The Hotel Riviera (10 page)

It was early afternoon and I was in my black leotard, attempting a few desultory exercises, trying vainly to get everything back into the place it used to be, including my mind. I swear I heard my spine creak. Probably from lack of use, I thought, disconsolately, since I was turning out to be spineless anyway. But then what I definitely
did
hear was someone walking down the path. Light footsteps. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a towel and went to greet whoever it was.

I had never set eyes on the woman standing on my front porch, but she knew who I was, all right.

“Lola,” she said, smiling. “We meet at last.”

“We do?” I said, astonished.

She was somewhere in her mid-forties, beautiful, petite, curved yet slender, with a long fling of dark hair and narrow turquoise eyes. I was just thinking they were so brilliant they had to be contacts, when she said, “I may call you Lola, may I not? After all, I feel as though I already know you.”

“You do?” I said, astonished again.

“Because of Patrick,” she said. “My old friend.”

Trying to decide why the emphasis had been on
friend,
I invited her in. There seemed no option; she was obviously here to see me.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said, quickly plumping up the cushions and waving her into the best chair.

“Thank you.” Her accent was too charmingly French to stand; even just a
thank you
sounded soft, throaty, sexy. Oh Patrick, not another one, I thought with that familiar sinking of the heart. I asked, would she like iced tea, a diet Coke, water? It was so hot out this afternoon.

“Iced tea would be wonderful,” she said, giving me a long assessing glance from beneath her lashes. “But first, I must introduce myself. I am Giselle Castille, an old friend of Patrick's. He was best man at my wedding, though of course I'm a widow now. Patrick and I have known each other since we were children.” Her turquoise eyes nailed me. “But surely Patrick mentioned me? Ours has been such a
long
friendship.”

Suddenly aware that I was hot and sweaty and half-naked, I tugged the leotard out of my butt and quickly wrapped the towel around my waist, wishing this glamorous woman out of my life and wishing that if Patrick's females were going to come and call, at least I could have warning and be looking my best. Madame Giselle Castille was tough competition; sexy, worldly, charming.

“Patrick didn't mention you,” I replied, “but then he knew so many people.” I didn't say he knew “so many women” but Giselle smiled. She knew what I meant.

“Ah,” she said, “but you see, that's the way men like Patrick are,
ma chère
. Freedom is their raison d'être, they are like migrating birds, flitting from country to country following the weather, and the beautiful women. But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that.”

I took a deep breath, excused myself, and went to get the iced tea. My hands were shaking as I took the glass pitcher from the refrigerator and put it on a tray. I sliced a lemon, managing to cut my finger, added a bowl of sugar, tall glasses, and long silver spoons, then carried the tray into my tiny sitting room.

Giselle Castille was examining the photos arranged on the console table behind the sofa: family photos of myself when young; with my father; with our dogs; and with my horse when Dad had a ranch for a while, in one of his many financial ups—as opposed to his financial downs, when we moved back to a condo in the suburbs of L.A.

Giselle was holding a picture of Patrick, a close-up shot I'd taken on a misty day in the gardens of the grand château in Burgundy where we had spent the night. His eyes are narrowed in a smile and his hair is ruffled by the wind, and he looks so handsome you could just die.

“Tell me, Madame Castille,” I said, setting down the tray and pouring iced tea. “Why should I know about you? And why you are here?”

“You must call me Giselle.” She put back Patrick's photograph and settled into the chair again. I offered lemon, which she accepted, and sugar which she did not. “I finally came to see you because I've heard rumors that the police suspect you of being involved in Patrick's disappearance. I know how upset you must be and, as Patrick's friend, I am here to offer my help. If there's anything I can do for you, anything at all, Lola, I want you to let me know. A friend is always a friend, you see, and for me that extends to Patrick's wife.”

I wasn't sure I believed this, but why else would she be here? “Thank you for the kind thought,” I said, “but there's not much anyone can do. I don't know where Patrick is, and neither do the police.”

