Invitation to Provence(9)
Meanwhile, he was on his way to L.A. The car would pick him up in ten minutes. It would take him to Teterboro airport in New Jersey, where his private jet awaited. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip, but business was business.
He sipped his Bud. It was iced to the hilt, and he grinned his pleasure to the bartender. He was studying the list of invitees Rafaella had sent him. The only unknown was a woman named Franny Marten. He’d bet that Rafaella didn’t know much about her either, other than that she was Paul Marten’s daughter—Paul Marten was the only sibling of Rafaella’s father. Which meant that this Franny Marten might suddenly find herself heir to a chateau and a fortune.
Jake’s office had tracked the details of her life in a matter of hours. Now he studied the bleak snippets of information that told him who the possible heir to the Chateau des Roses Sauvages might be. Franny Marten was alone in the world, a single Santa Monica vet who also did good works for rescued animals.
He could just picture her, a too-nice Oregon girl, a little bit gawky, a little bit country, addicted to jeans and peasant tops and lacy shawls, sort of like Ali MacGraw in Love Story, all big white smile and soulful dark eyes. He’d bet she was the kind of vague woman who’d button her shirt wrong and drink chamomile tea, and that she’d smell faintly of horses and disinfectant with a whiff of citrusy perfume.
Jake’s researcher had also discovered there was a boyfriend. Marcus Marks lived in Atlanta and was married. Jake wondered briefly how supposedly intelligent women got themselves into these situations. Then, since he was on his way to L.A. anyway, he decided he’d better check out Franny Marten himself before letting her loose on Rafaella. Nice country girl or not, the promise of a chateau and a fortune could turn any woman into a predator.
5
THE NEXT DAY, Jake parked the rented silver Mustang in front of the undistinguished square building in a strip mall near Main Street in Venice Beach, California. YOUR LOCAL VETERINARY CLINIC AND ANIMAL HOSPITAL was inscribed in large gold letters on the glass doors. Underneath, in slightly smaller gold letters were three names. Franny Marten’s was the last because, Jake supposed, she was the most recent partner to be taken on by the practice. He nodded his head, thinking she must be proud of that. It was quite an accomplishment considering the odds that were stacked against her, being left alone and without financial support at age seventeen. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. He wouldn’t bet on it though. The thought of inheriting money could do strange things to even the nicest folk.
Inside there was a line of chairs filled with people clutching disturbed-looking cats in carrying cages and anxious-looking dogs sniffing the floor and each other, growling uncertainly because this was unknown territory. The young woman behind the counter was named Lindsey—it said so on the badge pinned to her green polo shirt. She smiled nicely at him and asked how she could help.
Jake told her he was new to the neighborhood and he’d heard that Dr. Marten was a good vet. He said he really cared about his dog and needed to introduce himself and make sure they got along. “Make sure we understand each other” was the way he put it, and Lindsey smiled and said she understood and that Dr. Marten was almost finished with an emergency and would be glad to discuss his dog with him.
Jake took a seat next to a wheezing bulldog with bloodshot eyes. Flipping through a copy of Cat Fancy magazine, he wondered what the difference was between the pampered Persian in the picture and the feral black panthers that patrolled his cabin in search of food. Somewhere along the line of evolution they were related, but looking at this prize puss, he wasn’t quite sure where or how.
“This way, please, Mr. Bronson,” Lindsey said, showing him into a small room with the usual steel table and equipment. “Dr. Marten will be with you in a moment.”
Jake leaned against the table, arms folded, waiting. The door to the next room was open and he could see an enormous orange cat and his equally huge and overstuffed owner.
“Look here,” Dr. Marten was saying sharply, “a bee-sting on the tongue is very dangerous to any animal, especially a cat. Marmalade’s tongue swelled and he almost stopped breathing. Fortunately, antihistamines took care of that, plus some oxygen. The swelling’s gone down and he’s able to breathe on his own. Right now he’s moping and very sorry for himself, but he’s taken a few tentative laps of water which, trust me, is the best thing that’s happened to him today.”
She had a low, sweet voice and Jake found himself leaning closer, trying to catch what she was saying. He caught a glimpse of her back view and smiled. His guess about her had been close. She was tall, long-limbed, and a little bit gawky in a doctor’s white coat and jeans, but her hair was pale blond and not dark like Ali MacGraw’s. She wore it pulled back in a fat braid, like a pony’s mane in a dressage show, and a thin strand of silver and turquoise stones was strung around her neck. He’d bet anything she drank chamomile tea.
He was still smiling when she turned and caught his eye.
Surprised, she answered his smile. “Be there in a minute,” she called and went back to her patient and his owner.
“The thing is,” she told the owner in a sharper tone, “it’s okay if you and the cat don’t eat for a while. You both have enough body fat to get by, but water is essential and Marmalade will have to stay here until I’m satisfied he’s okay.”