Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Why would she lie?” Thierry said.
“Money,” said Miriam and Red in unison. A moment of solidarity passed between them before Miriam resumed her expression of distrust.
“It’s always money,” Red said. “Her bloke’s rich, right?”
“Was,” Baxter corrected. “Kaitlyn’s partner was Alec Prescott, the gentleman who sadly lost his life during the break-in.”
Red snorted. “That’s convenient.” She looked around the table. “What? Don’t tell me you’re not thinking it? She fakes a pregnancy, screws him for all the money she can get, then she sees a chance to kill him and make it look like the burglars did it.”
Baxter thought about the disabled alarm, his suspicions that the burglars had inside help.
But how would Kaitlyn have encountered them?
She had hardly spent any time in Cannes, and she didn’t seem the type to frequent the sort of seedy establishments in which one might meet criminals.
Unlike Sylvie, Baxter thought, remembering the drug exchange he and Red had witnessed.
“If your theory is correct,” he said, “why do it now? Stringing him along for longer would be far more lucrative.”
Thierry was drumming his fingers on the table. “Maybe Alec found out, and they had a row.”
“It is difficult to fake a pregnancy after the first few months,” Miriam said. “Especially when you are intime with someone.”
“There’s hardly anything of her,” Baxter said. “Would she have the strength to drown someone of Alec’s stature? He would hardly have gone quietly.”
“Maybe she had an accomplice,” Thierry said.
Baxter considered this. The only guest Kaitlyn seemed close to was Carter’s girlfriend, who was certainly no fan of Alec’s either. Could they have planned this together?
“It could have been an accident, I suppose,” Red said, although she seemed disappointed by her idea. “They had a row, he tripped and smashed his head in, and she panicked and made it look like he’d drowned.”
“We’ll know more after the postmortem,” Baxter said, “but I didn’t see any injuries when we took him out of the water.”
Red shrugged. “Could be internal.”
Baxter imagined the scene. Alec pushing his way into Kaitlyn’s room, alcohol and a sore ego making him belligerent.
Had Kaitlyn told him to leave? Or had he caught sight of something—a bottle of vodka, the packet of pills—and called her out on the pregnancy?
Perhaps Kaitlyn had messaged Jade after it was all over, begging for help.
Something terrible has happened …
Jade was undoubtedly smarter. Had the burglars already been and gone, and Jade had seen an opportunity to cover up Kaitlyn’s crime?
Miriam wrinkled her nose, unconvinced. “But there was no sign of a fight in his room.”
“How far is it to the swimming pool?” Red asked.
“Thirty feet or so, in a straight line,” Baxter said. “Kaitlyn could easily have dragged Alec that far if he was already dead.”
“Or out of it,” Thierry said. “The burglars had already done the hard work for her by putting us all to sleep.”
It made sense. There was no sign of a struggle because there had been no struggle. Alec Prescott had already been unconscious when Kaitlyn dragged him into the water.
“But—” Red stopped as quickly as she’d started.
Baxter looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” She appeared suddenly fascinated by a knot in the wooden table, tracing the whorls with her index finger.
Baxter’s unease grew. What wasn’t she telling them?
The “mate” who had seen Kaitlyn drink alcohol—was he part of the gang of thieves?
Had she learned of their plans to break into Villa Sérénité and decided to exploit it?
“Was there anyone else who might have wanted Alec dead?” Red said.
“How long have you got?” Thierry muttered. Baxter recalled the rage in the chef’s face after Alec had been over-familiar with Miriam.
“His son.” Miriam looked to Baxter for confirmation.
He nodded. “Alec was threatening to cut off Carter’s income. Carter was also facing the possibility of having to share his inheritance with a half sibling—he doesn’t know Kaitlyn is faking her pregnancy.”
“Damian was angry with Alec too,” Miriam said. “About the money for his film.”
“I don’t see how killing him helps,” Thierry said. “He can’t finance a film from the grave.”
“No,” Baxter said slowly, “but Sylvie could. She’s still a director of Alec’s company, and …” He didn’t like to share such personal information about his clients, but then his clients didn’t usually end up dead. “Sylvie and Damian are having an affair.”
Red laughed gleefully. “This is amazing.”
“Not for Alec Prescott,” Baxter said sternly, although it had to be said: The man had made an enemy of almost everyone at Villa Sérénité.
“We need to find out if he’d already changed his will in Kaitlyn’s favor,” Red said. “Miriam, have a look in his room, see if there’s a laptop, any paperwork.”
Miriam raised a haughty eyebrow. “I did not know you were a détective.”
Red laughed again. “The police will take weeks to do this, and you know what will happen in the meantime? You’ll have to stay in Cannes. “‘Helping them with their inquiries.’” She made quotes with her fingers.
Thierry looked alarmed. “We can’t—Miriam and I have a job in Nice from next week. We need the money.”
Baxter frowned. How long would the police keep them in Cannes?
Anya Kovács had hinted she had another job for him; she wouldn’t take kindly to him turning it down.
“We could perhaps ‘assist the investigation’ a little,” he said.
“Understand more about the relationships each of our guests had with Mr. Prescott.” And report back to Anya on his business affairs, he thought, realizing he could kill two birds with one stone.
Miriam nodded. “I’ll check the rooms. The women often have their bags with them though, and all the guests keep their phones where they can see them.”
Red flexed her knuckles, grinning. “Leave that to me.”
Baxter stood, straightening the cuffs of his shirt.
Beneath the glamorous veneer of Villa Sérénité was a web of lies, grudges, and secrets—and someone willing to kill to keep theirs hidden.
Baxter had worked for enough rich men to know that wherever there was money, there was motive.
He turned to the others. “Right, then. Let’s find ourselves a murderer. ”