The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (35 page)

When the news broke of the deaths of two of the most famous young celebrities in the world, Saint-Tropez was swamped once again with camera crews and media from all over the world. Gabrielle and Captain Poulpe were inundated with paparazzi and reporters screaming questions at them wherever they went. The press was wild for any quotes from the other celebrities. Dirk Romano, after a painful interview where he disclosed that he’d had a couple of sexual flings with the two girls earlier in the summer, summoned a private plane and flew out to Ibiza.

‘Who could possibly have murdered these girls?’ asked Charlie as he took his morning coffee at Sénéquier with Adolpho. ‘Because this time there’s no question – not like my poor Spencer. Those poor little girls were viciously bludgeoned to death. It’s definitely murder,’ he said sadly.

Marvin Rheingold had headed off to Saint-Sébastien to scout locations for
Suddenly, Last Summer
. He had decided to cast Sophie in the Katharine Hepburn role, but was still holding auditions in LA with the half-dozen other contenders for the Elizabeth Taylor role. Sophie stayed in her house with Adolpho and began a rigorous regime of diet and exercise in an effort to shave fifteen years off her seventy-five. She was excited about her first important role in years and determined to be an Oscar contender.

Because Jonathan’s boat was now cordoned off, he and Vanessa were forced to move to the Château de la Messardière hotel, with strict instructions not to leave Saint-Tropez. They were prime suspects, along with the rest of the boat crew.

Vanessa had managed to slip away to meet Jeremy in the back room of his tiny antique shop by telling her husband that she had a standing appointment to get her roots done. Captain Poulpe had called Jeremy earlier that morning to confirm her story, but Jeremy, having spoken to his hysterical sister the night before, had been cagey and revealed nothing.

‘We will need to interview you at our headquarters tomorrow morning,’ Poulpe ordered.

‘Of course,’ he said in his most charming voice. ‘I shall be at your sevice.’

‘You’re a slut, Vanessa. You’ve always been a slut and you always will be.’ Jeremy spat it out, his voice laced with scorn.

‘How can you say such a thing?’ Vanessa moaned. Her face was tear-stained and she looked exhausted.

‘I don’t give a fuck who you fucked, darling. I know perfectly well you could never kill anyone – you couldn’t even drown the kittens we found when we were kids –
sooo
soft-hearted.’ He laughed in his supercilious way and drew on a long brown cigarillo.

‘Well, will you lie for me, even though you think I’m a slut?’ she pleaded. ‘It will be the end of me, you know. Jonathan will take little Jonny away from me – I know he will. He’ll cut me off – I’ll be destitute!’

‘Well, my darling, we wouldn’t want that, would we? Lovely aristocratic Vanessa Meyer bonking a gigolo at a filthy
pension
while another little slut gets murdered on her husband’s boat? Tut-tut-tut! What will the papers say?’

Vanessa was silent. Jeremy seemed to be enjoying her humiliation – he always had, ever since they were children. He was in the driver’s seat and he knew it and he loved it.

‘Were you alone last night?’ Vanessa asked tentatively.

‘As luck would have it, my pet, yes, I was. Giorgio was out of town on business, so it was just me and my DVDs,’ he laughed. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Vanessa, but . . .’ He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘What’s in it for me, sister dearest?’

‘Whatever you want,’ Vanessa gulped. ‘Money?’

‘Of course money, you silly goose – it’s what makes the world go round, and haven’t you got a lot? Does the old man give you an allowance?’

‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘Jeremy, I can give you . . . whatever you ask for.’

‘A million,’ he said simply. ‘A million dollars, darling – that’s less than it would be in euros, and only what I deserve for perjury, even if it is for my darling sis.’

‘A million?’ Vanessa asked haltingly. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t exactly have that much, Jeremy. I could come up with one hundred thousand in cash. I can give you the rest in jewellery if that would suit you?’

‘Diamond jewellery?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘That would suit me just fine, darling. Perfect. Portable wealth. I shall see you tomorrow then at the prefecture, or wherever they want us to have our little get-together.’

He stood up to usher her to the door. ‘Go get your roots done, darling – they need it.’

‘Thanks, Jeremy, I really appreciate it.’

‘
De rien, cherie
. What are brothers for? Blood is thicker than water, sweetie.’ He bent down to kiss her and whispered in her ear, ‘And don’t forget the diamonds, darling – they’re thicker than anything. I’ll see you
demain
.’

Saint-Tropez was in uproar. The ghastly murders made everyone a potential suspect since Zarina and Sin had rubbed many people up the wrong way with their cute but crazy behaviour and their devil-may-care attitude, rudeness and blatant drug-taking.

