Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
It seemed extraordinary that they had only been at Villa Sérénité for a few days. So much had happened since Baxter had taken the guests’ suitcases to their rooms, and now he was ferrying them back out to the hall.
Carter came with him, handing Jade a pair of hair straighteners. “You left these in the bathroom.” He kissed her gently on the forehead, then chucked her chin so she met his gaze. “Hey,” he said softly. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“I thought you’d hate it … hate me.”
Carter gave a wry smile. “Okay, so I don’t love the idea of all those men looking at you, but I’m not your keeper.
If you want to quit, we’ll find a way to pay your college debt, and if you want to keep going, I’ll handle it.
I’m kinda proud of you, you know? My parents have bankrolled me my whole life, whereas you …
” He held up his hands in praise of her. “You’re incredible.”
Jade smiled. “I love you.”
“I love you back.” He grew serious. “And I’ve been thinking about what my dad said.
I’m going to get a proper job. I’m not giving up on MediSense, but it’s time to stop dicking about.
” He picked up his hand luggage, then he fished in his pocket and presented Baxter with a fold of euros. “Thanks for everything, Baxter.”
“It was my pleasure, sir,” replied Baxter. Such exchanges were one of the few occasions on which he permitted himself to lie.
Kaitlyn’s taxi arrived next. She slunk into the back seat, pale and tearful, clutching her passport and a pink fluffy neck pillow.
Baxter gave her a bottle of iced water. “Will you be all right?”
She nodded unconvincingly, fresh tears springing to the fore. Baxter wanted to offer some words of wisdom, but what would he say? Stay away from men who’ll break your heart? He was hardly in a position to give advice on that front.
He went back inside, where raised voices could be heard coming from Sylvie’s bedroom.
“But don’t you see?” Damian was pleading with her. “Now Francesca’s out of the picture, you and I can be together. I’ll divorce her, and we can get married.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Sylvie laughed. “I wanted to fuck you, not marry you. Why would I replace one misogynistic oaf with another one? You were a sort of hobby, that’s all. Something to do when I was bored.”
Baxter stepped aside as Sylvie swept out of her room and out of Villa Sérénité. He waited a moment before knocking on the bedroom door. “Mr. Huxley, do you require any assistance with your—”
“Fuck off.” Damian slammed the door in Baxter’s face.
“With pleasure,” murmured Baxter. Here, at least, he could tell the truth.
He gave half of Carter’s surprisingly generous tip to Thierry and Miriam, who were both giddy as teenagers. Miriam held out her left hand for Baxter to admire her newly acquired engagement ring. “You will come to the wedding?”
“I shall look forward to it.” Baxter kissed her on both cheeks, then shook Thierry’s hand warmly.
He was glad he’d been wrong about Thierry; good chefs were hard to find.
He watched them drive away, feeling a sudden emptiness.
It would be different, he supposed, if he were going home to someone.
He would be as keen to leave as the others, getting to the airport early and hoping for a following wind.
He imagined putting his key in the lock of his London apartment and being greeted not by the echo of his own footsteps, but by a warm embrace, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, the comfortable clutter of another presence.
Two weeks after Baxter had left the Ashcombes’ estate, he had written Hugo a long, fulsome letter in which he had poured out his heart. Baxter would wait, he had promised, for however long it took Hugo to extricate himself from his marriage.
The reply came by return of post. A single line on a monogramed card.
I’m so, so sorry. I just can’t do it to her.
Baxter had never known loneliness like it. In one fell swoop, he had lost not only the man he loved, but the domestic staff with whom he had worked for more than a decade. His family.
“Kitchen’s clean.” Red’s voice behind him made him jump.
“Thank you.” He took the remaining half of Carter’s tip from his pocket and handed it to her.
Her eyes widened. She pocketed it quickly, perhaps in case he changed his mind. “Thanks.”
“Where will you go now?” Baxter wished he’d never thought to compare Red to Florence, his niece. Red might be more streetwise, but she was just as vulnerable as any other young girl, and it was hard to imagine her going back to the streets of Cannes.
“Might head to Monaco.” Red shrugged. “See what I can pick up.”
“I was there a couple of months ago.” It amused Baxter to realize that he and Red frequented the same places—albeit for very different reasons.
“I’ll be off, then.”
“It’s been … an experience.” Baxter offered a hand, but Red stepped forward and pressed her head against his chest, squeezing her arms tight around him.
To his intense embarrassment, his eyes prickled with hot tears.
He was relieved when a police car swept into the driveway, giving him the excuse to pull away.
“Monsieur.” The barrel-chested gendarme nodded curtly to Baxter as he got out of the car.
“I wanted to confirm that Madame Huxley will be charged with the murder of Alec Prescott. You will be notified of the court date in due course.” He turned to acknowledge Red.