“They found the car, though,” she said, catching me by surprise. I didn't know how police business had become public, but apparently my life was now the subject of local gossip and speculation.

Giselle stirred her tea slowly. Her long delicate hands were the color of fresh cream, the short nails painted dark red. In Pucci-patterned Capris, jeweled thong sandals, and a tight turquoise top that matched her eyes, she was a man's woman if ever there was one, with her languorous glances and the subdued sexiness French women seem to acquire without any effort at all.

“I've known Patrick since we were children,” she said. “We grew up together, you might say.”

I looked interested. I had never met anyone who knew Patrick when he was a child.

“We lived in Marseilles,” Giselle said. “Both our families were in the fishing business. Patrick's caught the fish; mine bought it to sell on to restaurants, or to process it, to freeze it and ship it throughout France and most of Europe. My family was rich. Patrick's was not exactly poor, but not in the same league.”

The long silver spoon clinked against the ice in the glass, as she stirred her tea again, a delicate summer sound, the kind you might associate with two women sharing secrets about their lovers on a hot, lazy afternoon.

“Patrick and I went to the same schools, then on to university at Grenoble, though he didn't stay the course. I went to live in Paris, and Patrick lived anywhere in the world where the living was easy and the women beautiful and the gambling available. From time to time, we would see each other, usually in Paris, and in the summer here at my villa in the hills above Cannes. Patrick would come to stay and we'd ‘hang out together,' as you would put it.” She eyed me from under her lashes again, the turquoise of her eyes shocking me with their cold gleam. “We were always…
good friends
…,” she said in a voice like a purr. “
Always
. And now,
ma chère
Lola, I am here as
your
friend.”

“You are?” I said.

She gave me that hard glance again. “Patrick talked to me about his problems, you know. And you too can speak freely to me. I'll do my best to advise you.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, because she was my guest and Patrick's “good friend” and I couldn't exactly tell her to get lost and get out of my life before she even got into it.

“Of course, I lent Patrick money,” Giselle added suddenly. “A lot of money. I don't know whether you know this, but Patrick was in bad financial trouble. Gambling debts. There were…” She hesitated. “There were ‘threats…'”

“Threats? What kind of threats?” I said, shocked. “Maybe you should tell the police this.”

She shrugged. “The police are already aware of Patrick's problems. But don't worry, Lola,” she purred again, “I'm not going after
you
for the money.” She gave me a long look. “Though legally, of course, I could.” She glanced around. “And I suppose this little parcel of land with the so-called hotel is worth quite a bit.”

Was there a hidden threat behind those words? I wondered as Giselle got to her feet, the iced tea undrunk.

“Were there signed notes for these loans?” I asked, worried now about the security of my beloved hotel.

“There was no need for notes and signatures, between Patrick and me,” she said, smiling a feline little smile, “but trust me, I have other ‘evidence.'”

She took a card from her designer handbag and handed it to me. “Here's my number,” she said, “call me anytime. Call me if you hear from Patrick.”

I walked with her to the door. She held out her hand and I shook it. It was as cool as if the day were a winter one.

“And of course,” Giselle said, “we still don't know where Patrick is. Or even
if
he is,” she added, sending a chill through my heart.

I watched her walk back down the path, stepping light as a panther, her long dark hair swaying in rhythm with her hips. You bastard, Patrick, I thought. Wherever I go in the world, there'll be women like this, “old friends,” coming to warn me off you—dead or alive.

I put Giselle Castille out of my mind, and made an effort with my appearance that evening, though it wasn't because of Jack Farrar's blue eyes. Or if it was then I wasn't admitting to it. Anyhow, my freshly washed hair had dried shiny in the sun and I'd put on my best lacy underwear, purely for self-esteem purposes, and nothing at all to do with the Naked Man. I wore an apricot dress that fluttered, charmingly I hoped, around my knees, though looking in the mirror I suspected knees were not my best feature. But then whose knees are? You have to have confidence in these matters, I told myself, gazing upward and sweeping mascara over my lashes. I took another doubtful look. Maybe I should have used black instead of brown.

