There's Something About St. Tropez (58 page)

“Right,” Mac said. He had to admit the view was pretty good. He said, “Here come Belinda and Sara.”

Sunny lifted her head, shading her eyes with one hand. “Hi,” she called and waved.

Belinda was topless like Sunny, and Mac averted his eyes. He suspected Sara was too, though now she had a shirt on. They flopped onto the sand next to them and Belinda said she was dying of thirst and Mac waved down a waiter, who had no compunction about looking at Belinda. Nor at Sunny. Did none of these Frenchmen even care? Was it only him?

“Oh don't be such a prude, Mac,” Belinda said, giving him a nudge in the ribs. “Remember, you're in the South of France.”

He said, “I'm only just beginning to realize it.”

“So enjoy it then. We are.”

Mac changed the subject. “How are you feeling today?”

She shrugged. “Good. I've gotten over it now, I tell myself it was the best thing that could have happened. It makes it easier to cope with
how
it happened.”

“It was always you or him,” Mac said. “Lev knew that.”

“Wonderful Lev,” Sara said, looking thoughtful. “He saved us all. I'll never forget that big car teetering on the edge and feeling that all it would take was one breath from me to send us over.”

“I thought it would be my breath,” Belinda confessed, and they laughed.

“I'll miss him, though, when he's gone.” Sara looked away, and began busily buttoning her shirt. She knew Lev's life was a world apart from hers, and that he was a man who would never be owned. “I guess we'll never meet again, after tonight's dinner,” she said sadly.

“The only time anybody meets Lev is when they are in trouble,” Sunny said. “So it's better you don't.”

The waiter came back with their drinks; no rosé wine today, just Diet Pepsi all round.

“I'm kind of missing Little Laureen and Bertrand,” Belinda said, sipping the Pepsi through a curly blue straw. Her tone was casual but they got the message that she was also missing Billy.

Sunny sat up. Putting her sunglasses over her raccoon eyes, she took a sip of the icy drink. It felt as good as the sun did.

“Billy drove them into town,” she said. “They took all the dogs for new flea baths. The kids just love those dogs.”

Mac's phone was ringing again and Sunny raised her brows and heaved a sigh, because of course she knew he would answer it. He always did, even on vacation.

It was Alain Hassain from Interpol giving information on the clearing up of Jasper Lord's tangled international arms dealings. He said it would take a long time to sort them out, meanwhile all Lord's assets had been frozen and it would be an even longer time before it was decided what would be done with them.

He said he had more news, about Krendler this time. Mac listened in silence then said, “Jesus, Alain. Who knew?” sounding amazed.

He finished his conversation and passed on the information about Jasper Lord's assets to Belinda, who merely shrugged.

“As far as I'm concerned all his money should all be distributed to families in those war-torn starving countries he didn't give a shit about. I'm okay personally, I told you I'd already transferred my jewelry and some funds to the Bank of England. I reckon I'd earned it. After that, I don't really care.”

“I have more news.” Mac looked at Sunny. “This time it's about Krendler.”

“Don't tell me he's escaped from jail?”

“He has not. And my guess is he and Valenti will be in there for life. Meanwhile, the police took apart his house in Paris.”

Sunny said, “I remember that green-paneled drawing room, like something from an opera set.”

“That paneling hid a secret room, exactly like the one at Chez La Violette only much bigger, and this one was steel-lined, with a computerized combination entry. Only Krendler knew how to access his secret room, and only he ever went in there. Until now.”

“His own personal art gallery,” Sunny guessed.

“He was selective, he kept only the paintings he loved, in a perfectly temperature-controlled environment, perfectly lit, each displayed like a hidden jewel behind black silk curtains that slid back at the push of a button. That way Krendler could gaze at each painting alone, no distractions, no one to bother him. It was only him and the dead artist alone in that room.”

Belinda said, disgusted, “I knew he was bad but I didn't realize he was that creepy.”

