The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (11 page)

‘One day you too will have to do this, my dear,’ Marlene had drawled. ‘Not yet, you’re still young, but when that day comes, you will thank me for this.’

That had been forty years ago, and today Sophie was exceedingly grateful for the beauty techniques Marlene had taught her, which she had carefully instructed Frick and Adolpho to perform.

Sophie had been born in Saint-Tropez to a fisherman father. At sixteen she had won a talent contest in nearby Saint-Raphael, where a talent agent from LA, who was on vacation and looking for some fun, had spotted her. The nubile teenager was not averse to socialising with the powerful agent, and as things developed he dangled the prospect of fame and fortune in Hollywood before her beautiful blue eyes. Soon, with her parents’ permission, the beautiful blonde was whisked off to Hollywood.

In the 1950s, Hollywood was still peopled with great and glamorous stars. The studio system reigned and they were constantly signing new young talent. Sophie’s beauty soon gained her a contract at Paradigm Studio, where to get the roles she wanted she soon realised she had to ‘be nice’ to many of the old and odious studio executives.

Since one elderly executive looked much like the next one, Sophie became an expert in the art of fellatio, soon got the plum roles and found herself starring opposite some of Tinseltown’s most glamorous leading men. Steve McQueen, Frank Sinatra and Anthony Quinn all fell for her exotic charms, as did the American public. They loved her quaint foreign accent, her mass of thick golden curls and her curvaceous killer body.

But, like all good things, in spite of her fame and beauty, it came to an end; the studio and the public eventually tired of Sophie Silvestri and she fled back to her native France, where luckily she was still worshipped. She took up residence in a grand but decaying villa on the outskirts of Saint-Tropez and lavished all her love and attention on her pack of dogs and litter of cats.

While Adolpho applied several layers of the thick theatrical foundation only available at Ray’s, the Broadway cosmetic boutique, Sophie thought about tonight’s big event. She didn’t really want to go; she disliked parties now – she’d been to enough and would far rather loll around on her vast canopied bed surrounded by her dogs, eating chocolate croissants and surfing the TV. Most people bored her, but tonight she was interested in meeting the Hollywood producer in whose honour the party was being thrown. Marvin Rheingold was a maker of hits and he was about to produce a remake of
Suddenly, Last Summer
.

Although she didn’t need the money, Sophie coveted the role of the mother, a part played by Katharine Hepburn in the original. She had discovered that Angelina Jolie was tipped for the daughter role that Elizabeth Taylor had played in the original, and Miss Jolie was the only current actress Sophie actually admired. Besides, it would be interesting to see Hollywood again. She hadn’t set foot in ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’, as she disparagingly referred to it, for over thirty years, and she was curious to see if all the changes she’d heard about were true. Her signature perfume, Garden of Gardenias, was doing reasonably well in Europe, but the sales needed pumping up and a trip to LA and the subsequent publicity could be of enormous benefit. So said her agent Jake Moreno, the slimiest bastard in Hollywood but one of the most cunning. Besides, although Sophie wouldn’t admit it, the tedium of old age was getting to her and she had suddenly become horribly aware of her own mortality.

As Frick settled a blonde bouffant wig on Sophie’s head, the doorbell rang.

‘Who the fuck is that?’ she growled. Her face, now looking a good fifteen years younger than its actual seventy-four, glowed in the mirror.

‘I don’t know, but at least you’re ready to receive!’ beamed Frick as three barking dogs scampered ferociously down the stairs. ‘You look gorgeous!’

‘It’s the fuzz . . . for you.’ Adolpho was out of breath. His morning love of chocolate croissants had recently added several kilos to his normally slender frame.

‘Captain Poulpe? What does he want now?’ Sophie was stepping into a fetching off-the-shoulder peignoir. ‘I already spoke to him.’

‘It’s not a him, it’s a her!’

‘A who?’

‘A her! It’s Gabrielle Poulpe, the daughter of the Captain. She’s on the murder case too.’

‘What murder case?’