I turned away, exasperated.
This
was who I was and it would have to do. I sprayed my neck with Dior's Tendre Poison, bought because I loved the green glass bottle but now I also loved its light feathery scent. I touched up my chipped nail polish, promising myself a pedicure tomorrow, and slid my too-long feet into the strappy bronze sandals I'd bought in the end-of-season sales which, by the way, are always terrific in Saint-Tropez, after the tourists have departed and the hotels are beginning to close. I tested the three-inch heels cautiously, wondering whether they'd been a mistake, but they were so pretty and reduced to almost a gift that I hadn't been able to resist.

I didn't remember dressing up as being such hard work, but maybe that was because I hadn't done it in such a long time. I took a final look and decided I'd do. Besides, I should have been in the kitchen fifteen minutes ago, or else serving drinks and telling my guests about tonight's menu, and asking about their day. I headed for the door, thinking how surprised they'd be when they saw me; all they usually got was me in chef's white's or, at most, a T-shirt and Capris.

I stopped, my hand on the doorknob, thinking about it. Maybe I'd overdone it. Jack Farrar was coming to talk about Patrick, he wasn't coming to see
me
.

I ran back to the bedroom, flung off the dress and the heels, tugged on my usual Hotel Riviera tee and Capris, shoved my feet into comfortable thong sandals, and shook my hair out of its unaccustomed neatness. Without a further look in the mirror, I marched firmly back to my rightful place in the world.
My kitchen.

Out on the terrace, Jean-Paul was setting out bowls of olives and crudités and Miss Nightingale was already at her table, sipping pastis. I admired her blue and white dress and said I thought she looked like a piece of Wedgwood china, and she laughed and gave me a conspiratorial wink as I hurried by. I sneaked a quick glance across the bay at
Bad Dog.
Nothing doing there. But it was still only six-fifteen. Too early for the Naked Man.

I checked Nadine and Marit in the kitchen, then piled tomato bruschetta onto platters and garnished them with sprigs of rosemary cut from the bush outside the kitchen window. I mounded tapenade into small bowls and piled straw baskets with different breads. I checked my figs; checked the fish; checked the lamb and the salad and the clafoutis; then went back outside to check on my guests.

To my surprise Mr. Falcon was in conversation with Miss Nightingale. She must have waylaid him on his way to his table.

“That's a wonderful machine you have out there, Mr. Falcon,” I heard her say.

“Er, thank you, ma'am. I kinda like it myself,” he replied.

“My husband had a Harley. Turquoise it was. An odd color for a Scotland Yard detective, don't you think?”

Falcon shifted his expensively loafered feet, obviously uncomfortable. “Er, yes, ma'am. I guess so.”

“Still, a powerful machine suits a powerful man, I always say.” Miss N cocked her head to one side, smiling at him, but he was already edging away.

“Yeah. Well, I'm sure you're right, ma'am.”

“It's Miss Nightingale, Mr. Falcon,” she called after him. “And it's very nice to meet you too.”

But he was already hurrying to a table at the end of the terrace, as far away from her as he could get.

“Why Miss N, I do believe you scared Mr. Falcon away,” I said, depositing tapenade and bruschetta on her table.

“Just thought I'd break the ice,” she said serenely. “See what he's really like under that tough-guy façade.”

“And did you?”

“Just as I thought, he's dangerous.” She nibbled on an olive. “The question is, what exactly is he doing here? The Hotel Riviera is clearly not where he wants to be. Logically, my dear Lola, it must have something to do with Patrick.”

Suddenly legless, I dropped into the chair next to her. “But what?” I said, just as Jack Farrar turned the corner onto the terrace.

I took in the faded old jeans on the lean hard body, the crumpled white shirt rolled at the sleeves. Obviously they were not into ironing on the sloop though they
were
squeaky-clean. I also noticed the healthy sheen of his tanned skin, or maybe it was just weather-beaten to that warm gold. His face was long, his jaw square, and his blue eyes matched his jeans and had the same sort of crinkles as his shirt. His brown hair was cropped short and looked as though he might have cut it himself. His nose was what you might call positive, a bit bumpy, a little crooked, and he had a smiley mouth with the best teeth I've ever seen. He looked too good to be true.

