Honey and Leonard (14 page)

The yachts were floating palaces, mostly three decks tall, with space age communication devices on top. Each had a flag angling off the back and many smaller boats stowed on board. One particularly massive yacht had a helicopter on the upper deck. The largest boats were more than 20 feet wide and at least 150 feet long.

"Now, that's living," Leonard marveled as they strolled by the ostentatious flotilla. "These people must really know how to live."

"Depends on who they are," Honey said. "I'll bet some of the people who own these boats are just as miserable as they can be. And I'll bet some of them are going to end up in jail someday."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean there are only two ways you get the kind of money it takes to own boats like these."

Honey paused, waiting for him to ask her to complete her explanation. He didn't seem the least bit interested. He turned away and began walking, seemingly mesmerized by the splendor laid out in front of him. Honey hated being ignored but she could see Leonard's world beginning to spin. Everyone was getting louder and crowding in on him. There was no way to escape the curious crowd.

Honey grabbed his sore arm by mistake and raised her voice to be heard, "Leonard, aren't you listening to me?"

"Ouch. That hurts. But okay, okay. What were you talking about?"

Honey grabbed him by the shoulders and said loudly, "I was talking about the two ways people get the money to buy these boats."

"Hey, watch the arm. It's starting to swell up. It's getting worse by the minute. We'd better get some ice on it pretty soon."

"Don't you dare forget what I'm talking about," Honey shook her finger in his face. Once again, people were forming a circle around the priest and the nun who were obviously having an argument.

"Honey, people are starting to stare," Leonard whispered as he tried to take her hand down from being shaked in his face.

Honey pulled her hand back, hard. When Leonard let go, she went sprawling, backwards, to the ground after tripping on her habit.

Leonard bent down to help her up. He was trying to be of assistance, but it didn't look that way to the crowd. A couple of drunken Belgian bankers stumbled forward to grab Leonard and nearly knocked him into the water. Leonard held his ground. One of the bankers pulled on Leonard's injured arm. The pain instinctively infuriated him. With one swift motion he threw the priest hat to the ground and took a boxing stance, clenched fists and all. The crowd gasped collectively. This was no priest. Leonard looked like a prizefighter, which is exactly what he had been for a short time in his youth.

"Come on, fool," Leonard snarled.

Honey got up and threw herself on Leonard's back, trying to restrain him.

"Hey," somebody in the growing crowd yelled. "It's Leonard. And that's Honey."

"It's Honey and Leonard," somebody else shouted.

"That's no priest. She's no nun," people chimed in.

Everyone froze as the recognition settled in. Leonard dropped his fists. Honey slid off his back. The crowd began inching forward. Word spread quickly. From the back of the crowd, people were straining to get a better view of Honey and Leonard. By now, they had been front-page news in France for more than a week. Anyone who wasn't living in a cave had seen photos of the American couple in print and on television.

Shore police noticed the commotion and tried to force their way through the crowd. This only made the excited onlookers surge forward all the more. Honey and Leonard took a step backward as though recoiling in horror at the mess they'd gotten themselves into. Their backs were against the water. There was no escape.

The police kept coming. People were shouting and pushing each other to get a better view of the action. Whistles were blowing. A woman shrieked in pain as she was knocked to the ground. The crowd became a mob. Honey took a step backward in fear and tripped again on her habit.

"Leonard!" she screamed as she lost her balance and toppled off the boardwalk, falling ten feet into the water with a sickening splash.

The water temperature on that September night was breathtakingly cold.

Leonard froze momentarily in disbelief as Honey disappeared into the darkness below. He looked at the faces in front of him. They tried to keep their distance but they were being pushed from behind. He looked back at the water. Honey had not resurfaced. He knew what he had to do. The police were about to break through the tightening half-circle of humanity. They would certainly arrest him.

He jumped off the dock and splashed into the water at the same place Honey had gone under. The crowd gasped collectively. People strained forward to see where Leonard went under. No one could see if he came up for air. It was too dark.

"
Recule
r
!
Everyone stand back," the shore policeman yelled. That warning wasn't enough to stop the mob's momentum. As the two policemen were staring into the murky water below and wondering what to do next, the human wave pushed them both over the edge and into the water. They howled obscenities on the way down and as they bobbed up, flailing their arms and gasping for air.

More people were pushed into the water. The mob had no mind of its own. People looked like lemmings as they continued to be pushed off the dock and into the water.

Pandemonium broke out along the boardwalk and in the yachts as well. Every five seconds another person was either pushed into the water or jumped in to aid in the rescue. There were twenty people in the water by the time the first policeman climbed the ladder back up to the boardwalk. Even if Honey and Leonard had come up for air, they could have easily been lost in the confusion.

