by Peter Mayle
“So you can see why I’m not looking forward to tomorrow night,” said Reboul. He smiled and shrugged. “Although Tommy tells me she’s done a spectacular job with the house.” He looked at his watch. “And now, my dear, I think an early night would do you a lot of good. That flight from Los Angeles takes some time to get over.”
—
The evening sun was just starting its slide into the Mediterranean when Elena and Reboul left the autoroute and headed for the hills, making their way through the tangle of suburban roads behind Cannes. Elena was looking at the gas stations and nondescript storefronts and billboards advertising Orangina and the local supermarket. “Seems like an awful long way from the Cannes Film Festival,” she said. Reboul smiled and nodded. “It gets better.”
They turned off the main road, passed under a stone bridge, and were now on a narrower road that climbed up into the hills, finally coming to a small gatehouse next to a barred entrance. A uniformed guard came out to the car, checked their names against his clipboard, saluted, and waved them through. “There are a dozen houses on the estate,” said Reboul. “Each of them set on about ten acres of land, and all of them with a fantastic view. You’ll see.”
In fact, the view was what Van Buren had bought. It was a long, curving panorama that extended along the coastline from Cannes in the east toward Saint-Tropez in the west. The house had been less impressive—a squat pink concrete barracks, devoid of charm or architectural interest. But that was before Coco Dumas got her hands on it.
The transformation was astonishing. Two wings had been added, and the roofline lowered. Windows had been enlarged, and the complexion of the building had been changed from pink to the color of faded limestone that looked as though it had weathered two hundred years of sunshine. The interior, originally a clutter of poky dark rooms, had been gutted and replaced by space and light. All this had taken nearly two years and had cost several million euros, but Van Buren was delighted with it, and it was one more elegant feather in Coco Dumas’s cap.
Even before their car had reached the end of the pale gravel drive, it was obvious that this was no ordinary house. It glistened in the dusk, the courtyard lit by flaming torches, while white-coated figures moved among the groups of guests, making sure that nobody went thirsty.
Elena and Reboul paused at the entrance to the courtyard to watch the last glow left by the sunset over the Mediterranean, and the glitter of lights along the Croisette, the boulevard that follows the coastline of Cannes for two kilometers. A magical sight.
“And you thought you had the best view in France. You have to admit this ain’t bad.” It was their host Tommy Van Buren, burly and smiling, the deep tan of his face set off by hair that was almost as white as his dinner jacket. He hugged Reboul and kissed Elena’s hand before taking them into the courtyard, where a waiter met them with two glasses of Champagne. But before they had much of a chance to talk, another couple arrived and Van Buren excused himself.
Elena started to take a look, as discreetly as she could, at the women among the other guests. They were an attractive bunch, she thought, smart without being overdressed, and she was about to suggest to Reboul that they join one of the groups when she became aware that she was being watched.
“I get the feeling someone is checking us out,” she said. “Over there by the fountain—the woman in the black silk suit.”
Reboul looked across the courtyard. “Ah,” he said. “That’s her. Coco.” He sighed, and squared his shoulders. “Do you mind if we get this over with?”
As they were crossing the courtyard, Coco moved away from the group she was chatting with and aimed a wide (and, Elena thought, transparently fake) smile at them. She was in her midforties, with a slender body that had obviously spent many hours in the gym, glossy black hair, and lightly tanned skin. But what made her face memorable were the eyes. They were turquoise. The overall effect, Elena had to admit, was stunning.
“So. Francis. How nice.” Coco tilted her head to receive the obligatory cheek-kissing. “Tommy told me you might come. Now, you must introduce me to your friend.” She turned to Elena, smiling and extending a scarlet-tipped hand while giving Elena’s dress a swift, appraising examination. “What an unusual color,” she said. “How brave of you to wear it. Tell me—how did you two meet?”
