The Charmers: A Novel(13)

Aunt Jolly had an old sausage dog that still lived here, along with a Siamese cat and a bright yellow canary that sang. The dog walked cautiously toward the doctor, stretching its long neck to sniff his sandaled feet. He ignored it.

“I did not invite you onto my property,” I said, choking back my anger. “And you should at least acknowledge the dog. He lives here, this is his home.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. And with that he walked past me and through the already open door.

Mouth agape, I caught the faint tang of briarwood cologne as he passed, a warm male aroma. What was wrong with me? This guy was talking about Aunt Jolly’s house, my house, as though it was his, walking into it like he owned it and I was caught up in his scent.

“You have no right to walk into my house.”

I hurried after him, the dog slinking at my heels. The Siamese was absent and the canary had disappeared from its open cage. I didn’t blame them. The vibes were not good.

He turned and for the first time really looked at me, as though he saw me and not as though I were some insignificant servant, here to do his bidding.

“You must understand,” he said. His voice was low and even and rather attractive if truth be known. “You must understand that whatever you have been told, whatever you believe or think, you did not inherit this house. It was deeded to me prior to her death by Madame Jolly Matthews.”

He’d called her Jolly. Only her friends and family, small though it was, namely me, ever did that. My aunt’s proper name was Juliet, though she claimed no one but her mother had ever used it.

“Well, then,” I said, considering my words carefully before I voiced them, because this was a situation I recognized was fraught with sudden danger. “Well, then, Mr.…?” I paused, waiting for him to remind me his name was Chad Prescott though I remembered it perfectly well. But he did not remind me, he simply stood there, arms folded now across his chest, all manly-man in a white polo shirt and pale pink bathing shorts, though had you asked me earlier how a guy in pink shorts could look masculine I would have laughed in your face.

“I’ll have my attorney send you the appropriate documents,” he said, turning and speaking over his shoulder, dropping his card on the hall table as he left. “I shall expect you to be gone by next week. Please leave everything as you found it.”

“The dog and the cat and the bird as well?” I was steaming with the heat of sudden anger. And, I admit it, fear. Because what if he was right and the villa did belong to him? I would regret having sold my little flat in London and all dreams of sunny South of France would be just dreams again.

“Take the animals,” he called back. “I do not want them around.”

I yelled back, “This is my house, mister, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Yes, there is,” he said and he sounded so calm, so collected, while I had fallen to pieces. I feared he was right.

*

“Of course the villa is yours,” my attorney, James Arnold Long, said in his usual calm, controlled, nothing-will-ever-get-to-him voice that I’m sure he uses on all his usually upset and irate clients. After all, he’s the one who has to sort out their problems; they can’t have him getting upset and irate as well.

“He claims he has papers to prove Aunt Jolly—he calls her that—gave him the villa.”

“And when did she supposedly do this?”

I could just imagine old-lawyer-Long, with his half-specs sliding down his nose, flipping through the papers on his desk, probably doing at least two things at once as I knew he usually did, instead of concentrating on my problem, which was now a major problem.

“I mean, he’s a doctor, a surgeon, he has documents,” I said, sounding feeble and feminine and a bit lost. Actually, a lot lost. I was in love with a villa. It was mine.

“Did he give the documents to you, or at least copies?”

“Well, no.… But he seemed very sure of himself and his position as owner.”

“Give me his phone number and his e-mail address,” Long said. “I’ll take care of him.” The lawyer’s voice was firm, determined; he knew his rights, that was his job, after all. “Now you just go about your business, your life, as normal, let us take care of Dr. Prescott.”

I clicked off the phone and went and sat on the terrace, for once not seeing the beautiful view in front of me. I was too in my own head, even when the Siamese jumped onto my lap and settled down as though she now owned me. The dog sat panting at my feet, big brown eyes fixed anxiously on my face, no doubt taking in my worried expression.

Verity was staring at me too, all indignant. “What was that about? What does he mean, it’s his villa?”

She looked so skinny and bedraggled, ready to stamp her foot in the good old-fashioned classic manner of outrage. I shrugged, assuming a nonchalance I did not feel.

“The lawyer tells me it’s all nonsense. Of course the villa is mine. He’ll sort out this Dr. Chad Prescott.” I grinned at her. “What d’ya think, in his pink shorts?”

Verity sighed. “Cute,” she said. “Like all the bad boys.”

I had to admit she was right.





9

The Colonel

Rufus Barrada, or the Colonel, as he was always referred to because of his ten years of service in the French army prior to joining the gendarmes, had seen too many road accidents to be sympathetic. He’d been a happily married man for seven years when his wife was killed. She was walking from their home, an old farmhouse that had been in his family for two centuries, to the Saturday village market, striding along the side of the road when she was struck by a tourist RV and knocked into a rocky ditch.