Adolpho sighed. Was his mistress immune to everything but herself? She’d been at Harry’s party and seen the chaos – or maybe this was the onset of early dementia?

‘Well, I suppose I’d better see her.’

Sophie disappeared into her dressing room and returned in a black velour dressing gown encrusted with dog hairs. No sense in looking sexy for a woman. She walked cautiously down the stairs, Frick holding fast to her elbow.

Gabrielle was admiring numerous gold- and silver-framed photographs of Sophie, artfully arranged on the grand piano. Beside them were a pile of books on aerobic exercises and several videos all starring Sophie. They were not, she noted, of recent vintage.

Indeed, as the great star limped into the room, Gabrielle could see a faint expression of pain in her lovely azure eyes. Obviously she had overexercised in her youth, and it had finally caught up with her.

‘Sit down!’ barked the star. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’re investigating the death of Mina Corbain and I wondered if you knew of anyone who would wish her harm? We think it could be murder and Interpol has been summoned.’

Sophie frowned and sat down heavily.

‘Oh that . . .’ Sophie lit a slim brown cigarette and blew some smoke into her favourite pug’s face. ‘I forgot about that.’

Frick and Adolpho exchanged glances. They knew their boss was a trifle forgetful, but this was strange behaviour. Mina’s death had not only been the talk of Saint-Tropez for the past four days, but half the news media of America, Britain, Europe and Japan were camped around the village desperate for titbits; anything to cast a clue on the death of one of America’s most shining stars.

Gabrielle was slightly in awe of this icon. She had only been in the Saint-Tropez police force for five years and this was her first murder investigation. Murders were few and far between in this golden community, although adultery, larceny and immorality were rife.

‘My father, Captain Jacques Poulpe, and I strongly believe the circumstances surrounding Miss Corbain’s death are suspicious, even though several of the other guests were ill as well. However, there seems to be no clear motive, so we wondered if you knew of anyone who had a grudge against her?’

Sophie thought for a moment then said, ‘Mina was a performer . . . a great star. Everyone hates stars, you know.’

‘Really? Why is that?’ Gabrielle was fascinated by this piece of information.

‘Jealousy . . . they’re all jealous.’

‘Why?’ asked Gabrielle, seemingly nonplussed. Sophie stared at her disdainfully and started explaining as if to a five-year-old. ‘Most people envy the life of a star because they think they have it so easy. It’s not true, you know. Stars get where they are through hard work, dedication and talent . . . I should know!’ she finished bitterly.

‘I see. But most of the other guests were wealthy. Why do you think anyone there want would to kill Mina?’

‘Oh, really?’ Sophie gave a hollow laugh. ‘Take Madame Lara – the famous ex-wife of that Yankee industrialist? She’s always on talk shows. She’s publicity crazy, giving lectures all over the place and posing for the magazines – she’d love to be a top society hostess again, or even a reality star,’ she sneered. ‘Or take that stupid gigolo of hers – Fabergé . . . or whatever his name is. Maybe Lara thought Mina was after him.’

Adolpho chimed in, ‘We’ve heard Lara has been secretly studying singing. Wants to make a record with him – can you believe it at her age? And Lara is jealous of Sophie.’

Sophie bristled at the word ‘age’, and Adolpho and Frick snickered until Gabrielle shot them a stern look. Useful information was often garnered through gossip, but these two weren’t being helpful.

‘I see, but I think we’re missing the point here.’ She made a few notes on her iPhone and then asked casually, ‘Anyone else you can think of who might bear a grudge?’

‘Well, Maximus Gobbi – he would be jealous of Mina’s success too. He’s jealous of everyone with any talent – since he has none himself,’ said Sophie scornfully. ‘He probably resented the fact that she made two hundred and fifty thousand euros that night and he didn’t get a cut, which is how he makes his pathetic living.’

‘Hardly enough reason to kill her,’ said Gabrielle flatly.

‘I have no idea – you’re the detective – so detect. Why don’t you talk to the cook, or the caterer?’ Sophie snidely inquired. ‘And what makes you think she was murdered?’

