The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (33 page)

‘I might be a little old for the part,’ she said coyly. The words stuck in her throat, but subtle self-deprecation was always attractive when talking to producers.

‘Nonsense! You can play sixty easy. No problem. Honey, the studio is thinkin’ about you!’
Even though Hepburn was fifty-three when she played it
, he thought.

‘So am I . . . on your wish list?’ she smiled.

He gave her a swift peck in the cheek, careful not to smudge the immaculate
maquillage
, and said, ‘Keep the faith, honey. Keep the faith.’

She’d be good as the wealthy harridan Violet trying to bribe a young doctor to lobotomise her beautiful niece, he thought. In the story, the character of Catherine, who hopefully would be played by Angelina Jolie, had gone on holiday with Violet’s son Sebastian, who died in such terrible circumstances that it had sent the young girl insane. Roberto had told Marvin that the beaches of Saint-Sébastien could certainly pass for the Spanish resort on film, where the Tennessee Williams play had originally been set. It was a torrid, terrifying plot with many twists and turns, and Marvin was convinced he could make it into a big, money-making blockbuster.

‘But the cast, the cast,’ he muttered to himself, thinking back to the phone call with Angelina Jolie’s agent. The decisive ‘no way’ brooked no argument. ‘Who do I get to play Catherine?’ he mused. Of course if he could get Meryl or Mirren to play Violet that would guarantee immediate interest with the studio, who had still not committed to the extra millions he needed. ‘Then we say bye-bye to Ms Silvestri,’ he reflected philosophically.

Everyone at the party was milling about drinking mojitos, which were Sophie’s favourite cocktail. The DJ was playing mellow mood music for the cocktail hour, and there was much gossip about the bomb in the box of chocolates that had killed Sophie’s maid. They were surmising who could hate Sophie that much. The answer was a lot of people. Several of the Saint-Tropez regulars were talking about jumping ship and leaving for Monaco or Ibiza.

‘I’ve had enough, I can’t sleep at night,’ announced Blanche Phillips to Charlie Chalk. She was cuddling her new pooch, an even uglier mutt than the one Maximus had fallen on and killed. ‘Aren’t you scared, Charlie? I mean your boyfriend was
murdered
in your own garden. How can you live there any more?’

‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,
dear
, he was my husband,’ said Charlie frostily. ‘We don’t know for sure if he was murdered and I love Saint-Tropez, so no one is going to scare me away.’

‘Well, Henry and I have had enough.’ Blanche started kissing her dog’s brown wet lips. ‘We’ve put the villa on the market,’ she whispered, ‘and so have several of our neighbours.’

‘No great loss to society,’ Charlie said sarcastically. ‘We’ll be glad to get rid of the geriatric set,’ he added under his breath as he walked over to greet Maximus and Fabrizio. He noticed the latter seemed quite taken with the lovely Vanessa Meyer who was standing between them. He observed that the two of them seemed at ease with each other; the kind of cosy camaraderie that lovers have.

Carlotta stood at the bar with Nick, impressed by the eclectic group of guests who had turned out to honour Sophie.

‘Oh, look. Isn’t that Tony Blair?’ she asked.

Nick glanced towards the suntanned, middle-aged man surrounded by a coterie of sexily dressed young women.

‘My goodness, he looks like a used-car salesman,’ said Carlotta.

‘Well, it’s not used cars he deals in, it’s new diamonds,’ Nick replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That, my sweet, is Bert Burrows, otherwise known as “the diamond geezer”. He carries bags of the jewels around with him like some people carry bags of Maltesers. No wonder he’s so popular with those gals.’

They watched as Bert removed a huge emerald-cut diamond ring from his pocket and waved it in front of the women with a satisfied leer. They all passed it around with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

‘Just a little bait,’ laughed Nick. ‘A bit of a carrot to get them either into the sack or persuade one of their boyfriends or husbands to buy the thing.’

‘And do they?’ asked Carlotta.

‘Sometimes – he’s not called the “diamond geezer” for nothing.’

Lara arrived, slightly unsteady on her feet and wearing a mauve Lurex dress so tight that her breasts squeezed out of the top like toothpaste. Maximus saw Lara first. She seemed out of sorts and lost, but that was not unusual for her recently.

‘Head her off at the pass – I’ll take care of Vanessa,’ he hissed to Fabrizio. ‘Get your ass over to her now –
andiamo!
– or I think the brown stuff may hit the air conditioning!’ He laughed at his wit and gave Fabrizio a shove, who reluctantly slouched over to his sulky mistress.

Gabrielle was outside in the garden of Carlotta’s villa, double-checking Sophie’s presents, when François came out of the house.

‘I’m taking a break,’ he smiled at her and she smiled back. Then he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head and he asked, ‘Mind if I do?’

She had been dodging his calls, but he was nevertheless extremely friendly.

‘I had a great time last week. Maybe one day I can cook for you in my apartment,’ he said.

‘Maybe,’ she replied enigmatically.

They exchanged pleasantries and Gabrielle subtly steered the conversation towards the murders, deftly probing his recollections about the various episodes. François simply shrugged, lit a cigarette, and reiterated that he hadn’t seen anything suspicious at any of the incidents.

