There's Something About St. Tropez (7 page)

“Jesus,” he said, astonished. “What's going on here?”

And then Tesoro bit Pirate and Sunny burst into tears.

Sunny's nerves were jagged with fatigue and too much instant coffee, plus quite a lot of brandy. Everything had suddenly caught up to her: the long flights; the delays; driving through the storm; the scary image of the man on the dark lonely road; and the fright when she was chased by a stranger with a sword with no one there to call for help. Plus trying to cope with the disaster at Chez La Violette,
and
all these strangers with their own problems. She was flat-out exhausted. She knew she looked terrible. And she was mad as hell. Her teary glare said it all. Let the famous PI sort this one out.
She
had had it. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Billy didn't like to see a woman cry and the new guy seemed too stunned to do anything about it. He put a protective arm around Sunny's shoulders.

“Now let me tell ya somethin,' dude,” he said to Mac. “This young woman's about had it. She's exhausted. Can't y'see she has no time for making small talk over tea and cookies? What she needs is a bed.”

Sunny turned a grateful glance on him, then looked back at Mac from under her lashes. She wasn't too exhausted to check out his reaction to the big Texan with his arm around her.

“I'm Billy Bashford, this here's my daughter, Little Laureen. That's Nate Masterson, and there's Belinda Lord and Sara Strange. And you are?”

“Mac Reilly.”

“The fiancé,” Nate said, surprised.

If Mac was also surprised that Nate knew who he was, he didn't show it.

“And anyways, things are so crazy here at the villa Chez La Violette,” Billy went on, “we're all wondering where we're gonna find that bed to lay our weary heads. If it weren't for Little Laureen, here, I'd be heading for that fancy hotel where Mick Jagger once got hitched to Bianca, the one with the Euro-trash nightclub. But of course that wouldn't be the correct place to take a little ballet dancer like my daughter Laureen.”

“You're right,” Mac said, still worrying about Sunny, who was keeping her distance, alternately mopping her eyes with her fist and glaring angrily at him. He wanted to go put his arms round her but her body language was definitely not encouraging. Besides, he still had no idea what was going on,
nor why all these people were here. Bewildered, he took in the dilapidated pool, the rusting garden furniture, the weedy terraces and the muddy lawn. His questioning eyes met Sunny's.

She shook her head. “Don't even ask.”

Mac nodded again. Whatever had happened he guessed he'd find out later. He said, “Sunny, we need to talk. Alone.” He walked toward the house but Sunny did not go with him. This was definitely not good. Still, he thought he'd better take a look inside, check things out for himself.

A quick tour of Chez La Violette revealed more of the truth. Guilt overwhelmed him. He was the one who had rented the place from Madame Lariot without, for God's sake, even checking her credentials. This was his fault. He would take care of the rental agent later, but right now, since everyone was still standing around, gazing listlessly at the desolation, he guessed it was up to him to find them all a place to stay.

He remembered passing a hotel, a small place set back behind umbrella pines and bougainvillea. The simple wooden sign had said
HÔTEL DES RÊVES
, with three golden stars after the name. Mac liked the three stars, which in France meant a comfortable family hotel of good quality, though definitely not luxury. And he loved the name: Hotel of Dreams. He thought it appropriate under the circumstances. It seemed to him that right now they could all use a few “dreams.”

An old man on an ancient bicycle wobbled slowly up the drive of Chez La Violette. His wide face was weathered by sun and wind and his long nose had the ruby hue of good wine. He wore a very old Panama hat and the bright blue overalls of the French laborer. Blissfully unaware of the group on the terrace, he pedaled slowly on, whistling untunefully under his breath. That is, until Tesoro ran at him, aiming little snaps at his feet.

The old man flung his legs sideways into the air, the bicycle wobbled, his hat fell off and was snatched up by Tesoro, who ran wagging back to Sunny. Pirate, sitting at Mac's feet, watched warily, one ear up, one down, He knew never to trust Tesoro.

