“I’d like to see this place that you took her. Is it a permanent address? I mean, does that woman live there all the time or was it just a temporary thing?”
The waiter returned with another bottle of red wine and two chilled bottles of Evian. He deposited the mineral water, one at each of their elbows, and began to decant the wine. Bentley watched the man intently, as if ready to jump in and do the job himself if necessary. Bentley was handsome, Maggie decided, but his features were sharp, nearly hawk-like, and she wondered if, in spite of his good looks, many women found him attractive.
Finally, the waiter poured the wine and left. Maggie reached out and touched Bentley’s hand as he reached for his glass.
“You said on the phone to my father that Gerard was a very bad man.”
Bentley looked at her sadly.
“I did not know it at the time,” he said.
“But he is bad.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Newberry. The child is, in my opinion, in some danger by remaining with Dubois. He is a drug addict, he beats the girl...”
“He’s had her now for almost six months.”
“Yes. I would say that time is probably critical. Wouldn’t you?” He looked at her kindly.
“She is...” Maggie looked around the restaurant as if expecting to see Gerard and her niece seated nearby. “She is in Cannes?”
“Or nearby. Probably not right in Cannes. Surely you must be aware by now of the cost of one room for one night in this town? I imagine, as Monsieur Dubois didn’t have a pied-a-terre here himself—and probably wouldn’t have been foolish enough to have taken the girl there even if he had—the girl is somewhere in the country, a remote village, probably.”
“And that’s where she’s been all this time?”
“Presumably.”
“And you think you’ll be able to find this place?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“May I ask how?”
“Why don’t we see how things go, shall we? I hate to tip my hand—and by doing so, get your hopes up—if things go awry. Let me try a few avenues, knock on a few doors that I know of, and see where they lead.”
“I’d like to be a part of this door-knocking, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m afraid that would be impossible, Miss Newberry.” Bentley pushed aside their collection of dishes and glasses and drew an ashtray nearer to him. “I would suggest instead that you try to enjoy what the South of France can offer you. Hire a car and see the palace at Monaco tomorrow.” He lit his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of gray-blue smoke into the air above her head. “There are some enchanting little villages along the way, I personally recommend Villefranche—a charming little place, or Juan les Pins, you remember the song? Do a little sight-seeing and let me see what I can uncover. If it turns out we are successful, you will have to leave the country fairly quickly with a person who will possess false identifications, and a forged American passport. It would be best if you were as uninvolved as possible until that time.”
Maggie nodded. Although technically possessing dual citizenship, Nicole would still classify as a kidnap victim if Maggie were caught leaving the country with her.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said.
He nodded solemnly.
“I’m absolutely right. Just leave it to me, Miss Newberry. If all goes well, by this time tomorrow night, you will have your niece, her forged papers and two tickets back home to the U.S. Everything neat and tidy. Neat and tidy.”
Maggie stared off into space, across the tables of diners and into the happy nighttime streets of Cannes. Black gypsies, bejangled and braided, waved their wares of bracelets and bells, beaded necklaces and earrings from the street in hopes of attracting attention. Some accompanied their selling with strumming on guitars and soft crooning that caught on the calm Mediterranean breeze and wafted back to Maggie as she sat at her table. The music of the night mingled with the scent of olives and lemons and dusky perfumes that pooled in the open-air café.
4
“Maggie, I need you.”
“Of course, I’ll help. You know I will. Just tell me what you want.”
“I need you here with me.”
“Be reasonable, Elise. I can’t just pick up and go. I’ve got responsibilities here. A job—“
“He’s taken her and I don’t know where she is and it’s been days now. My little girl, my petite, wee chou...”
“Elise, please, pull yourself together. You should call the police. Have you done that yet?”
“I need you here, Maggie. I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch with you or Mother or Dad in so long. It’s not that I don’t love you or didn’t want to be with you...”
“Elise, listen to me! You must call the police if Gerard has stolen Nicole. They can help, I can’t. Don’t you see that?”
