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AFTER PASCALINE DELIVERED Alan’s message, I grabbed the flashlight Tom had provided and set out on my patrol. Considering the ruckus was over, it seemed a silly exercise, but there would be some comfort in knowing the prowlers’ damage was confined to one spot.
At least I’d learned something. The intruders were two men, and they had not yet found what they wanted. Their objective had to be something specific and worth a great deal, since many valuables were as yet untouched. This "treasure" was obviously something unknown to Tom or it would already have been on display or put to some financial use. It was certainly nothing any sightseer could locate during a guided tour.
The chateau was filled with examples of Marsford’s inclination to tease. I was positive that if a cache existed, he would not have made it easy for his greedy offspring to find. Tormenting them like that fit with everything I’d learned about the man.
Yet a treasure hidden too cunningly is wasted. If it was impossible to find, Marsford might just as well have thrown the profits from his mountain into the sea. No, he would not play games forever. Some evidence, somewhere, would start the trail. I needed to discover that trail and follow it to its conclusion ahead of the two men with their crowbars and shovels, hopefully without tipping them off to my goal. Competition would only make them more determined and even more dangerous.
As my flashlight swept through the darkened halls of the chateau, my skin prickled as if electrified. Busts on pedestals seemed to watch me pass. Sneering gargoyles I’d overlooked in daylight seemed to laugh at my goose-bumps. More than once I was startled by a marble gnome or an elf crouching in a corner.
Coquin, the black cat, observed me from different perches as I passed his familiar haunts. A native to the night, he was as comfortable in the shadows as I was not. To him, I was the intruder.
The tower roof exuded a ghostly foreboding in contrast to the magical aura it possessed in sunlight. I realized the chateau’s security once depended on men hidden in its crown, their eyes fixed on the sea night and day.
Lingering a moment where Tom and I had stopped to talk, I drank in the shadowy contours of the gardens below. Before the electronic alarm, Marsford and his predecessors had relied largely on the physical aspects of the property to protect the chateau. Outside the eastern wall was a rocky forty-foot drop down to the yacht basin with no land access. I easily saw my idea of approaching the vandals from that direction would have failed.
The Mediterranean side consisted of a high, blank seawall. That left the bustling front gate area and the secluded doorway near my den, the one the vandals actually used. Without the key to the gate anyone set on getting in would need to climb a ten-foot wall then pass by my rooms. I didn’t kid myself that my presence would prevent another break-in, but at least my rotten sleeping habits might come in handy.
Satisfied the place was as secure as it was going to get, I decided to risk an evening out on the town. No thief with his mind intact would strike the same place twice the same night, and after my long nap and the excitement, I certainly wasn’t ready for sleep.
Back at my den I threw on a jacket and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. Any television had probably been relocated to the gatehouse with Tom, so I left the lights on and a radio blaring. A few strides up the sidewalk put me in step with the village's evening crowd.
The nightclub/bar adjacent to the yacht basin managed to be chic and casual and nautical all at once. The restaurant section was too candlelight and white linen for me, but at midnight the upstairs bar suited my taste. It strained with the scarcely concealed hopes of divorced young women and aging, affluent yachtsmen. It jumped with the energy of their college-aged rivals. Music vibrated my eardrums at a pitch just short of painful while golden lights pulsed on and off like an artery expanding and contracting to a giant heartbeat.
The young women looked worldly and disappointed for the most part, except a table of four girls who looked under-aged and over their heads. Even they possessed the distinct earthiness particular to the French. They eyed me warily as I sidled by, the couples who had already found each other ignored me, and three or four stray singles cooly counted my teeth and appraised my watch. Singles-bar veterans irritate the hell out of me, especially when they recognize me for one of their own.
I ordered a brandy and soda by inserting my shoulder into a slot at the bar crowd and waving cash at the bartender. After it arrived, I swiveled around to enjoy about ten couples dancing to a tribal love song, a sort of Spanish-Congo tune that rendered graceful dancing impossible.
Impossible for everyone except the New Jersey Godiva. Her hair was curled and swinging loose, but she was undoubtedly the sunbather I’d admired on the beach. She wore dark brown pants with a sheer gauze blouse and metallic gold high heels. Judging by the teasing smile she aimed at her partner, the tight brown business she had on underneath didn’t bother her sunburn. She moved seductively as a cat wooing cream, gliding up and down and around, hunching her shoulders and wiggling in and out of the man’s reach while never removing her eyes from his.
When the song ended, so did Godiva’s infatuation. She lifted her hair off her neck, spun on her heels, and trotted over to a drink she had left on a windowsill. The poor chump had sailed right off the edge of the earth, and he knew it. For a moment I thought he might be foolish enough to bring up Christopher Columbus, but he quickly gave it up as useless.
I continued to stare. Noticing on the way up from fixing her shoe, she laughed.
A six-foot five bozo moved in about then, all black beard and brawn. He added a small wrinkle of worry to her smile, a gesture of respect for his size. I’ve noticed women don’t completely relax with men who could snap them in two. Their mistake. I've seen normal-sized guys like me leave a trail of emotionally ruined females three deep while the Blutos of the romantic world seem to marry up and settle down without a peep. Guess we all over-compensate for something.