I was glad I'd changed out of the dress; it would definitely have looked as though I were trying too hard. And I had been. And I shouldn't have.

“Miss Nightingale, Lola.” Jack Farrar gave us a funny polite little bow. He gave me a long glance. “You're looking better.”

“Almost human, you mean,” I said, defensive about the mascara and the lipstick and that he might think I'd fancied myself up specially for him.

He grinned. “Almost.”

“Wine?” I asked.

“Wine is perfect, thanks.”

This time I served a bottle from our own vineyard, around the corner and up the hill. Not up to Cuvée Paul Signac's standard, perhaps, but very soft and drinkable. Jack nodded his approval, which pleased me more than I thought it should.

“You look smart tonight, Mr. Farrar,” Miss N said, and I caught the underlying note of approval in her voice that meant that she thought Jack was okay.

“Miss N has one of my guests under suspicion,” I said. “The man sitting at the far end of the terrace.”

Jack twisted his neck and took a peek. “I noticed him last night,” he said. “I think I know him from somewhere, but I can't place him. Looks as though he wishes he were anywhere but here,” he added.

“That's his Harley out front,” Miss N told him in a conspiratorial whisper. She leaned closer. “I told Lola the first time I saw Mr. Falcon, he's a dangerous man.”

We all stared at Falcon sitting with his back to the view, drinking whiskey and chomping down the sweet tomato bruschetta as though it were airline peanuts. His hands were large and pale with matted dark hairs along the fingers. Like some kind of creepy-crawly, I thought with a shudder. Plus he was built like a bull: the wide neck, the powerful shoulders, the long arms.

“Brutal,”
I found myself whispering too, though he was too far away to hear. “That's exactly how he looks. Like a brute.”

“He's obviously shadowing you,” Miss Nightingale said. “Why else would he be here at the Hotel Riviera? And as I said, I'm willing to bet it's something to do with Patrick.”

“And I'm willing to bet on your instincts, Miss N,” Jack agreed. “I can't think of any other reason a man like that would be here.” He looked at me. “Has he said anything to you?”

“Only to demand a room—our
best
room—and to order his food. Other than that he's pretty much ignored me. In fact he's ignored all of us, though he does take frequent walks around the property. Admiring the garden, I suppose.”

“That man's no gardener,” Miss N said.

I was watching the movement of Jack's tanned throat as he swallowed the cool pink wine. I told myself nervously I'd better get out of this sensual mode; just because I hadn't been with a man in a couple of years, not even been
near
one if truth be told, didn't mean I had to fall all to pieces when the first attractive stranger took my fancy. Besides, there was always the question of Patrick.

“I checked with an old friend in Marseilles,” Jack said. I raised my eyebrows, surprised he knew anyone there. “You meet a lot of people in the sailing fraternity,” he added. “A friend in every port, y'know how it goes. Anyhow, this guy is an ex-cop who does a little fine-tuned private investigating on the side. He's agreed to use his contacts, find out what he can about the Porsche—where the garage is, what state the car was in—and exactly what the police think happened to Patrick.”

He gave me that long calculating look again, then blunt and to the point, said, “You know this might mean that Patrick is dead.”

I stared down at my hands. I didn't know if I could handle that. I could not bear to know that beautiful disloyal Patrick was dead.

“Closure,”
Miss N said firmly. “That's what Americans call it.”

I refilled the wine glasses with a shaky hand and asked Jean-Paul to bring another bottle, then I told them about my afternoon visitor, Patrick's old friend Giselle Castille.

“Patrick's longtime lover,” Jack said, catching on immediately.

“And no doubt she's jealous,” Miss N added.

“Did you know anything about gambling debts?” Jack asked.

“Only that we never seemed to have money, but you know this is just a small hotel, there's not a lot of profit to be made.”

