Where You Belong

  And so I packed suitable clothes for working in a hot climate, a few outfits for relaxation time, and all of my best cameras. I also loaded up on film, enough to last me for the two weeks I would be taking photographs of the art by the eccentric Alexander St. Just Stevens. It was quite a story really, an amazing success story about talent and genius propelling a poor boy, born in the slums of Leeds, to great heights. Fame and fortune. Success and wealth. The public would eat it up, Mike was right about that. They loved anything stamped money, success, power.

  Janine had been working today, and she had helped me to get my packing finished and put everything in order in the apartment. She had promised she would come in several times a week, as she usually did, to keep the place as immaculate as always until my return.

  I wasn’t very hungry that night, but since she’d made me a veal stew with vegetables, I decided to eat a little of it while watching television. I sighed to myself as I reheated the stew. I knew that as long as I was in Europe I would be tuning in, looking for the war coverage from Kosovo.

  I stood, stirring the pot, my thoughts miles away with Jake. He was somewhere in Kosovo, probably Priština, which is where Jacques Foucher said he had gone. When the phone on the wall began to ring loudly, I jumped out of my skin, startled.

  Hoping it was Jake, I grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Il est mort, il est mort,” a strangely hoarse woman’s voice whispered down the wire. I did not recognize the voice.

  My heart missed a beat, and I clenched the phone tightly, swallowing hard. “Who is dead?” I demanded. “Who is this? Who’s speaking?”

  “Il est mort, Mademoiselle Denning. Olivier Bregone is dead!”

  “Oh, my God, it’s you, Simone!” I shrieked, filling with relief. “I thought it was somebody calling me from Kosovo to tell me Monsieur Jake was dead.”

  “I am sorry, Mademoiselle, if I gave you the fright.”

  “You certainly did! Now, please start again. Is it really true? Is Olivier really dead?”

  “Ah, oui, Mademoiselle, oui. I do not wish anybody dead . . . but I am relieved he cannot any longer make the life of my Françoise difficult. She is free.”

  “But how do you know this?” I asked swiftly, the journalist in me taking over. Rumors, suppositions, they did not work for me.

  “It was on the television. Tonight. He was shot to death by one of the criminals in Marseilles. One of the drug lords,” Simone explained in her excellent but stilted English.

  “Honestly, Simone, it’s a relief that he can’t bother Françoise anymore.”

  “Oui. Mademoiselle, please make the phone call for me to Françoise. I want her to know. Better, give me her number so I can speak to her wherever she is.”

  “Simone, I’ll call her and ask her to get in touch with you. I think that’s best.”

  She chuckled over the phone and said, “Ah, you do not trust me, Miss Denning. You are perhaps not sure I am I.”

  “Oh, I am, Simone, honestly, I am sure it’s you. I recognize your voice.” This was the truth, I did, but I also wanted to be absolutely certain Olivier was really dead before I handed out phone numbers that might fall into the wrong hands.

  “Very well, I wait to hear from my daughter. Her father and I are here at Les Roches Fleuries.”

  After she had hung up I called Mike at home. Joy answered and immediately passed the phone to her father when I said it was urgent.

  “What’s up, what’s wrong, Val?” Mike asked as he came on immediately. “Is there a problem?”

  “I just had a phone call from Simone. She says Olivier Bregone is dead, that he was killed in Marseilles, shot to death by one of the drug lords down there.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mike exclaimed. “How does she know?”

  “She saw it on television. Can you check it out? Let’s be positive it’s true before we tell Françoise.”

  But he didn’t get right back to me. In fact, Mike didn’t call me for over an hour, and then, when he did, he was not entirely sure that Olivier Bregone was dead.

  “Listen, Val, I talked to a contact of mine at Interpol who knows everyone there is to know in the police and justice systems throughout France, and he’s made a couple of phone calls for me. Now he’s waiting for his contacts to get back to him. But his first reaction was that it’s more than likely true. He said he was sure the television network wouldn’t run a phony story, which is what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Okay, we won’t call Françoise in Middleham for the moment. Let’s hang in there, play it cool, Val, and as soon as my guy gets back to me, I’ll call you pronto.”

