tiger and been devoured.”
“But if the fact of his death is sufficient reason to murder two people
now,
after thirty-five years—”
“It wasn’t a tiger and it wasn’t the jungle. Oliver,” she said bluntly, “what do you want me to do in Courchevel? Prove Max Roderick a murderer—or a saint?”
“I want you to live high and drink deep. I want you to hire the best goddamn house in the Three Valleys and live like the French
expect
wealthy Americans to live. Wear outrageous clothes. Throw parties for strangers. It’s high season, ducks: ski your ass off. Invite Max for dinner and breakfast. He knows I’m sending you and he knows not to blow your cover.”
“My cover?”
“You’re an old friend. Or an ex-lover. A cousin’s discarded wife. Be a one-night stand he picked up years ago in Austria, if you must—who’s to know whether it’s true or not, in the middle of the French Alps? But you are categorically
not
to behave as though Krane and Associates is on your mental map. To suggest as much might be deadly. Don’t even call me unless you use a public box and this number”—he handed her a small slip of paper inscribed with his tiny handwriting—“and identify yourself as Hazel. Phones are the very
worst
where security is concerned.”
“Hazel,” Stefani said mistily. “Of all things. Like a fat old terrier snoring on the rug. I believe you’ve grown fond of me, Oliver.”
“Hell, darling.” He planted a kiss on her wrist. “I
invented
you.”
5
J acques Renaudie swept the snow from his stone doorstep that morning with deliberate strokes of his short, muscled arms, a cigarette dangling absently from the corner of his mouth. He wore a blue fleece vest over a wool sweater knitted two decades ago by his wife, who had decamped for Paris last summer in a desperate bid for all she had never possessed in youth. Jacques sent her money from time to time and washed the sweater himself when necessary and did not ask his wife when she might return. He was a methodical man with a thatch of grizzled hair and a coarse-skinned nose. Although it was already past eight o’clock, he had not yet shaved. He had drunk heavily of schnapps the previous evening—a foul liquor he would never have touched had his wife been snug in the room upstairs. A faint odor of charcoal from the bar’s open fireplace still clung to his skin.
Jacques’s eyes were very blue and they were focused now on the hard, bright crystals at his feet. It had snowedduring the night—dry powder, a near-perfect fall despite the lateness of the season—but he was considering not the untracked
pistes
of the Sommet de la Loze above him but his youngest daughter, who was destined like her mother for unhappiness. He had slept fitfully after closing his bar at two A.M. , and by six o’clock in the morning when he gave up the battle, and rose with aching head to make coffee and send his ancient Bernese out into the drifts, Sabine had not yet returned from the party in Courchevel 1850. It would be that Austrian, Jacques decided—the young star of the ski team who had taken gold at Salt Lake, a boy with the slow stupid grin of all those who are named Klaus. Sabine would make a fool of herself just to prove she had value in
some
racer’s eyes, even if it was not the one she really wanted. Jacques spat suddenly into the new snow and raised his eyes from his stoop.
It was then he saw the blond-haired man riding the platter lift up the length of Le Praz’s main street, his gear strapped to his back and his helmet in his hand. Out of bitterness Jacques stood motionless, the broom idle, debating whether he should call out to this one, who was up before all the others in that exhausted town. He might offer him coffee. He might ask for the truth about Sabine and the Austrian named Klaus. But he knew Max Roderick would already have taken what was sufficient for the morning, and would refuse the day-old bread in Jacques Renaudie’s larder. Max did
“But if the fact of his death is sufficient reason to murder two people
now,
after thirty-five years—”
“It wasn’t a tiger and it wasn’t the jungle. Oliver,” she said bluntly, “what do you want me to do in Courchevel? Prove Max Roderick a murderer—or a saint?”
“I want you to live high and drink deep. I want you to hire the best goddamn house in the Three Valleys and live like the French
expect
wealthy Americans to live. Wear outrageous clothes. Throw parties for strangers. It’s high season, ducks: ski your ass off. Invite Max for dinner and breakfast. He knows I’m sending you and he knows not to blow your cover.”
“My cover?”
“You’re an old friend. Or an ex-lover. A cousin’s discarded wife. Be a one-night stand he picked up years ago in Austria, if you must—who’s to know whether it’s true or not, in the middle of the French Alps? But you are categorically
not
to behave as though Krane and Associates is on your mental map. To suggest as much might be deadly. Don’t even call me unless you use a public box and this number”—he handed her a small slip of paper inscribed with his tiny handwriting—“and identify yourself as Hazel. Phones are the very
worst
where security is concerned.”
“Hazel,” Stefani said mistily. “Of all things. Like a fat old terrier snoring on the rug. I believe you’ve grown fond of me, Oliver.”
“Hell, darling.” He planted a kiss on her wrist. “I
invented
you.”
5
J acques Renaudie swept the snow from his stone doorstep that morning with deliberate strokes of his short, muscled arms, a cigarette dangling absently from the corner of his mouth. He wore a blue fleece vest over a wool sweater knitted two decades ago by his wife, who had decamped for Paris last summer in a desperate bid for all she had never possessed in youth. Jacques sent her money from time to time and washed the sweater himself when necessary and did not ask his wife when she might return. He was a methodical man with a thatch of grizzled hair and a coarse-skinned nose. Although it was already past eight o’clock, he had not yet shaved. He had drunk heavily of schnapps the previous evening—a foul liquor he would never have touched had his wife been snug in the room upstairs. A faint odor of charcoal from the bar’s open fireplace still clung to his skin.
Jacques’s eyes were very blue and they were focused now on the hard, bright crystals at his feet. It had snowedduring the night—dry powder, a near-perfect fall despite the lateness of the season—but he was considering not the untracked
pistes
of the Sommet de la Loze above him but his youngest daughter, who was destined like her mother for unhappiness. He had slept fitfully after closing his bar at two A.M. , and by six o’clock in the morning when he gave up the battle, and rose with aching head to make coffee and send his ancient Bernese out into the drifts, Sabine had not yet returned from the party in Courchevel 1850. It would be that Austrian, Jacques decided—the young star of the ski team who had taken gold at Salt Lake, a boy with the slow stupid grin of all those who are named Klaus. Sabine would make a fool of herself just to prove she had value in
some
racer’s eyes, even if it was not the one she really wanted. Jacques spat suddenly into the new snow and raised his eyes from his stoop.
It was then he saw the blond-haired man riding the platter lift up the length of Le Praz’s main street, his gear strapped to his back and his helmet in his hand. Out of bitterness Jacques stood motionless, the broom idle, debating whether he should call out to this one, who was up before all the others in that exhausted town. He might offer him coffee. He might ask for the truth about Sabine and the Austrian named Klaus. But he knew Max Roderick would already have taken what was sufficient for the morning, and would refuse the day-old bread in Jacques Renaudie’s larder. Max did
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