The week following the fire was torture. There were interviews with the police and Detective Mercier made his appearance again, as well as other gendarmes. It was definitely arson. Gasoline had been poured around the kitchen, then the gas burners lit, until eventually it all exploded in flames. The kitchen was completely gutted and smoke had damaged every other part of the hotel.
I didn’t know if the insurance would cover it, but because it was arson they were stalling my claim anyway, I guessed until it could be proven I was not the culprit. There were no clues, no witnesses, no evidence. I was already under suspicion for murdering my husband, and now I was a suspected arsonist. Who would believe me if I told them I thought Solis’s wife had set fire to my hotel because she wanted me out of there? Or that maybe Giselle Castille had done it, because she wanted Patrick? Or that Jeb Falcon had done it, acting on Laurent Solis’s instructions?
After the first shock of the fire was over, Miss Nightingale dropped her bombshell and told me that she had seen Patrick. “It was him, all right, my dear,” she said, “so now you can stop worrying about the murder rap, it’ll never stick. Patrick is alive and well and driving a very expensive motorbike.”
At first, I felt relief that Patrick was alive after all. Then came the anger, that same futile anger. And then the big question. Why?
“It’s a woman of course,” Miss N said, smoothing her blue and white linen dress over her knees. “With men like Patrick, it’s always a woman. And since Giselle seems not to know his whereabouts my best guess is Evgenia Solis.”
“But Patrick doesn’t know her,” I said, astonished.
“How do you know he doesn’t?” Miss N said.
She was right, I didn’t know. It seems I didn’t know much about anything.
“If it is Evgenia,” Miss N said, “then Patrick’s playing a very dangerous game.”
Miss N gave Jack all the details about the Ducati, apologizing for not getting the number. “I’m afraid I’m just not as quick off the mark as I used to be,” she said, “but perhaps you can check out the Ducati dealers on the coast, see which one of them sold a 748S recently, matte dark gray paint job, red magnesium wheels. A beauty if there ever was one; my Tom would have loved it.
“Speaking of Tom,” she said, “it’s time I went home. I spoke with Mrs. Wormesly at the pub last night and she tells me Little Nell is getting quite out of hand. Spoiled rotten, I fear. Anyhow, my dears”—she included both Jack and myself in her warm glance—“I’m sure you can manage without me for a while, and you can always reach me by telephone.”
“Must you go?” I said, then realized how selfish I sounded. “Yes, of course you must,” I added firmly. “You’ve got your home and your little dog needs you, and before you know it, it will be Christmas.”
“Why not come with me, child?” she said suddenly, looking at me as though I were one of her former pupils, a lost soul in need of care. “Come stay at the cottage. I’d love the company, and you can help spoil Little Nell some more. Besides, they offer a very nice lager and lime at the Blakelys Arms, and Mrs. Wormesly’s steak-and-kidney pie is excellent.”
I laughed, imagining myself for an instant in the Blakelys village pub, but I shook my head. “Can’t do it,” I said, “I’ve got to stay here and take care of business.”
“Why can’t you?” Jack said. I turned to look at him. “Work can’t start on the hotel until you get the insurance check,” he added, “and besides, you need a break.”
“What about Patrick?”
“I’ll check on Patrick. I’ll call you to let you know as soon as I find out anything. Besides, I’m gonna be busy for the next few weeks, back and forth to the States, working on the boat.”
I glanced at them, my good friend and my lover, torn between the two. Then, “Of course, you’ll come,” Miss N said firmly. And so I went to Blakelys.