“My apologies, mademoiselle.” His polite expression evaporated as he saw the object of his address properly for the first time.
“Ah! Esme Rinaldi— We have been looking for you.” He spoke in rapid French, evidently assuming—or knowing—Red would understand.
“Esme?” Baxter looked at Red. She didn’t look like an Esme.
“Who?” Red lifted her chin, her brows drawn together in polite confusion. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Her accent, already impeccable, had become somehow even more English.
“Tu es Esme Rinaldi.” The gendarme tried again, but he looked a little less certain now.
“I’m so sorry,” Red said. “I don’t speak French.”
The gendarme looked at Baxter. “She is well known in the area. A pickpocket. We believe her to have been working with the gang responsible for the break-ins. She left a backpack behind the bins at La M?me, and we found a pair of binoculars inside, as well as the phone numbers of two men known to be part of the gang.”
So it had been Red on the opposite hillside, scoping out the movements of guests in the villas.
She had the grace to blush a little, although she maintained her air of polite confusion.
Baxter was conflicted. Red had done many wrongs, there was no doubt about that, but she’d done a lot right too.
He thought about the pseudo-casual way she’d referred to her mother’s partner—“Let’s just say he was a bit too ‘hands-on’ as a stepdad”—and his fingers clenched into fists.
Who knew what choices Florence might be making had she had the misfortune to grow up like Red?
“This girl?” Baxter looked at Red as though he’d only just realized that’s who they were talking about. “This is my niece. Florence Maybery.”
The gendarme hesitated. “Your niece sleeps by the bins behind La M?me?”
“No, no, no.” Baxter laughed. “As I say, a case of mistaken identity. Florence has been here with me for the last week. She was in England before that.”
There was a long pause. If the police had any hard evidence, Baxter thought, they would take Red in anyway.
He suspected, though—hoped—the gendarme was simply on a fishing expedition, hoping to clear away someone who had no doubt been an irritant to his petty crime statistics for the last few months.
After what seemed like an eternity, the gendarme grunted and rattled his car keys. “Monsieur.” He nodded at Baxter. “Mademoiselle Florence …” He gave her a hard stare, and Baxter knew he was still wrestling with what to do.
“I did pick up something about a crime spree, actually.” Baxter rubbed his chin as though trying to remember.
“An Australian couple.” He thought of the mess they’d made of Villa Sérénité, the damage they’d caused that Baxter had fixed out of his own pocket.
And hadn’t Red said they’d pulled the same trick before?
An original Picasso, wrecked at one of the Lawson’s infamous “parties”?
“I believe their names are Blake and Elise Lawson.”
“Interesting.” The gendarme was scribbling in a small black notebook. “An Australian couple recently caused a great deal of damage to an apartment in town, but we did not have their names. This is very useful.” He nodded again, then got back in his car and drove away.
Baxter let out a long, audible breath. His collar was damp with sweat.
A peal of gleeful laughter erupted from Red. “That was awesome. Thanks—Uncle.” She jabbed Baxter playfully in the ribs, which tickled slightly too much for him to give her the stern look he wanted to.
“You might want to consider going somewhere a little farther than Monaco,” he said. “For a few weeks, at least.”
“Till they forget me, you mean?”
“Precisely,” Baxter said, although privately he wasn’t sure such a thing was possible.
“Suits me. I can’t stand Cannes anyway. Absolute shithole. Can’t wait to get out of here.”
Baxter’s phone rang, and he saw Anya Kovács’s number flashing on the screen. “Excuse me a moment.”
“I need someone to look after a yacht party in Santorini. Are you available?” Anya was typing as she talked, pecking at a keyboard with nails Baxter knew were always long and always red. “You’d need to leave this evening.”
Baxter felt a ripple of excitement and anticipation. A new group of guests, a new location—and one he was always pleased to return to. Something to fill the hollowness in his chest. “Consider it done.”
“They have their own chef, but they’d like you to bring a housekeeper. Is that possible?”
Baxter mentally flicked through his little black book of contacts. His network in Greece was less extensive than it was in France, but he could make some calls and …
His gaze fell on Red. She was toeing the gravel, kicking pieces in the air and watching them scatter, seemingly in no hurry to leave despite her previous enthusiasm to get out of town.
Baxter thought of the way she had roamed about his room, quizzing him with a familiarity that was at once unsettling and comforting.
He thought how good it had felt to work in a team once again.
Finally, he thought of his niece’s accidental good fortune, and compared her once again to Red: a pickpocket, a scavenger, a vagabond …
A housekeeper?
“Absolutely,” he told Anya before he could change his mind. “My niece will accompany me to Santorini.”