A man in a white uniform leaped from the upper deck of a yacht and into the water with two life jackets in his hands. He still had his white shoes on as he miraculously avoided hitting anyone. A woman in a black evening gown on the yacht to the right unhooked a long pole and thrust it into the water, yelling, "
Saisir la perche!
Grab the pole!"

Between the life jackets and the poles and the buoys being thrown, everybody in the water had something to keep from drowning. No one was seriously injured in the melee, but several had to be dragged to safety.

It took more police and a good twenty minutes to restore order on the dock and to fish everyone out of the water. By then, there were several rescue boats in the water, continuing to search for Honey and Leonard.

Police stared into the water like they expected someone to surface at any moment. A few swimmers stayed in the water and began diving underwater to search for Honey and Leonard. Scuba divers arrived within a few minutes to search for bodies. The water was twenty feet deep. The divers stayed down for what seemed like a long time. They looked around and under every yacht and into the bay. Their underwater lights could be seen from the dock. One by one, they resurfaced, shaking their heads in amazement that nothing had been found.

A television news crew arrived and set up their cameras just outside the area cordoned off by police. Radio and print journalists were clamoring for information. "Are Honey and Leonard dead?" one pushy reporter kept asking at top volume.

About an hour after the incident, a spokeswoman for the police set up a table and chairs and a makeshift sound system to hold a press conference. Three ranking police officers took their seats as the mayor of St. Tropez used a microphone to address the growing throng of news people and curious members of the general public. He briefly recounted recent events and then announced that the search had been suspended until morning.

"Are Honey and Leonard presumed dead?" the persistent journalist asked for the fiftieth time.

"We are presuming nothing at this time," the mayor said.

"Were police attempting to arrest them when they went into the water?" a television journalist asked.

"The shore patrol and several witnesses have informed us," the mayor said, "that the American couple went into the water when they were surrounded and perhaps pushed by a crowd that had gathered around them on the dock."

"Did the police push them into the water?"

"Who was injured in the incident?"

"How long did it take for rescue boats and divers to arrive?"

Questions were being thrown at the mayor like stones from the angry mob. He held up his hands for silence and waited until the questions stopped.

"We do have reports that the woman fell in first and the man jumped in to rescue her," the mayor said. "We have not found their bodies. The underwater currents in this area can be tricky. We do fear the worst."

A hush fell over the crowd for a full ten seconds as the gravity of his comments sunk in. Then another wave of questions erupted. Instead of trying to provide answers, the mayor indicated the press conference was at an end.

People and press surged forward and surrounded the official table. It took concerted effort from a phalanx of police to extricate the mayor and his aides from the scene.

The dockside promenade turned into even more of a massive, brawling party than it had been before the short and ineffective press conference. It was more of a riot than a party. The restaurants were so packed there was no way to get a drink. People started throwing empty glasses at waiters and at nothing in particular. Shattered glass was everywhere. The smell of marijuana was in the air. Wine bottles were being passed around. Men and women who barely knew each other were crying together. People were genuinely upset that Honey and Leonard had fallen victim to the tourists and police of St. Tropez.

Television crews interviewed the revelers and the mourners and even the thugs who used the chaos as an excuse for criminal activity. All sorts of drunken misinformation was spread under the guise of eyewitness testimony. The Belgian banker got his time on camera by describing how Leonard was physically attacking Honey. "I tried to stop him but I was too late. I think he pushed her into the water."

A second, intoxicated witness interrupted the interview. He barged into the camera shot and summed up the feelings of many when he said, "The police killed them. They drowned Honey and Leonard. It was police brutality and police incompetence. That's why they won't tell us they found the bodies. Because they killed them and they know it."

"What's happened?" Crumbo asked. "Has something happened to Honey and Leonard?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Corbin answered, his chin lowering closer and closer to his chest. "The worst has happened."

"What?" Crumbo asked again as he waited for his friend to collect himself.

"Honey and Leonard drowned in St. Tropez."

"Both of them drowned? How?" Crumbo asked, shifting instinctively into his skeptical, journalist mode.

Lacoste sat down and told the entire story about the crowd pushing them off the dock and all the people and police falling into the water and the divers not being able to find the bodies.

Crumbo was packing his bag to head for St. Tropez as Lacoste finished telling what he knew. The younger journalist was hanging his head in sorrow. Crumbo's mind was already set on getting to the bottom of the story.

"So, you're telling me that all those people went into the water and Honey and Leonard were the only ones who couldn't make it out?"

