There's Something About St. Tropez (19 page)

Her heavy-lashed eyes swiveled his way. “I am?”

“Sun baby, you have to understand, it's what I do. I can't help myself.”

“Kind of like a murder ‘addict,' you mean?”

Mac sighed again. “Hey, I'm just a curious guy, I need to know who done it.” He leaned on one elbow, looking at her. “Besides, I hate the idea of some poor young guy getting shot just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why not let
les flics
take care of it?”

“Sometimes an outsider can give an overview, see something they might not.”

The phone rang and Mac grabbed it. “Monsieur Reynaud, thanks for calling me back. At the Villa les Ambassadeurs at three. I'll be there, sir.”

Mac looked at Sunny. He lifted a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “Want to come with me?”

Despite herself, Sunny was intrigued. Mac had set something in motion and she knew there was no going back.

“Don't I always?” she said.

 

25.

 

 

François Reynaud's villa was more of a palace, a two-story building in the old Provençal coral-roofed style with Moorish additions. Marble pergolas were tiled in Spanish
azulejos
in the distinctive blue and white, and ink blue pools and streams meandered through gardens shaded by umbrella pines and cedars, down to an immaculately raked sandy beach. There was no hard-faced butler to open the door here, only a middle-aged Spanish woman in a white smock who greeted them with a smile and led them to where Monsieur Reynaud sat at a table overlooking the beach.

He got up to greet them, a smallish man, thin from what looked like a lifetime of smoking, and older than Mac had expected, probably in his late seventies.

“Welcome, Mr. Reilly.” He shook Mac's hand, his expression serious.

“Thank you, sir. May I introduce Miss Alvarez, my assistant. And fiancée,” Mac added.

Sunny took a seat at the table next to Mac. Reynaud sat opposite, sharp dark eyes watching them from behind steepled hands.

“Five hundred thousand euros is a lot of money, Mr. Reilly,” he said.

Sunny felt the heat flare in her cheeks. Oh, God, Reynaud thought Mac was after the reward.

Mac nodded. “I appreciate that, sir. And if I am able to help you find the killers, I'd be happy for you to donate that sum to a local charity.”

Reynaud pressed a bell to summon the manservant from the blue-tented beach bar. “I can offer you fresh lemonade,” he said. “Maria Dolores, my housekeeper, makes the best in the world with lemons from our own trees. Of
course in winter, when the weather turns cold here in St. Tropez, they are moved into the warmth of the conservatory to preserve them. Rather like myself,” he added with a self-deprecating smile.

The young man in a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, served the lemonade and offered a napkined basket containing small pastries.

“Tartes tropéziennes,”
Reynaud explained. “The local specialty.”

Mac refused but Sunny, who had never been known to turn down a sweet or a chocolate, took one. When she bit into it, it was light and flaky with a delicate flavor of almonds.

“This is delicious.” She beamed her pleasure at Monsieur Reynaud.

“You can buy them in town,” he said. “At La Table du Marché on rue Georges Clemenceau.” He sipped his lemonade then asked Mac exactly what he knew about the murder.

“Only what I read in the newspaper. To tell you the truth, I was drawn to the case because the victim was your friend. I imagined how you must feel, inviting him here . . . and then this.”

François Reynaud studied Mac's face for a long moment, then he said, “I heard you were a good man, Reilly. From Allie, of course. She told me how you had helped her and Ron.” He flung his hands in the air and added with a smile, “Of course, Ron is another matter, but also a man with a good heart, as Allie has come to recognize. Meanwhile, let me tell you how this happened.

“The victim's name is Thierry Sage. I was in Zurich when he called and told me he was going to be in the South. Thierry's father was a dear friend of mine. We did business together—I was in the aircraft industry for many years, and I had known his son since he was a boy. Of course I offered Thierry my guesthouse, said he could have the use of one of the cars and that Maria Dolores would be here to look after him. The young man who served us, is a staff member on my yacht. One or the other of them always comes here to attend to me when I'm in residence. I gave him leave to go back to the yacht that week, and said I would call for someone to come out here when I returned. So it was to be just Maria Dolores and Thierry here alone.

“Maria Dolores told me that, earlier, she received a phone call from a young woman who'd applied for the job as assistant housekeeper. The woman said she had no transportation so Maria Dolores arranged to meet her on the yacht in Monte Carlo. A long drive for her, but she was pleased to do it if it meant getting the right person to work here at the villa. Needless to say, it turned out to be a ploy to get Maria Dolores out of the house. The woman did not show up. And Thierry was alone at the house when the robbers struck.”

“What about the security system?”

“It had been tampered with from inside. The main computer is in a closet in the front hall.”

“Had there been workmen in the house recently? Men you didn't know?”

“No one. Though I did give a party a week earlier.”

“How many people?”

“Oh, eighty, maybe a hundred.”

“And you knew them all personally?”

Reynaud threw his hands in the air again. “Mr. Reilly, this is the South of France, you give a party for friends and they bring friends. That's just the way it is around here. People know each other. It's casual.”

“Could we take a look at the guesthouse?”

Reynaud closed his eyes, a look of pain crossed his face but he summoned the waiter again and asked him to show Mac the little house. “Forgive me if I do not accompany you,” he said.