“Not only that.” Mac looked at Sunny again. “You'll never guess what else they found in there.”

“An opera singer? A butler? Fake paintings?'

“The mummified bodies of eleven greyhounds.”

“Jesus!” Sunny choked on her Pepsi.

“We can only thank God it wasn't people,” Mac said, “though we'll probably never know how many humans he took out along the way. Anyhow, the fame Krendler never sought has finally overtaken him. He's the talk of
tout Paris
.”

“A sociopath,” Sara said, shuddering.

“A psychopath,” Mac corrected her. “Mostly they start with killing small animals, then they progress to people.”

“Let's not talk about it. Let's talk good stuff. Like what François Reynaud is doing for Bertrand.” Sunny smoothed more lotion onto Belinda's back. Even Sara had taken off her shirt, though she'd kept on her top.

“Reynaud is really proud of that boy,” Mac said. “He says he's been
through a lot, that he's clever and brave and deserves a chance. Reynaud is prepared to give him that chance. He's applying for shared legal guardianship, with Billy. He has no sons of his own, and privately he told me it's a way of replacing the young man who was killed, who he'd known since he was a child. He says it's the least he can do, but more than that, he'll really enjoy being uncle and mentor to a boy like Bertrand.”

“Little Laureen's gonna miss him, though,” Belinda said, lying back next to Sunny, and sighing with pleasure as the sun swept her body with heat. “I know, I know,” she said, as Sara whispered a warning, “Five minutes, that's all, just enough to give me a nice golden glow.”

“She will,” Mac said. “But Reynaud knows people in high places. He's pulling strings to get this through quickly, and meanwhile get permission for Bertrand to return to the ranch with Billy and Laureen. Until everything is finally worked out, and the woman who calls herself his ‘mother' removed from the picture.”

“Oh, boy,” Sunny murmured, eyes closed. “Little Laureen's gonna love that. She'll be teaching Bertrand how to corral cattle and ride a pony.”

“Hmm, I'll bet she will.” Belinda looked thoughtful, remembering Billy asking her if she knew how to ride a horse. “What a very good idea,” she said.

 

87.

 

 

That evening, Mac was watching Sunny vainly attempting to eliminate the black eyes with a concealer. It only made them look more raccoonlike and she threw it down in despair. “Now what?” she asked. “François Reynaud is giving a grand farewell dinner at Chez Tétou and I look awful.”

Mac heaved an overdramatic sigh. “Imagine that, you looking awful, and probably Angelina will be there, with Brad, and maybe Johnny Depp . . .”

“Oh, stop it,” Sunny said crossly.

“No, I mean it. Really.”

He was laughing at her and she slumped on the bed, glaring at him.

“They go there all the time,” he continued. “All the movie stars and celebs go.”

“Only when the film festival is on.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “All the time. I have it on the best gossip.”

“You never gossip.” She ran her hands through her hair, thankful that the doctors who'd sewn up her head had not had to cut any of it off. It still hurt but it was definitely getting better.

“That'll teach me to go off investigating on my own,” she said.

Mac gave her a long look. She had not mentioned Chez La Violette since that day, and he'd hoped she'd forgotten about it, and about the glamorous legend. He hadn't wanted to bring it up in case it upset her, but now he saw that he must. It was only fair.

He took a yellowed envelope from the bureau drawer and handed it to her. “It's for you,” he said, when she looked inquiringly at him. “From La Violette. I found it in a box in the secret room, hidden under a bunch of dried flowers.”

Sunny held it to her nose. Her eyes met his. “Parma violets,” she said.

He'd guessed it would be. Sunny still sat with the envelope in her hands. “Aren't you going to open it?” he asked.

She looked at it, a small square envelope, yellow with age, smelling of violets. She said, “It's odd, but now I don't know if I want to. Somehow, it doesn't seem right, spying on another woman's private life.”

Mac went and sat on the bed next to her. “But you see what it says on the envelope?”

