There's Something About St. Tropez (49 page)

He perched on a corner of the desk, looking at them, unsmiling again, until the housekeeper reappeared with a basket of the tarts.

Laureen said
merci beaucoup
and took one. It tasted great and she sipped her lemonade, looking at Bertrand, who was chewing his carefully, trying not to make crumbs.

“Sir?” Bertrand said. “May I take one for my dog?”

Reynaud looked around the room, brows raised, as though he'd been missing something in the fantastical story they had come up with. He said, “I see no dog here.”

“Oh, but
monsieur
, he's a
stray
dog. He's got yellow fur and Bertrand just named him Yellow Dog. And I know about Chez La Violette because my daddy rented it for a month for our vacation and then it all went wrong and it was all dusty and broken and haunted and we ended up at the Hôtel des Rêves where Bertrand is staying only his mother has just left him there, and he dived in and saved my necklace, and now he knows what happened and so you can pay him the reward and he'll never have to go away to boarding school and his cruel mother can stay in Italy with her new stepchildren because there's no room for Bertrand . . .”

Laureen paused for breath. Bertrand stared at her, glassy-eyed with shock. He hadn't expected all that.

“But Mac and Sunny are looking after Bertrand now,” Laureen added. “And my daddy, Billy Bashford. We live on a ranch, the Glitter Ranch in Texas.”

Bertrand said quickly, “Laureen's mother died. She wears the tutu so her mother can always find her, no matter where she is or how many people there are . . .”

“And the yellow dog belongs to Bertrand now,” Laureen added. “And he's starving.”

Reynaud held up his hand to stop the torrent. “Maria Dolores,” he called the housekeeper again. “Please let the dog in and find him some food. I believe he's hungry.”

He stood, looking silently at the pair of them. He had not been this moved by anything since his young friend had been killed.

“Let's go outside, shall we?” he suggested, leading the way through the open French doors to the beautiful pergola, tiled in blue and yellow, Moorish style. He watched as Laureen arranged herself on the blue cushions, hands clasped in her lap, knees apart, feet swinging. And Bertrand, tight with nerves, standing next to her.

“So, you know Mac Reilly,” he said.

“And Sunny,” Laureen said eagerly. “They're our friends.”

“And do they know your story? About the boat and the robbers and Chez La Violette?”

“No,” Bertrand admitted.

“We wanted to tell you ourselves,” Laureen explained.

Reynaud nodded. “So you could earn the reward.”

“It's to save Bertrand, you see.” Laureen looked him in the eyes. “He has nowhere to go, his mother doesn't want him and if he gets the reward then he'll be free to do whatever he wants.”

“Of course.”

Maria Dolores appeared with the yellow dog tied to a piece of string. It walked sedately beside her, head and tail down. Until it spotted Bertrand that is, then it let out a yowl and galloped toward him, big tail flapping, almost bowling the housekeeper over.

“That's a fine dog,” Reynaud said.

Bertrand smiled his rare smile. “Yes, sir, he is,” he said proudly.

Maria Dolores came back with a bowl of food. It smelled like good chicken to Laureen, and the dog wolfed it down, never lifting its head once. A bowl of water was brought and it slurped lustily, splashing water everywhere, then sat back, scratching itself vigorously.

“He needs to learn a few manners though,” Laureen said.

“I'll tell you what I'll do, children.” Reynaud stood in front of them, arms folded over his chest, seeming tall as a tree as they looked up at him. “I'll investigate your story, check out your claims about the boat and Chez La Violette.”

Laureen's face dropped. She had thought he would hand over the five hundred thousand euros there and then.

“And if what you say is true, then you will have earned the reward.”

Bertrand knew it was all over. He picked up the end of the string attached to his dog. He said politely, “Thank you, Monsieur Reynaud,” then nodded at Laureen to say goodbye also.

She looked at Reynaud for a long minute. Then, impulsively, she ran at him and threw her arms around his legs. “Thank you, Monsieur Reynaud, for
the lemonade, and the tarts, and for Yellow Dog's food.” Then she followed Bertrand out of the prettily tiled pergola.

She turned for one last look.

“You know what we were singing as we rode our bikes here? ‘We're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard Reynaud.' ” And, throwing him a smile over her shoulder, she was gone.

 

70.

 

 

Mac arrived back at the hotel before dinner, just in time to tell Sunny that he had found the
Blue Picasso
and suspected Krendler was on it. “Nothing I can do about it until Krendler or Valenti makes a move,” he called from the shower where he was scrubbing off the long day's sweat.

He smiled, surprised as a naked Sunny pushed her way in and began to soap his back. “Well, thanks, I was almost too tired after that long drive to do that myself.”

“Then why not let me help you?”

She massaged his shoulders and he let his head fall forward. Cool water dripped from his chin. “I think I'm in some sort of heaven,” he murmured, turning and enfolding her in his arms.

“Mmmm, then let's get married,” Sunny said.

He held her away from him. Tiny droplets beaded her lashes and her long hair fell back like a glossy black waterfall. “How can we find the time? I've been busy all day.”

Sunny recognized the truth in what he'd said. So had she. “So, when this is all over, you and the Misfits, and me and La Violette, then we'll get married?”

“First we have to go to the beach.”

“Why?”

