The Hotel Riviera(70)
Jack nodded. “I think I know too, but I’m not sure why.”
Miss Nightingale gave me a searching look. “This may be painful, my dear,” she said, “but it’s better you know exactly what happened.”
And then she told us about Evgenia and Patrick, and about the spell she must have had, not only over my husband, but also over her own. A spell to inspire a man to murder.
Chapter 75
The report on TV, and in the newspapers, said that Evgenia Solis had died in a car accident on the Corniche road. On the same day, it was reported that the “missing” man, Patrick Laforêt, had been “discovered,” and killed riding his motorcycle.
The Solis yacht slipped quietly out of Monte Carlo that same night, without the body of Evgenia Solis, or what was left of it, on board. Instructions had been given to Ma?tre Dumas for Evgenia to be interred in a convenient cemetery. No headstone, other than a plain marker with her name and the dates of her birth and death, was planned. There would be no memorial service and no questions asked. Laurent Solis donated a large sum of money to the fund for the restoration of ancient artifacts and went quickly back to living the high life. If he had any wounds, he certainly didn’t lick them in public.
That night too an envelope was hand-delivered to my door. In it was Patrick’s note assigning the hotel to Solis. It was torn into little pieces. Solis had given up his claim to the Hotel Riviera. He had given me a gift, instead of giving the hotel to his wife.
If there was anyone, besides poor Patrick, I felt sorry for in this whole tragic affair, it was Laurent Solis. That is, if it’s possible to feel sorry for a billionaire. I believed his story of how Patrick’s grandmother had saved him. Solis wasn’t a wicked man; he was a good businessman in the spell of a beautiful, powerful, crazy woman.
The police came round, asking questions about Jeb Falcon, who had died in the crash, alongside Evgenia, but we claimed to know nothing. And as for Giselle Castille, she’d slunk back to Paris and her villa was now up for sale.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Miss Nightingale said, satisfied, though whether she meant Patrick as well was unclear.
However, I gave Patrick a bang-up memorial service, attended by all his “friends,” including quite a few attractive women. Plus the Shoups came down from the Dordogne to lend support and the Honeymooners sent a bountiful bouquet, though it was for me, not Patrick. Even Budgie Lampson sent a note of condolence, though I got the impression that, all things considered, she felt Patrick’s death was a relief.
I hosted the “wake” on the Riviera’s terrace, shaking hands with Patrick’s friends and being kissed on both cheeks by women who had been his lovers. They drank champagne and reminisced in hushed voices while wolfing down excellent hors d’oeuvres prepared by Nadine and served by Jean-Paul, returned for the occasion and somberly suited in a black T-shirt and black pants.
Jack kept watch and his distance, because after all, this was my husband’s funeral. But Miss Nightingale stood squarely at my side, sizing up the mourners and occasionally patting my arm for comfort.
I’d gotten myself properly together for my last goodbye to Patrick, in a sleeveless black linen shift and my highest heels. A big-brimmed hat of black straw hid my eyes, which anyway were already hidden behind the darkest sunglasses I could find. Jack seemed surprised by my new look and Miss Nightingale said I made a very beautiful widow, which made me laugh. At that moment, with the sound of my own laughter in my ears, I realized that I really was my own woman. That Patrick had chosen his path, and now I was free to choose mine.
And what would I choose? I stole a glance over my shoulder at Jack, standing behind me. He looked solemn and a bit wary, and so incredibly strong and handsome that my heart turned over. The only question now was, would he choose me? I doubted it. After all, he was a sailor, and anyhow, I was far too shy to ask.
The mourners were gone, drifting off like a flock of crows in their funeral black, laughing and chattering and making plans for the evening. It was goodbye, Patrick, and on with their lives. And I supposed there was nothing wrong with that.
We dined out that night, with Red and Jerry Shoup to lighten our hearts and “take us out of ourselves,” as Miss Nightingale put it. I chose the Auberge des Maures, off the Place des Lices in Saint-Tropez, where, wrapped in sweaters and in sneakers and jeans, we dined with other locals under the grape arbor on barbecued loup de mer and platters of tiny green lentils, and quite a few bottles of rosé.
We drank a toast to the Hotel Riviera, which was now mine to “have and to hold” forever, and I vowed to make it as beautiful as it was before. Then we drank a toast to Patrick, and I remembered that he had loved me, after all.
Back at the hotel, the Shoups had their old room, now fully restored; Miss Nightingale was in her Marie-Antoinette, and Jack and I were in my cottage.
“Isn’t this wrong?” I asked nervously as he closed the door and slid his arms around me. “I feel like a wicked woman. After all, I’ve just buried my husband.”
“Sweetheart, you buried him a long time ago.” He nuzzled my ear, sending shivers through me. “Today was just a formality.”
Though the night was warm, I lit the fire and we snuggled together on the sofa, watching the flames, listening to Bad Dog snoring at our feet and the soothing sound of Antonio Carlos Jobim, singing of love in Portuguese, backed by the even softer sound of the sea. In my heart, I thanked Patrick again, and I thanked God for sending me Miss Nightingale and for Jack Farrar. Oddly, at the end of this terrible week of tragedy I felt comforted. At that moment I was a contented woman.