  We said our good-byes, and I went back to the kitchen, where I washed the pan, the plate, and the cutlery, and made myself a cup of tea. I then sat down in front of the television and made myself miserable watching CNN, which had a great deal of coverage on the war in Kosovo. And I worried about Jake.

  It was almost ten-thirty when Mike did finally phone me again, and he was triumphant. “Absolutely true, he’s dead all right, Val. Shot to death by one of the crooks, just as Simone told you. The Marseilles homicide department confirmed it to my guy from Interpol. Shall I tell Françoise?”

  “Oh, Mike, yes, you make the call. It’s better coming from you,” I exclaimed, hearing the relief mingled with eagerness in his voice. “Tell her to call her mother, please, Mike, and let her know I’ll phone tomorrow before I fly off to Mexico.”

  “I will. Thanks for everything. And, Val?”

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “Please try not to worry about Jake. He’s going to be all right, he’ll make it.”

  IV

  Acapulco The Hacienda Rosita had to be seen to be believed. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful property in the area, a compound composed of a series of villas, guest cottages, a huge studio where Alexander St. Just Stevens painted, a building where kitchens were housed, and a house where the domestic help lived.

  All of the buildings were of white stucco, very Spanish in feeling, and beautifully designed and built. Inside the main villa, where the artist lived, the floors were of white marble, as were some of the walls; the rooms were filled with distinctive antique pieces of Mexican origin, many of his own paintings, and eye-catching accessories and lamps.

  These buildings were perched high on a cliff, just outside the town, and the view from any part of the grounds was spectacular. Far below, the brilliant azure sea glittered, and the gardens were filled with a riotous profusion of flowers, plants, flowering shrubs, and trees.

  The entire compound was surrounded by a very high wall, guarded at the main gate and the back service gate by armed guards.

  I have to admit that I was startled when I first saw the gun-toting guards when we drove into the property the day I arrived, over a week ago now. I had been picked up at the airport in Acapulco by Len Wilkinson, the painter’s personal assistant, and it was the genial and courteous Len who had explained: “The guards are necessary, Val, because there’s so much of value here, quite aside from Alexander’s paintings. So why make the place a temptation to thieves? The guards keep the unwanted at bay, believe me, they do.”

  I had taken to Len at once. He was from Leeds, and as he had volunteered himself, “I’m part of the Yorkshire Mafia that surrounds our hero.” He’d had a twinkle in his eye when he’d used the word hero, and I knew at once we would get along, that there was no pomposity or pretension in him.

  Donald and Alexis had arrived two days before I did, and they had brought with them the lights and other equipment I needed for the shoot. As it turned out, nothing I’d requested had been superfluous, and I soon realized the two of them worked well together. I remembered how much I liked Donald’s fiancée; she was charming, willing, energetic, and sure of herself, the kind of young woman who was reliable, and who was going places. She was also pretty and stylish, and obviously well brought up.

  On the afternoon I arrived, Len Wilkinson had taken me straig
ht to the large sun-filled villa I was sharing with Donald and Alexis. “See you later for dinner. At nine o’clock,” Len had said before disappearing through the front door.

  Donald had greeted me warmly, obviously pleased to see me, and Alexis had immediately volunteered to help me unpack. I was grateful that she had, since I’d traveled from Paris to New York by Concorde, spent the night in the Beekman Place apartment, and then flown out to Acapulco on Mexicana Airlines that morning. I was used to travel, but I felt bushed the first day I arrived; all I had wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

  “How on earth will I stay awake until dinner at nine?” I asked Donald, who had laughed and said, “Have a nap once you’ve unpacked and we’ll get you up later.”

  “If you say so,” I agreed, and set about emptying the big bag I’d brought, while Alexis put my clothes on hangers.

  Once this had been accomplished and everything had been hung up, Donald, Alexis, and I went out and sat in the garden for a while, drinking iced tea.

