Mischief in St. Tropez

  Mischief in St. Tropez

  Dory Spark Mysteries Book 2

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright ©2017 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster – Author

  www.camilleoster.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  @Camille_Oster

  Camille.osternz@gmail.com

  Chapter 1

  C overing her eyes with her hand, Dory stared out at the bright, glittering Mediterranean sea. The blue water married with the sky in the distance and a warm sea breeze rustled her skirt. She sighed and turned around to walk back up the vast garden covering the rough terrain at the edge of Lady Pettifer’s property.

  They had nothing planned for the day, which were Dory’s favorite kind of days. Livinia, Lady Pettifer’s niece, was at home too, but would most likely dash off to Cannes by the afternoon to seek the company of her friends. Who wanted to be in sleepy, old St. Tropez when the soirees never stopped an hour’s drive away?

  After initial misgivings, Livinia had grown to love it here on the coast. Granted, she would prefer being closer to the lively towns of Cannes or Nice, but she’d found her set, and they were a wild and varied bunch. Dory liked it here too, although she preferred the more sedate lifestyle of this small fishing village.

  Over the last year and a half, her French was perfected and she knew the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. In fact, she knew everyone in the village. They weren’t, by far, the only Brits here, but it was a certain set that lived out in these smaller villages, and they weren’t Livinia’s set.

  In saying that, the coast in general was now more replete than it had been when Dory had first arrived. The Americans had mostly left, leaving only the more hardy Brits, returning the Cote de Azur to how it used to be in the twenties—exactly how Lady Pettifer loved it. There had always been the British Colony here, but the young, bright and rich Americans had come and ever so gently pushed them out.

  That withstanding, it was hard to even recognize that they were officially at war. There had been widespread panic, when in the autumn, both England and France had declared war on Germany. Since then, nothing had happened and life had effectively returned to normal. Even the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were still staying here on the coast. It was the war that never happened.

  Obviously, things were more complicated than that, but not here in the endless spring sunshine. People got on with their business and the parties were thrown like they always had been.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Dory put her hat on before crossing the expanse of lawn around Lady Pettifer’s villa. She didn’t have skin that took the sun well—she burned to a crisp if she wasn’t careful. It was a hard lesson she’d learnt to her own misery in her first few weeks here.

  Looking comfortable, Lady Pettifer sat in the seating area under a vine leaf covered pergola, a tea service steaming in front of her.

  “There you are, dear,” Lady Pettifer said. “Any dolphins today?”

  “I didn’t see any,” Dory said as she sat down. She could use a cup. Music started playing upstairs in the house, leeching out of open windows as the breeze shifted. They both looked up at the open window above them. “Livinia is still here, I see.”

  “I understand Richard is picking her up in an hour.” Richard Dormstry was one of Livinia’s friends, who essentially did whatever she wished. He drove an hour to pick her up, then an hour back. Everyone saw that Richard was in love with her—except Livinia, who refused to see it, or perhaps refused to acknowledge it.

  Lady Pettifer suspected she had her eyes set on someone else, someone Livinia refused to speak about, which made Lady Pettifer concerned it was some married man. As bright and gregarious as Livinia was, she did keep some things close to her chest when she wanted to.

  Dory had gotten to know her much better in their time together. These days, Livinia didn’t quite grate on her as much as in the beginning, but she acknowledged that they were vastly different types of people. In fact, Dory took to her role as companion very well, preferring to spend time at Ville Beaulieu with Lady Pettifer than running around the house parties in Cannes and Nice. It could also be that Dory didn’t quite belong with any of the groups that milled around the coast.

  In certain settings, Livinia wasn’t always able to be as footloose as she wished and Dory had to serve as chaperone if any notable doyennes of etiquette from England would be there. Livinia still had her mother’s scandal to contend with, so couldn’t afford any tarnishing to her own reputation in certain circles.

  Accepting her cup of tea, Dory held it to her mouth and drew in the scent. Lady Pettifer was very specific with her tea, and Dory had learned to tell the difference between Chinese, Indian and Ceylon teas just by the smell. It was Ceylon today.

  Beauty lay panting under the table and Dory held down the last piece of her biscuit, feeling the dog’s wet nose to her fingers before long.

  The noisy engine of the mailman’s motorcar echoed off the trees as he drove up the long, winding driveway.

  “Running a bit late today,” Lady Pettifer chided. “No doubt Mr. Merton was giving him trouble.” Mr. Merton was their neighbor, a cantankerous elderly man who really enjoyed nothing of life, or even what the lifestyle in the south of France offered. Dory often wondered why he didn’t simply be miserable back home. She’d never worked up the nerve to ask, and here on the coast, it was impolite to inquire what brought people here, because there were some who weren’t strictly here by choice. Like Livinia, some fled scandal back home—or worse. For others, the temperate climate agreed with their health.

  Livinia came out of the house and sat down in one of the free chairs. The music still played above in her room, almost as if she couldn’t stand the silence. She checked her watch. “Where is he? He said he’d be here.”