“Ma petite poupee, mon ange, petite Nicki-nicki...”
Maggie sat up in bed, the sounds of her sister’s weeping seemed to ring throughout the hotel room. “Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie Nickie...”
Maggie pulled back the duvet and scrambled out of bed. She flipped on the light in the bathroom and stood, breathless, on the cool tile as she waited for her heart to stop pounding. Oh, Elise, she thought. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, so sorry! She leaned against the bathroom door and closed her eyes. Elise would have been so close now. Just around the corner and down a street. Right there, with geraniums in the window.
Maggie opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the warped mirror over the bathroom sink. Oh, Elise. Except for the hysterical call from her six months before, they hadn’t heard from her in almost two years. At the age of twenty-nine, Elise had dropped out of sight, with only the briefest, most painful glimpses of her filtering back to them in Georgia: Elise has dropped out of her art classes. Elise has had a baby. Elise was arrested. Drugs? Prostitution? Assault? The news was always vague and always indicting.
Her parents had been distraught. Embarrassed too? wondered Maggie. Were they awkward about Elise at the Cherokee Country Club? Did everyone know that John and Elspeth Newberry’s eldest daughter was a drugged-out flake with an illegitimate child?
Maggie rubbed her hands over her eyes and turned out the bathroom light. She went back to the bed, her head throbbing. But Elise had had the last word. Hadn’t she always managed to do that, even when they were kids? Whether it was an undisturbed night’s sleep or an unselfconscious walk across the tennis courts of her parents’ country club, Elise had made sure that things would—undeniably, irretrievably—never be quite the same again.
Chapter 2
1
Maggie jabbed a sliver of toast into her eggcup. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an eye-to-eye reaction. If he were going to eliminate her involvement in this important adventure—and she was absolutely aware that he could do it and she would accept it—she could at least let him know she wasn’t happy about it. Heck, for fifteen thousand dollars, he can damn well care how I feel.
“I can’t say how long, exactly, negotiations will take.” Roger looked starched and smart in the late-morning swelter. He flapped his cotton napkin out flat across his lap and smiled across the table at Maggie. He had, again, chosen their meeting place, the sunny and fairly private outdoor dining deck of yet another famous, old Cannes hotel, the Majestic.
“Might be a few days, actually. Need to be prepared to wait. All good things, and all that.” He smiled brightly at her and then reached over to pour his coffee. “But I’m very happy with my plan—“
“Which you feel no need to divulge to me.” Maggie stared at her speared egg-cup, the toast point weakening at the base and beginning to collapse into the murky yellow.
“No, no, I can’t say that I do. I hope you understand. I feel that I’m protecting you, Maggie.”
Maggie felt a pinch of annoyance at Bentley’s use of her Christian name but shook herself out of it. He was friendly enough and he certainly was doing her—and her
whole family—a service that she’d be hard-pressed to find someone else to do. She looked at him quickly, and then back at her plate. In fact, if he hadn’t called her father in the States, her family might not even have gotten this far on the road to finding Elise’s child. Before the phone call, they had had no idea where the child might be. In fact, to assuage that awful helplessness, her parents—and Maggie too—had decided to try to believe that Nicole was happy in France—if not in Elise’s custody, then, with her father. Bentley had put an end to that little fantasy with one phone call. He convinced Maggie’s father that not only had Elise disappeared, dropped out of the world, but that Gerard was a man who would corrupt and eventually destroy the child. He had insisted that he, Roger, could locate the child for them, and, in a single phone call, the Englishman had galvanized the Newberry clan into action. No, if Roger Bentley hadn’t called and offered to help them find and retrieve the girl, Maggie certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in the hotel dining room of the shabby and unmistakably elegant Majestic Hotel in Cannes, France.
Roger attacked his breakfast with gusto, spreading the delicate French jellies onto his croissants with almost exaggerated hand movements, carving up his sausage and broiled tomatoes as if he didn’t expect to eat this well again for a very long time.