  They couldn’t wait to fill me in, and I had listened in amazement as Donald had explained the setup at Hacienda Rosita.

  “It’s quite a place,” Donald had confided, “and you’re going to like Alexander, he’s kind of neat, very eccentric though, and a flashy dresser.”

  “But he’s very handsome,” Alexis had volunteered.

  “And a womanizer,” Donald had added, winking at me.

  I had nodded. “Yes, I do know a few things about him. I did a bit of research before I left Paris. He’s had several wives, several mistresses, and there are innumerable children.”

  “And they all live here,” Donald had told me with a huge grin.

  “The first wife can’t possibly live here, Donald,” I had answered, laughing. “She died long ago.”

  “True, but you know what I mean. They’re all here. But there’s no one special that I know of at the moment. They’re all exes. You know, ex-wives, ex-mistresses. Better watch out, Valentine, he’s got an eye for a pretty face.”

  “You don’t have to worry about protecting me, brother mine,” I had retorted. “Just keep an eye on Alexis.”

  “Oh, he’s not interested in her,” Donald had muttered, and had broken into amused laughter again. “He’s looked her up and down already, and turned away.”

  “Well, thanks a lot for those few kind words,” Alexis had exclaimed, and punched my brother on his arm.

  V

  That discussion was now a week old. I had quickly settled in at the Hacienda Rosita, and so much so, I wondered if I could ever bear to leave. It was the most beautiful spot and so calm and tranquil. The weather was temperate, warm and balmy during the day, cooler in the evenings. The sky was always blue, the sun was always shining, and I felt rejuvenated there.

  I knew everyone now. The Yorkshire Mafia was made up of several old friends of Alexander’s from his student days, and that was one of the things I liked about the artist. He seemed to have a strong streak of loyalty in him. Len Wilkinson was the capo di tutti capi, as Alexander liked to call him jokingly, using Sicilian Mafia parlance. And Len was indeed the boss of all bosses, in charge of everything to do with the painter’s business transactions, his art exhibitions, and the sale of his paintings.

  Len was of medium height, fresh-faced and silver-haired, an attractive man with an attractive wife. Jennifer Wilkinson was also an old friend from the painter’s earliest days in Leeds; then there were two former fellow students who hadn’t made it themselves in the world of art, and who helped Alexander move canvases, prepare them, frame the giant-sized paintings in plain wood, mix paints, and assist him any way they could. They all enjoyed working with Alexander, and it was easy to understand why. He was kind, respectful of them, and always courteous.

  For all his eccentricity, flamboyance, and womanizing, he was at heart a good man, dedicated to his work, a devoted father, and nurturing of the women who had once occupied a place of importance in his life.

  As for the art, it was extraordinary. The new series of paintings was overwhelming. Each one had strength, energy, power, and brilliant color. They really were mesmerizing, and took my breath away. They would take the art world by storm, of that I was absolutely certain.

  For a whole week I had been photographing these marvelous paintings, which I considered to be master-pieces and in a class of their own. They were huge, dominating, and dramatic, and I knew my photographs would do them justice.

  But today I was going to start taking pictures of Alexander St. Just Stevens . . . at work in his studio, in his white marble villa with his small children, and out in the grounds of the compound with his friends from Yorkshire. All of these settings could not be covered in one day, as I had explained to him, and he had agreed to spend the next few days with me, posing for the camera.

  VI

  I brushed my hair back in a ponytail, tied a piece of ribbon around it, slipped on a pale blue T-shirt, then stepped into a pair of white cotton shorts. I decided to wear a pair of comfortable tennis shoes, old but clean, since I would be scrambling around all over the place, and on my feet all day.

  “I’m leaving, Donald,” I called to my brother, who was still in his room.

  The door flew open and he exclaimed, “Oh, that’s right, you’re having breakfast with the maestro this morning. Be careful, Val, he’s devouring you with his eyes more than ever. This guy definitely has the hots for you.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t,” I said evenly, aware that Donald enjoyed teasing me.

