The Hotel Riviera (18 page)

Miss N

Miss Nightingale had failed; she had not got the number of the Ducati, only that it was an Italian plate. There hadn't been time and her eyes were not as good as they used to be. Bothered by what she thought of as her “dereliction of duty,” she drove back to Saint-Tropez and onto the Ramatuelle road.

She heaved a small sigh of relief as she turned into the lane leading to the Hotel Riviera; she felt as though she were coming home. She parked under the blue morning glory, next to Lola's old CV2, noting that all the other cars were gone. She'd said her goodbyes to her fellow guests before she left on her little trip with a promise to visit Red and Jerry Shoup at their home in the Dordogne, and to keep in touch with Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon, the sweethearts of the Riviera. Despite all the problems, it had been a good summer; her fellow guests were delightful, the view sublime, and Lola as kind and caring as always.

The only fly in the ointment of peace and perfection had been Evgenia and Laurent Solis, and of course the mysterious Patrick. Only he wasn't so mysterious any more. Patrick Laforêt was alive and well and riding a very expensive motorcycle. She couldn't wait to tell Lola and Jack.

The front doors were open, as they always were, and Miss Nightingale pulled off her sunhat and stepped into the cool, silent hall. The hotel was closed for a week, for “renovation,” Lola had said, though all it needed was a thorough end-of-season clean and a touch of paint here and there.

“Yoohoo,” she called. “Yoohoo, Lola, I'm back.”

There was only silence. There was a metallic tang in the air, and puzzled, Miss Nightingale walked out onto the terrace. “Yoohoo,” she called again. Nothing. Lola was probably in her own house, taking a well-earned nap. She debated for a minute whether or not to wake her, then decided that her news was important enough.

As she rounded the oleander hedge, she noticed the freshly turned over patch of earth beneath Lola's bedroom window with a sprig of plumbago on it, wilting from lack of water. Odd, she thought, why would Lola take the time to plant something, then fail to water it?

“Lola?” She rapped on the French windows but got no reply. But Lola must be in because her car was here. The door was unlocked and she went in, but the little house was empty.

Tired, she plumped onto the porch sofa. She'd have to wait for Lola to get back, though she was bursting with her news.

After a while she got up again. No use wasting time, she would bathe and change, then wait out on the terrace. Lola had to come home sometime soon.

She was walking back up the path when she smelled that odd smell again. She paused, sniffing the air. And then she saw the plume of black smoke curling above the kitchen roof, drifting across the high blue sky.

“My God, oh my God. Fire!” she screamed. But there was no one to hear her.

Her legs were shaking as she ran onto the terrace to the kitchen, saw flames shooting out the door and out of the windows, which exploded suddenly in shards of glass.

She ran back along the terrace to the front hall, no fire here yet. She grabbed the phone, dialed the emergency number.
“Fire,”
she said, controlling her panic until she had got the message through. “
Fire at the Hotel Riviera,
off the Ramatuelle road. The kitchen is on fire…”

Lola

We were in the dinghy, back from breakfast, when I heard the blare of the fire trucks, never a good sound in the south of France. Fires have scorched thousands of acres here, destroying part of the coastal beauty for decades to come. Trucks seemed to be coming from every direction, and I put a hand over my eyes, scanning the coast. I saw the black smoke curling into the air, spilling over the little coastal towns, borne by the brisk wind,

“Looks like a big one,” Jack said.

I frowned, suddenly anxious.

Then we saw it, the smoke swirling up from the hotel, and orange flames licking from the kitchen windows.

“It's home,” I yelled.

“It's the Hotel Riviera,” he added, but Jack was already heading for the jetty.

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.”

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.”

I laughed, imagining myself for an instant in the Blakelys village pub, but I shook my head. “Can't do it,” I said, “I've got to stay here and take care of business.”

“Why can't you?” Jack said. I turned to look at him. “Work can't start on the hotel until you get the insurance check,” he added, “and besides, you need a break.”

“What about Patrick?”

“I'll check on Patrick. I'll call you to let you know as soon as I find out anything. Besides, I'm gonna be busy for the next few weeks, back and forth to the States, working on the boat.”

I glanced at them, my good friend and my lover, torn between the two. Then, “Of course, you'll come,” Miss N said firmly. And so I went to Blakelys.

Evgenia

Evgenia Solis was at the wheel of the squat army-green Hummer, driving east on the A8 to Menton. Jeb Falcon, his bulk crammed into the expensive low-roofed vehicle, was in the passenger seat next to her. She put her foot down and swerved past a lumbering eighteen-wheeler that was going too slow for her, swerving back in front of it, causing Falcon to grip the edges of his seat and curse.

“Coward,” she said, throwing him an icy glance from her sunglassed eyes.

“For chrissake, Evgenia,” he said, sweating profusely as she whizzed past the traffic, “what's the fuckin' hurry, anyways?”

“Better safe than dead's your motto, eh, Falcon,” she said, laughing. “Don't you know you're gonna end up dead one of these days? Pity it didn't happen in the fire at the Hotel Riviera. You botched that up, all right, didn't you?”