  “Something must have held him up,” Lady Pettifer said to assuage Livinia’s annoyance. It wouldn’t do that Richard was less than punctual. “I am sure that all of Cannes will not forget about you simply because you are an hour late.”

  Accompanying a sour look, Livinia drew a deep breath and crossed her arms. “I do wish we could build a pool. I’m sure even Dory would venture in once in a blue moon.”

  Lady Pettifer snorted. There is a vast sea right in front of you.” Lady Pettifer couldn’t abide pools. Her generation didn’t build pools. It was a uniquely American import—and hence, avoided. “Besides, there is a war going on. How can we run around building swimming pools at such a time?”

  “I think this war is just an excuse for not doing anything. Everyone goes on and on about this war, and nothing ever happens. I feel I have been whacked over the head with this war as far back as I can remember.”

  “War is simply awful,” Lady Pettifer sniffed, her voice drifting off to old memories from the previous war.

  Livinia didn’t quite roll her eyes, but she had little tolerance for hearing about the war—this or any other.

  Almost silently, Mr. Fernley appeared with a silver tray. “The mail, madam,” he said in his typical dry tone. There were two letters—none for Dory. She got letters from her mother once a week, and one would likely come in the next day or so, but other than that, she had no one writing to her.

  “Oh, an invitation,” Livinia said, picking up an envelope of rich, creamy paper. “How exciting.”

  Now it was Lady Pettifer’s turn to grumble as she opened her own letter and read in s
ilence.

  “A masquerade,” Livinia said with excitement. “Next week. Lady Tonbridge. Well, well, that is a development, isn’t it? She must be inviting everyone. That son of hers must be here. What was his name?”

  “Marcus,” Lady Pettifer stated.

  “The invitation is for you as well.”

  “Not sure I have the constitution for a masquerade,” Lady Pettifer said dismissively without looking up. “My knee is still giving me all sorts of trouble. Dory can go.”

  Automatically, Dory smiled graciously. From having been an observer of such parties back at Wallisford Hall, she was now well past any fascination she’d had for them. Her status here on the coast was not in doubt by anyone. She was never quite a part of Livinia’s set, but she wasn’t exactly a servant either. The fact that she had been a maid back in England was also known by quite a few. In the beginning, Livinia had pointed it out diligently. Because of this, very few people actually spoke to her at these parties she was sometimes asked to go to. “Of course,” Dory said.

  “It will be so much fun. It’s short notice, though. I think I need a new dress. Where is Richard? I now have to run to the dressmaker as well.”

  In fact, Livinia’s chauffeur was just arriving. They heard the sound of his car, a much deeper rumble than the high-pitched engine of the mailman. He could be heard even where they sat around the back of the house.

  It didn’t take him long to find them, walking around the corner of the house. “Aren’t you all a picture?” he said with a broad smile. “Smart to escape the midday heat.” He took a seat, pulling up the white linen material of his slacks along his long, lean legs. “There’s an overturned cart on the road. Took ages to right. Silly bugger.”

  “I’ll just get dressed,” Livinia said, bounding into the house.

  “I might as well get comfortable, then,” Richard said with resignation.

  “Tea?” Lady Pettifer offered.

  “I would love a cup,” he said with a smile.

  Chapter 2

  M ost of the streets in the village of St. Tropez were too small for motor cars to get through. The alleys were tight and dark, most of the buildings three stories, rendered in oranges and yellows. Dory liked walking around here as the streets were typically quite cool, protecting the pedestrians from the heat of the sun.

  It was late spring and the sun was getting stronger by the week. The heat and Lady Pettifer’s knee kept her mostly at home. Over the last few months, she had increasingly been tired and feeling under the weather. The doctor said it was just a bug and nothing to worry about. Rest and relaxation was all she needed, apparently. Still, Dory couldn’t help worrying.

  Because of her health, though, Lady Pettifer had not felt up to returning to England for the summer. It meant staying over the hot months, but Lady Pettifer felt she preferred that to spending three weeks on a ship, plus all the trouble with making her way to Wallisford Hall again. Besides, with the war, passage wasn’t as readily available as it had been.

  Walking into the bakery, Dory was met with the lovely smell of fresh bread, and opened her coin purse to buy a loaf. The French were gifted with bread. Dory hadn’t understood how wonderful bread could be before coming here. And the cheese. The French took their cheese as seriously as some did their whiskey.

  With a smile, she paid the baker’s wife and continued down to the waterfront where the fishermen were selling their morning’s catch. It smelled of fish and salt, the entire village seemed to congregate down by the waterfront.

  There was no sign of war here. Nothing had changed, and Dory hoped it would stay that way. Still, it felt as though they were living on borrowed time. Everyone hoped that there was sufficient deterrence on both sides to stop either from making an advance. It had kept the war from properly starting so far. God willing it held.

