There's Something About St. Tropez (35 page)

The other woman on his mind was Caroline Cavalaire, who had not yet called him. It was already three-thirty. He'd felt sure she would have been in touch before now.

Sunny stopped to look in a musty little shop on a narrow backstreet, whose window was filled with antiquey bits and pieces; freaky stuff like old powdered wigs and tortoiseshell hair combs, lace mantillas and faux Maltese crosses; costume jewelry left over from the sixties and silk shawls from the eighteen hundreds. Fishermen's nets with heavy round weights draped the window, and gilded coffee tables were squeezed next to frayed silk chairs. The shop was a mishmash of junk with “possibilities” that immediately captured Sunny's romantic heart.

She went inside and began to delve through what might, or might not, turn out to be a treasure trove while Mac took the card Caroline had given him and called her number. No reply. He checked the address. Stopping a passing stranger who looked as though he might be a local, he asked if he knew where it was. The man told him it wasn't far, right in the center of St. Tropez in fact, and within a few minutes' walk.

Mac stepped into the musty little shop, dodging draped fishing nets and old velvet curtains and dangling beads. A cloud of dust seemed to hover in the air making him sneeze. The long narrow shop was dimly lit but Sunny's smile was a thousand watts.

“You must have read my mind!” she exclaimed. “I was just about to come and get you. Take a look at this.”

She held up an oil painting, an unframed canvas maybe two feet by three. It was a typical Mediterranean scene: sea and sky, cypresses and umbrella pines, a terrace where a child played by the pool while a woman lazed in a chair beneath an olive tree. Behind her a group of people sipped drinks from tall glasses and took their ease.

“It's her,” Sunny said dramatically.

Mac didn't have to ask who. “Aw, come on, hon,” he protested. “It's just one of those tourist paintings people buy to hang on the wall back home to remember their vacation by.”

“
Maaaac!
No it is
not
.
This is Chez La Violette
.
This
is the terrace. And
this
is Violette herself. Look at the red hair.”

Varnish had darkened the old canvas, nevertheless the woman's hair was undoubtedly red, and it flowed over her shoulders, almost to her waist. Her features were indistinct, but it certainly looked like the villa's terrace.

“Maybe you're right,” he admitted, surprised.

“It's serendipity.” Sunny was excited. “I mean, why would I just happen to walk along this street today, and just happen to notice this little shop, and just happen to come in for a mooch around? Don't you see? I was meant to find it.”

Mac gave her that sigh that meant “aw come on Sun, baby, this is carrying it too far,” and she gave him an indignant glare back.

“Mac Reilly, this painting was meant for me. I don't know why or how I came to find it. Perhaps there's a message in it, something that will unlock the mystery of Chez La Violette.”

“Sun,” he protested. “It's just a woman taking her ease, looking after the kid playing in the pool. It could be any villa, any terrace.”

“I know it's Violette,” Sunny said stubbornly, and went to find the owner in his cramped little office at the back. He was sitting on one of his frayed silk chairs with a red price tag attached to it, at a cluttered desk, also with a red price sticker.

“Oh, that,” he said, adjusting his glasses and looking at the painting. He ran a hand through his sparse gray hair. “A woman brought that in a few weeks ago. I gave her more for it than I should have, but it was attractive and I thought someone would find it and want it one day. That day has come sooner than I thought, though.”

He quoted Sunny a too-high price but she did not bother to bargain. The painting was hers, whatever it cost. The shop owner wrapped the canvas in brown paper, taped it up and wished Sunny
bonne chance
.

She went outside to join Mac, who was on the phone again trying to get ahold of Caroline. It was already five-thirty.

He took the brown paper parcel from Sunny, tucked it under his arm and said, “Come on, hon, we're off to see Caroline Cavalaire.”

“Why?” Sunny strode along beside him, thankful she had put on espadrilles because the cobbled street was a minefield for a woman in heels.

“Because, my love, Caroline has something urgent to tell me, something she said I'm not going to be too happy with. And also because I think Caroline needs help and I'm worried because she hasn't called me as she promised.”

The address Caroline had given turned out to be an apartment over a small handmade chocolate shop on one of St. Tropez's more charming little squares, next door to some pricey boutiques and a little café with chairs and tables set beneath old plane trees. Mac left Sunny there with her painting, ordered her a
citron pressé
, said he wouldn't be long and walked to the door at the side of the chocolate shop. A single bell with a brass sign said
CAVALAIRE
.

Mac pressed it and waited. No response. The smell from the chocolate shop was intoxicating and he could see mouthwatering mounds of chocolates with exotic flavors like pink peppercorn and Arabian spice in beautifully beribboned boxes.

Still Caroline did not answer her doorbell.

He pressed the bell one more time and also he called her number. Listening to the phone ring, he watched Sunny at the café, sipping her cold fresh lemonade and glancing possessively every now and then at the painting in the brown paper wrapper on the chair next to her. He shook his head. When Sunny got on to something she was like Tesoro: she didn't let go.

Meanwhile, Caroline was nowhere to be found and he had to give up. He collected Sunny and suggested they go out to the beach and watch the sunset.