He was silent, staring at the road ahead. It was all Patrick's fault…He hadn't taken care of his part of the deal, he hadn't even shown up—and anyhow Lola was nowhere around, even though he'd scouted the place and knew she should have been home alone that afternoon.

He hated Evgenia Solis with every fiber of his being. He wished he'd never met her, never become her fuckin' bodyguard. The woman was a disaster in the making. Already she'd changed his life around. Goddammit, he'd been making good money from Laurent Solis. Why had he succumbed to her bribery, anyway? He'd caught her with Patrick in Menton, and she'd offered him more money than he could refuse. He was a double-spy now, working for Solis and for Evgenia, and hating them both.

As if reading his thoughts, Evgenia said, “You're a whore, Falcon, always available for the right kind of money. That's why you're here now, with me. That's why you can't go to my husband and tell him what you know, because if you do, both you and I are as good as dead. We're in this together, Falcon. Better not forget that.”

“Fuck you,” Falcon said, and heard her sigh.

“You're a man with a very limited vocabulary, y'know that,” Evgenia said, exiting the autoroute at Menton. She took the familiar road up into the hills and parked outside a modest villa. She climbed out and without looking at Falcon said, “Pick me up at three. And don't be late.”

Falcon glared at her. He hesitated just for a second, then he called her name. She looked impatiently over her shoulder. “What?”

“There's something you should know,” he said.

Something in the way he said it stopped her in her tracks. “What?” she asked again, only this time she walked back to the car. Falcon got out of the passenger seat, walked around and climbed into the driver's seat.

“About the boyfriend,” he said. “He's doing pretty well at the casino in San Remo. He wins some, he loses some. And it's all your money, Evgenia.”

She stared at him, silenced for a minute. Then, “Liar,” she said.

Falcon shrugged. “So why don't you ask him?”

Evgenia looked at her feet, uncertain. “If you are lying, I'll kill you myself,” she said in a tone of quiet menace.

Falcon grinned. He had the upper hand again in this battle of wits and violence. “Oh, no you won't, Evgenia,” he said. “You
need
me. Who else are you gonna get to burn down hotels and to lie to your husband for you and to help you carry out the rest of your plans? Only me, little Evgenia, that's who. And only if you pay me enough. Remember that, why don't you.” He slammed the door and put the Hummer in gear. “See you at three,” he said, swinging the car around and driving back down the hill.

“And Patrick,” she yelled after him. “I've got Patrick for all the rest. I don't need you anymore.” But Falcon did not hear her.

Patrick stuck his head out of the front door. “What's happening?” he said. “What's all the shouting about?”

Evgenia shrugged as she stalked past him into the tiny villa, her heels ringing on the terra-cotta-tiled floors. She stopped and glanced around her; a look of distaste crossed her face. “I hate this place,” she said. “I've had it with sneaking around. I can't take this any longer. It's time to get on with things.”

Patrick sighed. It was going to be one of those Evgenia days. “Let's go to bed,
chérie,
” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the only bedroom.

“Did you hear about the fire?” Evgenia asked.

“What fire, sweetheart?” His arms were around her now, he was dropping hot kisses onto her neck, her hair, her upturned face, edging her backward toward the bed.

“The one at the Hotel Riviera,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Patrick came suddenly to his senses.
“What did you say?”

“There was a fire at the Riviera. It burned down.”

For a minute, he stared at her, shocked. Then he gave her such a look of fury she shrank back, afraid. He gripped her shoulders.
“Lola,”
he hissed through gritted teeth.
“What did you do to Lola?”

Evgenia tossed her long blond hair, glaring back at him. “I might have known it. All you think about is
Lola
. You never think about what
I'm
doing for you, all you think about is
Lola
. And gambling away my money.”

Patrick pushed her away. He walked to the window and stood looking out onto the scrubby patch of dying garden. “Did you harm Lola?” he said again, quietly—but Evgenia caught the violence in his tone.

“Oh no,
dear
Patrick,
dear
Lola is very much alive and kicking. But she's gonna have to get out of that
dear
little hotel now, because there's not much of it left.”

Patrick continued to look out the window, his back to her. He didn't want her to see the look of relief on his face.

“But it's got to happen sometime,” Evgenia carried on, pushing him, always pushing him. “It's me or Lola, Patrick. You've always known that. And it's me and the money, Patrick, you've always known that too. And after all, a gambler always needs money. Right?”

He turned to look at her, spread-eagled on the bed in their shoddy little love nest.

“We can't go on like this, Patrick, darling,” she purred in that throaty, creamy, Russian-accented voice. “We are destined for better things, my love, much better things than stolen afternoons in this awful place. We'll live the high life together, anywhere and everywhere. It'll be you and me against the world, Patrick.” Her sea-green eyes met his, held his gaze, “You and me and the whole world to play with.”

Evgenia held out her hand and Patrick took it. He lay next to her on the bed. They faced each other, their glances still locked. Minutes ticked by. Then, “Oh God, Evgenia,” he groaned, taking her in his arms.

Evgenia sighed with pleasure. It had been a tricky moment, but she had won.