Invitation to Provence(81)

64





JAKE DID WHAT HE’D rarely done before: delegated work to a colleague. It wasn’t that he didn’t care what happened to his clients, it was that his priorities had changed and with it, he knew, so would his lifestyle. He didn’t call Franny and tell her he was en route because he wanted to see the surprise in her large blue eyes when she saw him, wanted to hear her little gasp of pleasure, wanted to see that sunny-girl smile light up her face. He wanted every little honest, good part of Franny Marten so he could store them in his memory bank like an unwritten diary of their lives.

Before he left though, he went to Tiffany and bought an engagement ring. He thought Franny was a true romantic, a “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” girl, and he chose an old-fashioned cushion-shaped diamond set in platinum. He planned to give it to her at the villa. He would take her into the garden late in the evening. The sea would be murmuring in the background, and the breeze would ruffle the trees and maybe the crickets would be quiet for once. He laughed, he was becoming a true romantic himself. He’d already ordered celebratory champagne sent to the villa and asked Janine to make sure it was chilled. He’d also arranged for an enormous bunch of Casablanca lilies to be delivered.

Now he was on his Gulfstream IV, somewhere over southern France. Johnny Lang, his pilot and friend for many years, always flew the plane when Jake was on board. There was also a steward and a chef. The plane was his own self-sustaining little vacuum hurtling through the skies back to France.

He checked his watch, then checked with the pilot to see exactly where they were. He sipped yet another cup of coffee and, unable to sleep, prowled restlessly, occasionally eyeing the blue Tiffany box tied with white ribbon sitting on the table. Just the sight of it made him smile. He hoped Criminal was looking after his girl. If not, he’d be in trouble.



BACK IN THE GUEST house at the villa, Alain heard the car returning and the doors slam. The dog barked and their happy voices greeted Janine. He lay back on his bed, hands behind his head, a smile on his face. He had made his plans. In a few hours he would carry them out. All he had to do was wait.



. . .



CRIMINAL’S FAVORITE SPOT to take a nap was on the upstairs veranda, though being a street dog, he always kept an eye open to check what was going on while he enjoyed his evening snooze. Now, with a satisfied grunt, he stretched out, back legs flat, head resting on his outstretched front paws. Then, one eye closed, he dozed.

Downstairs, Franny picked up the phone, intending to call Clare and tell her what she was missing. She put the receiver to her ear, then held it away, puzzled. The line was dead. She shrugged. She would just have to call tomorrow.

She went upstairs to read Little Blue a bedtime story. Hearing them, Criminal ambled in and sprawled next to them, and in no time both he and Little Blue were asleep.

Franny took a shower and she put on a thin cotton robe, then went to lean on the veranda rail, gazing up at the starry sky and the glitter of lights along the coast. The night was unexpectedly humid, and for once the crickets were quiet, but over the sea, fireworks exploded in a shimmering cascade of color, starry puffs of gold and blue and scarlet. She watched until the show was over, then climbed into bed and turned out her light. Tomorrow was their last day at the villa, then it was back “home” to the chateau. And to Jake.



JAKE GOT THE PHONE call from his contact in Nice before they began their descent. He was told that Alain Marten had been spotted at the casino in Monte Carlo, where he’d come out a big winner, thirty thousand euros. That was what had brought him to their attention. His hair was blond again, but it was definitely him. He was driving a white Renault Laguna, but the contact did not know where he was living.

Jake’s heart jumped into his throat as he thought of Franny and Little Blue. Where else would Alain go but to the villa? He dialed the villa’s number, but the line was completely dead. The hair on his neck prickled. He knew he was looking at real trouble. He called his police contact in Cannes, told them who he was and what he knew about Alain, and that two people were in danger. Then he called a helicopter service and ordered a Sikorsky to be waiting for him on the tarmac. He would pilot it himself.



ALAIN WAITED on a stone bench in the garden until all the lights went out. He’d made sure to leave the guest house in perfect order. He’d even fixed the screen on the bedroom window where he’d broken in. He was sure there was no trace of his presence. In a plastic bag he had a piece of steak. He got up and walked quietly underneath the veranda, praying that the damned dog wouldn’t hear, then he flipped the piece of meat up and over the rail and stepped back into the shadows. He heard the dog’s claws scrabbling on the deck as he ran, heard him sniffing, heard his satisfied grunt as he took a first lick of the meat.

He took a seat at the long table where, as a boy, he’d eaten so many good meals surrounded by his mother’s friends. “Happy times,” she’d called them, but Alain had always known he was different. Sometimes he thought it was as though he lived outside his own body, standing back and observing others, mocking them in his mind, ridding himself mercilessly of them one by one in his head until he was alone and master of all he surveyed. And that’s exactly what he intended to do now. He had to be very clever, make sure it looked like an accident, though nobody would suspect it was anything else. Except Jake of course. He’d know, and so would Rafaella, but by then he would be long gone and anyhow, as with Felix, they’d never be able to prove it.