The Hotel Riviera (7 page)

Lola

My eyelids were on springs. Every time I tried to shut them they just snapped right back open. And there I was staring at the ceiling again, counting the cracks between the beams in the emerging dawn light. You'll know the questions I was asking myself over and over as the hours ticked past, slow as a night-bound snail. Those
where, why, who
questions. And especially the
why me? Why
did the police suspect me of being involved in my husband's disappearance?

All I knew was that Patrick would never have dumped his Porsche in some parking garage in Marseilles. That car was his image, his alter ego. In his silver Porsche, Patrick became the rich south of France playboy. It was not an image he would have forfeited lightly.

I was out of my hot rumpled sheets at five, pacing the terrace beneath my windows, arms folded, head bent, hardly noticing the lovely dawn transition from opal to pearl to aquamarine to sunlit gold. All I saw was the pale terra-cotta floor tiles and my long brown feet with the chipped red toenail polish. I told myself sternly I really must get a pedicure, then shook my head, astonished I could even be thinking of such trivia.

I scanned my little bay, loving its gilded early-morning stillness. The black sloop still rode at anchor, drifting gently on the breeze-rippled sea. I remembered the Naked Man and the hedonistic pleasure he took in the elements. I thought of his hard body as he stretched, his head tilted to the sun and the wind. And then I remembered his sleek blond girlfriend, young and gorgeous.

I sighed as I went back indoors, envying their carefree lives, while I had a hotel full of guests to look after and a restaurant to run; menus to be planned; marketing to be done; coffee to be fixed; croissants to be baked. I could not afford to indulge myself in my problems.

In the shower I let the cold water slide over my skin, shocking me awake. I dressed in a minute in pink linen shorts and a cool white camisole, shoved my in-need-of-a-pedicure feet into the beribboned wedgie Saint-Tropez espadrilles that laced around the ankles, wondering why I'd ever bought them. Like everything else in my wardrobe they were purchased on the run, either on my way to, or on my way back from, Saint-Tropez market, or else in the fall sales, which was the reason nothing in my closet went with anything else. I shook my orange hair to dry it a bit, remembered too late that I should have lathered on the UV lotion, did a hasty touch-up on the parts of me that showed, then grabbed my car keys.

Car! Hah, that was a laugh! It's only resemblance to Patrick's Porsche was that it was silver. It was also old and small. Tiny, in fact. An ancient Deux Chevaux, of the kind that used to be called a sardine can because it looks as though you could stick a key in and peel back the top. It wasn't even a real car, it was a flatbed and just right for my early-morning marketing activities, though not for much else. Still, it had seemed the perfect vehicle when Patrick and I were just starting out, the two of us getting into this “dream” hotel on the cheap.

Look how much money we'll save, I remember saying oh so naïvely, when I'd discovered the car parked on a cobbled street in Ramatuelle with an
À Vendre
sign stuck on its windshield. And if you disregarded the monthly bills from the mechanic I was almost right. What I hadn't factored into the keeping-the-costs-down equation was Patrick. Sure, I could have the sardine can if I wanted. Meanwhile, he'd bought himself the first of a series of supercars. I'm only now beginning to suspect how dumb I was. And still am. Probably.

Anyhow, the one place I'm not a dummy is in my kitchen. There, I know I'm in control. Marit, who was in before me, raised a floury hand in a greeting, told me that coffee was already brewed, and went back to arranging her croissant dough in neatly folded semicircles.

The smell of baking rolls and freshly ground coffee raised my spirits a notch and I sat at the long table under the windows with my notebook. With an effort, I shoved all the bad news about Patrick to the back of my mind, reserving him for quiet moments at the end of the day when I would be alone and free to pace the floors, free to agonize over his fate, free to be myself. Right now I had a business to run, guests to take care of. Today, they would be my salvation.

It was Saturday and market day in Saint-Tropez. There was sure to be good fish, fresh as it came. I'd also look for tiny golden beets and buy roulades of cheese made from the milk of Madame Auric's special herd of white goats, and which seemed to me to have a creamier flavor than any other. I'd slice the beets and the cheese and some sweet tomatoes, stack them in a line like a little train in a pool of creamy basil dressing on a bed of arugula with perhaps, if I were lucky, slices of bright orange persimmon, and if not then kumquats or golden plums.

I'd be sure to get crevettes too, the large ones called bouquet, and hopefully, I'd find Saint-Pierre, the delicate flat white fish that was heaven simply grilled or sautéed, served with a green sauce made from fresh herbs and lemon.

