The Charmers: A Novel(15)

All of it is there, all to hand, all ready to be eaten, or to be worn, or to slip your feet into, or to decorate your tanned arms and neck, or perfume your body. The South of France is a sensual experience and one never to be forgotten.

When I first came here, it was as though I suddenly came to life. My London body, kept wrapped in coats and scarves and with a sweater more often than not even in summer months, changed in days to a body clad in sweet little T-shirts in pretty colors, my newly brown legs displayed in those white shorts, my fiery red hair held back by a jeweled band, my lips painted pink. I had come home. I had come to life.

*

One day out of hospital, I was definitely a new woman. First, I needed transportation. Aunt Jolly’s small SEAT was uninspiring; I wanted air and life and speed. What else but a Harley? Turquoise blue, of course. I had read somewhere about a woman with a turquoise-blue Harley and had admired her guts. Now that woman was me.

“But you can’t get turquoise,” Verity said. “I mean, let’s face it, you’re too old.”

“I’m forty-two. Exactly the right age.” I did compromise, but not on the color. A turquoise Harley “scooter” was what I ended up with, almost a Vespa but much cuter. It suited me because parking was tough in this town and a scooter was easier to slot into those tight spaces between cars.

I took Verity to shop for necessities. Of course she had nothing other than what she’d left with, and anything I had been able to lend her that fit, which wasn’t much. She was a fast shopper and in no time we had bags of stuff draped over the handlebars as we scooted back to the Villa Romantica.

I was glad Verity had shown up in my life It was so good to have a girlfriend. I was glad to be home at the Villa Romantica.





11

The Colonel

Later, in Antibes, the Colonel was downing a second espresso at the café opposite the hairdresser’s when he spotted the man walking quickly, head down, carrying a large flat bag, which the Colonel recognized as the kind used for architectural drawings. No surprise there. He knew the man, another Russian who worked for the Boss, who was known to be involved in plans to build a condominium on a plot of land near the seafront. Now everybody knew that the Boss did not own that land, it belonged to Jolly Matthews, recently deceased by means more foul than fair.

The Colonel had looked into her death, of course. It was in his domain and a knife in the back could in no way be construed as a normal age-related demise. The poor old girl had gotten herself killed, and as the saying goes, he’d bet it was for money. And now the Boss was acting like he had claims and could go right ahead with his building plans.

The Colonel happened to know that Aunt Jolly, as she had been known to everyone in the neighborhood—where she had been well-liked—had left her estate to the niece who had almost come to her end crashing a Maserati into the canyon. Again by means foul rather than fair. The Colonel now believed she had been pushed off that road. It didn’t take more than half a brain to figure out who would gain from these deaths. And he was looking at the man that worked for him.

He drained his coffee, placed some change under the saucer, and hurried after the Russian.

He was forty-five years old; the Colonel knew that because he had studied the dossier when it became clear the Boss was trying to muscle in on Matthews’s land. In fact more than one person had put claimers on it. There was also her neighbor, Chad Prescott, who had a document, purportedly signed by Jolly Matthews to that effect. Trouble was brewing and the Boss was certain to be involved in it.

The Colonel followed the Russian at a slow pace, lingering behind other walkers, trying to look insignificant though it was difficult. Despite not being a tall man, the Colonel was hard to miss with his rugged stance, his wide shoulders, and large head jutting forward as though aways late and impatient to get wherever it was he was going. Now, however, the Russian seemed unaware of him and the Colonel followed him down the alley leading from the main square, where small boutiques of the classier kind advertised handbags and smart shoes and lingerie in their windows.

The Russian stopped to glance at the lingerie—pretty stuff, sexy in red, a touch racy for this town but the tourists loved it. And so it seemed, did the Russian because he pushed open the door and went inside.

The Colonel stood, doing his best to look as though he were simply viewing the pricey lace chemises, blushing slightly in embarrassment. Why couldn’t the Russian simply have stopped off at the mini-market or the pharmacy? Still, out he came, clutching a gold-and-white-striped bag by its gold rope handles. Whatever he’d bought had cost a pretty penny, the Colonel was sure of that. He wondered who the gift was destined for.

He did not have to wonder for long. He followed the Russian to the parking area, stopping to watch as he waved at the woman behind the wheel of a large white RV. The Colonel quickly made a note of the number on the plate and the fact that it was a British vehicle. He also noted that the woman was attractive, in her thirties, with long blond hair hanging straight to her shoulders, a butcher-boy cap planted over it, a white spaghetti-strap top, and an armload of clanking bracelets.

The Russian got in, gave her a long kiss, then gave her the bag. She dived greedily into it, pulling out a mass of lace and ribbons that seemed to delight her because she kissed him again, lingeringly, as if promising a reward later. And then she switched on the engine and screeched out of the lot before the Colonel could make a move.