  “But he does, Val,” Alexis remarked, coming out of the room.

  I frowned. “Honestly, you two, you’ve got sex on the brain.”

  “No, he does,” Donald said. “His eyes are lascivious.”

  I burst out laughing, “Donald, what an expression! You must use that in your column.”

  “Do you think so? I will for sure.”

  Alexis then said to Donald, “Let’s have breakfast now, and afterward we can go and meet Val at ten, as she said we should last night. Is that still all right, Val?”

  I nodded. “That’s about right. Alexander invited me to the studio for coffee, not the villa, so meet me over there at ten.”

  “Okay.” Alexis bit her lip, hesitated slightly before saying, “Look, are you going to photograph any of his women or not?”

  “I’m not sure he’ll sit still for it. Why?”

  “I just think it adds a bit of . . . color, spice, if you like to the story.”

  “But this is about the art, great art, as a matter of fact and about the painter. It’s not about his love life, his women, and his four kids.”

  “Six altogether,” Donald interjected. “Two are away at college.”

  “Thanks a lot, Donald, for reminding me, but I hadn’t forgotten, honey.”

  “I just thought he might like to be photographed with his . . . extended family. It sort of makes him more . . . human,” Alexis said.

  “You have a point,” I answered. “I’ll think about it and decide later.”

  Picking up my cameras, I added, “Don’t forget to bring all the equipment, Donald. Even though that studio is so well lighted, I want to create the same feeling we had the other day.”

  Donald nodded. “No problem, sis.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, Donald.”

  My brother began to laugh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been calling you sis all week, and you haven’t screamed at me once.”

  “It doesn’t bother me anymore,” I said, meaning every word.

  Chapter 31

  I

  I thought of Jake as I walked through the garden of the guest villa, heading in the direction of Alexander’s studio. He was never far from my mind, and I fretted about him, worried about his safety. Often I turned on the television at night for news of the war in Kosovo but switched off almost immediately. Chaos and mayhem reigned over there.

  Mike, good friend that he was, stayed in daily contact with Jacques
Foucher at Jake’s photo agency and sent me updates by fax. For the moment Jake was alive and covering the war from Priština. And so I held my breath, got on with my work at the villa, and prayed for his safety.

  I had liked the subject of my photo shoot right from the beginning. At forty-five, Alexander St. Just Stevens was considered to be the world’s greatest living artist, often called the Picasso of the Millennium. But to me his paintings were much more exciting, had more visual impact, and they were full of life and vibrant color.

  Alexander was an extremely good-looking man with a strong, well-defined face. His dark hair was tinged with white prematurely, and the silver wings at his temples seemed to make his green eyes all that more piercing as they gazed out at the world from beneath thick black brows. Tall, well built with a wonderful physique, he was tanned and fit, and something of an athlete, enjoying tennis, swimming, and deep sea fishing.

  I knew full well he was a womanizer. I hadn’t needed my brother to inform me of that. His passion for women, and his many involvements with them over the years, was well documented in the newspaper and magazine articles I’d read for my research before coming here. And in a sense his passion for the female sex reflected somewhat his passion for his art, his work.

  Len Wilkinson had told me that Alexander often painted for days on end without cease. And I had noticed myself that the artist had an unusual energy and strength, visible in everything he did.

  Although I had pooh-poohed the idea that Alexander was eyeing me speculatively, Donald had, in fact, been accurate. My brother didn’t miss a trick. His lively, observant eyes were everywhere, and since he was working alongside me on a daily basis, he saw everything.

  But I deemed it wiser to claim ignorance, pretend I was unaware of Alexander’s interest in me, and so keep a lid on the situation. But it did worry me at times, because I knew he was more than merely attracted to me. I felt he was actually becoming involved with me, even though I had not encouraged this.

  On the other hand, in the past nine days we had spent an enormous amount of time together, in the same environment, working, eating, and relaxing. We had come to know each other extremely well, without there being any sexual intimacy, of course. And we had discovered we were compatible, understood each other, and enjoyed being in each other’s company.