The Hotel Riviera(30)

We all stared at Falcon sitting with his back to the view, drinking whiskey and chomping down the sweet tomato bruschetta as though it were airline peanuts. His hands were large and pale with matted dark hairs along the fingers. Like some kind of creepy-crawly, I thought with a shudder. Plus he was built like a bull: the wide neck, the powerful shoulders, the long arms.

“Brutal,” I found myself whispering too, though he was too far away to hear. “That’s exactly how he looks. Like a brute.”

“He’s obviously shadowing you,” Miss Nightingale said. “Why else would he be here at the Hotel Riviera? And as I said, I’m willing to bet it’s something to do with Patrick.”

“And I’m willing to bet on your instincts, Miss N,” Jack agreed. “I can’t think of any other reason a man like that would be here.” He looked at me. “Has he said anything to you?”

“Only to demand a room—our best room—and to order his food. Other than that he’s pretty much ignored me. In fact he’s ignored all of us, though he does take frequent walks around the property. Admiring the garden, I suppose.”

“That man’s no gardener,” Miss N said.

I was watching the movement of Jack’s tanned throat as he swallowed the cool pink wine. I told myself nervously I’d better get out of this sensual mode; just because I hadn’t been with a man in a couple of years, not even been near one if truth be told, didn’t mean I had to fall all to pieces when the first attractive stranger took my fancy. Besides, there was always the question of Patrick.

“I checked with an old friend in Marseilles,” Jack said. I raised my eyebrows, surprised he knew anyone there. “You meet a lot of people in the sailing fraternity,” he added. “A friend in every port, y’know how it goes. Anyhow, this guy is an ex-cop who does a little fine-tuned private investigating on the side. He’s agreed to use his contacts, find out what he can about the Porsche—where the garage is, what state the car was in—and exactly what the police think happened to Patrick.”

He gave me that long calculating look again, then blunt and to the point, said, “You know this might mean that Patrick is dead.”

I stared down at my hands. I didn’t know if I could handle that. I could not bear to know that beautiful disloyal Patrick was dead.

“Closure,” Miss N said firmly. “That’s what Americans call it.”

I refilled the wine glasses with a shaky hand and asked Jean-Paul to bring another bottle, then I told them about my afternoon visitor, Patrick’s old friend Giselle Castille.

“Patrick’s longtime lover,” Jack said, catching on immediately.

“And no doubt she’s jealous,” Miss N added.

“Did you know anything about gambling debts?” Jack asked.

“Only that we never seemed to have money, but you know this is just a small hotel, there’s not a lot of profit to be made.”

“It’s Lola’s ‘labor of love,’” Miss N explained.

“And obviously gambling was Patrick’s. Bad enough for ‘the boys’ to be after him, if Madame Castille is to be believed.”

“I believe her,” I said, suddenly sure. “I met Patrick in Las Vegas. He was always there. Sure, he was a gambler.”

“And a loser,” Jack added quietly.

Just then Red Shoup emerged onto the terrace. As always she looked pulled together in a way I never could hope to emulate, in a coral silk dress with an agate-green pashmina thrown around her shoulders to protect her from the breeze that had a new autumnal edge to it.

“Bonsoir, mes amis,” she said. “And how are you tonight, Lola?”

I said that I was good and she turned her smile on Jack. I made the introductions, then Jerry Shoup arrived and they stayed to drink wine with us, telling us about their day.

I left them to it and went to check the kitchen again, greeting Budgie Lampson and the boys en route. I realized with a pang that the season was rapidly drawing to a close and soon all my guests would be gone. I wondered what I would do when they had left and I was here alone with my problems and the police on my tail, and gambling debts and the mysterious Mr. Falcon lurking in the background. I shuddered just thinking about it.

“Ghost walking over your grave,” Budgie said cheerfully, then clapped a dismayed hand across her mouth. “Oh, dammit, I said the wrong thing again.”

I had to laugh because, with her frizzy mop of blond hair and baby-blue eyes, she looked the exact picture of a naughty little girl. “That’s okay. And anyhow, it wasn’t really a ghost, it was just a cool wind blowing up. Makes me think that autumn’s coming too soon.”

“Not soon enough,” she said feelingly. “Then these little buggers will go back to school and I’ll be reprieved. It’ll be back to London for me, and back to the cold and the snow, I suppose. Oh boy, am I going to miss this place. And you too, of course, Lola.” She patted my arm encouragingly just as Jean-Paul arrived with Oranginas for the boys, who were already halfway through a platter of bruschetta.

Then my adorable golden Honeymooners arrived, she simply glowing, and he sturdy and pink-cheeked and yellow-haired, with kind gray eyes behind his rimless glasses. I was so glad they had stayed on, even though they’d told us it would destroy their budget for the entire year, but they thought it was worth it. I got them settled, sent Jean-Paul around with the menus, then went back to Miss N and Jack, and the Shoups. They were all talking about the mysterious Mr. Falcon, and I supposed, about me and Patrick.