“To those who might care” was written in small spidery script that had faded to the pale gray of Violette's boudoir, the color of her silken bed hangings, her velvet chaise, the odd little desk made from planks of driftwood where she must have sat to write this.

“You're a person who cares,” Mac said. “I think she would know that.”

“Yes. Yes, I do care.”

Sunny ran her thumb under the V of the envelope. It had dried out over the years and opened easily. She took out the folded pages. They were like the ones still in the letter stand on Violette's desk, but these were filled with her small, tight script, an uneducated hand because, Sunny guessed, Violette had been brought up in an orphanage and probably had no formal education. All she had learned was what she had found as a girl on the streets and the stages of Paris. Violette was the woman the world had made her.

Sunny smoothed out the pages and began to read. Mac watched her silently. He hoped she would not get too upset.

“To whom it may concern,” Violette began.

 

I believe that is the correct way to begin a confession of this nature, though I doubt there is anyone left who is “concerned” anymore. Except for my cats, of course, the tiny scoundrels who chase the mice and scare the local marauding dogs, and who sleep on my bed, all six of them. I tell myself at least they keep me warm at night, now there is no longer a man
.

Sometimes, sitting out on the terrace of the house I built, a glass of cheap wine in my hand because I can no longer afford the champagne I used to serve so generously to my friends, I ask myself if I am unhappy
.

Am I? I think perhaps I have recovered from being “unhappy” and now live entirely in a state of simply “being.” Emotions are a thing of the past. “Fame” is gone, along with whatever beauty people saw in me, though in truth I always believed it was an
illusion. I was merely a vital woman who could sing well enough and who was sexy enough to make men believe they really loved me. And some of them did. And I enjoyed many of them. Now the jewels are faded memories, like the men who gave them to me, for I made it a point of pride never to buy jewels myself
.

I was a woman who had everything, even my own perfume, made only for me, from the flower that had given me my name. I smell it still, as I sit here; that soft, sensuous perfume that always left a memory of me in an empty room
.

Clothes were my indulgence, and now look at me, in my dated chiffons and Chanels, and the long velvet medieval-style gowns, now with a blanket of cat hair. But I was sexy. I have to admit to an indulgence in that. Ultimately it was what brought my downfall
.

Picture this, those who are concerned, if you will. A pretty girl, too tall for her fifteen years, a mane of long flame-colored hair, on the run from the prison they called an orphanage-asylum, bold eyes hiding her insecurities. Imagine how many tubs of laundry she had been made to clean, how heavy the stick with which she had to turn those clothes in the boiling water, how the steam seared her delicate skin. Ah, I know, I know, this sounds like one of the melodramas I starred in on the stages of France and Spain and Germany. But then of course, Germany was where it all started
.

Skip a few months in time and imagine that girl, a runaway, so soon out of the laundry and now on the stage in Paris, half-naked in sequins and sparkles, ropes of fake pearls and diamonds around her neck. That was the young Violette, her hands still raw from that laundry, but now disguised with white powder
.

Imagine, if you can, the most elegant man you have ever seen. Tall, impeccably dressed, hair smoothed back, a lean sensual face with light blue eyes that seemed to grip my own. And rich beyond belief
.

That man became my first lover. I think now I will love him forever and beyond, though after him there were others. Not as many as people believed, though. I was selective in my affairs and I never slept with anybody for money, even though they showered me with expensive gifts. After all, I was successful, I was famous, I was rich in my own right. And oh how I enjoyed being “La Violette.”

Another German, Kurt von Müller, came into my life when I was thirty-six and he was a mere twenty years. Oh, how everyone talked,
but we took no notice. He had such talent, young Kurt, far more talent than was needed to be a mere accompanist to a music hall star, but he had broken with his family and turned to me instead. Those were the happy years. Then the war came
.