“You mean on our own?” she asked, wide-eyed with surprise.

“Darn right, babe,” he said. Right now, he'd had enough of the Carolines and Belindas of this world.

 

48.

 

 

They were walking back down the street when Mac's phone finally rang. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Reilly, this is François Reynaud.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“One of my paintings, a Seurat known as
Les Pins d'Antibes
, has been spotted in Zurich. It was being offered for sale, very quietly, to a well-known collector. Now this painting has not been seen in public in the forty years I've owned it, but the collector knew his stuff. He didn't fall for the anonymous-seller routine. He's a man of integrity; he called various art dealers, came up with my name and called me.”

“And the Seurat is from your collection?”

“Unless it's a fake, I believe it is.”

Mac thought about Valenti's Picasso. “Tell me, sir, if the fake were good enough, would a dealer be able to discern the difference?”

“Possibly not, but anyway he would have it authenticated by an expert.”

“And it's possible that even an ‘expert' might be fooled, if the fake were good enough.”

“Possible, but rare. But then, as I'm sure you're aware, experts are not infallible. It's a question of familiarity with the work of a certain artist, a discerning eye. No man is capable of always being right.”

“Do we know who was offering the painting for sale?”

“A woman by the name of Suzanne Lariot.”

“
Jesus
.” Mac looked astonished at Sunny.

She stared back at him, brows raised. “What?” she mouthed.

Reynaud said, “You know this woman?”

“Not exactly. I rented a villa from her over the Internet, along with several other ‘innocents abroad.' The house turned out to be a wreck and Madame Lariot was nowhere to be found. In fact she'd taken our money and run. And now she turns up in Switzerland trying to sell your artwork.”

Reynaud said, “This must be more than a coincidence.”

“I take it you're in touch with the Swiss police?”

“I am, and with the local police.”

“Do we have a description?”

“Dowdy, middle-aged, glasses, brown hair. She was cheaply dressed which instantly aroused the collector's suspicions. As you might know, Mr. Reilly, people in the art world may be dressed in expensive business suits, or in torn jeans and T-shirts, but you'll never find them looking, as my contact said, as though they shopped at a low-end department store.”

“I understand. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me informed, Monsieur Reynaud.”

Mac looked at Sunny. “Our Madame Lariot has surfaced in Zurich attempting to sell a Seurat stolen from François Reynaud. She didn't look like a regular art dealer and the collector she tried to sell it to had no idea who she was. He became suspicious and informed the police.”

“
Our
Madame Lariot?”

“The very same.”

Sunny took the oil painting in its brown paper wrapper from under Mac's arm and clutched it to her breast, as though suddenly afraid it might also disappear and be sold to a Zurich art dealer. “What now?”

Mac grinned. “Baby, right now you and I are going to find some little bistro where they serve pizza and beer and local red wine. We're gonna watch that sunset and forget all about Madame Lariot, at least for a few hours.”

“But
who
is she?”

“My guess is she's a local woman. The cops have a description from Zurich, but since our Misfits voted against going to them, there's nothing I can do. Unless I can persuade them to change their minds, of course.”

As they lingered over simple pizza and a beer, Sunny was privately hoping they would not. All she needed was the local cops muscling in on her vacation.

 

49.

 

 

Bertrand had been disappointed when Laureen had not shown up the previous night. He'd guessed she was with her father and the Riders on the Storm, as he still thought of the group from Chez La Violette. After waiting a long time he'd finally given up and gone to his lair, his safe place where no one would ever find him. Not that anyone would come looking anyway.

He'd slept there, flat on his back, his myopic eyes turned to the stars in a heaven so vast it promised a whole new world, one that featured only in his dreams. Hunger finally drove him back the next morning, disheveled and with his tummy rumbling so loud he'd felt sure Caroline would hear it and catch him on his way to the stairs. However, it was not Caroline at the reception desk, and Renée was too busy with new guests to notice.

He found the note Laureen had pushed under his door and was surprised to find he was smiling. She wanted to meet at eleven that night. It was something to look forward to.

He showered and put on his old but clean polo shirt, hitched up his shorts with his dad's tie and ran back downstairs where, to the waiter's surprise, he ate a hearty breakfast. Then he went back upstairs to play his Doors CDs and write up his Scientific Experiment Journal, and finally fell asleep, waiting for night to come.

 

Like Mac and Sunny, Laureen and Billy also had pizza, at a little waterfront joint they found simply by almost falling over it. Billy had driven out of St. Tropez along the coast road, veering off at a roundabout that said Théoule.
He'd found himself on a small
quai
, with old row houses on one side, and on the other, cafés built on shady platforms jutting out over the calm bay, one of which had a
PIZZA
sign in giant red letters. With thoughts of a cold Bud and pepperoni, Billy had parked and now there they were.

Little Laureen chewed thoughtfully and silently on a single slice of pizza margarita that seemed to have lasted her a long time. In fact, it was all she had eaten in half an hour, along with an Orangina, the fizzy French orange drink to which she had taken a liking.

“You okay, Little Laureen, baby?” Billy asked, concerned.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Billy took another slice of the pepperoni pizza, his third. “You happy here?”