Chapter Twelve
Twelve
The atmosphere at Villa Sérénité was as subdued among the domestics as it was among the guests.
Miriam was edgy but defensive, frowning at Baxter each time she caught the concern in his eyes.
Thierry was putting together platters of cold cuts and a bowl of creamy burrata layered with spinach leaves and slices of salted beef tomatoes, but he too seemed preoccupied.
Baxter had to ask him twice where the butter was.
“In the other fridge.” Thierry gestured toward the pantry. “Don’t forget the ice.”
The dishes were silver, the delicate curls of butter sitting on a small tray suspended within the outer dish.
As Baxter added a small scoop of ice beneath each tray, he noticed Thierry’s bag on the worktop.
He glanced toward the kitchen. He knew Thierry was drinking socially again, but was he leaning on alcohol to get him through the working day?
Looking through his belongings would be a gross breach of privacy, but Baxter was worried—not only for his clients, but for Thierry himself.
The last time Thierry had fallen off the wagon, it had almost cost him his job and his relationship with Miriam.
If Baxter were to intervene early, he might be able to keep Thierry out of trouble.
Baxter set down the butter and carefully opened the bag, listening for the clink of a bottle and feeling a surge of relief when none came.
He felt into the side compartments—there had been a time when Thierry’s pockets had been stuffed with betting slips—but his hand closed not around a slip of paper, but on something small and metallic.
It was a gold ring bearing a single sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds.
Small, delicate, and very, very expensive.
Baxter stood for a moment. Where had Thierry got it from, and why was it stuffed so carelessly into a pocket of his bag? None of the guests had reported missing a piece of jewelry, but was it possible they might not have noticed?
“Are you milking the cow for that butter?” Thierry shouted.
Baxter pushed the ring back in the bag and picked up the silver trays.
“The police have asked if the ladies could please check their jewelry,” he said when all the guests were eating lunch. “There have been some items recovered locally, and they are trying to trace the owners.”
“But the intruders didn’t get in.” Francesca set down her wine glass.
“Correct.” Baxter held up his hands as though he too thought the request absurd. “However, perhaps if you could …”
“I’ve already checked.” Sylvie looked at the others. “I have some particularly nice pieces I’d hate to lose.”
Kaitlyn touched the gold chains around her neck. “I don’t take mine off.”
“And everything of mine is in the safe,” Francesca said. “I saw it this morning when I put on my tennis bracelet. Please confirm to the police there’s nothing missing, Baxter.”
“Of course.” It was a relief to know Thierry hadn’t taken the ring from the guests, but that didn’t solve the conundrum of where it had come from, and how Baxter was going to get it back to its rightful owner.
“Oh, and Baxter, would you be able to drive us into town later? The parking’s so atrocious.”
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”
“Sylvie?” Francesca looked at her. “We could do some shopping after my interviews.”
“Good idea. I’ll go and get changed. Anyone else fancy a trip to town?”
Carter shook his head. “Jade and I are going for a hike.”
“I’m staying here to top up my tan,” Kaitlyn said. She looked at Alec anxiously. “You’re not doing interviews, are you? I don’t want to be here on my own— What if the burglars come back?”
“Fortunately for you, the media aren’t interested in the money man,” Alec said wryly.
“How about I take you out for dinner tonight though? Baxter can book us a table at La M?me.” He waved a hand airily in Baxter’s direction, as though securing reservations at one of the hottest restaurants in Cannes required nothing more than a phone call, and had nothing to do with the relationships Baxter had carefully cultivated over the years.
After lunch, Baxter brought the Range Rover out of the garage and freshened up the interior, placing chilled bottles of water in every cupholder.
The alarm company had repaired the damage caused by the intruders, and Baxter had given the code to every member of the household, impressing upon them the importance of setting the alarm if they were the last to leave the villa.
“You take the front seat, Francesca,” Sylvie insisted. “You can’t get creases in that beautiful outfit, not when the press will be taking pictures.”
“You’re so thoughtful, darling.” Francesca had changed into a pair of cream palazzo pants, teamed with a matching waistcoat worn with nothing underneath. Tan leather sandals and a simple gold bangle completed the look.
As they set off down the hillside, Damian and Sylvie in the back, Baxter looked across to where he’d seen the glint of binoculars. Had it been one of the gangs watching them? Scoping out access to the villa, establishing the guests’ movements … Or could it have been the pickpocket?
Baxter checked his rearview mirror, his attention caught not by a car behind them, but by a movement inside the car.
Sylvie, moving closer to Damian. Baxter flicked his eyes back to the road.
When he looked at the rearview mirror again, Damian was turned resolutely toward the window, gazing out at the view.
But his right hand was moving rhythmically beneath Sylvie’s skirt.
She caught Baxter’s eye in the mirror and gave a slow, mischievous smile.
He flushed and turned back to the road, switching on the radio for something to do.
It must have been Sylvie’s room Damian was coming back from that morning.
Baxter glanced at Francesca. Her lips were moving silently, and he wondered if she was practicing lines or rehearsing what to say in the afternoon’s interviews.
