Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Baxter and Miriam carried the main courses up the stairs, each plate kept warm beneath a silver cloche. Here and there, droplets of water glistened where Miriam had made a pantomime of running the mop around, and Baxter stepped carefully over them.
“Only someone rich enough to have staff would build a house with a kitchen and a dining room on different levels,” grumbled Miriam.
Baxter was inclined to agree. “The owner only visits once a year, and I can’t imagine they do much cooking.”
“Imagine having so much money,” Miriam said enviously. “It would solve all our problems.”
At the top of the stairs, Baxter paused. “Problems?” he said casually.
“There’s always money to be made if you know where to look,” Thierry had said. Did Miriam think the same?
“Oh …” Miriam gave a forced laugh. “A new car would be nice, that is all.” She walked ahead of Baxter, into the open-plan drawing room toward the table, and Baxter had no choice but to follow.
He noticed the shift in atmosphere right away. Kaitlyn was missing, and the others were leaning forward, their voices low.
“I just think it’s convenient, that’s all,” Carter was saying. “It would be good to have confirmation on exactly how far gone she is.”
“Why are you looking at me?” Jade said with an amused laugh.
He seemed surprised by the question. “You’re a woman, aren’t you?”
“What do you expect me to do, put her legs in stirrups and snap on a pair of latex gloves?”
“That’s this evening’s entertainment sorted, then!” Damian chortled.
Francesca gave him a withering look, before turning to Carter. “I didn’t show until I was almost five months. Kaitlyn’s young and fit—she’s probably got good stomach muscles.”
“Shh!” Sylvie hissed. “She’s coming back.”
An abrupt silence fell across the table as Kaitlyn rejoined them. She looked around the table, uncertainty crossing her face at the shift in mood.
“What delights do you have for us, Baxter?” Francesca said a little too loudly.
“Mediterranean chicken, madam, with black olives and roasted tomatoes.” He set down the plates, the distinctive Villa Sérénité monogram at exactly twelve o’clock.
Across the table, Jade was looking in her bag.
Her fingers closed around something. She frowned.
Baxter’s pulse quickened. Had Red folded the note the wrong way?
Placed it in the wrong section of the clutch?
“It looks delicious,” Francesca said.
As Baxter tore his gaze from the small clutch, his eyes met Jade’s. He gave her his most professional smile, but she stared at him, unblinking, then pulled her purse off the table and onto her lap. She knew. Or at least she suspected.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep a wink tonight,” Sylvie declared. “What if they come back?”
“I will personally ensure the house is secure before we all retire this evening,” Baxter said.
“Tomorrow morning, I will check the property. I advise you to stay in your rooms until I inform you all is well.” He glanced around the table.
If his hunch was correct, someone was about to spend the night with a killer.
“You said you’d give me a lift back to Cannes,” Red said. Without being asked, she was helping to clear up, scraping the plates into the food waste bin and stacking them in the dishwasher.
Baxter moved a side plate from the front of the rack to the back. “I’ve changed my mind.”
She stared at him. “Great. Cheers for that. I’d have gone by now, if I’d known I had to walk back.”
“There’s a room off the laundry.” Baxter gestured down the hallway. “It’s small, but it’s clean. Miriam, would you make it up, please? Thank you,” he added firmly before she could protest.
“Are you sure?” Red seemed suddenly very young. Baxter imagined her curled up on a sheet of cardboard and had to look away.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” He fixed his gaze on her. “But no nighttime wandering. You stay put until I knock on your door tomorrow morning.”
She nodded. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Thanks,” she said, and Baxter had the impression she hadn’t said it for a while.
He slept fitfully, alert for the sound of hissing from the air-conditioning vent or the soft click of an opening door.
He mentally ran through each of the guests in turn.
Did Sylvie promise Damian backing for his movie if he helped her kill Alec?
Had Jade believed she would lose Carter if he found out she was a lap dancer?
Baxter wondered how many other secrets were being kept under the terra-cotta tiles of Villa Sérénité.
He woke before his alarm, the rising sun casting a soft golden glow across the room.
He lay still for a second, uneasy with the silence—bracing himself for what might have happened overnight—then he swung his legs out of bed.
Assuming the guests heeded his warning to stay in their rooms, they would not emerge until he checked the house and given the all clear.
All was peaceful on the first floor. The hallway outside his door was dark, but a thin sliver of light showed under Thierry and Miriam’s door.
Baxter walked into the main house to check the front door, then moved silently past the guests’ bedrooms, stopping briefly by each door to listen.
Gentle snoring from Damian and Francesca’s room; rhythmic breathing from Carter and Jade’s; the low murmur of a radio from Sylvie’s.
Feeling deeply intrusive, Baxter pressed his ear to Kaitlyn’s door but heard nothing.
The back door was still locked, the kitchen exactly as he’d left it a few hours before.
The door to Red’s room was closed, and Baxter wondered if the girl was still there, or if she’d run off—and if so, what she might have taken with her.
He made his way back to the central staircase in order to check the living accommodation.
At the top of the staircase, Baxter felt a sudden lurch inside him, as though he were driving and had taken a bend too fast. Something greasy had taken his feet from under him, and he clutched at the handrail, fingers grappling for the cold metal, gripping it tight, finding his footing.
For a split second, relief flooded through him, but the sensation was fleeting.
The rail came away from the wall, and Baxter began to fall.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Baxter teetering on the edge of the step, his arms windmilling backward, the handrail crashing to the floor.
His foot slipped again on the wet marble, and down he went, tumbling over and over on the spiral staircase, his head cracking against the final tread.
He cried out, the sound echoing through the quiet house, then he fell still.
As the hall clock ticked onward, Baxter lay motionless on the marble floor.