The Diamond Caper Read online

  From there, Coco started to make all the right noises about gutting the interior and bringing the view into the house, and Sam could see Elena becoming more and more enthusiastic. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to put the brakes on.

  “Just one thing,” he said, “before you bring in the bulldozer. We have terms of business too.” He went through his short list of strict budget, firm completion date, and penalty clauses. To Sam’s surprise, Coco was nodding at everything she heard. “That’s fine with us,” she said. “That’s the way we work.” And on this cordial note, all that remained was to agree on a date for Coco to meet them the following week at the property, and to ask if she could recommend somewhere for lunch, which she was happy to do: Le Club de la Promenade, two minutes from the Negresco.

  The restaurant was decorated, as all beach restaurants seem to be, in a maritime color scheme of blue and white, with the occasional fishing net draped in a picturesque position. The owner, a deeply tanned woman of a certain age, wearing a white T-shirt and hot pants, detached herself from the bar and came over to guide them to a table. “Voilà,” she said with a smile, “I give you a table with a sea view.” And there indeed was a glimpse of the sea, just visible between the clumps of beach umbrellas and the rows of bodies—every color from medium rare to well done—that were lined up cheek by oiled jowl. A waitress, dressed like all her colleagues in white T-shirt and hot pants, put two menus on the table and suggested that an apéritif might help them make their choice.

  The postmortem began even before the first glass of rosé. They agreed that it had been a most encouraging morning. Sam admitted that he hadn’t been at all sure that Coco and Elena would get on after their first rather edgy meeting at the Van Buren house.

  “I told you,” said Elena. “I straightened that out when I called her. Anyway, when she met you, she calmed down.”

  “I have that effect on women,” said Sam. “But then you seemed to get on pretty well. How do you feel about working with her?”

  “Fine. I like what she’s done for her other clients: simple, good taste. I get the feeling that her houses work.”

  “Are you sure we can trust her not to bother Francis?”

  “I already told you,” said Elena. “I’ll make sure she behaves.” Sam had no doubt that she would.

  Their lunch of fresh fish, crisp and perfectly cooked French fries, and fiadone, a Corsican-style cheesecake, was all the more enjoyable because they were going through the first and most pleasant stage of property renovation. The ideas were coming thick and fast, the bills hadn’t started to arrive, the expensive and unforeseen problems, les petits inconnus, hadn’t yet surfaced—it was all very exciting. Even Sam, a man not normally given to excessive enthusiasms, found himself mentally moving in to a house of sun-kissed perfection.

  Meanwhile, Coco and her colleague were also having a post-mortem, and Monsieur Gregoire, no longer the mild-mannered second fiddle, had become Coco’s equal, assertive and opinionated. And he was not at all in favor of taking on Elena and Sam’s house.

  “Our business,” he said, “has been built on big, multimillion-euro projects, owned by seriously rich people. This little shack is just a distraction.” He stood up, and walked over to the window, shaking his head. “A waste of your time.”

  Coco sighed. There were times when she found Gregoire’s obsession with money intensely irritating. “I’m getting a little tired of rich people and their vast mansions. This could be fantastic,” she said. “I like the owners, and it would amuse me. I’m going to do it.”

  “A waste of your time,” he said again. “You seem to have forgotten why our business has been so successful.”

  “And you seem to have forgotten the name of the business: It’s Cabinet Dumas. Not Cabinet Gregoire. I’m going to do it.”

  Coco’s words stayed with Gregoire as he made his way along the Promenade des Anglais, and they rankled. More and more often in recent weeks, he felt that she was treating him as though he were nothing more than her secretary. In fact, during the several years they had worked together, he knew he had made substantial and profitable contributions to the business. But he was still an employee, and not an equal partner. Promises had been hinted at, but never followed up. Gregoire had run out of patience and money. His gambling hadn’t been going well. He needed a big hit.

  His mood brightened as he reached the beach restaurant where he was meeting a promising new girlfriend for lunch. Le Poisson Nu—the Naked Fish—was a simple place that served good, simple food. But what attracted regular clients of both sexes was the relaxed dress code, which decreed that a swimsuit, however brief, was all one needed to wear for lunch.

