The Hotel Riviera(54)

I was out of the dinghy before he had time to tie the line. Ashes were in my hair, stinging my eyes, as I ran toward the terrace. A burly fireman waved me angrily back. “Get out of here.”

I shouted at him, panicked. “You’ve got to save it, please, oh please…”

The pompier’s face was blackened with soot and smoke. “Chère madame, we will do our best. Right now it’s dangerous, the trees could ignite any minute. You must get back.”

Miss Nightingale ran toward me from the direction of the parking lot. Her eyes were red and she was coughing. “I found the fire, I called the fire brigade,” she said. “I’ve searched everywhere for Scramble, but I’m afraid I couldn’t find her.”

My body sagged, first Scramble, now this. I put my arms around Miss N. “Thank you, my friend,” I said, “but it was already too late for Scramble.”

The chief was yelling at us to get out, we were causing a hazard.

I couldn’t even look back. I took Miss N’s arm and hurried down the path to the sea.

We went back to the sloop and sat on deck, watching the Hotel Riviera burn. Two small planes were dropping gallons of water, red with flame retardant, onto the roof and the surrounding trees. A single small ember blown by the wind was all it would take for the fire to sweep through those trees and along the coast, jump the road, and head up into the hills.

We sipped Evian water, pressing the icy bottles against our hot faces, not saying much. A couple of hours later, it was all over. The pompiers were sifting through the debris, wiping off their blackened faces, packing up their hoses, taking long draughts of water, talking among themselves.

We got back in the dinghy and went to take a look. My beautiful kitchen was gutted. Choked, I shook each fireman’s hand and thanked them for preventing a disaster. I would never forget them.

The chief took me to one side and told me there was evidence of arson. Fuel had been scattered around in the kitchen and ignited. He asked if I knew anyone who might have done such a thing.

I stared at him, speechless. Oh yes, I thought it could have been Giselle Castille. It could have been Evgenia Solis, or Jeb Falcon, or anyone else who had blighted my life for the past few months.

“I’m sorry, madame,” the chief said finally, “but this is now a matter for the police.”





Chapter 53




The week following the fire was torture. There were interviews with the police and Detective Mercier made his appearance again, as well as other gendarmes. It was definitely arson. Gasoline had been poured around the kitchen, then the gas burners lit, until eventually it all exploded in flames. The kitchen was completely gutted and smoke had damaged every other part of the hotel.

I didn’t know if the insurance would cover it, but because it was arson they were stalling my claim anyway, I guessed until it could be proven I was not the culprit. There were no clues, no witnesses, no evidence. I was already under suspicion for murdering my husband, and now I was a suspected arsonist. Who would believe me if I told them I thought Solis’s wife had set fire to my hotel because she wanted me out of there? Or that maybe Giselle Castille had done it, because she wanted Patrick? Or that Jeb Falcon had done it, acting on Laurent Solis’s instructions?

After the first shock of the fire was over, Miss Nightingale dropped her bombshell and told me that she had seen Patrick. “It was him, all right, my dear,” she said, “so now you can stop worrying about the murder rap, it’ll never stick. Patrick is alive and well and driving a very expensive motorbike.”

At first, I felt relief that Patrick was alive after all. Then came the anger, that same futile anger. And then the big question. Why?

“It’s a woman of course,” Miss N said, smoothing her blue and white linen dress over her knees. “With men like Patrick, it’s always a woman. And since Giselle seems not to know his whereabouts my best guess is Evgenia Solis.”

“But Patrick doesn’t know her,” I said, astonished.

“How do you know he doesn’t?” Miss N said.

She was right, I didn’t know. It seems I didn’t know much about anything.

“If it is Evgenia,” Miss N said, “then Patrick’s playing a very dangerous game.”

Miss N gave Jack all the details about the Ducati, apologizing for not getting the number. “I’m afraid I’m just not as quick off the mark as I used to be,” she said, “but perhaps you can check out the Ducati dealers on the coast, see which one of them sold a 748S recently, matte dark gray paint job, red magnesium wheels. A beauty if there ever was one; my Tom would have loved it.

“Speaking of Tom,” she said, “it’s time I went home. I spoke with Mrs. Wormesly at the pub last night and she tells me Little Nell is getting quite out of hand. Spoiled rotten, I fear. Anyhow, my dears”—she included both Jack and myself in her warm glance—“I’m sure you can manage without me for a while, and you can always reach me by telephone.”

“Must you go?” I said, then realized how selfish I sounded. “Yes, of course you must,” I added firmly. “You’ve got your home and your little dog needs you, and before you know it, it will be Christmas.”

“Why not come with me, child?” she said suddenly, looking at me as though I were one of her former pupils, a lost soul in need of care. “Come stay at the cottage. I’d love the company, and you can help spoil Little Nell some more. Besides, they offer a very nice lager and lime at the Blakelys Arms, and Mrs. Wormesly’s steak-and-kidney pie is excellent.”