A Rather Charming Invitation

by C. A. Belmond

  “Rollo has a girlfriend?” I asked in disbelief. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t picture it.

  “Well, the world is full of girls looking for a man with l’argent,” Celeste exclaimed, rubbing her fingers together to indicate money. It dawned on me that perhaps Rollo’s share of Great- Aunt Penelope’s legacy was now presenting him with a new set of temptations.

  And indeed, Celeste told us that Rollo had been showing off, acting like a rich man with an endless supply of dosh to buy drinks for any pretty female who’d sit and chat with him. It was not a good idea to fling so much cash around in a bar, night after night, Celeste maintained.

  “The glitter of gold will attract the wrong eye,” she warned. Her normally serene brow was a bit furrowed. Celeste was probably only in her late twenties, but she’d worked for Great- Aunt Penelope for several years, and still reigned over the villa with the protective air of a wise guardian who knows every nook and cranny of the place. She was tall and wiry, always wearing a spotless white apron over her flowered dress, and her light brown hair was tied back into a smooth braid.

  “Yes, well, thank you very much, Celeste,” Jeremy said firmly, and she nodded and went home.

  “Rollo hasn’t been out on a bender in a long time,” he told me when she was out of earshot. “I suppose he’s overdue.”

  “Drinking, gambling, or worse?” I asked in dread.

  “All three,” Jeremy said, sounding weary and all too familiar with this. “Unless we put a stop to it. Sooner than later.” Since Jeremy’s stepfather was also a cousin to Rollo, Jeremy grew up quite aware of the family stress over Rollo’s episodes, and even had to periodically bail him out of jams involving loan sharks, jails and other sordid situations. Resignedly, Jeremy dialed Rollo’s mobile phone, and we heard a jaunty recorded message that said, “Still alive. Speak your piece and get on with it.”

  “Rollo. It’s Jeremy. I’m in Antibes. Call me the bloody hell back,” Jeremy said shortly, then hung up. “What a wally,” he added disgustedly. He looked pensive for a moment, then said, “I may have to go out and track him down. Let’s get some dinner first. He won’t be on the prowl until sundown anyway.”

  After we’d dined out in a small bistro we liked, Jeremy said he thought he ought to drop me off at home before scouring the streets for Rollo. We were driving in my Dragonetta—the vintage auto that Great-Aunt Penelope whimsically bequeathed to me—since we hadn’t yet brought Jeremy’s car down from London. I’d let him take the wheel today, because he loves this car.

  “That bar where Celeste said Rollo goes is right down this road,” I pointed out, after peering at the map. “Let’s just take a look.”

  At first it seemed like a lost cause, because there were so many other nightclubbers milling around on the streets. But when we slowed the car in front of the fairly gaudy-looking club where the butcher’s son tended bar, Jeremy said, “Yeah, this looks like his kind of place. I’ll go in and get him.”

  “And leave me in a parked car on the street?” I inquired. “What do you suppose the guys out here will make of that?”

  “Well said,” Jeremy agreed. “I really should have taken you home, but we’re here now, so come on. Rollo listens to you more, anyway. Maybe I won’t have to wrestle him to the ground, with you around.”

  We parked in a nearby lot, then headed for the bar. The odor of stale beer wafted out as we entered. Inside, some ancient disco music pulsed loudly, and the lighting was somehow both dim and glaringly garish, depending on where you stood. Gingerly, we picked our way past the bar’s regulars, who regarded us with the same suspicious glance that we probably gave them. There were a few moody male creatures at the bar, staring into their cups. At the far corner of the bar, a gaggle of girls, who’d just arrived ahead of us, were already shrieking at the jokes of younger men seated on the bar stools. The guys would occasionally pull one of the standing women into their laps. Beyond this was a back room, with chairs and low square tables; and nearby, a few pool tables, all in use.

  It didn’t take us long to find Rollo. There he was, seated at a large, ugly sofa, his pouchy eyes and rumpled suit looking even worse for the wear, and he also had a few days’ stubble on his chin. His hair was longer than usual, too, but still smoothed into that Elvis-like pompadour.