‘Thank you. I will be in touch with you again. You’ve been most helpful . . .’ she fibbed as she opened the door.

. . .
Not
, Gabrielle thought, closing the door as the hot summer dusk enveloped her.
No help whatsoever
.

But then no one she had interviewed in Saint-Tropez about that night had been helpful at all.

Fabrizio was admiring himself in the mirror in the cramped bedroom of the third-floor flat he shared with Lara.

It was a tiny place in one of the back streets of St Tropez, but since Lara liked to spend most of her days on her boat or at the beach, she considered too much living space unnecessary.

This was just perfect for Fabrizio, who had a habit of disappearing every morning. Between nine a.m. and two p.m. he was unavailable. He told Lara that he was at the gym or playing tennis, but he was usually having extracurricular trysts with some of the rich widows and divorcées often supplied by Maximus, who supplemented their combined income in this way. The mutual need and the commercial aspect of the assignations assured complete discretion.

Although some considered Fabrizio a gold-digging gigolo, he never thought of himself in such a crass light. ‘Necessity knows no law,’ he would mutter to himself as he stripped off to parade his buffed body before servicing some lonely, grateful rich woman. He had a fertile imagination, an overly active libido and a limitless supply of Viagra. He also basked in the admiration of his prowess in the sack and his unusually large cock. But he and Maximus were careful only to accept engagements with ladies who were passing through and not staying too long. ‘You don’t want to shit where you eat,’ Maximus had warned him. ‘We must be careful.’

Today Fabrizio could hardly contain his excitement. French TV company TF1 had come to the nearby town of Saint-Maxime to audition attractive young men and girls to be the professional dancers in a version of
Dancing with the Stars
. Fabrizio had auditioned and, unknown to Lara or Max, had been chosen as one of the twenty-four potential contestants. The show was due to start rehearsing at the end of June, but the producers insisted that everything must be done with the utmost security, which suited Fabrizio just fine: if Max found out, he’d want his cut.

Fabrizio was also in the running for the Kazakhstan version of
The X Factor
, so he was busy taking singing and dance lessons from a cute British beauty called Betty, who lived in the hills above Saint-Tropez in the quaint village of Ramatuelle. At least twice a week he managed to slip away to polish his dance steps, work on his voice, and occasionally give a willing Betty a taste of paradise.

On top of everything else, Fabrizio also needed to continue to hit the social scene with Lara, so by two thirty in the afternoon he tended to be at Club 55 or Nikki Beach, suave in his regular uniform of black shirt and white pants, satiated after sex. He usually had to have a ‘matinée’ with Lara after lunch around six, while she was still sober enough to participate, and for that he would have to pop another blue pill.

In the evening the couple normally attended dinners and small parties, since Lara hated staying at home. Often she had to be carted home and poured into bed by Fabrizio, who then hit the clubs. Night-time was his time, and he would often pull a beautiful girl and go back to her place or a small hotel room, where he had a convenient arrangement. His capacity for sex was endless and it often amazed even him.

Fabrizio was playing a DVD of
Saturday Night Fever
and busily mirroring John Travolta’s sexy moves as he primped and sang along with the Bee Gees. Tonight he had even decided to dress like Travolta. He figured the white suit and tight black shirt showed off his Saint-Tropez tan to perfection. He struck a few Travolta poses – one arm up, the other stretched downwards, framing his tightly encased derrière – and grinned at his reflection. ‘Handsome devil,’ he thought. ‘How can that stupid bitch refuse to marry me?’ Tonight he would show them all. He had persuaded Monty Goldman, the host of tonight’s party, to let him sing a couple of numbers. He was extremely excited and quite nervous.

Just then the bitch walked in, attempting to clasp a vast parure of emeralds and diamonds around her scrawny neck. ‘Darling, you’re no Travolta,’ Lara sneered. ‘Give it up and do this up.’

‘Just you wait.’ He bragged, refusing to rise to the bait, ‘Tonight’s the night I’m gonna show ’em.’