He felt a wave of protectiveness for her and wondered if she knew what type of man she was married to.
As for Sylvie … Baxter wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of women, but he’d worked with enough female clients to understand the importance of what they referred to as “girl code.” Sylvie was a walking red flag.
He dropped them at the Carlton, where Francesca’s press junket was due to take place, and from where Sylvie had decided to stroll into town. Baxter watched her hug Francesca and wish her luck—“Not that you’ll need it, sweetie, the media will love you!”—before kissing Damian demurely on the cheek.
There were no spaces at Parking Palais, so Baxter called in a favor from a valet he knew at the Majestic.
He exchanged Boulevard de la Croisette’s designer boutiques (he had no wish to bump into Sylvie) for the parallel street of Rue d’Antibes, where he ordered a cortado from a small tabac, standing at the counter to drink it.
He was just contemplating a second coffee, when he saw a flash of fox-colored hair farther up the street.
Red.
She was walking behind a family—a man pushing a stroller; a small child hanging on her mother’s hands—matching their pace step for step. Red’s eyes were locked on the mother’s handbag, which was slung over her back, the clasp exposed.
Baxter moved swiftly. The family was walking away from him, and as he ran to catch up with them, he pulled from his pocket the keys to the Range Rover. “Excuse me! Did you drop your keys?”
The couple turned around, the woman instinctively swinging her bag around to sit at the front of her body.
“Not ours.” The man looked at the keys in Baxter’s hand. “Our hire car is a Peugeot.”
“Ah, my mistake.” Baxter smiled. “I’ll hand them into the police.”
As the family walked away, Baxter looked around for Red, who had peeled off and was now glaring at him from the corner of a side street. He walked toward her, expecting her to bolt, and not knowing quite what to do if she didn’t.
“The fuck you’re doing?” Red said as soon as he was within earshot. “This your patch, or something?”
“It is most decidedly not my patch.” Baxter took in Red’s bulging pockets and wondered what would fall out if he tipped her upside down and shook her. “But I can’t stand by and watch you steal people’s belongings.”
“Most of them don’t even miss it.” Red was wearing a black vest top with denim shorts cut so high the pockets were poking out below the hems. “Besides, they can claim on their travel insurance.”
“What do you know about Villa Sérénité?” Baxter demanded.
Red looked genuinely confused. “Where?”
“You had a matchbook from there. They’re kept in a glass bowl in the hall.”
Her expression cleared. “Oh right … Up in La Californie, right? The Lawson’s place.”
“Who?”
“Blake and Elise? Australian couple?” Red grinned. “Epic parties.”
“That,” Baxter said, remembering the clean-up required from one such epic party, “is a matter of opinion.”
There was a sudden spark of recognition on Red’s face. “You’re the bloke who fired them!” She whistled. “You’re enemy number one— They fucking hate you.”
“I’m not particularly enamored of them either,” Baxter said drily.
“They’ve pissed off a few people, to be fair. Someone drew a pair of massive breasts on a painting at one of their parties once. Turned out it was an original Picasso.” Red shrugged. “I thought it was an improvement.”
“What do you know about an attempted break-in at Villa Sérénité?”
“Nothing.” Red’s answer was so fast it was clearly her default response.
“You must have heard something.”
“Nope.”
The girl’s smug expression was infuriating. Baxter took a step toward her. “Have you been watching us? Who are you working with? Did you give information about Villa Sérénité to a criminal network?”
“Whoa!” Red held up her hands. “I’m telling you, I’ve got nothing to do with any burglary. It’s not anyone local, that’s all I know.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Red shrugged. “’Cause I know them all. I know what they’re up to.” She tapped the side of her nose. “I see everything.”
“Is that right?” Baxter had met Red’s type before: petty thieves full of empty swagger.
She nodded toward a group of teenagers sauntering down the street. “Those kids are about to have that bike away. See the one with the green jacket? He’s got something under it. Bolt cutters, probably.”
Sure enough, the young lad barely broke pace as he whipped out the croppers and cut off the flimsy lock securing the bike to a lamppost, before wheeling it away as though it had been his all along.
“I told you.” Red’s smile was smug. “I see everything. That guy over there, for instance.”
Baxter followed her gaze to a young man with slicked-back hair who was standing in the doorway of a leather shop. “What about him?”
“He’s a dealer. Not the junkie kind; he supplies the party set. Pills, poppers, whatever they want. Does his deals on the quarter hour.”
Baxter looked at his watch. It was just coming up to half past three.
“Here comes his next customer,” Red said.
As a woman approached the dealer, he put his hand in his pocket, glancing around with apparent disinterest. The exchange was over in a matter of seconds. A packet palmed from him to her, a fold of notes from her to him.
“He’ll take a walk around the block now and be back in fifteen minutes for the next one. There he goes,” she added with a note of satisfaction.
But Baxter wasn’t watching the dealer. He was watching the woman, who had slipped the packet into her bag and was now walking briskly away, a pair of oversized sunglasses no disguise at all for anyone who knew her.
Sylvie.