It was early afternoon and I was in my black leotard, attempting a few desultory exercises, trying vainly to get everything back into the place it used to be, including my mind. I swear I heard my spine creak. Probably from lack of use, I thought, disconsolately, since I was turning out to be spineless anyway. But then what I definitely did hear was someone walking down the path. Light footsteps. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a towel and went to greet whoever it was.
I had never set eyes on the woman standing on my front porch, but she knew who I was, all right.
“Lola,” she said, smiling. “We meet at last.”
“We do?” I said, astonished.
She was somewhere in her mid-forties, beautiful, petite, curved yet slender, with a long fling of dark hair and narrow turquoise eyes. I was just thinking they were so brilliant they had to be contacts, when she said, “I may call you Lola, may I not? After all, I feel as though I already know you.”
“You do?” I said, astonished again.
“Because of Patrick,” she said. “My old friend.”
Trying to decide why the emphasis had been on friend, I invited her in. There seemed no option; she was obviously here to see me.
“Sorry about the mess,” I said, quickly plumping up the cushions and waving her into the best chair.
“Thank you.” Her accent was too charmingly French to stand; even just a thank you sounded soft, throaty, sexy. Oh Patrick, not another one, I thought with that familiar sinking of the heart. I asked, would she like iced tea, a diet Coke, water? It was so hot out this afternoon.
“Iced tea would be wonderful,” she said, giving me a long assessing glance from beneath her lashes. “But first, I must introduce myself. I am Giselle Castille, an old friend of Patrick’s. He was best man at my wedding, though of course I’m a widow now. Patrick and I have known each other since we were children.” Her turquoise eyes nailed me. “But surely Patrick mentioned me? Ours has been such a long friendship.”
Suddenly aware that I was hot and sweaty and half-naked, I tugged the leotard out of my butt and quickly wrapped the towel around my waist, wishing this glamorous woman out of my life and wishing that if Patrick’s females were going to come and call, at least I could have warning and be looking my best. Madame Giselle Castille was tough competition; sexy, worldly, charming.
“Patrick didn’t mention you,” I replied, “but then he knew so many people.” I didn’t say he knew “so many women” but Giselle smiled. She knew what I meant.
“Ah,” she said, “but you see, that’s the way men like Patrick are, ma chère. Freedom is their raison d’être, they are like migrating birds, flitting from country to country following the weather, and the beautiful women. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”
I took a deep breath, excused myself, and went to get the iced tea. My hands were shaking as I took the glass pitcher from the refrigerator and put it on a tray. I sliced a lemon, managing to cut my finger, added a bowl of sugar, tall glasses, and long silver spoons, then carried the tray into my tiny sitting room.
Giselle Castille was examining the photos arranged on the console table behind the sofa: family photos of myself when young; with my father; with our dogs; and with my horse when Dad had a ranch for a while, in one of his many financial ups—as opposed to his financial downs, when we moved back to a condo in the suburbs of L.A.
Giselle was holding a picture of Patrick, a close-up shot I’d taken on a misty day in the gardens of the grand château in Burgundy where we had spent the night. His eyes are narrowed in a smile and his hair is ruffled by the wind, and he looks so handsome you could just die.
“Tell me, Madame Castille,” I said, setting down the tray and pouring iced tea. “Why should I know about you? And why you are here?”
“You must call me Giselle.” She put back Patrick’s photograph and settled into the chair again. I offered lemon, which she accepted, and sugar which she did not. “I finally came to see you because I’ve heard rumors that the police suspect you of being involved in Patrick’s disappearance. I know how upset you must be and, as Patrick’s friend, I am here to offer my help. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, Lola, I want you to let me know. A friend is always a friend, you see, and for me that extends to Patrick’s wife.”
I wasn’t sure I believed this, but why else would she be here? “Thank you for the kind thought,” I said, “but there’s not much anyone can do. I don’t know where Patrick is, and neither do the police.”
“They found the car, though,” she said, catching me by surprise. I didn’t know how police business had become public, but apparently my life was now the subject of local gossip and speculation.
Giselle stirred her tea slowly. Her long delicate hands were the color of fresh cream, the short nails painted dark red. In Pucci-patterned Capris, jeweled thong sandals, and a tight turquoise top that matched her eyes, she was a man’s woman if ever there was one, with her languorous glances and the subdued sexiness French women seem to acquire without any effort at all.
“I’ve known Patrick since we were children,” she said. “We grew up together, you might say.”
I looked interested. I had never met anyone who knew Patrick when he was a child.
“We lived in Marseilles,” Giselle said. “Both our families were in the fishing business. Patrick’s caught the fish; mine bought it to sell on to restaurants, or to process it, to freeze it and ship it throughout France and most of Europe. My family was rich. Patrick’s was not exactly poor, but not in the same league.”
The long silver spoon clinked against the ice in the glass, as she stirred her tea again, a delicate summer sound, the kind you might associate with two women sharing secrets about their lovers on a hot, lazy afternoon.
“Patrick and I went to the same schools, then on to university at Grenoble, though he didn’t stay the course. I went to live in Paris, and Patrick lived anywhere in the world where the living was easy and the women beautiful and the gambling available. From time to time, we would see each other, usually in Paris, and in the summer here at my villa in the hills above Cannes. Patrick would come to stay and we’d ‘hang out together,’ as you would put it.” She eyed me from under her lashes again, the turquoise of her eyes shocking me with their cold gleam. “We were always…good friends…,” she said in a voice like a purr. “Always. And now, ma chère Lola, I am here as your friend.”
“You are?” I said.
She gave me that hard glance again. “Patrick talked to me about his problems, you know. And you too can speak freely to me. I’ll do my best to advise you.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, because she was my guest and Patrick’s “good friend” and I couldn’t exactly tell her to get lost and get out of my life before she even got into it.
“Of course, I lent Patrick money,” Giselle added suddenly. “A lot of money. I don’t know whether you know this, but Patrick was in bad financial trouble. Gambling debts. There were…” She hesitated. “There were ‘threats…’”
“Threats? What kind of threats?” I said, shocked. “Maybe you should tell the police this.”
She shrugged. “The police are already aware of Patrick’s problems. But don’t worry, Lola,” she purred again, “I’m not going after you for the money.” She gave me a long look. “Though legally, of course, I could.” She glanced around. “And I suppose this little parcel of land with the so-called hotel is worth quite a bit.”
Was there a hidden threat behind those words? I wondered as Giselle got to her feet, the iced tea undrunk.
“Were there signed notes for these loans?” I asked, worried now about the security of my beloved hotel.
“There was no need for notes and signatures, between Patrick and me,” she said, smiling a feline little smile, “but trust me, I have other ‘evidence.’”
She took a card from her designer handbag and handed it to me. “Here’s my number,” she said, “call me anytime. Call me if you hear from Patrick.”
I walked with her to the door. She held out her hand and I shook it. It was as cool as if the day were a winter one.
“And of course,” Giselle said, “we still don’t know where Patrick is. Or even if he is,” she added, sending a chill through my heart.
I watched her walk back down the path, stepping light as a panther, her long dark hair swaying in rhythm with her hips. You bastard, Patrick, I thought. Wherever I go in the world, there’ll be women like this, “old friends,” coming to warn me off you—dead or alive.