Lacoste raised his head to look at Crumbo with the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes as he realized where the more experienced reporter was going with his questions.

"And you're telling me they haven't found the bodies?" Crumbo continued.

"That's what the police are reporting. The mayor says the currents are strong in the dock area. The people rioting are saying the police have found the bodies but they won't admit it because it was police incompetence and brutality that led to the drownings."

"What's the mayor doing in the middle of this story? Since when are currents strong in a harbor? When have you ever seen police try to hide a body they dragged out of the water? Police show off bodies like cats bring dead rodents home to their owners as trophies."

Crumbo's questions made Lacoste realize he'd better start packing his own bag. "So you think they might be alive?"

"The whole thing sounds fishy to me."

"What do you mean, 'fishy'?"

Crumbo had to laugh. "It's not about fish," he said. "It's an Americanism. It means the story doesn't make sense."

"So why do you say it's fishy?"

Crumbo had to think about it for a second before explaining, "Fish don't smell good. If a story doesn't pass the smell test, it's probably not true. It's 'fishy'."

"Oh, I see," Lacoste said, only half understanding. "So, we're off for St. Tropez?"

"As soon as you're ready," Crumbo said as he zipped his bag shut to indicate he was now waiting for Lacoste to catch up.

"You Americans are always in such a rush."

"You're the one who said there's a riot going on in St. Tropez."

Wolfe took a seat on a picnic table as Simone interviewed hangers on and brought back reports. Wolfe knew he'd better be putting together a report of his own. Gretchen Atkins, was on her way to St. Tropez by way of rental car, and he knew she would want a full report.

Gretchen had landed in Paris earlier in the day. Wolfe informed her by telephone of Honey and Leonard's drowning in St. Tropez. Gretchen stayed in touch with Wolfe by way of his office in Indiana. It was a lot of long distance phone charges to keep in touch. Wolfe's Indiana secretary had actually given Gretchen the bad news about Honey and Leonard. Gretchen's only message back to Wolfe was, "I'll meet you at the police station in St. Tropez tomorrow at noon."

Wolfe had been in Cassis when he heard the news about Honey and Leonard. The search had been focused on Cassis until the story shifted, most abruptly, to St. Tropez. By the time Wolfe was looking into the murky waters that had reportedly swallowed Honey and Leonard, he already had serious doubts as to their alleged demise.

Crumbo and Lacoste arrived at the dock in St. Tropez shortly after Wolfe made the scene. The investigator recognized Crumbo immediately from his photos in all the newspapers. The reporter had a boyishly chubby face that seemed much too young for his nearly bald head. Crumbo and Lacoste had their note pads out and were interviewing what looked like a restaurant owner when Wolfe decided to introduce himself.

"So, I finally get to meet the great Jack Crumbo," Wolfe said as he extended his hand for a friendly greeting.

"Excuse me," Crumbo said as he shook Wolfe's hand.

"I'm Adam Wolfe. I'm an investigator from Indianapolis. I've been hired to find Honey and Leonard and everywhere I go it seems you're always one step ahead of me."

"Who hired you?" Crumbo asked. "By the way, this is my French associate, Corbin Lacoste."

"I couldn't believe you guys interviewed Honey and Leonard in Avignon and then let them go without informing the police," Wolfe said. "How did you get away with that?"

"Are you a cop?" Crumbo asked.

"No, no," Wolfe laughed, realizing he'd come on a little strong. "I've been hired by Leonard's niece, Gretchen Atkins, to find her uncle."

"So, you're a private dick?"

"Only if you're talking about Dick as in Dick Tracy."

"Sorry," Crumbo said. "No offense."

"None taken. And, oh, here she comes now. This is my French associate, Simone."

Crumbo and Lacoste nearly fell over each other trying to shake the hand of the statuesque, young blonde. Simone knew how to break the ice. "Oh, you're the famous Jack Crumbo who found Honey and Leonard in Avignon. And you must be Corbin Lacoste." She and Lacoste chatted excitedly in French for a short time, and then Simone returned to English to address Crumbo, "We've been reading your stories. You are both really quite talented. Are we all so sorry to hear what has happened to Honey and Leonard?"

"Not really," Crumbo said.

"So you don't believe it either," Wolfe said.

"But how could they have gotten away?" Lacoste asked. "The dock was swarming with cops."

"Somebody in a yacht fished them out," Wolfe said. "Nobody saw it in the confusion."

"Yes, but the police did search the boats," Simone said.

"And no boat can leave the harbor," Crumbo pointed out. "Look at those military boats out there. That's what you call a blockade."

