There's Something About St. Tropez (53 page)

She let the dogs off the leads, stopping by the hidden path to the beach to let Pirate race round, chasing imaginary rabbits who, Sunny was quite certain, were not coming out until their grassy world dried up a bit, and certainly not with an exuberant dog crashing a warning. The horizon had cleared and a fresh breeze had sprung up. Through the still-dripping trees she could see the Mediterranean, sparkling sapphire, aquamarine, crystal-tipped.

And on it was a familiar boat. Long, sleek and black-sailed.

Sunny fumbled urgently in her pocket for her cell phone. She punched Mac's number. No reply. She tried again. Same thing.
Damn it. Where was he when she needed him?
She left a message.

“I'm here, standing outside Chez La Violette, and you'll never guess what I've seen. The
Blue Picasso
moored in the bay. Valenti is back. Call me.”

She hesitated, not knowing what to do next. Then hoping Mac would call her soon she walked on to the villa. The back gate was open and the dogs sniffed happily as she stepped along the mossy path, slippery now from the rain.

Flip-flops were not the ideal attire for slippery paths and Sunny was so busy watching where she was going at first she took no of notice Pirate's sharp little
wuff
. When she looked up she saw the big yellow dog sitting on the kitchen doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” she cried, immediately realizing the answer. Of course, the dog would be with Bertrand.
And
Laureen. She saw the cape and a hotel beach towel and knew they must be here.

The yellow dog bent his head gratefully under her caressing hand, whining, wet tail flapping, sending muddy splatters over Sunny's bare legs.

“So what's up, boy?” she asked sympathetically. “And where's Bertrand? Come on, find him for me.”

The dog whined again and Pirate ran to its side with a worried look. In her arms Tesoro gave a nervous little whinny, the kind Mac said sounded like police sirens.

The door was half-open and Sunny stepped inside, calling hello.

The silence was so complete it was almost deafening.

“Bertrand?” she called, still standing next to the open kitchen door.

This house had always gotten to her and now it was even worse. There was no scent of Parma violets this time, no rustling of small creatures in the wainscoting, no
chirrup
of stray crickets invading from the garden. Just an awful silence. The piano lid was still up, the mugs still upside down on the wooden draining board, the empty brandy bottle and the Nescafé tin next to them. It seemed so long ago since the night of the great storm, only a week
and a half, when the Misfits met and came together and became like a small family, looking out for each other, caring. Now all there was was a silent villa falling into decay, still lost in the time warp of its long-dead owner.

“Bertrand?” she called, worried now, walking from the kitchen into the hall. A dim light came from the boudoir. Not the chandelier electric glow though. Somebody must have opened the shutters.

For once Sunny was not thinking of La Violette as she walked into the star's boudoir; she was smiling, thinking of course those incorrigible kids must be in here, looking for the stolen paintings.

The paintings were there all right, half a dozen of them piled in the center of the glow. And so was Joel Krendler, sitting on one of La Violette's silver-gray velvet sofas, legs nonchalantly crossed.

He lifted a gun and pointed it at her. It was not, Sunny noticed, a petite .22. This was a heavy-duty assault rifle. Krendler meant business.

“Mademoiselle Alvarez,” Krendler said. “Please, come on in and take a seat. I think we need to talk.”

 

78.

 

 

Sunny stared at the gun. You didn't need to be an expert to know that with one twitch of a finger it could take out her and the children and the dogs, and anybody else who just strayed into Krendler's orbit. Her heart thunked slowly somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Fear choked her into silence. There was no sign of the children.

Remember Mac, remember to keep your cool
, she told herself, looking silently at the silent Krendler, who had an amused expression on his face, as though he enjoyed having a helpless woman at gunpoint, and was planning on some exotic torture. That coldness she had observed when they'd met in his Paris house was evident in his eyes; there was not a flicker of emotion as he looked at her, standing there, unable to speak.

“Better sit down after all,” he said in a false kindly tone, pointing out a nearby chair.

Sunny sank into it because her legs would no longer support her.
Remember Mac
, she told herself again.
What would Mac do now? What would Mac expect
her
to do now? He'd expect her to keep her cool, right? You've been here before, in bad situations like this before
, she told herself. But not like this, she whimpered inwardly. Not
alone
. Tension crackled in the air between them.
And, oh God, where were the children?

Still Krendler said nothing, enjoying the play of emotions across her face. It definitely gave him a buzz to have a woman frightened of him. He was a man who always had to be in control, whether it was in his public life, involved with the opera committees internationally, or his very private business dealings, especially the stolen art market, and in his control of Gianni
Valenti, a man who he'd found would do anything for money to enable him to maintain his rich playboy lifestyle; as well as the employees in the lesser chain of command who carried out his orders perfectly, silently. Or else. There had been more than a few casualties on the way but that was how Krendler ran his business. He would have no compunction at all in disposing of this rather beautiful and far too inquisitive woman.

“Too bad you happened to stray in here this evening,” he said. His deep voice had a conversational edge, as though they were chatting over cocktails and not over the edge of a gun.

“Where are the children?” Sunny was panicking. Krendler was absolutely capable of killing her and the kids. Age played no role in his evil mind.

