The Hotel Riviera(29)

I didn’t remember dressing up as being such hard work, but maybe that was because I hadn’t done it in such a long time. I took a final look and decided I’d do. Besides, I should have been in the kitchen fifteen minutes ago, or else serving drinks and telling my guests about tonight’s menu, and asking about their day. I headed for the door, thinking how surprised they’d be when they saw me; all they usually got was me in chef’s white’s or, at most, a T-shirt and Capris.

I stopped, my hand on the doorknob, thinking about it. Maybe I’d overdone it. Jack Farrar was coming to talk about Patrick, he wasn’t coming to see me.

I ran back to the bedroom, flung off the dress and the heels, tugged on my usual Hotel Riviera tee and Capris, shoved my feet into comfortable thong sandals, and shook my hair out of its unaccustomed neatness. Without a further look in the mirror, I marched firmly back to my rightful place in the world. My kitchen.

Out on the terrace, Jean-Paul was setting out bowls of olives and crudités and Miss Nightingale was already at her table, sipping pastis. I admired her blue and white dress and said I thought she looked like a piece of Wedgwood china, and she laughed and gave me a conspiratorial wink as I hurried by. I sneaked a quick glance across the bay at Bad Dog. Nothing doing there. But it was still only six-fifteen. Too early for the Naked Man.

I checked Nadine and Marit in the kitchen, then piled tomato bruschetta onto platters and garnished them with sprigs of rosemary cut from the bush outside the kitchen window. I mounded tapenade into small bowls and piled straw baskets with different breads. I checked my figs; checked the fish; checked the lamb and the salad and the clafoutis; then went back outside to check on my guests.

To my surprise Mr. Falcon was in conversation with Miss Nightingale. She must have waylaid him on his way to his table.

“That’s a wonderful machine you have out there, Mr. Falcon,” I heard her say.

“Er, thank you, ma’am. I kinda like it myself,” he replied.

“My husband had a Harley. Turquoise it was. An odd color for a Scotland Yard detective, don’t you think?”

Falcon shifted his expensively loafered feet, obviously uncomfortable. “Er, yes, ma’am. I guess so.”

“Still, a powerful machine suits a powerful man, I always say.” Miss N cocked her head to one side, smiling at him, but he was already edging away.

“Yeah. Well, I’m sure you’re right, ma’am.”

“It’s Miss Nightingale, Mr. Falcon,” she called after him. “And it’s very nice to meet you too.”

But he was already hurrying to a table at the end of the terrace, as far away from her as he could get.

“Why Miss N, I do believe you scared Mr. Falcon away,” I said, depositing tapenade and bruschetta on her table.

“Just thought I’d break the ice,” she said serenely. “See what he’s really like under that tough-guy fa?ade.”

“And did you?”

“Just as I thought, he’s dangerous.” She nibbled on an olive. “The question is, what exactly is he doing here? The Hotel Riviera is clearly not where he wants to be. Logically, my dear Lola, it must have something to do with Patrick.”

Suddenly legless, I dropped into the chair next to her. “But what?” I said, just as Jack Farrar turned the corner onto the terrace.





Chapter 27




I took in the faded old jeans on the lean hard body, the crumpled white shirt rolled at the sleeves. Obviously they were not into ironing on the sloop though they were squeaky-clean. I also noticed the healthy sheen of his tanned skin, or maybe it was just weather-beaten to that warm gold. His face was long, his jaw square, and his blue eyes matched his jeans and had the same sort of crinkles as his shirt. His brown hair was cropped short and looked as though he might have cut it himself. His nose was what you might call positive, a bit bumpy, a little crooked, and he had a smiley mouth with the best teeth I’ve ever seen. He looked too good to be true.

I was glad I’d changed out of the dress; it would definitely have looked as though I were trying too hard. And I had been. And I shouldn’t have.

“Miss Nightingale, Lola.” Jack Farrar gave us a funny polite little bow. He gave me a long glance. “You’re looking better.”

“Almost human, you mean,” I said, defensive about the mascara and the lipstick and that he might think I’d fancied myself up specially for him.

He grinned. “Almost.”

“Wine?” I asked.

“Wine is perfect, thanks.”

This time I served a bottle from our own vineyard, around the corner and up the hill. Not up to Cuvée Paul Signac’s standard, perhaps, but very soft and drinkable. Jack nodded his approval, which pleased me more than I thought it should.

“You look smart tonight, Mr. Farrar,” Miss N said, and I caught the underlying note of approval in her voice that meant that she thought Jack was okay.

“Miss N has one of my guests under suspicion,” I said. “The man sitting at the far end of the terrace.”

Jack twisted his neck and took a peek. “I noticed him last night,” he said. “I think I know him from somewhere, but I can’t place him. Looks as though he wishes he were anywhere but here,” he added.

“That’s his Harley out front,” Miss N told him in a conspiratorial whisper. She leaned closer. “I told Lola the first time I saw Mr. Falcon, he’s a dangerous man.”