“It was in Los Angeles,” said Elena. “Francis had some business with a friend of mine.” She gave Reboul’s arm a proprietorial squeeze, and saw Coco’s smile falter. Round one to me, she thought.
She was saved from further verbal fencing by Van Buren, who had made his way to the center of the courtyard, borrowed a spoon from a passing waiter, and was tapping the rim of his glass for silence.
“OK, everyone. First, I want to thank you all for being here tonight.” He raised his glass to his guests. “I hope this house will see you come back often, and I thought you might like to see what you’d be coming back to. So I managed to persuade Coco, who put it all together, to give you a guided tour.” He raised his glass again, this time to her. “Over to you, Madame Architect.”
Led by Coco, who gave a running commentary in both French and English, the guests were taken through the house, making appropriately complimentary noises as the various architectural triumphs and decorative touches were pointed out, with a charming mixture of pride and modesty, by Coco.
Elena and Reboul brought up the rear, taking their time to appreciate what had been done. Elena, as she was about to acquire a property herself, was fascinated, taking photographs with her phone of everything from the old stone fireplaces to the sleek granite work surfaces of the kitchen, from lighting fixtures to shutters to the polished concrete of the floors. “She’s done a great job, Francis, don’t you think? The layout works, and the colors she’s chosen are just right.” Click click click went the phone as more photographs were taken. “I’m impressed.”
Reboul nodded. “She has a good eye, and Tommy’s the perfect client. He has excellent taste and he’s happy to let her do what she wants. And he’s obviously delighted with the result. See him over there? He’s like a dog with two tails. Let’s go over and congratulate him.”
They spent a pleasant ten minutes with Van Buren before Reboul saw Coco coming over to join them. He looked at his watch and, with a start, reminded Elena of their plans to meet friends for dinner in Cannes.
On their way back to the car, Elena was frowning. “You didn’t tell me we had a dinner date.”
“We don’t. You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t think I could have handled the rest of the evening dealing with Coco. She still makes me a little uncomfortable. I hope you understand.”
Elena laughed. “Of course. She’s a piece of work. You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something going on between her and Tommy. Women sense these things.”
Reboul was silent for a moment. Like him, Tommy was wealthy, and a bachelor. “Not this time, I’m afraid,” he said with a smile. “I’ve known Tommy for nearly forty years, and I can tell you he’s not a ladies’ man.”
Chapter 3
The day after the party, Coco Dumas was taking a meeting in her apartment in the Hotel Le Negresco in Nice, a landmark since 1912 on the Promenade des Anglais. It had been built by Henri Negresco, a Romanian businessman who had spared no expense. Among many other decorative touches throughout the hotel, there is an astonishing Baccarat chandelier, with 16,309 crystals, that had been commissioned by Czar Nicholas II. Alas, the small matter of the October Revolution had prevented its delivery.
Coco’s meeting took place on her terrace. Her business manager, Gregoire, was at her side, opposite James and Susie Osborne, a young English couple who had sold their Internet business for a great deal of money—“squillions,” as Susie said—and were now having fun spending it. Their current project was the renovation of a fine old mansion they had bought on Cap d’Antibes. A friend in Monaco had put them in touch with Coco, and they were here to see what she liked to call her new business presentation.
Gregoire, a dark, precisely dressed young man with a rugby player’s physique and broken nose, opened the proceedings by removing his sunglasses to deliver a cautionary tale. It was an unfortunate fact of life these days, he said, that many architects, not content with their legitimate fees, expected to receive kickbacks from their suppliers. Carpenters, plumbers, stonemasons, electricians—it was the same for all of them: they had to pay up if they wanted to stay on the job. Consequently, their prices to the client went up to help cover the bribes. Gregoire shook his head sadly, and paused to let this shocking revelation sink in.
Luckily, he said, chance had brought them to the Cabinet Dumas, an oasis of financial rectitude that was well known along the coast for never demanding any inducements from suppliers. In fact, Coco had gained a reputation for this, something that could be verified by asking any of her clients. The Osbornes nodded their approval, and Gregoire went on to explain the Dumas terms of business before handing over to Coco for the creative part of the presentation.
