by Elise Noble
And when Coco finally looked at the information Rhys had saved about applying for leave to remain in the UK as a stateless person, she only wanted to know when she’d be able to apply for a passport.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Brazil.”
“To look for those trees? Do you have a death wish?”
Wrong choice of words. Coco burst into tears.
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! Who I am, where I’m from… Only that those trees were involved, and I’m the second woman to appear in that freaky greenhouse.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Rhys took a step forward, and Coco took a step back. “I understand how difficult this must be.”
“Do you? Do you really? I’m living in permanent limbo, and now it seems I might not even be alive.”
“You’re very much alive.” This time when Rhys moved towards her, Coco stayed put. “I’ll do everything I can to get to the bottom of this.”
Which was why he found himself on the phone an hour later. Coco had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and Rhys snuck out to the garden so he wouldn’t disturb her. Even after his mum died, he’d never really felt alone, but now, with nobody close to confide in, he became all too aware of his social isolation. Sure, he had plenty of acquaintances and he got invited to parties, but there wasn’t a single person—not one—that he trusted to provide advice. Which meant he had to make do with Uncle Albert…
“I need to ask a favour.”
“What kind of a favour, lad? How’s that girl of yours?”
“That’s what the favour’s about. She can’t get this nonsense with Great-Grandma Alice and the trees out of her head, and I think the only way to prove it’s just a crazy myth will be to find out where Coco came from. I was wondering if you could ask around the village again? Somebody must know her.”
“I already did that. For my own curiosity, like. Angharad Davis who runs the post office knows everything about everyone, and she says the only girl who’s gone missing recently is young Candace McDade.”
“Could Coco be Candace?”
Albert snorted a laugh. “Oh, heavens no. I’d have recognised Candace. I helped her with her gardening badge when she was a Girl Guide, which turned out to be something of a mistake because she got arrested for running her own cannabis farm a few years later. Her mother still blames me for teaching her about the benefits of hydroponics. And Angharad thinks she ran off to London with a boy.”
“Dammit, I need to solve this mystery.”
“Tsk-tsk-tsk. A gentleman shouldn’t curse.”
Good thing Rhys wasn’t a gentleman. “I’d say cursing’s warranted under the circumstances. Coco thinks she grew in a bloody tree, and you didn’t help by telling her about the other woman in the greenhouse.”
“I didn’t say much. I don’t know much. The only person who does is Remi Leroux, Remi Klein, whatever his name is.”
“Except he’s denied everything. I tried emailing him, and his assistant replied and said he’d never been to Wales.”
“Oh, hogwash. I had lunch with Branwyn Jeffries at the B&B in the village, and we looked up this Remi Klein on the internet. Did you know he gave one of those TED talks? Something fancy about genetics? Anyhow, Branwyn says it’s definitely the same chap who stayed with her. He’d booked the room for two whole months, but after the incident with the woman, he left enough cash to cover his entire stay in an envelope on his bed, plus a note saying that he’d really enjoyed Branwyn’s cooking and apologising for leaving in such a hurry.”
“So he’s a billionaire and a liar.”
“Certainly seems that way, lad. Branwyn found an article on some lifestyle website, and he lives in a castle.”
“I saw that story too.”
The castle—or château since it was in France—had a tower with those tiny little slitty windows archers used to fire arrows out of, and even a bloody moat.
“Since we know where he is, maybe you should try speaking to him in person?”
“Are you kidding? I can hardly stroll over the drawbridge and ring the bell.”
“He has to leave sometime. How does he buy groceries?”
“He probably has them delivered. Or gets his butler to go to the supermarket.”
“Perhaps you could catch him at work?”
“You can’t just make an appointment with a man like that.”
Rhys knew because he’d already tried. He’d called RK Biotronix pretending to be a journalist looking for an interview, only to be told that Mr. Klein didn’t see anybody, ever.
“Well, use your imagination, lad. Or don’t young ’uns do that anymore? Every time I see someone your age, they’re fiddling with one of those fancy smartphones. What’s wrong with good old buttons?”
“I have imagination, but what I don’t have is time. If we don’t find a new place to live in the next fortnight, me and Coco will both be homeless.”
“What’s wrong with the place you’re living in at the moment?”
“The lease runs out.”
“Don’t you have letting agents in London? I’m as curious about Remi’s motives as you are.”
“I’ll make the trip when I’m able, but it’ll probably be a waste of time.”
“You never know. Remember what Arthur Conan Doyle said: ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”
“There’s a perfectly rational explanation for all this.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Please, just don’t.”
CHAPTER 17
KLEIN’S HOME TOWN of Villance lay south of Limoges in north-western France. Home to fifteen thousand people, it was renowned for its art exhibitions as well as the ornate water feature in the town square. A bit of a tourist trap, it seemed, judging by the number of souvenir shops clustered around the fountains. According to Google Earth, Klein’s castle was five miles away on a quiet, leafy road, although it might as well have been on the moon. The security around the place was no joke. Guards, cameras, warnings of dogs on patrol…
Rhys might have lied to his uncle when he’d said he had imagination. Right now, he saw no way of getting within a hundred yards of Remi Klein. And he couldn’t stop wishing that Coco was there with him. Not only did he miss her company, but she was also the more devious out of the two of them. After all, it was she who’d had the idea of removing the back panel from Gary’s beloved bass speaker and inserting a little leaving gift—two haddock fillets and a dozen peeled prawns.