“Allo? Roger? I am here, yes?”
The voice came from behind Maggie’s chair.
“Laurent! Wonderful! Come, sit down, sit down!” Roger motioned to the empty chair next to Maggie. The man appeared to her right and, without immediately looking up, the impression Maggie got was that it was a very big man.
“Maggie Newberry, this is Laurent Dernier. Laurent, Mademoiselle Newberry. He’s going to help us, you know, with our project. Coffee, Laurent?”
Maggie felt her irritation with Roger ignite again. She did not turn to look at the newcomer but tapped the side of her coffee cup gently with a silver butter knife.
“Look, Mr. Bentley...” she began.
Roger ignored her.
“Been doing a bit of a brain tease on an engineering project in Algeria, Laurent has,” Roger bubbled. “What’s the name of it, old chap? Rather like that Super-Collider thing you Yanks were putting together, I think.” He turned briefly to Maggie. “You know all about that, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but swiveled back to face the newcomer. “Sit down and tell us about it, Laurent,” he said. “It’s measuring or subdividing molecules or some such thing, isn’t it? Terribly clever, our Laurent,” he confided to Maggie.
“Roger, it was just a consulting job,” Laurent protested, still not seating himself.
“Of course it was! Couldn’t afford the full bill of having you pull on rubber gloves and really going to it, I should say not.” He turned back to Maggie. “Man’s a mathematical genius. Sorbonne, M.I.T, he’s taught everywhere...”
“The price does not change,” she said curtly.
“I say, Maggie, who’s talking about money? Laurent’s here to help us get the job done. The price is the same, of course.”
“You are unhappy about me, yes? Roger, it will not be—“
“No, no, no, Laurent. Mademoiselle Newberry just takes her time warming up to people, don’t you, Maggie?” Roger smiled, but Maggie detected the slightest edge beneath his tone.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, really.” She turned briefly to Monsieur Dernier, then turned abruptly back to Roger. “It’s just that the nature of my business is rather delicate...and I would hope that you’d know that the fewer people who know about it, the better. If you say you need this man to get my niece back...well, okay...just understand my position, if you can...”
“I should leave, Roger. She is not comfortable.”
“No, wait.” Maggie turned to look at him fully for the first time. He was extraordinarily good-looking, she noted. Broad and large, with handsome, big hands. A man’s hands, Maggie thought irrelevantly. His face was calm, with a sweetness to it that almost seemed to belie his size, his eyes were piercing and dark, almost pupil-less. His light brown hair was thick and long, past his shoulders. He was looking at her with a kindness that she had never felt from a total stranger before. It was a look between friends. Good friends. “I....well, you’re already here...so let’s just go on, okay?” she said, feeling a little flustered. “Forget it, all right? All right, Roger?”
“Sure, all right.” Roger shrugged and reached for another roll. He winked at Laurent, making sure that Maggie noticed.
“If you are sure, Mademoiselle...”
“Yes, yes. I’m just a little rattled, is all. If you can help, well, then, thanks. I appreciate any help anyone can give me.” Annoyed and shaken by Laurent’s effect on her, Maggie pushed her breakfast plate aside and reached for the champagne bottle. Instantly, Laurent leaned over and took the large flagon from her. She smiled her thanks as he poured the champagne into her orange juice tumbler.
“Right. Let’s map out our day, shall we?” Roger took a swig of his coffee and dropped his napkin onto the table. “First, I will begin with Step One of Plan A. Laurent, you will take Mademoiselle Newberry to Section Two of Plan A at the designated hour.”
“Hold on, Roger,” Maggie said, frowning. “Why do I have to go someplace special? Why can’t I just hole up in my hotel room and wait for your call?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you have jolly little flair for adventure? It may not be a phone call, that’s why.”
“I don’t understand—“
“Must you understand everything? You Americans—“
“And I’m sick of the ‘you Americans are such whine-bags’ schtick. I want to know...”
