Free The Hotel Riviera by Elizabeth Adler Page B

tables—together, grabbed my shopping list and headed for the car, making a small detour to the front desk to check on the day’s arrivals and departures.
    So far only the Oldroyds, the sweet Yorkshire honeymoon couple, were due to depart. I would make sure to see them before they left, give them a big hug and wish them well, and say, sincerely, that I hoped they would come back. And of course they would; guests always returned to the Hotel Riviera.
    I was leaning on the pretty rosewood table gazing absently through the open front door when I saw Miss Nightingale in an apple-green jersey skirt that drooped a bit at the hem and a matching many-pocketed safari shirt. She stood, sandaled feet apart, head reverently down, hands behind her back, admiring Mr. Falcon’s gleaming red and chrome Harley. She put a hand over her heart and heaved a big envious sigh. Her own little wasp-yellow rented Vespa looked almost comical parked next to it.
    I waved to her and she walked back inside and gave me a long look. “No news from the husband yet, my dear?” she said.
    I shook my head, glancing round to see if anyone had overheard, though it was certainly no secret that Patrick had left me. There could have been no more public local departure since Charles left Diana: the whole town knew, as well as all my guests.
    â€œI saw the police last night,” Miss N said. I threw her a surprised glance. “I didn’t mean to pry, my dear,” she added. “I just happened to be out on my balcony when they arrived.” She hesitated, then said, “I trust it wasn’t bad news, Lola.”
    â€œThey found Patrick’s Porsche in a parking garage in Marseilles.”
    â€œMarseilles? Now I wonder, why there ?”
    I shrugged. “They’re checking it for forensic evidence.”
    Miss Nightingale’s eyes narrowed but she made no comment and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I was Detective Mercier’s prime suspect.
    â€œI’m just on my way to the market in Saint-Tropez,” I said, gathering my wits. “Where are you heading?”
    â€œI thought I might take it easy today,” she said, as we walked outside together. “Perhaps I’ll visit the market, pick up a gift for Mrs. Wormesly at the Blakelys Arms. She always looks after my Yorkie, Little Nell, when I’m away.”
    I asked if she’d like a lift, but she shook her head and said she’d just as well take the Vespa in case she felt like wandering farther afield.
    I watched as she planted herself firmly in the saddle, adjusted her straw sunhat, hitched her handbag farther up her arm, then started up the motor and jolted up the driveway.
    My own “silver chariot” awaited me. I should have been at the market half an hour ago. As I climbed into the car I remembered Detective Mercier telling me that forensics were going over Patrick’s silver Porsche with a fine-tooth comb. With a foreboding shiver, I wondered what they had found.

Chapter 18
    Jack
    Jack Farrar was strolling through the Saint-Tropez Saturday market in the Place des Lices, feeling at peace with the world. His black and white dog roved in small devoted circles around him, sniffing busily.
    There was something about Jack’s broad-shouldered rangy stride that was unmistakably American, and something about his craggy tanned face and the fine lines around his eyes that marked him as a man of experience. It was definitely a lived-in kind of face. His brown hair was short and spiky, his eyes were the color of the Mediterranean on a perfect day, and there were washboard abs under the old blue T-shirt that bore the logo “Rhode Island Regatta.” As he walked women met his eyes, smiling interestedly at him. He gave them a somewhat lopsided smile back and kept on walking.
    Both he and Bad Dog loved the hustle and bustle of the French markets: the dog for the good food smells and the tasty treats that might drop