Read Online The Hotel Riviera by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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when I see you, and hurried into the frosty night in the old green Land Rover, heading for the M4 and London.
It turned out the mother and her boyfriend were the killers after all, and after that, Tom would often talk to Mollie about the difficult cases. She learned a lot about violent crime: about the murders; the rapes; the gang assassinations; things sheâd previously only read about in newspapers. And Tom found her lucid mind and simple reasoning a great help. For a while.
Sighing, Miss Nightingale pulled open the shutters leading to her tiny balcony and stepped out into the sultry night. Lightning flickered across the sky and the heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air. She couldnât grow jasmine in the Cotswolds, at least not in her little patch of garden; it just wouldnât âtake,â didnât like the chilly nights, she supposed, so it gave her special pleasure to smell it now and catch the gleam of its white petals in the darkness.
Her room was the smallest in the hotel, and because it was on the shady side and quite dark, Lola had sponge-painted it a yellow that was meant to be primrose but had turned out more egg yolk. There was a comfy double bed with an iron frame and gauzy curtains, a pair of mismatched nightstands painted Mediterranean blue and a bleached-pine farmhouse armoire found on one of Lolaâs country antiquing expeditions. On the small table by the window were a water carafe and a glass, a pile of books, and Miss Nâs knittingâcurrently a long stretch of stripes, a winter muffler that, in fact, she would give Lola as a parting gift.
A comfortable blue velvet chair was placed near the window and two pretty lamps with country-toile shades completed the décor. This room was the cheapest in the hotel because it was on the corner overlooking the parking lot. Not that Miss N found that a hardship, because the straw matting strung over the graveled space to keep the sun off the guestsâ cars was now covered with deep blue convolvulus and it made for a pretty sight. Plus, if she craned her neck a little as she did now, she could catch a glimpse of the sea, and the red and green riding lights of the small sloop still anchored there.
She was just thinking, how wonderful to be aboard that little sloop with the waves lapping outside your window and the sea rocking you soft as a baby in its cradle, so calm, so peaceful, so silent, when headlights beamed down the lane. A large black car gunned into the lot, then squealed to a stop, gravel crunching, right beneath her balcony.
Miss N shrank back; she didnât want to be spotted in her bathrobe and slippers with her hair in a net to preserve its careful waves. And besides, who could this be, arriving so late? The car had Marseilles license plates and it certainly did not belong to any of the guests.
The passenger door was flung open and a weighty man in a crumpled white jacket with a broad-brimmed Panama hat slammed over his eyes hauled himself out. He didnât bother to close the door; he left that to the two gendarmes who slid quickly out after him. He stood for a minute getting his bearings, then with a grunt and a wave of his arm for them to follow, he strode down the sandy path toward Lolaâs cottage.
Miss N drew in a shocked breath. The police! At this time of night they were definitely here on business. And that could only mean Patrick.
She sank into the white rattan balcony chair, staring after them, waiting, wondering. It seemed a long time before they came back, and when she heard their footsteps, she leaned over the balcony to get a better look. The big man lifted his head and looked right back at her.
Oh dear! Oh my! she said to herself, shrinking back against the wall, flushing with embarrassment. And then she thought about her Tom and how this pasty-faced, overweight, sweating detective in his white jacket and Panama hat couldnât hold a candle to him, and she pulled her dignity
It turned out the mother and her boyfriend were the killers after all, and after that, Tom would often talk to Mollie about the difficult cases. She learned a lot about violent crime: about the murders; the rapes; the gang assassinations; things sheâd previously only read about in newspapers. And Tom found her lucid mind and simple reasoning a great help. For a while.
Sighing, Miss Nightingale pulled open the shutters leading to her tiny balcony and stepped out into the sultry night. Lightning flickered across the sky and the heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air. She couldnât grow jasmine in the Cotswolds, at least not in her little patch of garden; it just wouldnât âtake,â didnât like the chilly nights, she supposed, so it gave her special pleasure to smell it now and catch the gleam of its white petals in the darkness.
Her room was the smallest in the hotel, and because it was on the shady side and quite dark, Lola had sponge-painted it a yellow that was meant to be primrose but had turned out more egg yolk. There was a comfy double bed with an iron frame and gauzy curtains, a pair of mismatched nightstands painted Mediterranean blue and a bleached-pine farmhouse armoire found on one of Lolaâs country antiquing expeditions. On the small table by the window were a water carafe and a glass, a pile of books, and Miss Nâs knittingâcurrently a long stretch of stripes, a winter muffler that, in fact, she would give Lola as a parting gift.
A comfortable blue velvet chair was placed near the window and two pretty lamps with country-toile shades completed the décor. This room was the cheapest in the hotel because it was on the corner overlooking the parking lot. Not that Miss N found that a hardship, because the straw matting strung over the graveled space to keep the sun off the guestsâ cars was now covered with deep blue convolvulus and it made for a pretty sight. Plus, if she craned her neck a little as she did now, she could catch a glimpse of the sea, and the red and green riding lights of the small sloop still anchored there.
She was just thinking, how wonderful to be aboard that little sloop with the waves lapping outside your window and the sea rocking you soft as a baby in its cradle, so calm, so peaceful, so silent, when headlights beamed down the lane. A large black car gunned into the lot, then squealed to a stop, gravel crunching, right beneath her balcony.
Miss N shrank back; she didnât want to be spotted in her bathrobe and slippers with her hair in a net to preserve its careful waves. And besides, who could this be, arriving so late? The car had Marseilles license plates and it certainly did not belong to any of the guests.
The passenger door was flung open and a weighty man in a crumpled white jacket with a broad-brimmed Panama hat slammed over his eyes hauled himself out. He didnât bother to close the door; he left that to the two gendarmes who slid quickly out after him. He stood for a minute getting his bearings, then with a grunt and a wave of his arm for them to follow, he strode down the sandy path toward Lolaâs cottage.
Miss N drew in a shocked breath. The police! At this time of night they were definitely here on business. And that could only mean Patrick.
She sank into the white rattan balcony chair, staring after them, waiting, wondering. It seemed a long time before they came back, and when she heard their footsteps, she leaned over the balcony to get a better look. The big man lifted his head and looked right back at her.
Oh dear! Oh my! she said to herself, shrinking back against the wall, flushing with embarrassment. And then she thought about her Tom and how this pasty-faced, overweight, sweating detective in his white jacket and Panama hat couldnât hold a candle to him, and she pulled her dignity
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