There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler Page B

I take care of Chez La Violette. And how is it possible you have rented it? It has not been lived in for many years, more years than I can count. Not since Violette went away and never came back.” Crossing himself, he closed his eyes and added, “God rest her soul.”
    â€œAmen,” Little Laureen said loudly.
    Again all heads turned to look but ignoring them, Laureen gazed upward as though speaking directly to God, smoothing her by now ratty-looking pink ballet skirt, the tulle drooping from its contact with St. Tropez rain.
    â€œJesus!”
Belinda said, surprised.
    â€œDo not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Laureen continued to look at the heavens.
    â€œOh . . . my . . . God.”
Belinda couldn’t help herself.
    This time Laureen merely sighed heavily.
    The old boy was still going on about how the house had not been lived in for many years, that the owner lived in Paris and as far as he knew had never even been here. He had come today merely to check on the storm damage.
    Nate went back into the house and got the brochure with its glossy pictures. He showed it to the old janitor, pointing out the beautiful pool, the weedless terraces, the pristine white wicker furniture.
    The old boy clapped a hand to his head. “
Ah, je sais, je sais
. Of course. But this was some years ago. A film company came here to make a commercial—for magazines and for TV, you understand?”
    â€œA photo shoot,” Mac said.
    The old man maneuvered the brim of his Panama into shape then slammed it back on his head. He nodded vigorously. “
Oui, c’est ça. Photo shoot
, that’s what they called it. They painted the swimming pool turquoise blue,
comme ça.”
He wagged a finger at the brochure. “They brought in chairs and tables.” His finger wagged again at the picture. “They cleaned up the terrace, they even sprayed the lawn green. And then they brought in the pretty girls in bathing suits.” His eyes gleamed at the memory and he chuckled to himself.
    Mac knew only too well how easy it was to doctor pictures on a computer.
    But now the janitor scowled suspiciously at them. “Nobody ever comes here. This house is haunted.
Naturellement
, it is the ghost of Violette. Nobody round here would so much as open the gates. Except me, of course. But that’s because I am paid to do so. And I only ever come in broad daylight.”
    Sunny remembered the breath of warm air and the scent of flowers in the master bedroom, and the sudden sense that in Chez La Violette the mysterious past was very much present. She shivered and held Tesoro closer.
    Mac asked the old man for the address of the Paris owner, slipped him fifty euros for a new Panama and thanked him for his trouble. Then he walked over to Sunny.
    This time she let him put his arms around her. He looked deeply into her shadowed eyes and said gently, “There’s this hotel I know down the road. The Hotel of Dreams.”
    Sunny shook her head, gazing tiredly back at him. “Let’s just hope it’s true.”
    And then Little Laureen said, “But what about the pancakes?”

 
6.
    Â 
    Â 
    Mac was driving the rental Peugeot. Sunny, back once more in her damp jeans and T-shirt, was in the passenger seat. Pirate was on her lap, his head hanging out the window to capture every new aroma, while Tesoro moaned in the carrier in the back. Belinda and Sara followed in the beat-up white Bentley, then Billy Bashford and Little Laureen in the chrome-flashed red Hummer, with Nate Masterson on—surprise, surprise—the very latest yellow Ducati motorcycle, that he’d told them he’d bought online and had delivered at Nice airport.
    Mac followed the leafy lane that led in the direction of St. Tropez. The silence between him and Sunny was thick as a woolly blanket. Apart from Tesoro’s moans it was so quiet that through the open windows he could hear the sea,