  As we drew nearer, I saw that he appeared totally soused, swaying slightly even while just sitting there, surrounded by dubious-looking women in cheap dresses. I could see that Celeste had not exaggerated; these gals were clearly trawling for the sort of fellow who, when properly flattered, is ready to spend big sums on free drinks and baubles. The sorry vision of Rollo in this condition depressed me a little, for I’d never actually seen him quite this bad before.

  Then, right before my eyes, he stood up, tottering slightly, and selected a pretty brunette from the group to take home with him. This apparently offended a hard-faced blonde with a rose tattoo on her arm, who was perched on a stool at the bar. She’d been venomously watching Rollo and the other women, pretending not to care until it looked as if he was really going home with someone else.

  I saw the blonde signal a man at a nearby pool table. He had wiry hair, muscular arms, and a cigarette pack stuck in the rolled-up sleeve of his T-shirt. His sullen, glowering face bore some resemblance to the blonde girl’s. He straightened up, set aside his pool cue, and headed right for Rollo, blocking his exit. For a moment they spoke in low, angry growls that quickly escalated in volume, but I still couldn’t quite make out the words, because of the pulsing, loud disco music from about a zillion years ago. The brunette with Rollo quickly backed away, returning to her group.

  Jeremy, who’d sized all this up and was moving cautiously in Rollo’s direction without attracting undue notice, now sped toward him, but couldn’t get there fast enough. Rollo had already shrugged and pushed past the pool-table guy, who suddenly swung round, hauled off and Wham! He just socked Rollo in the eye, before anyone could stop it.

  It happened so fast that poor Rollo didn’t even realize what hit him. He staggered back and fell to the ground. The other women at the table, whom he hadn’t selected to accompany him home, now shrieked with harsh laughter, and the men at the bar roared. This made me quite indignant. Nobody was going to beat up on a relative of mine, no matter how dumb he was.

  Jeremy, well-experienced with Rollo’s antics of yore, moved swiftly to stand him up and drag him toward the front door, ignoring Rollo’s protestations. The guy from the pool table was watching Jeremy closely now. I held my breath, but Jeremy just gave him one drop-dead glance; and the guy, having figured Jeremy for a formidable opponent, quickly shrugged, turning away as if he no longer cared—a sure sign of a jerk who initially appears brutishly bold, but who only picks on weaker adversaries. He casually sauntered back to his pool game. The blonde, displeased by this turn of events, looked at Jeremy, then noticed me. As we went out with Rollo, she actually gave us the finger. Nice.

  “I say, who d’ya think you are?” Rollo demanded to Jeremy, belligerently at first, as if he didn’t quite know who was dragging him toward the door—a bouncer, perhaps? Geez. I didn’t like Rollo’s voice, so angry, growling and low, sounding more as if it came from a bear than a human. He appeared to have learned nothing from being slugged in the eye, because I saw him wink his good eye at the girls he passed, still showing off. Then Rollo finally noticed me, as I was standing there holding the door open so that Jeremy could haul him out of the wretched rum joint.

  Rollo came to a dead halt, struggled to focus his wavering gaze on me, and then said, perfectly clearly, in the genial tone he normally uses with me, “Is that Penny? Good gracious, girl, what are you doing in a sinkhole like this? This is no place for you. I ought to inform your mother.”

  I just gazed at him in disbelief. Rollo looked at Jeremy, and for the first time recognized him.

  “Oh,” he said. “You came here to stand me a drink, I suppose?” he said dryly.

  I was still glancing about apprehensive
ly, dreading that someone would pull out a knife or gun before we managed to hustle him out to the street. Mercifully, we made our getaway without further incident.

  “Rollo,” Jeremy said loudly, as we reached our car, “what hotel are you staying at?”

  Rollo mumbled something I didn’t catch, but Jeremy did. “Open the window on his side,” Jeremy instructed me, “in case he plans to get sick. Fling him out the window if you must, but don’t let him get sick in this car.”

  I propped Rollo up in the back seat. “Don’t worry, Rollo,” I said, “we’ll put some ice on that eye of yours when we get home.”

  Rollo, who’d slumped down already, became briefly, suddenly alert. “What’s that? You want to pick up some ice? There’s a petrol station not far from here . . .”