“You always want to know! Bloody hell! Can’t you trust someone else to carry out the details without your having to know too?”
“Mademoiselle! Roger! Arretez! Stop, now, both of you! You are causing a big performance, no?” Laurent leaned over and patted Maggie’s hand in a gesture that was half consoling, half reprimand.
He wagged a finger at Roger.
“Mon vieux, she is upset, no? Her sister has disappeared and she is....ahh, triste....very sad. The responsibilitie is yours, Roger, n’est-ce pas?”
Roger placed his cup down in its saucer and leaned across the table toward Maggie.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, really,” he said. “I quite forgot myself and the situation. You must excuse me. I know things are very hard on you now...”
Maggie knew she must look as tired as she felt. She nodded gratefully at Laurent and then looked into Roger’s canny green eyes.
“Do what you have to do,” she said.
He smiled at her and then at Laurent.
“Good girl,” he said.
2
The street cleaners crept the early morning streets, wielding their large garden hoses like weapons, rinsing away the rubbish and debris of last night’s party. Maggie watched them from her hotel window. The early morning air was cool, the Mediterranean sun had not yet had the chance to perform its mellow alchemy on the coast. Maggie watched as two bedraggled partygoers picked their way to their hotel across the rough stones of the Rue des Etats Unis. The woman wore a gold lamé gown with a pointy, cone-cupped brassiere over the top of it. Her hair looked like she’d gone swimming at some point in the evening. Her make-up looked it too. Maggie watched the man with her, his bowtie limp but still attached at the throat. He was handsome but not young. She watched them until they disappeared around the corner. On their way back from somebody’s yacht moored in the harbor, no doubt, she thought. Most of Cannes’ parties happened on somebody’s yacht moored in the harbor, or so she’d been told. Or had she read that somewhere?
She’d been in France for almost a week now. Each day Roger either made an appearance at her hotel to assure her that the recovery of Nicole was imminent, or sent messages of similar content via Laurent. Laurent was a constant in her daily routine in Cannes. Escorting her around Cannes and Cap d’Antibes, climbing the hills with her in Monaco which led to the Grimal
di palace, picking up the tab at frequent café stops, and always listening intently—sympathetically—to her protestations that the search was taking too long.
She wasn’t sure what to think of Laurent. He was kind and, in spite of his bad English, she could tell he was intelligent too. Perhaps too much so. Maggie got the impression that Laurent held many cards he wasn’t showing. Nonetheless, she felt drawn to him and compelled to trust him. Besides, Laurent obviously had, among his other many talents touted by Roger, a very special way with people.
And whereas the matter of Elise was, more or less, out of their hands—and of course, in many ways always had been—the case of her daughter, Nicole, was not. Maggie had booked two seats back to Atlanta for tomorrow morning. The thought of returning to Atlanta without the little girl produced a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. Elise’s child, lost somewhere in France, in the custody of her brutish father.
Maggie clenched her hands. She had to find Nicole. She had to find her and bring her home.
Downstairs, Laurent was waiting for her. He stood next to the Gray d’Albion check-in counter, flipping through a Paris Express. She hesitated a moment on the staircase when she saw him. His was a rough handsomeness. Weathered, been-there. She liked it and she knew she liked him. And she was sorry about that because the timing was wrong, wrong, wrong.
She enjoyed his attentions to her even as he frustrated her by his refusal to tell her what progress was being made with Nicole.
It was clear that he’d begun to grow on her in a way that was pleasant and slightly worrisome.
He looked up at her as she stood watching him from the top of the stairs and his face brightened. Tossing the magazine onto the counter, he bounded up the stairs to meet her, his bulk looking immediately insubstantial and light.
“You have more bags, oui?” He gathered up her pullman and carry-on bag in one movement and she thought for a moment that he would snatch her up as well.
“No. Just those. I...that’s all.” She felt flustered for no reason that she could pinpoint.
Little Death by the Sea Page 2