Vanessa and her brother Jeremy had sat for four hours at the prefecture being grilled by the French police, Interpol and the FBI. Vanessa wept through most of the sessions, much to the annoyance of Captain Poulpe, and the contempt of her brother.

Poulpe himself questioned François Lardon, the waiter who had been working at Tahiti Beach, where Zarina’s body was found. Because he’d been at the scene close to the time that forensics had provided for the girl’s death, he was a prime suspect. After Poulpe’s grilling, he was remanded to police headquarters in Nice, where he was interrogated intensely in a process known as
garde à vue
. He was placed in a holding cell and subjected to several hours of fierce, videotaped interrogation. At the end he was released due to lack of evidence, but Gabrielle and her father still had their suspicions about the waiter. François was still pressuring Gabrielle to go on another date and offering to cook for her. In an effort to probe further, she had decided to accept one of his invitations to sample his cooking and they set a date.

‘I will fix you the most superb beef bourguignon you have ever tasted,’ he told her. ‘Or would you prefer my coq . . .’

‘I think you should go,’ said Captain Poulpe. ‘Check him out; see if you can find anything – anything that could incriminate him. We’ve had no luck so far with anyone – all their alibis check out.’

Having accepted François’s offer, a few days later Gabrielle drove up to his home, which was actually a guesthouse on the estate of Roberto LoBianco. François answered the door looking handsome and fresh in white shirt and trousers, wearing a striped cook’s apron.

‘I’m so happy to see you!’ he smiled.

She returned the smile, surprised at the almost monk-like severity of the tiny sitting room. There was little furniture – nothing but a black leather sofa in front of a forty-two-inch TV and a state-of-the-art music system that was playing some kind of weird wailing oriental music. From the tiny kitchen, however, a delicious smell emanated.

‘Please, sit down and try some of this excellent Pétale de Rose. I just have to do a few more things in the kitchen and then I’ll join you.’ He smiled again. He did have a lot of charm, she thought, and beautiful teeth.

A small table in the corner was set for two, with elegant silver cutlery and cream candles flickering softly. Gabrielle sat on the leather sofa and put her hands down the back of it – nothing there. She asked if she could use the rest room.

‘There’s only one, I’m afraid, and it’s in my bedroom,’ he said, popping his head out of the kitchen.

This was lucky, as it meant she would have a chance to check out most of his living quarters by the end of the evening. She quickly opened the doors to his medicine cabinet but found nothing remarkable there, just the usual shaving stuff and a lot of different toothpastes. She checked under a pile of black towels and then went back to the bedroom. The bed was covered in a black and white striped cotton duvet with matching sheets. There was nothing remotely suspicious anywhere in the bedroom or under the bed. In fact, there was precious little of anything.

When François served the food, Gabrielle ate ravenously. She usually cooked for her father and rarely had time herself to eat.

‘This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook like this?’

‘In Marseille at a little restaurant I worked in. I want to open my own restaurant one day and Mr LoBianco said he would help me.’

‘Is that why he lets you stay at his guesthouse?’ Gabrielle enquired.

‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘He loves my cooking, so whenever he has a small dinner party or he wants a meal, I’m on call to serve him in exchange for lodging.’

‘Really? I guess you would have cooked for him the night of Zarina and Sin’s murders?’

‘Yes. For him and a couple of friends.’

‘And then you were at the beach the next morning when Zarina’s body was found?’

He frowned. ‘Yes, I was subbing for a friend of mine who was ill. I already told the police all this. Are you interrogating me again?’

‘No, no, of course not. I’m police too, you know. I can never switch off,’ she laughed. ‘So where and how did you meet Mr LoBianco, if that’s not too intrusive a question?’

François started to look irritated. ‘In Marseille, at the café where I worked. I told you already. Can we talk about something else?’

‘Sure,’ said Gabrielle lightly, and they started discussing movies they both loved, music and their childhoods. Gabrielle realised as he kept refilling her glass that dinner was not the only thing that François had on the menu that night. But she had prepared herself for this eventuality and the timing could not have been more perfect.

As François placed a glass plate of crème brûlée in front of her and casually brushed an auburn curl away from her cheek, her cell phone rang. She put the call on speaker and her father’s voice rang out with great authority. They both heard him say:

‘Gabrielle, there has been a break-in at a small villa – you must come and meet me there immediately.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ she said obediently. ‘Of course, I’ll be there as soon as possible.’

She took the address and disconnected the call, then turned apologetically to François. ‘I’m so sorry, François – duty calls . . . literally. I really enjoyed your bourguignon. You are an excellent cook.’