The Hotel Riviera(15)

Chapter 15




The noise of a car pulling into the gravel parking lot broke the silence. Surprised, I glanced at my watch. Almost two A.M. All my guests, with the exception of the brutish Mr. Falcon, were home, and in any case Falcon drove the Harley. Car doors slammed, then I heard heavy footsteps crunching on the sandy path heading to my cottage.

A trickle of fear ran up my spine. It was the middle of the night, everyone was sleeping, I was alone. Even if I screamed no one would hear me, tucked away in my private little corner, shaded by thick hedges of oleander and honeysuckle.

I was suddenly so hot with fear, I could hear my heart thudding. I ran to the door, threw on the bolt, ran back, locked the windows, grabbed the phone…I’d call the police. They’d be here in what? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen?…Oh God, it would be too late.

The bead curtain clanked as it was thrust aside, then someone knocked. I forced myself into absolute stillness, hoping whoever it was would think no one was here and just go away…after all, there was nothing worth stealing anyway…But did robbers knock?

“Madame Laforêt,” a commanding French voice said. “Open up, please. It’s the gendarmes.”

The police. At two o’clock in the morning? I was already fumbling with the bolt and the lock. And then my heart stopped its thudding and sank like a stone. It must be about Patrick, I thought. They’ve found Patrick.

I got the door open and stood looking at the man facing me, big and bulky in a battered Panama hat and a crumpled white jacket. The top buttons of his shirt were open and a tuft of black chest hair stuck out above his loosely knotted yellow tie. He didn’t look like a policeman and I edged quickly back behind the door. Then I noticed the pair of uniformed gendarmes behind him.

I clutched my hand to my sunken heart like a soap opera queen. “What is it, what’s happened?”

The big man removed his battered Panama and held it to his chest. “Madame Laforêt,” he said, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Detective Claude Mercier of the Marseilles police. These gentlemen are my colleagues from the local precinct. I need to talk to you.”

The Marseilles police? It couldn’t be good news. I held open the door and they strode past me. Their authoritative masculine presence seemed to suck all the air out of my small pretty room. I couldn’t breathe…Anything could have happened, I told myself, sinking legless into the sofa. Anything…But these were the good guys, they were on my side…weren’t they?

“Vous permettez, madame?” Detective Mercier pulled up a chair. He sat facing me, leaning forward, elbows resting on his spread knees, twirling the brim of his Panama between his fingers. He stared into my face.

When I could stand his silence no longer, I blurted out, “For God’s sake, why are you here at two in the morning? What’s happened? Is it Patrick?”

The detective placed his hat carefully on his knees. He sighed as he sat back, hands clasped, fingers linked, thumbs twirling slowly.

“Madame Laforêt, your husband’s car, the silver Porsche Carrara, has been found abandoned in a garage on the outskirts of Marseilles.” He held up his hand. “And no, madame, your husband was not in the vehicle. Right now the Porsche is being gone over by forensics, with the proverbial fine-tooth comb, for any signs of…” His voice dropped a dramatic register. “Of violence.”

That final softly spoken word echoed through my brain.

Detective Mercier was suddenly gentle. “Madame Laforêt, why don’t you tell me everything you know about your husband’s disappearance. It would be in your best interest. And of course, madame”—he leaned conspiratorially toward me, speaking so softly only I could hear him—“I will look after you personally. I’ll see that you are well taken care of, that you are treated with respect.” His eyes locked onto mine. “After all, a woman like you, a lady…”

So that’s why the police were here at two in the morning. They thought I had killed my husband. Detective Mercier was being nice to me to get me to confess.

“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” I said, suddenly cautious.

Mercier’s dark brows folded into a straight line. “Are you telling me you know nothing? That your husband simply left one sunny morning and never came back?”

I nodded yes, and I felt the sweat slide icily between my shoulder blades. I said, “But now you’ve found his car, surely you’ll be able to track him down? You and your colleagues in forensics…?”

The detective stopped me with that upraised palm again. “Forensics deal in death, Madame Laforêt.”

I gaped at him. “What do you mean? Where is my husband?”

Mercier lumbered to his feet. He walked to the door with the gendarmes following him. As he opened the door I heard the thunder, rumbling closer. He turned and looked back at me. “We were hoping you would be able to tell us that, Madame Laforêt,” he said. “Since you were the last person to see him, and you are a suspect in his possible murder.”





Chapter 16




Miss N

Mollie Nightingale couldn’t sleep either. It was her talk with Lola that was the culprit, she decided. Mentioning Tom had been a mistake. This always happened: it triggered off her subconscious, bringing him back again, larger than life—and twice as dead.