But instead of having his partner in crime at his side, Rhys was stuck in France with only a hired Renault Clio for company, while Coco was trapped in a dingy bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Uxbridge with three alarm clocks and—thankfully—a landlady who was hard of hearing. Better still, the lady had offered a twenty-five percent discount as long as Coco didn’t need fresh linen and towels every day, and she’d also agreed to the goldfish staying at no extra charge. They couldn’t leave them behind with the three imbeciles. Everything else Rhys had wanted to keep from the house on Cardon Street had fit into two suitcases—including the tiger-print onesie, which Coco had insisted on keeping if only to laugh at—and those were tucked into a corner of Coco’s room, awaiting his return.
They’d spent three weeks planning this trip, but in the end, the only part that had mattered was the goodbye. Coco’s murmured words, her confidence that he’d get to the bottom of the mystery, followed by that kiss. A kiss that Coco had started, but which Rhys hadn’t stopped. He’d been about to walk out the door when she’d pulled him back, shoved him against the wall, and pressed herself against him. Their gazes locked. Every atom in him screamed “bad idea” as she leaned in and touched her lips to his, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret kissing her back. Those breathy little gasps… In that moment, the past didn’t matter and the future didn’t matter, only the present. Rhys had gone from relaxed to rock hard in the time it took her to slide her tongue into his m
outh, but she’d been polite enough not to mention the state of his dick when she finally stepped back and reminded him not to be late for his train.
And now here he was.
In France.
At his wit’s end.
Tourists were welcome in Villance, it seemed, but nosy foreigners weren’t. Any questions beyond “Où est la fontaine?” and “Y a-t-il une boulangerie près d’ici?” were met with suspicion by the locals. Rhys pretended to be a writer struggling for inspiration as he penned his latest novel—the tale of a medieval lord who had the power to rewind time by twenty-four hours and made his serfs relive each day over and over until they got it right—but he wasn’t sure the townsfolk had bought the story. Shame. He was quite proud of the idea, even if he hadn’t worked out the ending. Perhaps he should start writing it for real?
Oh, the French were friendly enough most of the time, despite snickers at Rhys’s attempts to murder their language, but they quickly brushed aside any probing questions. Remi Klein was a town hero, and nobody would hear a bad word said against him. Did he actually visit the town? Not often, but when he did, he spent a ton of money. And he’d donated all the benches around the fountains. Had Rhys seen the fountains yet? Because if he hadn’t, he really should. And did he know there was a son et lumière every evening at eight?
Back when Rhys used to have free time, he’d watched a lot of mystery shows, but he’d never look at those amateur sleuths in the same way again. You know the ones—dramas where Joe Average invariably discovers he has a natural flair for detective work, solves the problem within a week thanks to his blinding deductions, and everyone lives happily ever after. Except for the murder victims, obviously.
At least nobody had died in this episode.
“I might as well come home,” he told Coco over Skype. He’d bought her a cheap smartphone before he left, so at least they could stay in touch. Their nightly conversations were the only thing that kept him going at the moment. “Klein might as well be a ghost.”
“Who did you speak to today?”
“The hotel owner’s son, the waiter at lunch, a couple of shopkeepers, a guy walking his dog near the castle, and three teenagers with skateboards.”
And quite honestly, trying to solve this puzzle was trickier than knitting a sweater out of spaghetti while wearing mittens.
Coco sighed. “They’re all men.”
“So?”
“Try asking women your age. If I were them, I’d talk to you.”
Hmm. Rhys shuddered at the thought. He’d always had a tendency to get tongue-tied around women he didn’t know, so he avoided speaking to them wherever possible. He’d only ended up with Stacey because she kept talking to him.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“It’s a great idea.”
“But what would I say?”
“Simple—just start with an easy question they’ll definitely know the answer to, like is there a cinema nearby or where’s the nearest art gallery? Then notice something they’re wearing and compliment them on it.”
“Won’t that seem creepy?”
“Not if you do it right. I mean, don’t say that you love their sweater because it looks like one your mom knitted. Perhaps admire their necklace and ask where they bought it because your sister would love one just like it?”
Okay. Right. That sounded straightforward enough. Could it really be that easy?
“That’s it?”
“If they like you, they’ll start talking. Sure, you might crash and burn a few times, but you have to keep going. Just put on your English charm.”
“What charm?”
“Yeah, exactly like that. It’s cute when you act self-deprecating. And smile. You look handsome when you smile.” On-screen, Coco rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m giving you tips on how to pick up women. You’d better not find one you like.”
“I already did.”
Her face fell. “Oh.”
“I’m talking about you.”
“Oh,” she said again, but this time it was followed by a smile. Rhys traced the outline of her lips with a finger.
“I miss you.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut because he couldn’t be there to wipe it away.