“Merde.”
The old man ground to a trembling halt, staring astonished at the raggle-taggle group.
“Mais vous êtes qui? Et qu'est-ce que vous faites ici?
Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“Nous sommes les locataires.”
It was Little Laureen who spoke—
and in French
—telling him they were the renters.

Astonished, they turned as one to look at her. Billy beamed proudly. “I had a tutor give Little Laureen French lessons for a couple of months,” he said. “She's an awful quick learner, and see, the old guy understood what she said.”

The old man was waving his hands in the air, yelling at the dog, galloping in the mud, the Panama hat still clasped between its jaws.

“Merde alors, quelle sauvage,”
the man yelled at the top of his squeaky lungs.
“Et vous, madame.”
He pointed angrily at Sunny.
“C'est votre responsibilité. Calmez votre chien, et alors, donnez-moi mon chapeau.”

Mac caught Tesoro in midleap and wrestled the hat from between its teeth. The dog gazed innocently up at him. He could have sworn there was a smile on its face. He gave the hat back to the old man who inspected it carefully, pointing out the dog spittle and smeary teeth marks on the brim, the mud and the damage, tut-tutting and
merde alorsing
under his breath.

In hesitant French and with much pantomime, Mac finally made him understand that he would replace the hat.

“Mais ce n'est pas la meme chose,”
the old boy muttered, shaking his head.
“Ce chapeau! Ah, il y a longtemps ce chapeau appartenait à Violette. C'est irremplaçable
. It is not the same. Long ago this hat belonged to Violette. It's irreplaceable.”

Sunny offered to shake his hand and apologize but he scowled and waved her away. Then Nate went over to try to help, and finally, with the occasional surprising French interjection from Little Laureen, they made him understand their position.

“Mais moi?”
The old boy was beginning to enjoy being the center of attention. “
Je suis seulement le concierge
, I am only the janitor. I take care of Chez La Violette. And how is it possible you have rented it? It has not been lived in for many years, more years than I can count. Not since Violette went away and never came back.” Crossing himself, he closed his eyes and added, “God rest her soul.”

“Amen,” Little Laureen said loudly.

Again all heads turned to look but ignoring them, Laureen gazed upward as though speaking directly to God, smoothing her by now ratty-looking pink ballet skirt, the tulle drooping from its contact with St. Tropez rain.

“Jesus!”
Belinda said, surprised.

“Do not take the Lord's name in vain.” Laureen continued to look at the heavens.

“Oh . . . my . . . God.”
Belinda couldn't help herself.

This time Laureen merely sighed heavily.

The old boy was still going on about how the house had not been lived in for many years, that the owner lived in Paris and as far as he knew had never even been here. He had come today merely to check on the storm damage.

Nate went back into the house and got the brochure with its glossy pictures. He showed it to the old janitor, pointing out the beautiful pool, the weedless terraces, the pristine white wicker furniture.

The old boy clapped a hand to his head. “
Ah, je sais, je sais
. Of course. But this was some years ago. A film company came here to make a commercial—for magazines and for TV, you understand?”

“A photo shoot,” Mac said.

The old man maneuvered the brim of his Panama into shape then slammed it back on his head. He nodded vigorously. “
Oui, c'est ça. Photo shoot
, that's what they called it. They painted the swimming pool turquoise blue,
comme ça.”
He wagged a finger at the brochure. “They brought in chairs and tables.” His finger wagged again at the picture. “They cleaned up the terrace, they even sprayed the lawn green. And then they brought in the pretty girls in bathing suits.” His eyes gleamed at the memory and he chuckled to himself.

Mac knew only too well how easy it was to doctor pictures on a computer.

But now the janitor scowled suspiciously at them. “Nobody ever comes here. This house is haunted.
Naturellement
, it is the ghost of Violette. Nobody round here would so much as open the gates. Except me, of course. But that's because I am paid to do so. And I only ever come in broad daylight.”

