The Hotel Riviera(22)

“And mine is Mollie Nightingale. Ex-headmistress of Queen Wilhelmina’s, the best girls’ school in London.” She took a sip of her coffee and nudged me to do the same, glancing at Jack over the cup’s rim. “And what do you do, Mr. Farrar?”

He grinned. “Isn’t that considered bad form in England? Asking people what they do?”

“That may be, but you understand I need to know who and what you are.”

Jack got to his feet. “Truth of the matter is, Miss Nightingale, I have no personal interest in Patrick or in his disappearance, except that my dog ate his wife’s cheese. And since my role in this affair is now complete, I’m happy to be on my way.”

“Not so fast.” Miss Nightingale waved him imperiously back into his seat. Jack probably hadn’t felt like this since he was ten years old and had been called before the principal for carving his initials in his desk.

Miss N pushed her glasses farther up her nose, the better to look him up and down. She liked what she saw and she nodded, then took another sip of coffee and said, “Lola is in serious trouble and she needs all the help she can get. Mr. Farrar, I may look like a simple old lady, but I want you to know that I was married to a Scotland Yard detective.” She gave him a piercing glance over the rim of her coffee cup. “And that’s no small change, as you Yanks would say. He was a powerful man, my Tom. A dangerous man too, because he had no thought for his own safety.

“Tom would often talk to me about the criminal mind and his theories on how it worked. He said it wasn’t all that difficult. Criminal minds seem to think alike, and most of them are not all that clever, though there are a few exceptions, mostly in the corporate world. However, I helped Tom solve several of his cases, always behind the scene, of course, because no man wants to think his wife is cleverer than he is, do they?”

Her pale blue eyes behind those big glasses were so innocent that we both laughed.

“Anyhow,” Miss N said, “I’m pledging Lola my help and the benefit of my criminal experience. No matter what has happened to Patrick, we shall find out. And if he’s run off with another woman, my best advice to you, Lola, is get rid of him. And if it’s…the worst”—she phrased it delicately—“then our job is to find out who did it.”

It felt so good to have someone on my side, someone who believed in me, someone to help me. I leaned over and clasped Miss N’s hand in mine. “Thank you. Again,” I said, and Miss N smiled and patted my hand soothingly. “There, there, child,” she said, as she must have a thousand or more times to distressed schoolgirls. “It’ll be all right in the end, I promise you.”

Jack Farrar was looking at us, obviously wondering how he’d gotten himself into this and no doubt looking for a way out.

I still don’t know what made him say it, but say it he did.

“Okay, so we have to find Patrick,” Jack Farrar said. “Count me in.”





Chapter 21




Jack walked me back to my car. I didn’t say much en route, I’d finally run out of steam. My rusty CV2 looked about to collapse under the strain of age and hard work. It hadn’t been washed in weeks and was covered in a fine layer of dust. Bad Dog circled it then lifted a contemptuous leg on a rear tire.

I scowled, then turned to glare at Jack.

“Hmm.” He looked at the car again.

“It works for me,” I said, my stiff posture betraying my irritation.

“Looks as though that car’s been working for you for a very long time.” He gave the hood a little thump with his fist. “Damn good little workhorse, always was, or so I heard. Never owned one personally.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, but then people like you probably run around in silver BMW convertibles, or red Ferraris.”

“Just goes to show how little you know about ‘people like me.’ Besides, don’t you know it’s bad to make generalizations?”

He opened the car door; it groaned and when I switched on the engine it trembled like a tired old mare.

I wound the window down. “So what do you drive?”

“Certainly not a BMW, or a Ferrari.”

“How about a red Corvette?”

He laughed. “Red’s right. A Ford F350 quad-cab pickup. I’m a working man. Like you I need to haul stuff, only in my case it’s boat stuff, not the marketing.”

I shoved my hair back with an impatient hand and pushed my sunglasses on top of my head. I doubted Jack Farrar thought there was a beauty lurking under all that hair. I was a mess. He slammed the car door. The catch was loose and, like everything else, it rattled.

“Are you sure this thing is safe?”

“It’s been safe for more than six years, no reason it shouldn’t be now.”

“Good feminine reasoning.”

“Good masculine answer.” My exasperated sigh made him laugh.

“You take dates out in that Ford pickup?” I asked.

“Depends. But my other car’s a Porsche.”

“Hah!” I gave a triumphant snort. “I knew it.”

“An old Porsche, but it’s built for speed and I guess I’m a speedster at heart.”

I put on the sunglasses and leaned out the window, looking up at him. “I don’t know why you’re doing what you’re doing, Jack Farrar,” I said, suddenly humble, “but…thank you.”