“I miss you too.”
CHAPTER 18
COCO WAS RIGHT—Rhys crashed and burned on his first few attempts. One girl laughed at his pitiful attempts to speak and walked away, and another called her boyfriend over. The guy started off hostile, but he soon realised Rhys was no threat and drew him a map to the nearest hostel. Only the thought of Coco stopped Rhys from skulking back to his hotel room to nurse his wounded pride. Failure wasn’t an option.
His reward came at lunchtime when he struck gold, quite literally. Breakfast had been a solitary croissant and a cup of coffee, and by noon he was starving. He chose a tiny backstreet café to eat in, not because it looked nice, but because it looked cheap. Anywhere within sight of those bloody fountains charged a premium. Surely he couldn’t go wrong with a cheese baguette? Or a croque-monsieur? Or one of those mini quiches? Maybe a—
The waitress appeared from nowhere. Well, a door to the left, but Rhys still didn’t see her coming. Oof. Her tray clattered to the floor, and cream cakes splattered all over the tiles.
“I’m so sorry!”
“Je suis désolé,” the waitress said at the same time, beaded bangles clinking as she stooped to clear up the mess. She wore more costume jewellery than a QVC host.
“Here, let me help.”
Bad move. Rhys slipped on the remains of a chocolate eclair and landed on his arse. At least the girl was laughing—he had to take that as a positive.
“Sorry.”
“You are helping by cleaning the floor with your…?” She patted her own behind.
“Well, not quite…” Now what was he meant to say? “Uh, I like your necklace.”
Was it possible to sink right through the floor? Even if he ended up in hell, it couldn’t be worse than the current situation.
“Oh, thank you.” The waitress beamed at him. “I made it myself.”
“Really? I was going to ask where you got it. It’s my sister’s birthday soon.”
“I ’ave an Etsy store. Let me get this mess cleaned up, and I will write down the details.”
“Uh, merci beaucoup.”
She let out a peal of laughter.
“Quoi?” he asked. What?
“Your pronunciation’s terrible,” she said, her English perfect. “You just told me I ’ave a nice ass, and I don’t think you meant to.”
Rhys’s cheeks burned. “No! No, of course I didn’t. Not that your arse isn’t lovely, but… I’m going to stop talking now.”
The girl giggled. “At least you tried. Most of the tourists, they just shout louder in English.”
“I apologise on behalf of my fellow countrymen. I’ll try to keep the volume down.”
Another giggle. “You’re on vacation in Villance?”
“Not exactly. I’m writing a novel, and I thought I’d take a trip to France for inspiration.”
“Très excitant!” she said as he scrambled to his feet. “Chanté.”
“Chanté?”
“It’s my name.”
“Ah. Yes, of course.” Even dealing with Coco naked in the greenhouse had been less awkward than this. “Rhys.”
He held out a hand, Chanté leaned forward and offered a cheek to kiss, and he ended up jabbing her in the chest. Please, somebody kill me now.
“Sorry.”
“Ah, the ’andshake. It’s very English.” She did shake hands, hers soft and dainty, his hot and sticky. Fuck. One thing was certain—he’d be leaving her a massive tip. “Sorry, the handshake. Always I am forgetting my ‘aitches.’ And I should find a mop.”
Rhys managed to gather his wits enough to scoop the cakes into the bin while Chanté washed the floor. He was the only person in the café, which surprised him si
nce the proprietor was so friendly. The food looked better than he’d expected as well. He ordered a croque-monsieur and an opera cake, plus a cup of coffee.
“Have you worked here for long?” he asked Chanté when she brought his lunch over.
“Two years. But maybe…” She looked around, and her smile dropped for the first time. “But maybe not for much longer.”
“Why not?”
“I had…how do you say…a fell-out?”
“A falling-out?”
“Yes, a falling-out with the mayor’s daughter, so local people don’t come ’ere anymore. And the tourists, they stay by the fountains.”
It was none of Rhys’s business, but he couldn’t help asking anyway. “What did you fall out over?”
“At the Fête du Travail cake-decorating contest, somebody covered her cake in paint, and she told everyone it was me.”
“And nobody found the real culprit?”
“Nobody looked. I think she did it ’erself.”
“She sabotaged her own entry?”
A shrug. “Oui.”
“But why would she do that?”
“Because for Nicolette, it is better to cause a scene than to come second.” Chanté’s smile returned, but this time it looked forced. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems. Tell me, what ’ave you found in Villance that inspires you?”
She’d given him an opening, and he had to take it, didn’t he?
“I’ve visited both of the art galleries, plus of course there’re the fountains.” He crossed his fingers. “And the other day, I drove past what looked like a castle just outside town. Are people allowed to visit it?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, no, you can’t go there.”
“Shame. It looked interesting.”
“Oui, it is. When I was young, it was an abandoned ruin, and we were able to visit then. My papa took my little brother and me on the weekends, and I used to hide behind the rocks and jump out at him. Even now, my brother still believes it’s haunted. Many people do. At night, you can hear strange footsteps and sometimes a woman wailing.”