Sunny remembered the breath of warm air and the scent of flowers in the master bedroom, and the sudden sense that in Chez La Violette the mysterious past was very much present. She shivered and held Tesoro closer.

Mac asked the old man for the address of the Paris owner, slipped him fifty euros for a new Panama and thanked him for his trouble. Then he walked over to Sunny.

This time she let him put his arms around her. He looked deeply into her shadowed eyes and said gently, “There's this hotel I know down the road. The Hotel of Dreams.”

Sunny shook her head, gazing tiredly back at him. “Let's just hope it's true.”

And then Little Laureen said, “But what about the pancakes?”

 

6.

 

 

Mac was driving the rental Peugeot. Sunny, back once more in her damp jeans and T-shirt, was in the passenger seat. Pirate was on her lap, his head hanging out the window to capture every new aroma, while Tesoro moaned in the carrier in the back. Belinda and Sara followed in the beat-up white Bentley, then Billy Bashford and Little Laureen in the chrome-flashed red Hummer, with Nate Masterson on—surprise, surprise—the very latest yellow Ducati motorcycle, that he'd told them he'd bought online and had delivered at Nice airport.

Mac followed the leafy lane that led in the direction of St. Tropez. The silence between him and Sunny was thick as a woolly blanket. Apart from Tesoro's moans it was so quiet that through the open windows he could hear the sea, softly splashing onto an unseen shore. Sunny's profile seemed set in stone. He had never seen her like this. Well, perhaps not
never
, but rarely. It did not bode well.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Of course I would never have let you come alone had I known it was going to be like this.”

“You have
no idea
what it was like.” Her voice was cold, stubborn.

“I admit it. But Sun, baby, you must understand I would never have allowed this to happen if I were here—”

“But you weren't here.”

She wasn't letting him off the hook and Mac guessed she was right. He gave up apologizing and tried pleading. “Tell me what I can do to make up for it. Just tell me, baby.”

He glanced sideways at her. Was her mouth a little less set? Her chin at
a lower angle? Were her lips curving into that half smile he knew so well? She had no idea how truly bad he felt about having sent her alone to the disaster that was Chez La Violette.
And
in one of the worst storms St. Tropez had seen in a decade.

“Just find me a room with a bathtub,” Sunny said, softening. On quick reflection, she decided
technically
it was not Mac's fault. How could he have known the rental was a scam? After all, the others had been taken in too. She ventured a look at him. Their eyes met and the car swerved, causing a honking of horns behind.

“Sorry,” Mac said again, but this time his grin was matched by Sunny's. “I'll make it up to you, though.”

Sunny heaved a thankful sigh. She said, “Oh, Mac Reilly, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

The Hôtel des Rêves was down a sandy white lane that ended in a clump of tall trees that must have been there for about a hundred years, and a small farm house that had been there even longer. Square-built of rugged stone, painted the color of fresh cream, small square windows deep-set in true old Provençal style, faded green shutters meant to close out the summer heat and the winter wind, and a roof whose old red tiles had turned a brownish pink. All it needed was a chimney on top from which a curl of blue smoke escaped.

Charm
was the first word that sprang to Sunny's mind.
Real
was the second. After the nightmare of Chez La Violette, this was like coming home.

Over the years, the farm had been expanded—wings right and left and rows of French windows open to catch the breeze. Above, cheerful blue-striped awnings sheltered ample balconies, dripping with scarlet geraniums. A swimming pool gleamed, and down a small rocky incline Sunny could see the sparkle of the Mediterranean. The scent of the Gloire de Dijon roses climbing the portico mingled with those of verbena and jasmine and the clean scent of the sea. And to complete the perfect picture, a pair of white peacocks strutted toward them, tails spread like magnificent bridal trains. In back of them waddled a plain old brown peahen, but even she had her own kind of charm.