  Gregoire went into the primitive dressing room to change before picking his way through the forest of tanned flesh that was standing at the bar and sitting at the tables. The promising girlfriend was already at their table, looking even more promising. On the two previous occasions they had met, she had been fully dressed. Today, all that saved her from nudity were a few artfully placed scraps of bikini. Gregoire sucked in his stomach and went to join her.

  —

  Far away, on the other side of the Atlantic, Kathy and Conor Fitzgerald were preparing for another grueling day of fulfilling their social obligations. These were their last few days in New York before leaving to go to Paris and then down to their house on Cap Ferrat for the summer, and the giddy round of farewell lunches, soirées, and dinners was in full swing.

  Fitzgerald, now approaching sixty, was reputed to be the richest grocer in America. Starting forty years earlier with a small convenience store in his hometown of Boston, he had since accumulated two major supermarket chains, apartment buildings in Miami and Los Angeles, a string of racehorses, a duplex on Central Park South, the house on Cap Ferrat, and a number of wives, of whom Kathy was the youngest, blondest, and most recent. She matched his ability to make money with a talent for spending it—furs, jewels, couture clothes, she loved them all, and her doting husband was happy to indulge her.

  Over breakfast, the Fitzgeralds were going over their social plans for France. Kathy was anxious to meet what she called a younger crowd, as a change from their older New York friends.

  Fitzgerald leaned across the breakfast table and patted her cheek. “No problem, honey. We’ll throw a party once we’ve settled in. Why don’t you talk to that gal who fixed up the house? She must know just about everyone down there. She can round up a few locals for you.”

  “Fitz, you’re a doll. And you’re sure it’s OK about my fitness trainer?”

  “Absolutely. There’s plenty of room on the plane. Just as long as she doesn’t want me to start doing push-ups.”

  Kathy was delighted at the thought of getting in touch once again with Coco Dumas, whom she had met during the renovation of the house on Cap Ferrat. Kathy had been impressed by Coco’s chic and her ideas; Coco had been pleasantly surprised to find a woman who, unlike so many of her clients, had managed to remain relatively normal despite her rich, pampered life. A mutual liking had developed. And so, when they spoke later that day, the first few minutes had been devoted to verbal air kisses and the exchange of social news before Kathy broached the subject of the party.

  “I’d love it if you could help me out. We’ve decided to give a party at the house. We’ll have our house guests, of course, but they’re all old friends from New York, and I’d like to invite some fresh faces—you know, some fun locals: young, amusing, and English-speaking would be perfect. What do you think?”

  Coco didn’t need to think for too long. At that time of year, the Riviera was crawling with people who needed to be entertained every evening, ideally by going to smart parties in fashionable houses. “That won’t be a problem,” she said. “I’ll get back to you with a few suggestions.”

  She left her office, poured herself a glass of wine, and went out to the terrace. It was early evening, the sun was low on the horizon, and the day’s appointments and phone calls were over. It was an ideal time t
o think.

  Her mind went back to her exchange earlier in the day with Gregoire. It was true that he had brought in several good clients over the years, and he took care of the financial side of the business efficiently enough. But lately he had become increasingly argumentative and tiresome, more like a difficult client than a partner. Coco sighed. She was more than ready for a new life in New York.

  She was distracted by the sound of a chair scraping the floor in her office. She had left the door open, and when she went through it, she found Gregoire hunched over one of the leather-bound books that she used in her presentations. She decided to forget about their exchange earlier in the day, and sat down next to him with a smile.

  “Well, Greg. Doing some homework?”

  “Oh—just catching up on some of our past triumphs.”

  “What have you got there?”

  “The Fitzgerald house. They’re coming over soon, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. They’ll be here all summer.”

  Gregoire was shaking his head as he closed the book. “How the rich live. God, it must be great.”