Anyhow, my specials were in my head if not yet in hand, plus whatever else I could find that was interesting. Not a difficult task in Saint-Tropez market on a September morning, I can assure you.

Glancing up I saw Jean-Paul's head float past the open window. His eyes were closed and he looked half-asleep. I heard the crash as his bike hit the rosemary hedge, sending a waft of Provence into the kitchen. With a muttered
“merde,”
he kicked the bike into place against the wall, then sauntered back past my window. The bead curtain rustled behind him and he stood, dusting himself off, looking sleepily at Marit and me.
“Bonjour, Madame Laforêt, bonjour, Marit.”

“Bonjour, Jean-Paul,”
we replied, eyeing each other and wondering where he'd been all night because he surely looked the worse for wear. I sighed; he was young and carefree and living in Saint-Tropez. I was grateful that at least he'd shown up.

I said, “Okay, Jean-Paul. First get into the shower, then some clean clothes, then set up the breakfast tables, there'll be guests wanting coffee before you know it.” He stared blankly back at me. “Well, go
on,
” I said irritably in very bad French. “
Et dépêche-toi,
if you know what's good for you,” I added.

Hands stuck in his pockets, Jean-Paul moved sleepily toward the bathroom behind the kitchen.

I slugged down the rest of my coffee, told Marit to see that our youth-of-all-work got his act—and the breakfast tables—together, grabbed my shopping list and headed for the car, making a small detour to the front desk to check on the day's arrivals and departures.

So far only the Oldroyds, the sweet Yorkshire honeymoon couple, were due to depart. I would make sure to see them before they left, give them a big hug and wish them well, and say, sincerely, that I hoped they would come back. And of course they would; guests always returned to the Hotel Riviera.

I was leaning on the pretty rosewood table gazing absently through the open front door when I saw Miss Nightingale in an apple-green jersey skirt that drooped a bit at the hem and a matching many-pocketed safari shirt. She stood, sandaled feet apart, head reverently down, hands behind her back, admiring Mr. Falcon's gleaming red and chrome Harley. She put a hand over her heart and heaved a big envious sigh. Her own little wasp-yellow rented Vespa looked almost comical parked next to it.

I waved to her and she walked back inside and gave me a long look. “No news from the husband yet, my dear?” she said.

I shook my head, glancing round to see if anyone had overheard, though it was certainly no secret that Patrick had left me. There could have been no more public local departure since Charles left Diana: the whole town knew, as well as all my guests.

“I saw the police last night,” Miss N said. I threw her a surprised glance. “I didn't mean to pry, my dear,” she added. “I just happened to be out on my balcony when they arrived.” She hesitated, then said, “I trust it wasn't bad news, Lola.”

“They found Patrick's Porsche in a parking garage in Marseilles.”

“Marseilles? Now I wonder, why
there
?”

I shrugged. “They're checking it for forensic evidence.”

Miss Nightingale's eyes narrowed but she made no comment and I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I was Detective Mercier's prime suspect.

“I'm just on my way to the market in Saint-Tropez,” I said, gathering my wits. “Where are you heading?”

“I thought I might take it easy today,” she said, as we walked outside together. “Perhaps I'll visit the market, pick up a gift for Mrs. Wormesly at the Blakelys Arms. She always looks after my Yorkie, Little Nell, when I'm away.”

I asked if she'd like a lift, but she shook her head and said she'd just as well take the Vespa in case she felt like wandering farther afield.

I watched as she planted herself firmly in the saddle, adjusted her straw sunhat, hitched her handbag farther up her arm, then started up the motor and jolted up the driveway.

My own “silver chariot” awaited me. I should have been at the market half an hour ago. As I climbed into the car I remembered Detective Mercier telling me that forensics were going over Patrick's silver Porsche with a fine-tooth comb. With a foreboding shiver, I wondered what they had found.

Jack

Jack Farrar was strolling through the Saint-Tropez Saturday market in the Place des Lices, feeling at peace with the world. His black and white dog roved in small devoted circles around him, sniffing busily.

There was something about Jack's broad-shouldered rangy stride that was unmistakably American, and something about his craggy tanned face and the fine lines around his eyes that marked him as a man of experience. It was definitely a lived-in kind of face. His brown hair was short and spiky, his eyes were the color of the Mediterranean on a perfect day, and there were washboard abs under the old blue T-shirt that bore the logo “Rhode Island Regatta.” As he walked women met his eyes, smiling interestedly at him. He gave them a somewhat lopsided smile back and kept on walking.

