stone-walled world that had suddenly become his, that he felt he was “home.”

He walked through his house, taking his time, checking out the showers—all multijet and functional—and stopping to admire the view from the master bedroom, even going so far as to lie on the bed to check if he could still see that checkerboard valley with the mountains beyond. And he could.

He liked his bathroom, the white subway tiles, the black mosaic floor, the dull pewter finish on the faucets. Even the mirror, embedded in slate seemed to offer a new look at his own smiling face, usually so serious, so preoccupied, always thinking of something else, never of the moment.

Now, he was thinking of the moment. On an impulse he walked down the street into the village square and bought a large bunch of giant sunflowers.
He put them in a big red vase and stood them on a stone window ledge with that green view behind. The colors of Provence hit him between the eyes with an almost physical impact. It was like looking at a van Gogh still-life. He finally knew what that artist was all about.

Later, he made his way down the hill to the mill, where he found Malcolm, surprisingly, in an apron, racing around, plates in hand and looking extremely flustered.

“Waitress quit,” Malcolm explained, en route again to the kitchen. “Roger's cooking and I'm here all alone.” He looked Nate up and down appraisingly. “Want to put on a pinny and come and help?”

Tying on the apron Nate thought of Sara telling him she'd worked at Hooters. That Sara was a dark horse all right. She'd surprised him a couple of times now.

After the lunch rush died down, Roger and Malcolm came and sat with him over a glass of wine and a hunk of fresh-baked bread and a couple of good cheeses, a St. Marcellin blue and a gentle Delices de Coeur that went well with the carafe of local rosé, a much darker wine than the rosés of the coast, with a fine berry taste.

“Tough day.” Malcolm sighed deeply.

“It'll get even tougher,” Roger said. “It's summer, everybody's already got a job and there's no waitresses to be found within a fifty-mile radius. If that.”

“And I don't look good in an apron,” Malcolm said, patting his belly.

Nate had already removed his own apron, and he hadn't in the least minded running in and out of the kitchen with plates of good food for the happy diners. But when Roger said they were thinking of expanding, adding a wing and turning the mill into a B and B, he was surprised.

“Maybe even a small hotel,” Malcolm added hopefully. “You know, something simple, just a good restaurant with rooms above.”

“Isn't that what every traveler hopes to be lucky enough to find?” Nate asked.

“You bet it is,” Malcolm said. “But I'm afraid we have to do some number crunching and see what we can come up with. Neither Roger nor I is any good with figures, it's all we can do to keep the books straight. Sometimes I'm convinced there's more goes out than comes in. Still, we manage.”

He grinned cheerfully at Nate, who looked thoughtful.

“I'm pretty good at numbers,” Nate said. “Why don't you explain exactly what you've got in mind, and I'll look into it and tell you if it's viable?”

The two men brightened up. “We've never had an adviser before,” Roger said, thrilled.

When Nate left, later that afternoon, it was with the accounts and the architect's plans for an addition with rooms to be built out over the stream, like a small bridge. The concept was so charming Nate almost wished he could be part of it, but then he realized of course he could. He would be here often, dining at the Moulin de Hubert (Hubert was the original owner of the mill). He would be a part of it all.

 

69.

 

 

The yellow dog trotted behind as Bertrand raced down the hill on his
vélo
, through rows of vines hung with ripening grapes. He was freewheeling, feet off the pedals, legs sticking out on either side, hands off the handlebars except when he reached down to ring the bell. And he was singing at the top of his voice. “We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard Reynaud . . .”

Laureen's tongue stuck out with the effort as she too daringly removed her feet from the pedals, though she still clung to the safety of the hand brake. She lifted her hands off experimentally every now and then, and she also rang the bell frequently to make up for her lack of expertise. “We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard Reynaud . . .” Her voice trailed behind her as they rattled over the ruts, bouncing on the saddles and yelling out in fear.

Laureen saw the high white wall and the name Villa les Ambassadeurs above the gate and squeezed the brakes so tight she almost went over the handlebars. She propped her bike against the wall, said, “Come on,” to Bertrand, then pulled the iron rod that clanged a loud bell somewhere inside the house.

Yellow Dog waited, panting, at Bertrand's feet. They jumped as a tiny security screen lit up and a voice said in French, “Who is it please?”

Seeing herself on the screen, Laureen said, “Laureen Bashford and Bertrand Olivier to see Monsieur Reynaud. Please,” she added.

There was a long silence, then the woman's voice said again, “And why do you wish to see Monsieur Reynaud?”