She had on the table half a dozen leather-bound albums—one for each of the properties she had worked on over the past few years. Each album contained a “before and after” photographic record of the transformations she had achieved, from Marseille to Monaco, and it quickly became clear that the Osbornes liked what they saw. Susie was particularly vocal, finding things that were, in her words, fabulous or awesome on almost every page. They were also impressed to hear that Coco prided herself on taking care of every detail, no matter how tiny: positioning a bidet so that it had a sea view, installing eye-level dishwashing machines to do away with the need to crouch, using slip-proof marble for the shower floors—those small but important touches that are so often neglected. The compliments came in an enthusiastic torrent, Coco was the essence of charm, and Gregoire sent the three of them off to lunch confident that the Cabinet Dumas was about to add to its client list.
—
The British Airways flight from Jamaica’s Norman Manley Airport to Gatwick took off on the dot of 5:50 p.m. Once on board, Sam collapsed into his seat with the relieved sigh of a man who had survived a hectic week at the office. It could have been a difficult few days, but it was saved by the unexpected rapport that Sam had established with Clyde Braithwaite, who ran several of Kingston’s most efficient protection rackets. When he discovered that Sam lived in Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont (Sam neglected to tell him it was a hotel) he was impressed at having met one of L.A.’s most distinguished residents. The rum had flowed, generous helpings of jerk chicken had been consumed, and the two men had reached a mutually profitable understanding that was acceptable to both Braithwaite and Sam’s friend Nathan, the cigar smuggler. Sam’s reward was everlasting gratitude, a handsome check, and a regular supply of Bolívar Belicosos Finos, the ultimate Havana.
It was off-season in Jamaica, and business class was pleasantly uncrowded. For Sam, long-distance flights had always provided a welcome chance to think, as he found it easy to resist the dubious allure of airline food and airline movies. He settled back and considered his most recent conversation with Elena. She had clearly been extremely frustrated by her meeting in Paris. Her French colleagues had done their homework, both with their client and with the police. But the thief had given them nothing to work with, and they were left with an empty safe, no clues, and no ingenious theories. It was a situation that piqued Sam’s curiosity, and he decided to put himself forward as Elena’s unofficial technical adviser. Helping out on the side of law and order would make a change from doing deals for a cigar smuggler, and change was what made Sam’s professional life interesting.
It had been many years since boredom and an increasing resentment at having to get up early had made him resign from a well-rewarded job on Wall Street, and he had since made some unorthodox career moves. Some of these, as he would cheerfully admit, were not quite legal. But he had developed a comfortable relationship with criminal activity as long as it involved intelligence rather than violence. And before too long, outwitting crooks had turned into a lucrative hobby.
As the view from his seat changed color from Caribbean blue to Atlantic gray, Sam’s thoughts turned to his last trip to Marseille—a trip that had ended with him flat on his face, feigning death, in the Corsican countryside. He smiled at the memory. This visit, he was sure, would be less eventful. From what Elena had told him, the robbery had been a thoroughly professional job, and by now the stolen diamonds would undoubtedly be in Antwerp, where they would be reworked and given a new identity. Effectively, the originals would have ceased to exist.
Sam rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was still feeling the effects of a little too much Jamaican rum, and sleep came easily.
—
Elena, in the cheerful company of Reboul’s chauffeur, Olivier, was on her way to Nice to see Madame Castellaci, the victim of the diamond robbery. Elena’s years in the insurance business had drastically reduced her capacity for optimism, and she didn’t hold out much hope of discovering anything that the police had failed to discover; but, as Frank Knox had said, all the boxes had to be ticked. What a waste of a beautiful day.