"So the police might still find them?" Lacoste asked.

"I doubt it," Wolfe said. "Whoever fished them out probably got them out of here before the blockade got set up. Which brings me back to my original question. Why didn't you two turn them in to the police when you had the chance?"

"Let's get a drink and talk about it," Crumbo suggested. "There's a bar down the way that's still open. Since we're both from Indiana, we should get acquainted. I don't think we're really competitors."

Once they were settled in the cracked, red leather booth in the back of an old fisherman's bar and had their drinks in front of them, Crumbo answered Wolfe's question about letting Honey and Leonard go, "You know, we're not trying to catch Honey and Leonard. We're here to report their story. In fact, we hope they don't get caught. They've had a good run and so have we."

"That doesn't change the fact that she's wanted for attempted murder and violating a no-contact order in Indiana," Wolfe said.

"You do know the poisoning case is bullshit?" Crumbo asked.

"I read what you wrote, if that's what you mean," Wolfe said. "But, forgive me if I don't believe everything I read in the paper."

"Well, think about it then. It makes common sense that an old farmer would have arsenic in his blood. It also makes sense that his niece, your employer, would use the blood tests to try to cut Leonard's girlfriend out of the picture."

"All my boss wants is to see her uncle returned safely to Indiana. He's not well, you know. He might fool you for a while in an interview setting, but we're going to lose him eventually."

"If he's not dead already," Lacoste said.

Simone stepped in to ease the tension and said, "Our boss is worried about Leonard because of his Alzheimer's."

"You have a point there," Crumbo acknowledged. "But I'll wager you wouldn't turn them in either if you had the chance."

"What do you mean by that?" Wolfe asked.

"I mean it looks like you two are having a pretty good time running around France together. If you find Honey and Leonard and turn them in, your job is over and so is your paycheck."

Simone looked at Wolfe to check his reaction. The investigator drained his Scotch on the rocks, set his glass down and allowed a wry grin to slowly soften his rugged jaw. "I have thought about that a time or two," he chuckled.

The booth erupted in laughter. Another round of drinks was quickly delivered and Lacoste proposed a toast. "Here's to Honey and Leonard. Long may they run."

After several more rounds of drinks, Wolfe returned to the subject at hand, "So, how do we find Honey and Leonard before they get arrested by the police?"

"What makes you so sure they're not really dead?" Lacoste asked.

"They would have found the bodies," Crumbo said.

"Here's to no bodies being found," Simone toasted. The booth was getting downright giddy. The more drinks they were served, the more everybody felt like old friends.

"The best way to help them," Wolfe said, "is to go with the story that the police are hiding the bodies to cover up their own problems. Nobody keeps searching for dead people."

"We can't just make up the news," Crumbo protested.

"You don't have to," Simone said. "People are already rioting in the street over the way the police mishandled this whole thing. Everybody I talked to thinks the police killed Honey and Leonard."

Another part of her felt vastly relieved. All her fear of being caught misspending her uncle's money could be gone. As Leonard's sole heir, his fortune would now be hers to spend without the need for any troublesome accountings. And there would be no Honey to ask questions and convince her uncle to revoke his power of attorney.

A third part of her felt terrible grief and guilt at her uncle's passing. All the way on the flight to France she couldn't help but wonder if there was a way to make everything right with Uncle Leonard. She still loved him even if that love was now clouded by her own greed and by her jealousy of Honey. If her uncle had died before she had a chance to at least apologize, she would never be able to forgive herself.

The largest part of her, however, wasn't convinced that Honey and Leonard had drowned. For one thing, she knew Uncle Leonard was a strong swimmer. She could never forget his powerful efforts in the water to locate his drowned daughter some fifty years earlier. Gretchen could still see her uncle diving into the water from a full run and arriving at the boat in the middle of the farm lake in a few smooth strokes.

She also knew that Honey was an excellent swimmer. In fact, Honey and Leonard stayed in shape by swimming regularly at the YMCA in a water aerobics program they jokingly referred to as the "ancient mariners."

Gretchen hadn't received any details when she got the news of Honey and Leonard's death. All she heard from Wolfe's office in Indiana was that they had drowned in St. Tropez.

Gretchen drove on into the night. She had to make St. Tropez by noon and she had no idea how long the drive would actually take. The more she thought about Honey and Leonard, the more convinced she became that they had not drowned. If she'd been told they were killed in a car crash, she might have believed it. But drowning? That didn't sound right.

I've got to get Honey arrested. With her out of the way, I can get Uncle Leonard declared incompetent and everything will be all right. Honey is the problem. I hope she is dead.