The Hotel Riviera(48)

Bébé must have been Leonie’s cat, and in truth the animal had a look of the woman in the photos: the pointed face, the grace, the pose of the eternal coquette. So, Leonie had buried her “baby,” for that was the cat’s name, under this very tree where they’d probably sat together, just the way she had today, looking out to sea and dreaming away the afternoon.

Miss Nightingale gave the little stone cat a goodbye pat, then wandered back through the garden to the quiet road. She closed the rusting iron gates carefully behind her, not wanting others to discover her private place, then she got back into the car and returned to the autoroute, heading east.

“Italy,” she said to herself, smiling, “what an adventure.”





Chapter 46




The little Fiat chugged up the steep curves of the sea road, skimming round hairpin bends with views that, if you lost concentration for a split second, were literally to die for. Miss Nightingale had no such qualms, she could have driven roads like this all day, and possibly all night, without flinching at the sight of the sheer drop on her right and the huge trucks roaring past on her left. The drive was longer than she had thought, though, and she pressed her foot to the metal, urging the small car on.

When she finally crossed the border at Ventimiglia she realized it was too late to go any farther. Heading for the seafront, she slid the Fiat into a too small parking space, congratulating herself on her excellent driving. She found a small clean-looking café and ordered lasagna and a glass of lemonade.

Nothing like ice-cold lemonade on a hot afternoon, she thought, glancing around at her neighbors. No tourists here, just local workingmen hunched over a game of chess and a couple of grandmotherly types, like herself, she supposed, except they had the luxury of taking care of their grandchildren for the afternoon. Ah well, she’d had “her girls” at Queen Wilhelmina’s for all those years and their memories took the place of grandchildren in her life.

She toyed with the lasagna. It was the first time she’d eaten a bad meal in Italy, though she’d stayed at pensiones and albergos throughout that land for many years. Even the lemonade was bad, sharp and acidic and not cold enough. Her little adventure had turned out to be not such an adventure after all, and now she had to face the long drive back. Sighing, she paid her bill, leaving an adequate tip even though they didn’t deserve it. She decided to stretch her legs before driving on.

The new Ducati 748S parked near the café caught her eye immediately. She thought how Tom would have loved it. Slim, sleek, powerful, the epitome of motorcycle design. “Ducatis cost a small fortune,” he’d told her, “sort of the Ferrari of the biker set.”

Miss Nightingale walked in little circles, admiring the gray Ducati with bright red wheels from every angle. She wondered whom it belonged to. Then, smiling to herself, she walked on. A brisk ten-minute stroll and she would be on her way.

Tying the ribbons of her straw hat firmly under her chin, she stared around the square looking for something to admire: a statue, a store, an old carved doorway, but there was nothing and she wandered back to the parking area.

The owner of the Ducati straddled the bike. Miss Nightingale paused to look. Actually, her feet just stopped moving. She was frozen to the spot.

The Ducati owner put on his helmet. He looked right and left, checked behind. For a brief second he glanced Miss Nightingale’s way, then he roared down the street and was gone.

Miss Nightingale’s nostrils narrowed like a hound sniffing the scent. She took off her glasses and polished them. She put them back on her nose and stared down the cobbled street as though expecting him to return. She took a little leather notebook from her handbag and wrote down the motorcycle’s number. She had learned a thing or two from her Tom, after all.

And the man on the expensive Ducati was Patrick Laforêt or she’d eat her straw hat.





Chapter 47




Patrick

Something Patrick Laforêt loved almost as much as he loved women was speed. Especially on a machine like the one between his knees right now, with the exhaust pipes under the seat roaring like a jet at takeoff.

The Ducati 748S was a beauty, sleek as a stealth fighter-jet with its matte-gray paint job and red magnesium wheels. There was nothing to beat it, except maybe his Porsche. He regretted losing that Porsche but Evgenia had said it had to go. It was too easy to trace to him. She was right, of course. Evgenia was always right. She seemed to know about these things, the way other women know how to look after a baby.

He revved the engine as he drove onto the autoroute, streaking past the competition, leaving them in his dust like the ordinary people they were. Ordinary meaning poor. Patrick knew what it felt like to be poor and it was not a good feeling. Being broke did not make him happy; he was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life and the respect that money brings. He’d struggled with that problem for a long time, sometimes up and sometimes down, but now the future was all set to be up.

He patted the envelope tucked into the inner pocket of his denim jacket, feeling its edges hard against his chest. Evgenia had done it again; their nest egg was growing, but not fast enough for her. She was as ambitious as he was and twice as ruthless. For instance, he could never have come up with the plan she had devised, never in a million years. Maybe you had to be Russian, or a woman, or both, to come up with a scheme like that. Or maybe you just had to be beautiful enough to get away with it.