There's Something About St. Tropez (54 page)

“You haven't seen Sunny by any chance?” he asked.

Billy shook his head. “I just got up. Went looking for my kids but they've gone missing. Out walking the new dog, I guess.”

“Sunny was doing the same thing. She called me a while ago, left a message. She said the
Blue Picasso
was in the bay.”

Billy gave an astonished whistle. “Then Valenti is back?”

Mac took a slug of his drink. There was something wrong with this scenario. He didn't like that Sunny had not returned. And now Billy said the kids were missing.

The yellow dog bounded into the hall and skidded to a halt. It ran to Billy and shook itself violently, spattering him with rainwater. Then it jumped at Mac almost knocking him over. Its tail flapped furiously and it began to bark. It jumped up and down some more, then ran to the door, turning to look at them.

“Y'think he wants us to go with him?” Billy asked, mystified. Just as Pirate limped up the steps and leapt into Mac's arms.

“Whoa, whoa, steady my boy, steady.” Mac got a grip on him but Pirate was barking frantically. He jumped down, ran to the door, stood next to Yellow Dog. Both dogs' heads were turned toward them.

Billy rammed on his hat. Outside the gates they turned right. Mac had already guessed where the dogs were taking them. On his left the
Blue Picasso
was moored in the bay.

“Valenti's gonna get away,” Billy warned.

“Not this time. I've already alerted the coast guard. And the cops.”

They were running now, keeping up with the dogs whose barks led them to their destination. In no time they were at Chez La Violette. The gates were open and so was the front door. Krendler was pushing Sunny in a wheelchair down the shallow steps. Her head lolled and blood streamed down her face. Slung over Krendler's shoulder was an assault rifle.

In a split second Mac took in his woman, bloody and looking half-dead, Krendler's powerful weapon, the gloating expression on his face.

“Get back, Billy,” he warned, giving him an almighty shove into the bushes. He couldn't have Billy getting in the way.

“I'm gonna get him,” Billy yelled, re-emerging. Mac shoved him back again.

“Let me handle this,” he said.

Krendler was looking at them now, with that superior little half smile, if it could be called that, on his thin lips.

“
Eh bien
, if it's not the superdetective himself. I thought you might have done better than this, Mr. Reilly. After all”—he nodded at the barely conscious Sunny—“it's all over now but the crying.”

He tilted Sunny's head forward so Mac could see the blood starting to coagulate but still running from the long gash across her scalp. “Too bad she stumbled onto something she shouldn't have.” He shrugged. “But that's the price she has to pay. And now you too, Mr. Reilly. In fact I have all of you here now, in my power.”

The assault rifle was in Krendler's hands, pointed at Mac. He meant business.

Mac could feel the bulk of the small-caliber gun under his armpit. It was no match for a heavy-duty weapon like Krendler's, even if he could get to it before Krendler opened fire.

“Where's my kids?” Billy bellowed, staggering from the bushes again, momentarily diverting Krendler's attention.

Sunny suddenly came to life. She jerked her arm up, knocking Krendler's rifle sideways. And then Mac had his pistol pointing at Krendler.

The assault rifle lay next to Krendler's right foot. Mac knew he could drop, grab the rifle, shoot. He could still harm Sunny, break her neck with one blow. He would kill him if he so much as moved a finger.

The
wha-wha
whine of police cars came from the lane.

With a sudden vicious push Krendler sent the wheelchair whizzing down the steps at Mac. The chair trembled on the edge, wobbled, tilted. Sunny went flying, face-first. Krendler reached for the rifle. In the split second given him, Mac had no time to take aim. He shot at a moving target.

Krendler's scream shattered the sudden silence. Mac shot again. Krendler was on the ground, moaning.

A police car growled up the drive, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, followed by a second, then a third. Cops poured out of them like in an old Key-stone Kops movie. The first group covered Krendler. The second ran into the house. Someone called for ambulances.

Billy ran past them, as did the yellow dog heading for La Violette's
boudoir, where Gianni Valenti stood, a hand on each child's shoulder, looking at him.

“I wouldn't have hurt them,” Valenti said, shoving the children away.

“Bastard,” Billy snarled.

“Daddeeee,”
Laureen wailed as Billy hit Valenti so hard he heard his nose crack.

Valenti fell to the floor, hands to his face, blood everywhere. Laureen hurled herself into Billy's arms. The yellow dog wagged its tail anxiously at an alabaster-faced Bertrand. And the expensive paintings, propped against the sofa, toppled slowly, in a domino effect, to the ground.

“And all for that,” Billy said bitterly, watching them fall, clutching his daughter to him, and putting his free arm round Bertrand.

Outside Mac was on his knees next to Sunny. He cradled her bleeding head, his pain for her in his eyes.

She looked up at him. “Well, if it isn't Colonel Mustard to the rescue.” She was laughing at him, remembering the old Clue board game they liked as he folded her gratefully into his arms and kissed her.

“The children?” she asked. And then she passed out.

 

80.

 

 

Laureen perched on the edge of Billy's bed, a plump frazzled nymph in a ragged orange tutu. She wiggled her bare toes, wondering what had happened to her cowboy boots. Bertrand sat next to her. His glasses were lopsided and one lens was cracked. He gripped his hands so tightly together the knuckles showed white.

The pair had told their story to the police, who had been gentle and understanding, though very businesslike. François Reynaud had driven over to see what he could do to help. They had been checked out by a doctor, who found some bruises but nothing to worry about, and now they were waiting for Billy to tell them they shouldn't have done it.

“I know, Daddy,” Laureen said, beating him to it.

“Know what, sweetheart?” He stood in front of them, arms folded over his chest, thanking God he still had them. He was certainly not about to give them a telling off.