The guesthouse was a white L-shaped building, entered via a wrought-iron gate in the shape of a peacock's tail painted green to match the hedge of ficus trees, clipped to flat perfection, that formed a small courtyard. Inside it was simple: just one long low room with the beamed ceiling painted white and a wall of glass overlooking the beach. The furnishings were blue and white with a seashell theme, very low-key vacation-home style. There was a single large bedroom, a sumptuous bathroom in pale tumbled marble, and a wraparound terrace with that glorious view.

“It's perfection,” Sunny said in a whisper, mindful of what had taken place here only a few days ago. But still she couldn't help thinking that this place was exactly what she had envisioned when Mac told her he had rented Chez La Violette.

The guesthouse had been cleaned and the victim's possessions removed. Mac knew there was nothing to be found here.

“The actual crime took place outside, sir.” The young waiter led them to a walkway at the side of the house. To the right was the main house and beyond it a helicopter pad with a Sikorsky parked on it. To the left, a wooden jetty stuck out into the water. A speedboat was tied up to it. A Riva, Mac noticed. And also, next to it, a perfect vintage-wood-hulled Cigarette boat.

“It's Monsieur Reynaud's favorite, sir,” the waiter explained. “He's by way of being a boat fanatic. He particularly likes the vintage wood, says the workmanship is miraculous.”

He walked them about halfway up the path. “This is where the unfortunate event took place, sir.” He pointed to a sheltered spot behind an oleander hedge.

Sunny noticed the oleander was still blooming, great white blossoms, like a bridal bouquet. Or a funeral wreath. She quickly took Mac's hand and felt him squeeze hers slightly.

They stood for a minute, silently looking round, then they walked back to the table under the trees, a walk that in fact took them almost five minutes. This was a big spread.

Reynaud gave Mac a quizzical look. “Well, Mr. Reilly?”

“Thank you for allowing me to see that, sir. I'm sure the police already took notes on everything.”

“Everything.”

“And no doubt they asked you for the party guest list.”

“They did. I anticipated your question and I have a copy of it here for you.” Reynaud pushed an envelope across the table. “Of course the police have checked every name on the list, plus the friends of friends who accompanied them, uninvited, and who were therefore
not
on the list.” His sharp dark eyes watched as Mac put the envelope in his shirt pocket. “So now what, Mr. Reilly? Do you have any clues?”

“Sir, I do not. All I can tell you is I'll be thinking about this. Something may come up, something unexpected. That's usually the way it happens.”

“Then I wish you luck, my friend.” Reynaud got to his feet and shook Mac's hand again. “And I thank you for trying.”

He stood, watching them go. “Take care of that beautiful young woman,” he called after them.

 

26.

 

 

Bertrand and Laureen walked down the path to the beach. There was no need for questions. They were alike, both outside of normal society. They understood each other.

“I miss the dog,” Bertrand said in French.

“Me too,” Laureen answered in French. It was like a kind of bond between them, this dual language thing.

They sat on the beach, backs propped against a convenient spur of rock that Laureen complained was a bit scratchy but had the advantage of hiding them from the view of the other beachgoers, sprawled on striped mattresses, intent on getting as much sun as possible. In the distance the peacocks squawked their quarrelsome cry and pelicans glided past in tight squadrons, occasionally upending and diving as one into the sea. Gianni Valenti's sailboat had gone but a fleet of smaller boats, white sails bellying in the breeze, drifted past, while closer inshore speedboats flew by, noses uptilted in front, spray flying behind, en route, no doubt, to one of the chic beach cafés.

Laureen was sitting bolt upright, legs stuck out in front of her, raspberry tulle skirts fluffed up like a fan, wiggling her plump toes in the warm sand. Bertrand was in his usual uniform of old polo shirt and droopy shorts but had kept on his sneakers, and both of them wore battered straw sunhats with wide brims, “rescued” as Laureen termed it, from the small pile she'd found on the stand in the hall. Laureen had a new way of being “light-fingered.” The hats were too big and Bertrand wore his on the back of his head; Laureen's was tilted over her eyes.

She said, “I'm sorry for what I said. About you being ‘weird.' ”

“That's okay.”

Laureen peeked from behind her rock at the half-naked bathers wading into the sea that glittered silver and aquamarine. Closing her eyes again, she sniffed the air, so different from the green smell of the ranch and the arid aroma of the chaparral. French air smelled of a flower Belinda Lord had told her was jasmine and of the clean tang of salty sea, of hot baked sand and the coconutty aroma of suntan lotion. It smelled of coffee and something cooking that she didn't recognize coming from the Beach Bar but that wasn't hot dogs or burgers. France tasted different, even their pancakes and their ice cream. And the French looked different. She couldn't quite put her finger on how, but definitely “different,” though not in the way she did.
She
was unique. If her mother was looking down from heaven Laureen was quite certain she would be able to pick her out from the crowd anywhere in the world. Even in France. That's why she wore the tutus, to make it easier for her mother to find her.

Opening her eyes, she glanced at Bertrand, who was sitting, knees hunched, glasses slipping down his nose, reading the newspaper he had picked up at the hotel.

He looked up and met her eyes, then tapped the headline with a long thin finger. “They are offering a reward to anyone who catches the art thieves.”