  “No,” I said hastily, “never mind, you just take it easy and we’ll be home soon.”

  When we arrived at the surprisingly good hotel where Rollo was staying, the valet and the doorman seemed to know him, and were unflappable about his condition. Jeremy asked the night clerk to telephone us if Rollo tried to go out on the town again. “Please do not, under any circumstances, let him out of the hotel,” Jeremy said, passing a couple of bills to the guy, who nodded and pocketed the money easily and quickly.

  The next day, Rollo telephoned my mobile phone—not Jeremy’s—to “return Jeremy’s call”. I told Rollo I really needed to talk to him, and he appeared punctually at the villa. Jeremy had just returned from the harbor where he’d gone to inspect the yacht and talk with the captain. He cast an appraising look at Rollo. For a man who’d been out only hours ago, getting himself seriously sozzled, Rollo didn’t look as bad as one might expect, apart from his black eye, which was actually black-purple-red. He was very cheerful, and appeared to be glad to have some company.

  “Coffee. How marvellous,” he said as I offered him a cup. “Been looking for you two for weeks!” he beamed. “Thought you’d be down here any day to put the boat back to sea.”

  “We’ve been a tad busy,” I said.

  “Ah! That’s right, the wedding bells!” he said, grinning. “Still chiming in perfect harmony?”

  “Rollo,” I said, “you’ve really got to straighten up and fly right for my wedding. I don’t want to have to send somebody to dig you out of a dive on the wedding day. That would bring us all bad luck.”

  He stared at me. I seem to be the only one who gets away with talking to him as if he’s a bad schoolboy. “I’d hate to pick up Nice Matin one day and find out that you’ve been murdered by that guy at the pool table,” I continued. “You mustn’t go there anymore. At least, not before the wedding. Promise me?”

  Rollo looked at Jeremy. “She’s a bit of a scold, you know,” he said. “Is she like that with you?”

  “I don’t give her cause,” Jeremy shot back. When his mobile phone rang, he stepped into the drawing room to take the call.

  “Ah. Well, Penny dear, you wouldn’t want me to disappoint all the ladies of the Côte d’Azur, would you? They think I’m frightfully chic, you know,” Rollo told me. I stared at him, trying to figure out if he could possibly be flattering himself that such women were attracted to him for his personal appeal, and not the money he kept waving under their noses.

  “Do I have to threaten to tell your mum on you?” I demanded, feeling a little cranky myself now.

  And that, apparently was the key, because at the mere mention of Great-Aunt Dorothy, Rollo launched into a whole spiel about how his mother was ailing, back in London, but impossible to live with nowadays because she kept “threatening to die” as he put it.

  “Bloody depressing,” he whined. “She can’t stand having me hang about her, she says she’s got her maid and her doctor. She says I must start thinking of what I’ll do with myself when she’s gone.”

  All of a sudden, his antics made sense. The more he talked, the more convinced I became. Rollo was in some sort of panic mode because, as it turned out, he was afraid of being left alone. But as soon as I appeared sympathetic, he cleared his throat with a great Harumph! and said, “Mind if I have a look at your telly? Just want to check the football scores.” We had installed a very small white TV in the kitchen, and I allowed this face-saving change of subject.

  Jeremy finished his phone call, and rejoined me. “Good news?” I asked hopefully.

  “Parker Drake’s man,” Jeremy said with satisfaction. “He says Drake’s wife has heard of you, and wants to meet you. So the P.R. guy plans to wangle us an invitation to a party that Tina Drake gives every year. At their place in Switzerland. It’s a masked ball, apparently. A charity event.”

  Jeremy looked puzzled. “He said he’d see if he could get me into Drake’s card game there. Apparently cards is the way Parker Drake takes the real measure of a man. I suppose he means poker. I can hold my own in that.”

  Although Jeremy said this in a low voice, old eagle-eared Rollo looked up from the TV scores, and turned to Jeremy interestedly, saying, “Drake? Did you say Parker Drake invited you to play cards?”

  “Yes, why?” Jeremy said warily.