Both he and Bad Dog loved the hustle and bustle of the French markets: the dog for the good food smells and the tasty treats that might drop his way, and Jack for the miraculous way the markets sprang up out of nowhere in the early hours, filling the silent cobbled square with the harsh stutter of motors as the trucks arrived; then the rattle of iron struts on the cobblestones and the flapping of canvas as the stalls were assembled. Then came the fish trucks with their loads of shining silver, and the stallholders shouting greetings to each other as they artistically arranged their wares. He loved the way each scarlet berry seemed to bloom with velvety temptation and the way the graceful zucchini blossoms lay delicately in line, and how the small shiny potatoes were piled high, waiting to be picked over by the choosy French housewives.

He enjoyed the early heat of the sun on his bare arms, and the faintly bitter tang of that first steaming cup of coffee at the Café des Arts, where he liked to slather sweet butter of a kind only the French can make onto a still-hot baguette and munch it happily, watching the Saint-Tropez world go by. He liked looking at the hardworking locals, the suntanned tourists, the chic celebrities, and the snooty Parisians, plus there were more cute girls to the square mile here than anywhere else in the world.

Heading for that cup of coffee, he edged his way through the swarms of housewives clutching their
filets,
their net shopping bags. He was passing the cheese stall, sniffing the pungent odors appreciatively, when Lola Laforêt turned abruptly right into his path.

She took a quick step back, stuck out an arm to balance herself, and dropped her bags. Big Dog was quick; he'd wolfed down a perfect roulade of Madame Auric's goat cheese before she even had time to move.

“Oh, you bad dog!” she yelled, stamping her foot, making Jack laugh.

Her brown eyes blazed at him through a disorderly fringe of taffy hair.

“It's all
your
fault,” she said accusingly.

“I agree. And I'm sorry.” He bent to rescue whatever he could from the cobblestones. “You got Bad Dog's name right, though, but he considers anything on the floor fair game. Of course I'll replace the cheese,” he added, glancing at the dog, still hopefully sniffing the cobblestones. “And Bad Dog will apologize. Come on, boy, say you're sorry.”

The shaggy black mutt rolled his dark eyes at Jack in a give-me-a-break-why-don't-you look, then flopped reluctantly onto his belly. He rolled over, paws in the air, and gazed beseechingly at Lola.

“Fraud!” Lola snapped, unmoved by his charm.

“Hey, you can't say he didn't try.”

“Yeah,
after
he ate the cheese.”

Looking at her angry face, Jack thought she was definitely cute, if a little edgy. He held out his hand, giving her the smile that had wowed many women but had no effect on this one. “Anyhow, how are you this morning, Lola Laforêt?” He grinned as he said the name and she said defensively, “I used to be plain Lola March before I married the
Frenchman
.”

“The Frenchman, huh.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but do I detect something ominous about that phrase?”

Lola clutched her string bags to her chest; she wasn't about to spill her problems and her life story to a stranger. “I don't know what you mean,” she said defensively, but Jack Farrar was looking over her shoulder.

“Then maybe you also don't know why a guy who looks very much like a cop is following you?”

“
Bonjour,
Madame Laforêt.” Detective Mercier tipped a careless hand to his hat, ignoring Jack. “I trust you have not yet heard from your husband?”

Lola bristled like an old hairbrush, every ginger hair seeming to stand angrily on end. “Would I be here, doing the marketing, if I had?”

“I must warn you to be careful, madame,” the detective said. “Do not stray too far. We need to know exactly where you are at all times. Please remember that.” And touching a finger to his hat brim again, he melted back into the crowd.

“Sounds like the French version of ‘lady, you'd better not leave town' to me,” Jack said, with a grin. “So, what have you been up to, Lola Laforêt?”

To his horror she looked ready to burst into tears. He glanced quickly around for help and saw Sugar making her way toward him.

Actually, you couldn't miss Sugar. She was in a skimpy red bandeau top and a white skirt that just about covered what was necessary. Plus she was in the company of a couple of bronzed young guys who might have stepped out of the male-model-of-the-year calendar. Jack guessed his time with Sugar might be up, and anyhow she certainly wasn't the right woman to comfort another woman.

He glanced uncomfortably at Lola, who looked very definitely upset.

“So, what's up, Lola?” he said, wishing he'd never met her.

She looked back at him, brown eyes wide and scared. “The police think I killed my husband,” she said.

From out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Sugar's pouty red mouth form a silent
wow
. He flung an arm around Lola Laforêt's shoulders, grabbed her string bags, and called to Bad Dog.

“Tell you what,” he said, “why don't I buy you a cup of coffee and a brandy, and then you can tell me all about it.”