The Hotel Riviera(31)

I stood there for a moment, thinking that anyone looking at us would not see the sinister undercurrents. All they would see was a happy group of people on a flowery terrace overlooking the blue Mediterranean on a gorgeous September evening. And that’s who we were, I thought, suddenly feeling better. I’d hit bottom last night with Detective Mercier and I’d gone under again this morning in the market. But now I felt a sudden lightening of my heart. I was on the way up again.

“Madame Laforêt?” I hadn’t heard the man coming and neither had the others. A little man, squat and soft-footed, plump and pale; no Saint-Tropez tourist tan here. He peered at me from behind his gold glasses like a sharp-eyed little bird.

Everyone turned to look. Even Mr. Falcon stopped chomping bruschetta and looked interested.

“I am Madame Laforêt,” I said.

“And I am Ma?tre Dumas. I’m a Paris attorney representing my client, Monsieur Laurent Solis.”

The silence on the terrace was palpable. Like Onassis and Safra, Solis was a name to be reckoned with. I stared at Ma?tre Dumas, astonished.

“I have to inform you, Madame Laforêt,” he said solemnly, “that Monsieur Solis is taking legal action against you in the matter ownership of the Hotel Riviera.”

He held out a document tied in legal-pink ribbon and stamped with a lot of official-looking red seals. Stunned, I reached out and took it from him.

“Here is my card, madame,” he said. “If you wish to contact me, as I am sure you will, you can reach me at the Hotel Martinez.” He stared at me for a long moment through his tiny glasses. “Eh bien, I will say good evening, Madame Laforêt,” he said with a little bow. “And may I wish you all bon appétit.” And he hurried away as silently as he had come.





Chapter 28




Suddenly, dinner became a communal affair. Tables were pushed together and my guests, with the exception of Mr. Falcon who had roared off on his Harley, huddled around, pouring wine and offering theories on Ma?tre Dumas’s statement, examining the legal documents, speculating on Laurent Solis’s wealth and reputation, and exactly why he’d want to take my home from me.

“It’s not only your home, it’s your living,” Jerry Shoup reminded me sternly. Then Miss Nightingale said, “Patrick’s at the bottom of this, I’m sure of it.” Not knowing Patrick, Jack Farrar stayed on the sidelines, but he did say, “This is more complicated than I thought,” which Red Shoup said was the understatement of the year.

By now I was in a state of shock and had no head for cooking, so Marit coped with dinner and Jean-Paul served, and for once everybody ate the same thing. I apologized, of course, but nobody minded; in fact, the table became almost partylike as more wine was poured and everyone tucked in to stuffed artichokes, seafood risotto and salad, then the clafoutis and tiny thin-crusted apple tarts, little wheels of brown-sugary sweetness that Marit had thrown together. More wine was poured, and the discussion shifted to what to do next.

“Ma?tre Dumas was right,” Jack said, “the only way to find out what’s really going on is for you to meet with Solis.”

It was said that he had made his first fortune selling arms to any country’s enemies, including his own. Now, though, he was “a citizen of the world,” directing his global business operations from his luxury yacht, and those businesses included hotels, property, and oil. Solis was said to have the largest fleet of tankers in the world.

Noticing my terrified expression, the whole table offered to come with me, but in the end it was decided only Jack and Miss Nightingale would accompany me. Jack went off to make the call to Ma?tre Dumas, but he wasn’t there, so we poured more wine and waited for him to return the call.

It was almost midnight when the phone rang. The Honeymooners were looking sleepy, Budgie had put the boys to bed, and the Shoups were playing cribbage. We looked silently at each other as Jack went to answer it. When he came back I asked, breathlessly, “So…?”

“That was Ma?tre Dumas. We have an appointment with Solis at eleven A.M. on the Agamemnon in Monte Carlo. Dumas said we can’t miss it, it’s the biggest yacht there.”

“The Agamemnon,” Miss Nightingale said thoughtfully. “Now that’s an interesting choice, a Greek naming his yacht after a man at the root of classical Greek tragedy. Agamemnon, as you may know, was the king of Mycenae and commander of the Greek army in the Trojan War. He captured Cassandra, the daughter of the enemy king and she became his lover. Agamemnon brought her back to Troy, where he was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her lover.”

I hadn’t known Agamemnon’s story and I found myself wondering why Solis had chosen such a name. I knew I was not going to enjoy meeting a man who could link himself so closely with such a story.



Jack walked me back to the Cottage. “You sure you’ll be all right?” he asked, standing, hands in his jeans pockets, on my little front porch.

“No,” I said, because I could already feel my guts shriveling at the thought of losing my little hotel.

“I’m not surprised, I’d probably feel the same if somebody just told me they were about to take away my home.”

“Where is your home exactly?”

“Newport, Rhode Island.” He looked at me and grinned. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s too cold.”