  “Why, dear boy, you don’t mean to say you may be invited into that card game, do you?” Rollo cried. “That’s a very exclusive invitation indeed. That fellow Drake conducts his business deals in the summertime over a regular game on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Yes, you may start out playing poker. But if you win and it’s down to just the two of you, it’s not poker you’ll be expected to play. If you want to get on this guy’s good side, the name of the game is piquet.”

  “Piquet?” Jeremy said skeptically. “Isn’t that a game old ladies play?”

  “Not the way this guy plays it,” Rollo said stoutly. “For him it’s mano-a-mano.”

  “I think I’ve heard of that game,” I volunteered. “It’s what all the aristocrats played when they were in prison during the French Revolution, waiting to get their heads chopped off.”

  “Ah,” said Jeremy. “I’m thinking in terms of a more current century. Like, this one.”

  “Got any cards?” Rollo asked in a businesslike tone. I went to the cupboard where we’d stashed all our rainy-day distractions. I managed to scrounge up a box of three unopened decks of cards. Rollo gestured to Jeremy.

  “Sit down, m’boy, and I’ll deal you in,” Rollo commanded, laying out the cards. “For starters, you chuck out all the low-number cards, the ones below seven. The dealer is called ‘the Younger’ and you, Jeremy, will be ‘the Elder’.”

  We watched closely as Rollo dealt out the cards and explained the game. It had something in common with bezique, whist, bridge, and even gin rummy and poker. You collected cards in suits and three-or-four-of-a-kind, and kept score on a pad. At first I followed the rules pretty well, but when Rollo and Jeremy started trying variations, I got a little lost. I kept watching, but after a half-hour of seeing the two of them slapping the cards down, it occurred to me that now was a perfect time to go back to Leonora’s château in Mougins to get another look at the tapestry, now that I knew a bit of its history.

  I telephoned Leonora and asked if I could take a few more pictures, and she told me to come over any time I wanted. I ran upstairs to grab my handbag, but when I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I decided to change out of my jeans and into a nice dress. Once I’d done that, though, I had to change shoes. And then, transfer my camera, wallet and keys into a prettier handbag. You can’t just march into a château looking like a stowaway.

  On my way out, I told Jeremy my plans, and he looked up distractedly, and said, “Okay, great.”

  He and Rollo were so absorbed with what they were doing that I’m not even sure Jeremy heard me say where I was going. Which was fine with me. I could tell they’d be at it for quite a while. That would give me plenty of time to see what Armand the tapestry-maker had spent the last precious years of his life working on with such heartbreaking devotion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was never much of a driving enthusiast until Great-Aunt Pen
elope bequeathed me her old 1936 Dragonetta. Cobalt blue and zippy, it was a natural for these curving Riviera roads, and, once I’d gotten it fixed up, it made me a true believer in the joys of jaunting. I felt as if this elegant little auto had its own cheery personality, and was sharing its fearless enthusiasm with me. It took the curves with ease and aplomb, determinedly racing through the roaring traffic in town, skirting around trucks, buses and limousines, and darting through intersections in time to evade gridlock. Then it chugged up those mountain-goat hills to Mougins with spirited determination. Provence was waking up to summer with a riot of hot pink blossoms, and bright blue flowers on long green stalks, and purple fields of lavender that undulated like waves of a violet sea whenever the wind ruffled it with a breath of seaside air.

  The château was coming into bloom, too, with its potted miniature trees in full flower now. A gardener and his son were trimming the fancier topiary, making a sleepy Zzz-zzz sound with their machines. They nodded cordially to me as I pulled up the front drive. The Dragonetta snuggled into a shady patch of gravel beneath a tree near the garage, looking contented and perfectly at home.

  Leonora was happy to see me. She told me with charming candor that she’d almost given up on my doing any research into the tapestry. And although I’d warned her on the telephone that Venetia had sent me the auction house documentation, which convinced me that the offer Leonora had gotten was reasonable, I suppose my appearance here today convinced Leonora that I was “on the case” and would somehow magically find a way to “up” its value.

  I couldn’t exactly tell her that I was really doing this research for my most important client yet—my marriage. I felt that if an ancestor of Honorine’s had gone to all this trouble to make a wedding tapestry for his daughter, then surely this work of art had some wise words of advice for a bride of any century. Something positive. Something for me.