Kurt was German. I was French. Kurt was recruited and became an officer in a Nazi uniform. You will never know how much I hated seeing him in that slick uniform, those smart shiny boots. Finally, when the tentacles of war spread as far as the Riviera, I moved to Paris, where Kurt was working for that madman Goering, investigating the histories of the works of art Goering stole from the French people to adorn his own castle, a temple devoted to his wife
.

Then Kurt confessed to me that he was a spy; he was passing information to the French and his life was in constant danger. He needed to get away from Goering, who was suspicious. He needed a façade to hide behind. He needed me
.

He had a plan. I would go back onstage, sing for the Nazis, entertain them, dine with them, “fraternize,” they called it. I would tell them I must have young Kurt as my accompanist. After all, that was his job before the war came, and how could I manage without him now?

Such was my fame, this was immediately allowed and I became once again the toast of the town. And Kurt had his cover
.

Why would I do this? you must be asking yourself. Putting myself in danger for a young lover, charming though he was. After all, he was still “the enemy,” and there were plenty of other men
.

Lovers come and go, but it was more than just that
.

Remember the girl who worked in the laundry, all those years ago? I certainly do. I never forgot her. Nor my first lover, the handsome, charming Baron Wilhelm August von Müller, who seduced me with my full cooperation and what I then believed was true love. I still believe that. And when, a year later, our son was born and named after his father, Kurt Wilhelm August von Müller, my lover told me he had confessed his dalliance to his wife. Like me, she was older, and she had never been able to bear children. They needed a son and heir, and I, with a long and dreary future staring in front of me, willingly handed over that child. I believed it would give him, and me, a better life. I still believe that
.

Callous, you might say? But do not judge so harshly. I gave my gift with love to a man I loved. And after all, he was his son too
.

So, in those later war years, when suspicion fell on my German son and he fled south toward Lyon where he hoped to contact the Resistance and persuade them he was not only part French, but also on their side, he was captured. Only a few days later, he was hung by the Nazis, in the city square as an example of what happened to German officers who betrayed their country
.

I stayed, grieving, in my Paris house, alone for the first time in many years. Even my maid had left me. The end of hostilities came too late for my beloved boy, and I remember clearly standing on the streets of Paris, watching those handsome Americans with flowers stuck in their helmets, cheering and waving
.

I was arrested a few days later, accused by the French of collaborating with the enemy. I chose to protect my son's name, not to tell my story, not demean Kurt's memory further by telling the world he was also “a bastard.”

They cut off all my hair though, in that jail. My long beautiful red hair, that in truth was my one real claim to beauty. My humiliation was complete and I waited not too patiently, to be summoned to trial, and I welcomed the thought of death as an alternative to the living hell in which I found myself
.

It was my own fault, of course. But I am a stubborn woman, always have been. I could face disgrace for myself but not for my son. Strangely, there were some who remembered, some who cared enough to pull strings, have me set free. I never asked who, or why. I simply put a hat over my naked head and returned to my one true home
.

I had found the old ruined priory on the green hill overlooking the Mediterranean many years before, and, as always, had fallen passionately in love. I'd bought it immediately, even though I did not then have enough money to build. When I finally did, it was my dream home, the place I invited my friends, enemies, rivals. All of society came
.

Oh, how I love this house. Even now, alone in its dusty, scented shabbiness, it means everything to me. How I would like to see it again, the way it was in the painting on the wall in front of me, filled with laughter, a child in the pool, friends drinking cocktails, myself draped over a chair, watching, listening
.

It's all gone, and I am too tired and too old. I am wishing myself somewhere else, somewhere closer to that talented young man who
gave up his family and a great career and returned to find his mother. How I wish now that he had not done it, though in truth, the end result would probably have been the same, and he would have died in the war anyway
.

Such is the way it is
.

I love the villa that bears my name. It has the imprint of my personality, my life, even my perfume. I love my darling cats who have kept me company these many years. I loved my life and everything that came with it. And now it's time to go
.

So, to those of you who come later, and might even care, I am leaving this scrap of information, so that perhaps sometime, somewhere, someone will know the truth. And wish La Violette well
.