The bomb-disposal expert, whom Captain Poulpe had summoned from Paris, was examining the presents with the help of a large Alsatian trained to detect any signs of explosives. He looked up at François as he lit his cigarette.

‘Move away, man – move!’ he barked. ‘This is a no smoking zone.’ François bowed sarcastically, moved a couple of steps and continued smoking his cigarette. ‘So when
are
you going to let me cook my or coq au vin for you?’ he whispered to Gabrielle who wondered if she had imagined him emphasising the word
coq
. ‘I miss you – you’ve been avoiding me.’

‘I’ve been very busy.’ Gabrielle was flustered. She was attracted to this man but at the same time she knew that starting an affair with him – for there was no doubt that that was what François was aiming for – was a bad idea. There were four deaths that were keeping both her father and her awake at night, and several unexplained and terrifying incidents that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to them.

‘Hold on a moment.’ She turned as Gerald the bomb-disposal specialist held up a black gift-wrapped box bound with black satin ribbon. ‘I don’t like the look of this one. I think I’m going to have to open it.’ Putting on protective gloves and goggles, he moved to an empty part of the garden. The dog followed, sniffing eagerly, and Gerald started cutting open the black box.

François stamped out his cigarette, blew a cheeky kiss to Gabrielle and went back inside to the party.

The next morning, Sophie sat in an elegant wicker armchair on her terrace, surrounded by all the gifts she had received from the previous night’s party. Carlotta and Adolpho sat nearby, exclaiming in delight over the gifts and, in some cases, mock horror.

‘Oh my, look at this from Blanche and Henry!’ crowed Adolpho. ‘It’s a jewelled salad bowl with matching servers. How on earth could you eat out of this? The Swarovski crystals would fall into the lettuce!’

‘Crunchy – like bacon bits,’ laughed Carlotta.

‘Oh, that’s nice!’ Sophie had opened Marvin’s Tiffany box and held up a gold heart encrusted by diamonds on a chain.

‘Very pretty. Do you want to wear it now?’ asked Carlotta.

‘Oh, I am bedecked!’ laughed Sophie, who had already donned various bracelets, rings and scarves gifted to her.

‘Enough already – I’ve been spoiled . . . but where’s that black box I saw?’ Adolpho and Carlotta exchanged glances.

‘What black box?’

‘You know perfectly well, I saw it in the pile last night. Now, now, what have you done with it?’

‘I don’t think you will like it,’ said Carlotta gently.

‘Don’t tell me what I would or wouldn’t like,’ Sophie snapped. ‘Show it to me!’

Reluctantly, Carlotta handed it over, and Sophie opened the box.

‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped, staring at a framed portrait of herself. ‘I can’t believe someone would do something so horrible.’

The picture was an old cover of
Paris Match
. It showed a young Sophie lying on her chaise longue surrounded by seven or eight cats. Each of the cat’s faces had been carefully cut out, and pasted on each was a picture of a hideous grinning skull. Where Sophie’s face would have been, another paper skull was pasted – this one screaming hideously like the figure in the Munch painting,
The Scream
. There was also a note, which Captain Poulpe had already dusted for fingerprints along with the frame and glass. ‘You are never safe, bitch.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Sophie threw the picture and note to the ground. ‘Who hates me enough to have created this horror? Who?
Who?
’

In a café in Port Grimaud, a man sat sipping a café crème and smoking a cigarette. He smiled to himself, that should scare the old bitch, he thought, but it’s just the beginning of what I’ve got planned next. . .

‘Are you fucking my wife?’

Coming out of the shower of the Byblos hotel gym after his afternoon workout, wet and naked except for the gold medallions swinging around his neck, Fabrizio felt at a definite disadvantage. He quickly removed the towel from his neck and attempted to tie it around his waist, but Jonathan was having none of it. He ripped the towel from Fabrizio’s hands and went nose to nose with him.

‘Are you? Are you, you little punk? Are you screwing Vanessa?’

His tone was so ominously calm that Fabrizio’s knees started shaking. Whether this was a reaction from his soaking wet body or from fear, he didn’t know. He’d heard the stories about the legendary Jonathan Meyer. He took no prisoners, either in the boardroom or the bedroom, and if he didn’t get what he wanted by fair means, force was his next power play.

Fabrizio stammered, ‘Of course not – what a ridiculous idea!’ He cupped his genitals then changed his mind. He didn’t have to hide what he called his ‘noble tool’. Vanessa had whispered to him last week, ‘You have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen,’ and Fabrizio had to admit, having seen a few himself, she had exquisite taste.

Nevertheless, how the fuck had Jonathan found out? Vanessa would never have confessed to their affair – not in a million years. There was no question of that. She had even admitted to Fabrizio that he was only the second man she had slept with since marrying Jonathan. Well, it was only a tiny fib . . . Who the other man had been, he didn’t know: she would only tell him that he was an actor. Fabrizio, immediately assuming she had been attracted to this other guy for the same reason she’d been attracted to him, and with the innate curiosity of the well-endowed, was curious to know who might have a bigger one.

‘I don’t believe you, you little cocksucker,’ Jonathan roared as he shook Fabrizio and banged his head against the glass shower door.