  Coco had known Gregoire long enough to be wary whenever he started to make remarks about money. They inevitably led to discussions about his salary, his hope of becoming a full partner, his desperate need of a new car, and other sensitive and expensive subjects.

  She was looking at her watch as she stood up. “I’m going to be late. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter 8

  Elena was smiling as she came out of the kitchen and went over to the breakfast table, where Sam was brooding over his first coffee of the day.

  “OK, it’s all set,” she said. “We’re going shopping this morning.”

  “Lucky us,” said Sam, whose enthusiasm for shopping with Elena, never great, had almost entirely disappeared after several grueling days going through Marseille’s furniture showrooms and fabric stores. “And what are we buying today?”

  “Food. Don’t you remember? Alphonse offered to take us to one of his favorite places, and today’s the day. Isn’t that great?”

  Sam brightened up. Shopping he could eat was the kind of shopping he liked. He finished his coffee and stood up, allowing Elena to smooth away the croissant crumbs that had fallen on his chest. “Why is it I never get to do that to you?” he said.

  Elena was saved from answering by the arrival of Alphonse, dapper and dressed for shopping in a blue-and-white striped shirt worn over white pants, the ensemble finished off by navy-blue espadrilles and a Louis Vuitton baseball cap. He was carrying a large white canvas shopping bag in each hand. He gave one to Sam and the other to Elena, explaining that he needed both hands free for haggling.

  “Today,” he said, “we shall concentrate on fruit, vegetables, and cheese. Meat needs an entire morning to itself; so does fish. We must do those another time. Olivier is driving us today to Saint-Florian, a village with an excellent market where all the local producers have stands—everything from asparagus to zucchini. Allez!”

  On their way to Saint-Florian, Alphonse went through his shopping list.

  “I need asparagus, if we’re not too late; melons and peaches; some Rattes, the connoisseur’s potato; zucchini flowers, olives, and, of course, garlic and basil. Not to forget my favorite goat cheese. After that, I am the slave of inspiration. If I should see some perfectly ripe avocados, figs in their prime, or some broad beans worthy of my warm bean-and-bacon salad, then we must have those too. I always say that one should keep an open mind with an open mouth.”

  Like so many villages in Provence, Saint-Florian had been built on a hill, with the oldest buildings on top, where they hoped to be safe from attack by rapacious neighbors. Over the centuries, more peaceful times had encouraged building on the lower slopes of the hill, and eventually the construction of a large parking area. This was taken over for a day each week, when market stalls replaced cars and games of boules.

  There must have been fifty or sixty of these stalls, selling fruits, vegetables, eggs, herbs, cheeses, and a few nonedible items, principally flowers and ladies’ underwear. Led by Alphonse, the three of them shuffled through the crowd until they came to one of the larger stands, overflowing with vegetables and presided over by a burly, gray-haired man with a seamed, brown face that lit up at the sight of them. He came out from behind his lettuce display and embraced Alphonse, kissing him loudly on each cheek.

  “Eh, vieux con! Where have you been hiding? And who are these two? Your children? Les pauvres.”

  Introductions were made, with Regis the stallholder taking the opportunity to admire Elena’s bosom as he bent over to kiss her hand. He eventually stood up, released her hand, and sighed. “Adorable. And now, what can I do for you?”

  Regis listened as Alphonse went through his list. “Bon. Most of these I have. But for melons and peaches, you must go to Elodie; and for the goat cheese, of course, there is nobody but Benjamin. Now then—come around to the back of the stall, where, as you know, I keep my treasures.”

  He led them to the back of the stall, which was a miniature version of the front, but with different produce. Here, instead of lettuces and leeks, carrots and cauliflowers and cabbages, Regis had arranged his more special items: zucchini flowers, asparagus, the noble Ratte potatoes, shining green and black olives, all arranged like jewels on their wooden trays.

  “Since the asparagus season is over here, I have made a new friend across the Channel in England, where the season conveniently finishes later than it does here,” said Regis. “And he sent me these. Not Provençal, of course, but not bad. Not bad at all.” He pointed at a tray of asparagus, then picked one out. “You see? A good, bright green color. The tips are closed, as they should be. The spear is straight, and firm to the touch. And, most important, if you try to bend it, it should crack. Tenez.” He passed the spear to Elena. “Go ahead.”