If I knew Godiva's type, this bozo was safe.
Unobserved, I set my drink on the windowsill near hers. Then I asked one of the young wallflowers to dance. When the number was over, I deposited her back with her friends. Nearby, a couple vacated a table for two–the girl took her purse–which I claimed by spreading my jacket across the whole thing. Next, collect my drink and, if there was a god in heaven, Godiva.
Bluto lounged against the window wall and murmured something unappealing. Her forehead wrinkle deepened to a crease while her eyes prayed for an exit that didn’t involve getting her hair mussed.
Planting my feet in a triangle with theirs, I squared my shoulders and gently touched her arm. Then in my best French I babbled something resembling, "Excuse me, darling, but I’ve finally snagged a table. If we don't get right back to it, some bleeping kids will steal it. You don't mind, do you, Chump?"
Chump minded, but Godiva did not. She tilted an inch in his direction to say something, maybe “Have a nice life,” but I missed it because the music started, a loud number that invited a lot of hopping and arm-waving.
We had to duck our way over to the table. Two kids had set drippy beers on my jacket and were occupying the seats. I barked at them in unrepeatable French, and they grabbed their beers, sloshing some, and huffed off.
Godiva thought that was funny. She clutched my arm to keep from wobbling off her high heels while she laughed.
"You really are something," she burbled in good American English.
"What’s your name, and are you from New Jersey?" I asked.
She gawped a little then, nicely, but a gawp just the same, and I observed that her eyes were green.
"I thought you were French!" she admitted. "My name is Samantha Carlisle, and I'm from VirGINia," pronounced deliberately Southern like all those rebels do.
"VIRGIN-ia," I mocked loudly over the music. "Just my luck!"
She smiled a new way then, to acknowledge the conversation had drifted into familiar territory. "I’m not home much these days," she confessed.
I snuggled in a little closer and let that one sit for a minute. Then I pointed out that she hadn’t thanked me for rescuing her.
"I may not be safe yet," she observed.
I acknowledged that with a sporting shrug. "So, what brings Samantha Carlisle to this paradise at just slightly the wrong time of year?" I asked through the din.
For some reason she switched to coy and girlish on me, fingering the rim of her glass and waving her eyelashes. Women who wear tight clothes and look men in the eye while dancing usually take what they want; they do not play games with their eyelashes. Whatever she said next would be a lie.
"I’ve been here a month already," she said. "Daddy wanted me to marry a clod from Tennessee who owns a horse farm. Manure and pregnant mares are not my idea of the ideal life. So, of course, I split..."
Since we’d held still for more than three minutes, a cocktail waitress appeared. I ordered refills. We danced. I heard another story about an ex-husband who owned a bank, wore a watch to bed, and made love with the light on. After two years, she had cashed in and taken up jet-setting. Her delivery was practiced and bored even her, and she didn’t bother to ask anything about me.
We drank some more and danced again, but the spring was going out of our step and we had difficulty keeping time with the music. She tried to tell me the saga of her several college flunk-outs, listing her abandoned majors in alphabetical order: accounting, architecture, art history, business management, interpretive dance, history, "Or did I say that already?" she mumbled. We had another drink to help her sort it all out.
"How about a little walk," she finally suggested.
I told her, “I’m staying a block away. Plenty of fresh air between here and there."
"Whatever," she replied, and we held hands and wound our way out into the night. At first the cool air braced us, but after a short distance the feeling began to fade. Maybe it was the sweet life beginning to cloy, or maybe I was just sobering up.
Still, the streetlights reflected off Samantha's cheeks like moonbeams, and her body was full and tantalizing under the fluid gauze. Shadows deepened her eyes to black and a breeze played with her hair. I wanted her, and we both knew I could have her. Maybe that was why I slowed my walk–to heighten the anticipation. Or maybe the whole idea made me sad.
A small, semi-circular park with a railing and benches overlooked the boat slips. We stood slightly apart gazing at the twinkling lights of the few occupied vessels.
"Let’s go peek in the portholes," she said, and my brandy-induced melancholy flooded back.
“No thanks. Lovers deserve their privacy.”
"Then let them pull their curtains tight," Samantha pouted, tugging my hand toward the steps.
I balked.
Then she parked her fists on her hips, and I saw our whole dead-end relationship for the selfish fling it would be.
What I did next was childish and mean. I could claim that I anticipated the disappointment that was bound to come, but mostly I felt grumpy and drunk. I poked Samantha’s left breast with my index finger.
"Ow!" she complained, her hand quick to protect her sunburn. More offended than hurt, she demanded, "What was that for?"
I told her, "You're really Sally Smith from Passaic, New Jersey, and you just got here today. I can't believe a word you say, and I don't feel like hearing any more lies tonight. Maybe if you hurry back, Paul Bunyan will still be around and you can swap tall tales with him.”
Samantha huffed. Then she turned sharply on her heel and stomped ungracefully back toward the nightclub.
I saw her safely enter the door before I stopped watching. My head ached, and I wanted very much to get on with my night's business, such as it was, alone.
By the time I arrived at the gate I was depressed, and by the time I got to bed I was lonely.