For Olivier, however, it promised to be anything but wasted. Elena had told him to take the afternoon off, and he had arranged an assignation. He had a seemingly endless supply of aunts scattered along the coast, and, in his words, he liked to keep in touch with them. The two aunts that Elena had met on previous trips had been strikingly good-looking young women, and she had no doubt that this would be another one. How Olivier managed to juggle them all was one of life’s minor mysteries.
By the time they had worked their way through the clogged Nice traffic it was too late for anything more ambitious than a quick café lunch. Elena sent Olivier on his way, and she took a table in the sun, a glass of rosé, and a salade niçoise while she went over what she knew about the Castellacis. Madame and her husband, Ettore, a linguine tycoon from Milan, had what they called a simple holiday home—an Art Deco house overlooking the sea on the Promenade des Anglais. In fact, Elena could almost see it from the café where she was sitting. According to the Paris office, Madame Castellaci was pleasant enough, but her husband was someone whom Ariane Duplessis had described as a tiresome little man, prickly and self-important. Elena hoped that he had vital linguine business to attend to that afternoon, as she tried to summon up some enthusiasm about the meeting. But she gave up. She had to admit that the insurance business had lost any interest it might once have had for her. This visit, for instance, seemed like a total waste of time. What was she likely to find that a thorough police search had overlooked? What was she looking for?
On the short stroll from the café to the Castellaci house, Elena seemed to see nothing but people on vacation, having a good time. Sunglasses, shorts, and summer dresses were the uniform of the day, making her feel completely out of place in her business black. As she reached the Castellaci house, she braced herself and practiced her smile before ringing the doorbell. The peephole in the door slid aside, an eye inspected her, and the door opened to reveal a uniformed maid, who led her into the living room and left to fetch Madame Castellaci.
She was a plump, well-preserved woman, swathed in sky-blue chiffon and wearing, as Elena immediately noticed, an elaborate diamond necklace, which she couldn’t help but comment on.
“Ah yes,” said Madame Castellaci, “it’s all that’s left—the only piece the thief didn’t get, because I was wearing it that night. Now I never take it off except in bed, when I put it under the pillow.” She beckoned Elena to follow her and led the way into the sitting room. From there, they made a brief tour of the house, with madame pointing out the sturdy window shutters and the alarm system, finally removing the oil painting in the bedroom of her husband’s grandfather to reveal the wall safe. “There,” she said. “That’s where they were.”
“It’s American, top quality, with a million possible com-binations.” She tapped in a series of figures and opened the door. “You see? No signs of anyone trying to f
orce the lock.” She turned toward Elena, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, a picture of distress. “We thought everything was safe.”
Elena was still searching for a suitable reply when Signor Castellaci appeared from his study at the top of the house, bristling with indignation. “Finally you come,” he said. “I hope you’ve brought your checkbook. I’ve just been speaking with my lawyer in Milan. We’ve been over everything. The premium—a small fortune—was paid on time. The police have made their investigation. So where is my check? My lawyer wants to know what the problem is. So do I. Well?” He stood in front of Elena on tiptoe, still a few inches shorter than her, his body rigid with anger. “Well?”
All good insurance executives are adept at finding reasons not to pay up, or at least to delay that painful moment for as long as possible. Elena was usually able to make this a little more palatable to her clients by using her natural charm and her genuine sympathy at their loss. But not this time. Try as she might to convince Castellaci of the need to check and double-check every possibility, he continued to fume as he followed her around the house, yapping at her heels like an outraged Pekinese. Lawsuits were mentioned, not once, but several times. Madame Castellaci was in tears. Elena felt like joining her. Finally, after a couple of fruitless hours, even Castellaci had run out of invective, and Elena was permitted to leave, promising to do what she could.
She went back to the café, ordered a coffee, called Olivier and asked him to come and pick her up. When he arrived, slightly disheveled and smiling, she took one look at him and tapped the side of her neck with one finger. “Your aunt,” she said. “She’s left something on your neck. Looks like lipstick.”