“It's Lola's ‘labor of love,'” Miss N explained.

“And obviously gambling was Patrick's. Bad enough for ‘the boys' to be after him, if Madame Castille is to be believed.”

“I believe her,” I said, suddenly sure. “I met Patrick in Las Vegas. He was always there. Sure, he was a gambler.”

“And a loser,” Jack added quietly.

Just then Red Shoup emerged onto the terrace. As always she looked pulled together in a way I never could hope to emulate, in a coral silk dress with an agate-green pashmina thrown around her shoulders to protect her from the breeze that had a new autumnal edge to it.

“Bonsoir, mes amis,”
she said. “And how are you tonight, Lola?”

I said that I was good and she turned her smile on Jack. I made the introductions, then Jerry Shoup arrived and they stayed to drink wine with us, telling us about their day.

I left them to it and went to check the kitchen again, greeting Budgie Lampson and the boys en route. I realized with a pang that the season was rapidly drawing to a close and soon all my guests would be gone. I wondered what I would do when they had left and I was here alone with my problems and the police on my tail, and gambling debts and the mysterious Mr. Falcon lurking in the background. I shuddered just thinking about it.

“Ghost walking over your grave,” Budgie said cheerfully, then clapped a dismayed hand across her mouth. “Oh, dammit, I said the wrong thing
again
.”

I had to laugh because, with her frizzy mop of blond hair and baby-blue eyes, she looked the exact picture of a naughty little girl. “That's okay. And anyhow, it wasn't really a ghost, it was just a cool wind blowing up. Makes me think that autumn's coming too soon.”

“Not soon enough,” she said feelingly. “Then these little buggers will go back to school and I'll be reprieved. It'll be back to London for me, and back to the cold and the snow, I suppose. Oh boy, am I going to miss this place. And you too, of course, Lola.” She patted my arm encouragingly just as Jean-Paul arrived with Oranginas for the boys, who were already halfway through a platter of bruschetta.

Then my adorable golden Honeymooners arrived, she simply glowing, and he sturdy and pink-cheeked and yellow-haired, with kind gray eyes behind his rimless glasses. I was so glad they had stayed on, even though they'd told us it would destroy their budget for the entire year, but they thought it was worth it. I got them settled, sent Jean-Paul around with the menus, then went back to Miss N and Jack, and the Shoups. They were all talking about the mysterious Mr. Falcon, and I supposed, about me and Patrick.

I stood there for a moment, thinking that anyone looking at us would not see the sinister undercurrents. All they would see was a happy group of people on a flowery terrace overlooking the blue Mediterranean on a gorgeous September evening. And that's who we were, I thought, suddenly feeling better. I'd hit bottom last night with Detective Mercier and I'd gone under again this morning in the market. But now I felt a sudden lightening of my heart. I was on the way up again.

“Madame Laforêt?” I hadn't heard the man coming and neither had the others. A little man, squat and soft-footed, plump and pale; no Saint-Tropez tourist tan here. He peered at me from behind his gold glasses like a sharp-eyed little bird.

Everyone turned to look. Even Mr. Falcon stopped chomping bruschetta and looked interested.

“I am Madame Laforêt,” I said.

“And I am Maître Dumas. I'm a Paris attorney representing my client, Monsieur Laurent Solis.”

The silence on the terrace was palpable. Like Onassis and Safra, Solis was a name to be reckoned with. I stared at Maître Dumas, astonished.

“I have to inform you, Madame Laforêt,” he said solemnly, “that Monsieur Solis is taking legal action against you in the matter ownership of the Hotel Riviera.”

He held out a document tied in legal-pink ribbon and stamped with a lot of official-looking red seals. Stunned, I reached out and took it from him.

“Here is my card, madame,” he said. “If you wish to contact me, as I am sure you will, you can reach me at the Hotel Martinez.” He stared at me for a long moment through his tiny glasses. “
Eh bien,
I will say good evening, Madame Laforêt,” he said with a little bow. “And may I wish you all
bon appétit.
” And he hurried away as silently as he had come.