  Elena took the spear, holding it in front of her with both hands, and applied pressure. The spear snapped with an audible crack. “Bravo,” said Regis, and looked enquiringly at Alphonse, who ordered half a dozen bottes. These were passed to Sam, with instructions to store the bunches carefully in his bag.

  It was the same ritual with the zucchini flowers, the potatoes, and the olives. Regis would present an example of each to Elena, pointing out its readiness for the table, its superb color and texture—in short, its flawless perfection—before taking Alphonse’s order.

  And then the discussion about payment began. Regis mentioned a price. Alphonse feigned shock, shaking one hand as though his fingers had been burned and throwing his arms in the air before turning out the pockets on each side of his trousers, empty except for a few cents. Regis shook his head, sucked his teeth, reconsidered with a great show of reluctance, and lowered the price fractionally. Alphonse, his reputation as a keen haggler intact, nodded his approval and produced a well-stuffed wallet from his back pocket.

  Elena and Sam had been watching the performance with interest. “Do you think you could do that?” asked Sam. “You know, haggling?”

  Elena shook her head. “I tried it once. Didn’t work.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Dallas. Nieman Marcus.”

  Alphonse and Regis, the best of friends once more, embraced and exchanged fond insults before Alphonse, with a lordly wave of the hand to Sam, by now carrying both shopping bags, set off for Elodie, her melons, and her peaches.

  They found her, as Alphonse had warned them, bursting with indignation. She was a slight, pretty woman, with a tanned face and blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she barely had time for a double kiss with Alphonse and a nod toward Elena and Sam before she launched into her least favorite topic: those dastardly Spanish peach growers.

  “Do you know,” she said, poking Alphonse in the chest with an agitated finger, “they’ve worked out this new arnaque, their latest scam. They deliver to supermarkets in France without first setting a price; they see what the French price is, then they undercut it. How can we compete? F
rench production of peaches has halved in the past ten years. C’est scandaleux!”

  Alphonse, who had heard similar complaints before, patted her on the shoulder. “I know, I know. But what you must remember, chérie, is that your peaches have a flavor, a finesse, that no Spanish peach can hope to equal.” He turned to Elena and Sam. “Look at these peaches! These are very early—encouraged, no doubt, in Elodie’s hothouse—and they are superb. If only Monet were here to paint them. We must have the whole tray.” He picked out a peach and held it up. “The secrets of choosing a ripe peach are color, feel, and smell.” He passed the peach to Elena. “You see? There is a uniform rosiness, with no green patches. Now squeeze it: firm, not mushy. And smell it, as you would a glass of fine wine.”

  Elena inhaled. “Wonderful. A vintage peach.”

  By now, Elodie had regained her good humor, and was ready to move on to her melons—her Cavaillon melons—which she said even a Spaniard would have to admit were the finest in the world. She handed one over to Alphonse, who weighed it thoughtfully in his hand and tapped it with his knuckles. “Did you hear that?” he said to Elena. “That is the correct sound, as if the melon were hollow. Now we must see if it’s ripe.” He passed the melon to Elena. “At the top, you see what we call—excuse me—the nipple. At the bottom there is a little stalk. This is the pécou, or tail, and it should be the same color as the melon. Now look closely. If there is a tiny crack around the tail, tinged with red, that is a sure sign of ripeness. We call it ‘the drop of blood.’ In fact, it’s formed by sugar coming from inside the melon and crystallizing.”

  The melons and peaches were paid for and packed. Elena and Alphonse strode off in search of cheese, and a heavily laden Sam followed behind. After a brief stop for basil and garlic, they arrived at the stall of Benjamin, a good-looking young man with a beard. “Don’t be put off by his youth,” said Alphonse. “He grew up with goats. He was making cheese while he was still at school.” He turned to Benjamin. “Alors, jeune homme. What do you recommend today?”