The Hotel Riviera(19)

Hands stuck in his pockets, Jean-Paul moved sleepily toward the bathroom behind the kitchen.

I slugged down the rest of my coffee, told Marit to see that our youth-of-all-work got his act—and the breakfast tables—together, grabbed my shopping list and headed for the car, making a small detour to the front desk to check on the day’s arrivals and departures.

So far only the Oldroyds, the sweet Yorkshire honeymoon couple, were due to depart. I would make sure to see them before they left, give them a big hug and wish them well, and say, sincerely, that I hoped they would come back. And of course they would; guests always returned to the Hotel Riviera.

I was leaning on the pretty rosewood table gazing absently through the open front door when I saw Miss Nightingale in an apple-green jersey skirt that drooped a bit at the hem and a matching many-pocketed safari shirt. She stood, sandaled feet apart, head reverently down, hands behind her back, admiring Mr. Falcon’s gleaming red and chrome Harley. She put a hand over her heart and heaved a big envious sigh. Her own little wasp-yellow rented Vespa looked almost comical parked next to it.

I waved to her and she walked back inside and gave me a long look. “No news from the husband yet, my dear?” she said.

I shook my head, glancing round to see if anyone had overheard, though it was certainly no secret that Patrick had left me. There could have been no more public local departure since Charles left Diana: the whole town knew, as well as all my guests.

“I saw the police last night,” Miss N said. I threw her a surprised glance. “I didn’t mean to pry, my dear,” she added. “I just happened to be out on my balcony when they arrived.” She hesitated, then said, “I trust it wasn’t bad news, Lola.”

“They found Patrick’s Porsche in a parking garage in Marseilles.”

“Marseilles? Now I wonder, why there?”

I shrugged. “They’re checking it for forensic evidence.”

Miss Nightingale’s eyes narrowed but she made no comment and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was Detective Mercier’s prime suspect.

“I’m just on my way to the market in Saint-Tropez,” I said, gathering my wits. “Where are you heading?”

“I thought I might take it easy today,” she said, as we walked outside together. “Perhaps I’ll visit the market, pick up a gift for Mrs. Wormesly at the Blakelys Arms. She always looks after my Yorkie, Little Nell, when I’m away.”

I asked if she’d like a lift, but she shook her head and said she’d just as well take the Vespa in case she felt like wandering farther afield.

I watched as she planted herself firmly in the saddle, adjusted her straw sunhat, hitched her handbag farther up her arm, then started up the motor and jolted up the driveway.

My own “silver chariot” awaited me. I should have been at the market half an hour ago. As I climbed into the car I remembered Detective Mercier telling me that forensics were going over Patrick’s silver Porsche with a fine-tooth comb. With a foreboding shiver, I wondered what they had found.





Chapter 18




Jack

Jack Farrar was strolling through the Saint-Tropez Saturday market in the Place des Lices, feeling at peace with the world. His black and white dog roved in small devoted circles around him, sniffing busily.

There was something about Jack’s broad-shouldered rangy stride that was unmistakably American, and something about his craggy tanned face and the fine lines around his eyes that marked him as a man of experience. It was definitely a lived-in kind of face. His brown hair was short and spiky, his eyes were the color of the Mediterranean on a perfect day, and there were washboard abs under the old blue T-shirt that bore the logo “Rhode Island Regatta.” As he walked women met his eyes, smiling interestedly at him. He gave them a somewhat lopsided smile back and kept on walking.

Both he and Bad Dog loved the hustle and bustle of the French markets: the dog for the good food smells and the tasty treats that might drop his way, and Jack for the miraculous way the markets sprang up out of nowhere in the early hours, filling the silent cobbled square with the harsh stutter of motors as the trucks arrived; then the rattle of iron struts on the cobblestones and the flapping of canvas as the stalls were assembled. Then came the fish trucks with their loads of shining silver, and the stallholders shouting greetings to each other as they artistically arranged their wares. He loved the way each scarlet berry seemed to bloom with velvety temptation and the way the graceful zucchini blossoms lay delicately in line, and how the small shiny potatoes were piled high, waiting to be picked over by the choosy French housewives.

He enjoyed the early heat of the sun on his bare arms, and the faintly bitter tang of that first steaming cup of coffee at the Café des Arts, where he liked to slather sweet butter of a kind only the French can make onto a still-hot baguette and munch it happily, watching the Saint-Tropez world go by. He liked looking at the hardworking locals, the suntanned tourists, the chic celebrities, and the snooty Parisians, plus there were more cute girls to the square mile here than anywhere else in the world.

Heading for that cup of coffee, he edged his way through the swarms of housewives clutching their filets, their net shopping bags. He was passing the cheese stall, sniffing the pungent odors appreciatively, when Lola Laforêt turned abruptly right into his path.

She took a quick step back, stuck out an arm to balance herself, and dropped her bags. Big Dog was quick; he’d wolfed down a perfect roulade of Madame Auric’s goat cheese before she even had time to move.