“It's about his stolen art,” Bertrand replied.

There was another silence. Laureen shuffled her feet in their worn ballet
slippers, wondering what they would do if their plan failed and Monsieur Reynaud refused to see them.

“S'il vous plaît, madame,”
she said in her best French accent.
“C'est très important.”

That must have done the trick because the woman told them to wait a moment. The screen clicked off and they stood, shuffling their feet again, half-wishing they hadn't come.

After several minutes of silence the screen clicked on again. “I'm opening the gates,” the woman said. “Follow the path in front of you to the main house.”

The huge iron gates slid open silently and the dog whined when they swung back into place again, leaving him outside. The two walked down the wide driveway set with coral-colored pavers, past a small forest of trees, turning at a lawn with a view of the sea on the left, and turning again in to a wide circle in front of the house. The tall doors, almost as tall as the villa itself, were open and a pleasant-looking Spanish woman waited for them.

She inspected them as though she could not quite believe it. Then she asked them please to step inside, Monsieur Reynaud was waiting for them in his study.

François Reynaud was behind a large old-fashioned tulipwood desk that looked as if it had once graced some turn-of-the-century office, well-used and complete with scars and ink stains from some long-ago business world. The enormous burgundy studded-leather chair in which he sat, hands folded in front of him, looking at them over his spectacles, also bore the creases of time.

Bertrand's sneakers squeaked on the polished wood floors and Laureen skidded in her ballet shoes. They stood to attention, arms stiffly at their sides. No one spoke.

François Reynaud had difficulty holding back a smile as he took in the pudgy little girl in the grubby ballet frock with her hair poking out in two ragged bunches under the straw hat. And the skinny boy whose knees stuck out like doorknobs from his drooping shorts (were they fastened with an old tie?) and who was looking at him through oversize pale glasses. The boy ran his hands nervously through his hair. A mistake, François thought, unable to resist the smile now, as the boy's hair, chopped he guessed with a blunt pair of scissors, stood on end.

“Maria Dolores,” he called the housekeeper who was waiting by the door to see if her boss was going to throw them out. “Lemonade for these children please.”

He pointed to the two chairs in front of the desk and they sat in silence, waiting. Laureen sat on the very edge of her chair but it was still too high and her feet dangled. Without thinking, she swung them nervously, wondering why the Wizard Reynaud didn't speak to them.

The lemonade arrived on a big black tray in a tall crystal jug and was poured by Maria Dolores, clinking with ice and smelling deliciously of fresh lemons. Bertrand was too nervous to pick up the glass in case he spilled, but Laureen took a taste.

“Merci, Monsieur Reynaud,”
she said shyly.
“C'est très bon.”

“Ah, la petite parle français?”
Reynaud steepled his hands together, looking at her.

“Oh, well . . . not truly . . . I mean, well . . . sometimes I do . . .”

“It was a good effort. And your name is?”

“My name is Laureen Bashford. I'm from Texas.”

Reynaud permitted himself another smile. “Of course you are,” he said smoothly, turning his attention to the boy.

“
Et tai?
” he asked.

“Bertrand Olivier,
monsieur
. From Paris.”

“Paris? Then I assume you are both here on vacation?”

“Yes, oh, yes, sir.” The story came bubbling out of Laureen like the lemonade from the crystal jug. “It's about your stolen paintings, sir, we know what happened, we know how they did it and where they are . . .”

Astonished, Reynaud leaned across the big desk. “And how do you know that?” He looked questioningly at Bertrand.

“We figured it out, sir. Well, Little Laureen did.”

“No I didn't,” she objected, thinking about the reward for Bertrand. “We
both
guessed how it happened. I just thought about it when I was on a boat, looking at the land, how easy it must be just going in and out of a jetty and into a house . . .”

“And then we thought about it because of the ghost at Chez La Violette . . .,” Bertrand added.

Laureen flung him a triumphant glance. “Bertrand said there was no ghost but I knew there was, and that's why nobody goes there. Except the robbers, because it's empty.”

“Nobody would ever see them, nobody would even think to look there . . .” Excited, Bertand picked up the story.

“Then you have seen these stolen paintings? At Chez La Violette?”

Bertrand's face fell.

“Well, not exactly,” Laureen admitted.

“And the robbers? You've seen them?”

“Well . . . no . . . just the ghost light at night . . .”

François Reynaud got up from his big leather chair. He walked round his massive desk, picked up the crystal jug and poured more lemonade. “Maria Dolores,” he called. “Please bring some of those
tartes tropéziennes
for
les petites
.”