“You feeling better now?” he said, beginning to pace the floor so he wouldn't keep on thinking about what might have happened, though the children didn't seem aware of the true danger. They had not seen Sunny bleeding on the step, not seen Krendler shot by Mac, not heard his screams of agony. Valenti had hauled them out from behind the paneling where Laureen told him they'd been for only a short while.

“Anyhow I always knew Mommy would find me,” she said confidently, fingers busily smoothing out her ragged tulle skirt. “She always knows where I am.”

“It wasn't really truly bad, Daddy,” she said, though he did notice her slight shiver. “Besides, Bertrand looked after me.”

“Bertrand is a hero,” Billy said. “And so are you.”

Laureen glanced sideways at her friend. He was sitting in that stiff soldier position like he did when there was bad news. She gave him a nudge, wondering what was up.

“It's okay, Bertrand,” she said. “We found Monsieur Reynaud's paintings, remember? Now we get the reward.”

Bertrand was remembering those scary moments when the big man, Krendler, had appeared. When Krendler had heard someone coming—it was Sunny he knew that now—he'd told Valenti to shut them in the secret room where the paintings had been stored. They hadn't been able to hear what was going on but had kept on yelling, hoping someone would hear them and let them out.

Then Valenti had come back and Billy had busted his nose and they'd been hustled out of there so fast there was no time to take in exactly what was going on. They were whisked back to the hotel in a police car, sirens blaring, which he and Laureen had quite enjoyed, but now he was worried about what his mother was going to say when she found out about it. Even five hundred thousand euros might not be enough to get away from her.

“You acted like a brother to Laureen,” Billy said, watching the emotions play across the boy's young face. “You looked out for her, son, and I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, sir. I mean Billy,” Bertrand corrected himself.

“I'm hungry,” Little Laureen said suddenly. “I think I need spaghetti and french fries.”

Billy grinned at the two of them, thanking God for the resilience of small children. Kids would be kids. “Ice cream too, if you want,” he said generously.

 

Sunny lay on her terrace, her head stitched and bandaged, sipping a Cosmo. The peacocks flew across the lawn with a great clatter of wings, making for the big cedar tree where they would roost for the night. “I needed something girly and pink,” she said appreciatively to Mac.

“Anything you want,” he replied, finally at peace with himself.

Krendler was in hospital in Nice with an armed policeman at his bedside, recovering from abdominal wounds and a shattered shoulder. And Valenti was in jail.

The coast guard had taken the
Blue Picasso
apart, ripping out the paneling, and found several more artworks stored in the space behind. The brindle greyhound had been taken to a safe place and would be found a new home—and a long life, as opposed to its probable fate at Krendler's hands.

Headlines had already flashed around the world. Both men were charged with murder; attempted murder; kidnapping; robbery and conspiracy for multiple grand theft. The French police had thrown the book at them.

Sunny was eyeing Mac from under the bandage that crisscrossed her eyebrows, giving her a kind of half-mummified look. “You know I'm a lot like you,” she said. He raised a questioning eyebrow. “I'm an ‘all-American' girl,” she explained.

Of course, now he remembered telling her he was an “all-American guy” the night they'd dined at Le Grill in the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, instead of the grand Michelin three-star restaurant. “You want a steak,” he hazarded a guess.

Sunny shook her head, wincing because she had forgotten the twelve stitches that crossed her scalp. “A hot dog.” She sighed with longing. “Mustard and onions. Maybe some relish.”

“You got it.” Mac wondered where the hell he would find a hot dog in a small French hotel. “Anything else?”

She didn't shake her head this time, merely said, “No thank you. I think I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes while you're gone though.”

Tesoro snuggled deeper on her lap. Pirate sat with his chin propped on her knee. Love radiated around. It was a picture Mac would treasure forever. He took a quick photo on his cell phone; his poor wounded brave Sunny had never looked more beautiful and he had never been more scared in his life.

“Hurry back, Colonel Mustard,” he heard her call mockingly as he closed the door.

Downstairs he met Billy with Laureen and Bertrand and the yellow dog, all cleaned up and heading for their table in the courtyard.

“You're just the person I need to talk to,” he told Bertrand. And then, because he couldn't speak enough French to explain to the kitchen exactly what it was Sunny wanted, he asked the boy to translate.

Of course the dog went with Bertrand, though it was not admitted to the kitchen. It waited outside till he came out then followed him back to the table. The yellow dog never left Bertrand's side.

“The chef says he will do his best,” Bertrand said. “He says it may not be a genuine American hot dog, but he has mustard and he is making some relish.”

“Homemade relish,” Mac said impressed. He was also impressed with the two children.

Little Laureen was leaning against her daddy and his arm was around her shoulder. She wasn't sucking her thumb but she looked as though she would like to. She had changed into a fresh pink tutu—the orange one was pretty well wrecked, what with struggling when Valenti had pushed them into the little space behind the paneling and shut them in.

“I can't tell you how brave you were,” Mac told them. “I think the French should give you both a medal.”

Laureen perked up. “Will the Wizard Reynaud really give Bertrand the reward?”

“You bet he will,” Mac said. “He's thrilled to have his paintings back. He told me he always knew you two would find them for him.”

The children grinned at each other and the yellow dog settled under a chair the way a proper French dog that belonged to somebody should. The waiter brought a bowl of water and Bertrand sneaked the dog some chicken. He was so happy he wished this moment could go on forever.

Mac lowered his voice as he spoke to Billy, so the boy would not hear. “I discussed the reward with Reynaud. Because of the problem with the mother, we decided the five hundred thousand euros should be put immediately into a trust fund for Bertrand.”