“Ah, the children.” Krendler heaved a theatrical sigh. “Such
clever
children. Don't worry about them, Madmoiselle Alvarez, they will be well taken care of.”

Sunny wondered what that meant. The phone in her pocket vibrated and she put a hand over it, hoping Krendler hadn't noticed.
It had to be Mac, please, please, pray it was Mac . . . If she didn't answer, surely he would come looking for her
.

“So,” Krendler said, getting up and standing over her. “What do you think I should do with you now?”

“Now that I know you're the art thief, you mean? And a kidnapper of small children? And an evil man who is ruled by his own obsessions? Is that what you mean,
Monsieur Krendler
?”

He towered over her and Sunny knew she had made a terrible mistake. In a quick blur she saw his arm reach up, the arc of the gun as it crashed down on her head. Then nothing more.

In the sudden silence, faint cries could be from behind the closed paneling.

Krendler heaved another sigh. He'd thought he would simply get the stolen paintings out of here and onto the
Blue Picasso
. He and Valenti had planned to sail along the coast, putting in at Genoa. After that it would be easy to distribute the paintings to the appropriate clients, though he planned on keeping some for himself, one of which was the special small Seurat the stupid greedy little bitch Caroline Cavalaire had attempted to sell to a Zurich collector.

Caroline had followed Valenti to Chez La Violette, seen where the paintings were hidden and simply helped herself. She thought she'd been clever choosing the very smallest, not knowing that small was also valuable, especially
personally to Krendler who loved his chosen artworks with a passion he could never offer a woman. With the exception, of course, of some of the female opera singers of the world, whose pure voices appealed to a sensual side of him only they could satisfy. But there was no time to think of that now.

Valenti appeared in the doorway. He saw Sunny Alvarez sprawled unconscious on the floor and heard the cries behind the paneling.

“Get them all into the dinghy,” Krendler said harshly. “Take them to the
Blue Picasso
. We'll dispose of them once we're out at sea.”

Valenti did not like it one bit. He'd killed Caroline on Krendler's orders, but he considered that justified. Caroline had betrayed them, stealing the painting and attempting to sell it and almost getting the police on their trail. Caroline was a petty thief who'd messed with the big boys. She'd deserved to die. But children?

He knelt down to inspect Sunny's wound. A deep gash split the top of her head. Blood spouted from it, matting her hair, running in a frightening torrent down her forehead. Her eyes opened suddenly and she looked at him through all that blood. He knew she'd heard what Krendler had said.

“Please,” she murmured, “save the children, please just let them go . . .”

A look of pain crossed Valenti's handsome face. No sailboat, no rich lifestyle was worth the lives of two small children. He got to his feet. Krendler's wheelchair waited by the open French doors. It was his prop in the game of theater he played: one character was the bravely disabled rich businessman and opera lover; the other the privately ruthless sociopath who cared for no one. Not even his chief ally, Valenti.

“You'll have to help me with her,” Valenti told him.

A look of distaste crossed Krendler's face as they lifted Sunny into the wheelchair, dropping her cruelly into it, making her cry out and put her hands up to her bloody head in pain.

In her pocket Sunny felt the phone vibrate again. She prayed it was Mac, that he'd got her message, that he would come to the villa, that he would save those children. But where were they? What had Krendler done to them? She could hear them calling. And then she passed out again.

 

79.

 

 

Billy knew he had slept too long. Normally he was a light sleeper and an early riser, but there was just something about the heat today, the storm and the soft tropical rainfall that had gotten to him.

He glanced at his sensible black Breitling chronograph watch Betsy had bought him years ago. He'd never worn any other. It had ticked away the minutes of their lives together, and eventually her death. He would never part with it.

Now though, it told him he had been sleeping for almost two hours. Leaping out of bed, instantly alert, and wondering what his little girl was up to, he showered, then in shorts and a cool fresh green plaid cotton shirt went to find her.

He was surprised when Laureen did not answer his knock. He opened the door and peeked inside. Not there. He thought about Bertrand, hesitated for a minute, not liking to disturb the boy's privacy, but guessed Bertrand would know where Laureen was.

He tapped on Bertrand's door and waited. Again no reply. He tapped again and tried the handle. The door was locked. “Bertrand?” he called.

The chambermaid coming down the hall with her cart said, “Bertrand went out. I saw him with your daughter a while ago.”

Billy walked downstairs to the bar. People were grumbling about the storm and outside was wet with rain. He'd slept through the whole thing. He worried about the kids but guessed Laureen would have not gone out in the storm, she knew how dangerous lightning was. They were probably walking the dog and would be back any minute. He ordered a beer, sat back, relaxed.

A few minutes later Mac walked into the hall, cell phone in hand. He was staring at the phone with a worried look. Billy waved but Mac was already talking on the phone again. He held one hand over his ear, pacing back and forth, speaking rapidly. There was an expression on his usually genial face Billy had not seen before, a frown of tension between his brows, a tight line to his mouth, a firm snap as he shut down the phone.

Mac walked over to Billy, took the seat next to his, ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks with a twist.