“Because we've been in St. Tropez all this time and still haven't managed it.”

She nodded, it was true, even though all the others had, including Little Laureen.

Mac's hands massaged the long lean muscles of her back, and her rounded behind, which fit into his hands like it was made for him.

The phone rang. He groaned and Tesoro yelped. It kept on ringing. Now Sunny groaned.

Mac's attention had shifted. He looked uneasily at her. “I have to answer it,” he said, his mind already racing ahead to Krendler and Valenti. Grabbing a towel and dripping water, he raced to pick it up. Tesoro nipped at his heels and Pirate nipped at Tesoro.

“Reilly, this is François Reynaud.”

“Sir, good to hear your voice. How can I help you?”

Reynaud laughed. “I don't know if you can help me, but you might very well be able to help two young friends of yours.” And he proceeded to tell him of Bertrand and Laureen's visit, and their theory about the robberies.

“Jesus,” Mac said, stunned. “I've been upstaged by a couple of kids. How did they figure it out? It's exactly what I've come up with myself, except for Chez La Violette being the place where they hide the paintings. My own thought is they were taken off by a speedboat. It met up with the
Blue Picasso
further along the coast and well out of the area, when the paintings were transferred. I'm willing to bet they're still on that sailboat, hidden behind all that fine paneling. In fact I've never seen a boat so covered in paneling.”

“How do we find out?” Reynaud asked.

“It's a wait-and-see game right now. And it's no longer just about the robbery,
and
one murder. It's about the death of a young woman.”

“A second murder, you mean?” Reynaud's voice was sharp.

“Exactly. And I believe I know who did it.” Tesoro tugged at the towel and Mac tugged back. “I can't go to the police yet because I have no evidence, and neither do they. But when that moment comes, they will be there.”

“Then I'll leave it to you. And you'll take care of those children? See what they are up to, that they're in no danger? We're talking murder, Reilly.”

With a shock, Mac realized it was true, and that two interfering children could suddenly find themselves in peril. “Don't worry, sir, I will,” he said.

Sunny had put Tesoro out on the terrace where she was yapping at the peacocks. Pirate lay peaceably at the foot of the bed, on the winning side for once. Now Sunny was lying on the bed.

Mac went and closed the shutters then lay down next to her. Cool sheets; half-light; the delicate upward sweep of her breasts; rough stubble, unshaven, the male smell of him, urgent hands, skin on skin. Was lovemaking ever as sweet before?

Later, they lay back, still entangled, her leg flung over his hip, his arm
beneath her shoulders, breathing each other's breath, slowly tasting each other's lips.

“Let's run away together,” Sunny said softly.

Mac's laugh rumbled from his chest. “Sunny Alvarez, are you suggesting we run away from
St. Tropez
?
This
is the place people run away
to
.”

“Not when they have murder on their minds,” she said, definitely not amused. Then she smiled forgivingly. “Anyway, I did a little investigating of my own.” She reached for the bottle of violet perfume on the night table in front of the old oil painting and handed it to Mac.

He looked inquiringly at her, and at the cream-colored box, then he opened it and took out the delicate Lalique
flacon
. “Beautiful,” he said, running a finger lightly across the petals of the stopper, listening while Sunny told him the story of her visit to the
parfumerie
in Grasse.

“It seems to me that Chez La Violette holds all the answers,” she said, seriously. “A woman like that, a star, a beauty, a woman who loved and was loved, she wouldn't just leave. She wouldn't just die alone. Somewhere.”

Mac wasn't so sure. Violette had been arrested after the war, accused of who knows what? Life, as she knew it had come to an end. What was left to live for?

Dinner was at nine with all the Misfits. He glanced at the golden sun-burst clock on the wall, a midcentury relic that had found a new life here at the Hotel of Dreams.

“I guess she just lost her dream,” he said.

 

71.

 

 

Mac was at the bar talking to Billy. They could see Laureen and Bertrand, who had a game of poker going at the far end of the room, while a few other children watched cartoons on TV, waiting for their parents to show up for dinner.

Mac had told Billy what his daughter was up to, and that it was now a dangerous game. “You might have to keep them out of it from now on,” he said.

“Jesus.” Billy was stunned. “And all I thought was thank the Lord, Little Laureen was finally coming out of her post-traumatic trance, and all due to her new friend.”

“You can still thank Bertrand for that,” Mac said. “And Bertrand can also thank Laureen. They needed each other.”

Mac did not tell him that Valenti was a suspect in Caroline's murder, nor about Krendler. He'd given Billy just enough information to make sure that from now on Billy kept his daughter within sight at all times.

“I'll surely keep an eye on that boy also.” Billy shoved his hat farther back and wiped his brow with a red, white and blue silk handkerchief. “Who the hell knew?”

“Not us.” Mac slapped him on the shoulder as the Texan got up and went to tell the kids it was time for dinner.

Billy put his arm round his daughter's shoulders, and said, “Hey Bertrand, why don't you join us for dinner? I'm sure Laureen here would like that.”

Bertrand's face, normally pale as alabaster from rarely going out in the daytime and only at night—like a vampire—flushed with pleasure.

“Before we go, though,” Billy said, “we need to talk about your visit to Monsieur Reynaud.”

Laureen gasped. She wondered how he knew. Nervous, Bertrand bit his lip.