  In saying that, anyone new in town, or even in Cannes and Nice, were treated with suspicion. Anyone of German descent had been rounded up and taken into internment—including the ones who would get no welcome in Hitler’s Germany.

  With carrots, fish and bread in her basket, Dory righted her bicycle and started home. Villa Beaulieu was some ways out of the village, perched on top of a cliff. It had both privacy and spectacular views, which was why Lady Pettifer had bought it with her ailing husband some time ago.

  Having spent almost two years here, it was hard to consider going back to Swanley to live with her mother again. Still, Dory had to consider her future at some point, but as long as Lady Pettifer wanted her to stay, she would.

  Bicycling up the hills made sweat run down her back and she had to get off and push. This was a route Dory cycled every day, and still, it made her smile every time she looked out at the sea. Small boats sat in the distance, the blue of the sea having turned hazy in the afternoon.

  Dory was puffed by the time she made it home and walked into the cool interior of Villa Beaulieu, to find Lady Pettifer sitting in the salon by the large open window. Italian paintings hung on the walls and the sumptuous articles of furniture were all older than Dory was. It was a house where everything had its proper place and little had changed or moved since the time the house had been set up. From what she suspected, the penchant for Italian furniture had been Lady Pettifer’s husband, but since his death, she hadn’t changed a thing.

  The Pettifers hadn’t built the house, though. It had been some acquaintance they’d known, an older couple that had passed away quite some while ago.

  “The mailman came while you were away. There is a letter from your mother.”

  “Oh,” Dory said and sat down, seeing the letter waiting for her. It had a large sticking along the edge of the envelope that said, ‘Opened by the Censor.’ Dory opened it. It was strange to think someone had read her correspondence with her mother, but there was nothing for it. it was simply a part of life, these days.

  The letter contained nothing but her mother’s musings and her ongoing concerns for Dory’s siblings. As it was, Dory sent most of her salary back home, so everyone was fed and thriving—but that didn’t stop her mother from worrying.

  “No news of Margot and her baby?” Lady Pettifer asked, who was by now well-versed in the goings ons amongst the members of the Sparks family. Margot was Dory’s cousin and was expecting a baby any day.

  “She doesn’t say, so I’m guessing she hasn’t had it yet. I think it will be a boy, though. I just get that feeling.”

  “A letter came from Vivian,” Lady Pettifer said.

  “Oh.” Dory felt her shoulders stiffen. She’d heard very little from or about Vivian since they had left England. Her relationship with Vivian, Lady Pettifer’s nephew and Livinia’s twin, had always been tentative and uncomfortable.

  “He says he’s in Geneva.”

  A second rush of discomfort washed over her. His mother, the murderess of Nora Sands, was currently institutionalized in a Swiss sanitorium, and that could be the only reason he would be there.

  “I think there is a strong possibility he’ll come for a visit, but he doesn’t say what his plans are. Only that Honoria is fine and it’s a lovely place.”

  A tight smile twisted Dory’s lips. In a sense, Lady Wallisford had gotten away with murder, being subsequently placed in a sanatorium. Technically, she wasn’t free to leave, but it was better than she deserved. A young woman was dead for that woman over eagerness to protect her childrens’ ambitions. The whole affair turned Dory’s stomach.

  “It is still a prison,” Lady Pettifer said as if reading Dory’s thoughts. They remained silent for a while. The tentacles of that dastardly deed still reached far and wide. “Never mind. It’s quite exciting about the masquerade.”

  Dory nodded, appreciative of the change in subject.

  “I’m glad you’re getting out and about a bit. You shouldn’t be stuck here with an old woman all the time.”

  “I am a companion. This is exactly what I am supposed to do.” This was an ongoing discussion between them, and in a sense, Dory was hiding fr
om life a little in this comfortable house. Not that she minded. This had been a place of discovery. She had learned so much during her time here—things she would never have experienced back in Swanley. Lady Pettifer was concerned because she didn’t spend copious amounts of time with people her own age, like Livinia did, but Dory’s concern was more that her life was a little too easy here. She literally had nothing to worry about other than Lady Pettifer’s health.

  “I am sure it will be a very diverting party. Livinia seems excited,” Dory said brightly.

  “Livinia would be excited about a queue at the post office if it had the right dress code.”

  Dory chuckled. Sadly, it was true. Livinia treasured anyone’s company but her own.

  But Dory couldn’t stop thinking that she should be more like Livinia and seek the company of others. Obviously, Livinia’s set wouldn’t be welcoming, but surely there would be people in the area who would welcome her as a friend. It just seemed such a hassle to go all the way to Cannes to seek them out.

  *

  Supper was eaten by candlelight. An officer from the French territorial army had come around a few months back and insisted they stay dark at night. Lady Pettifer had been deeply offended by his tone, but had grudgingly acknowledged the need for it. No one wanted Germans flying around with their bombers at night, did they?

  The arrival of German planes had never happened, but that did not provide the excuse for being lax. Granted, many were. Some people along the coast failed to understand the concept of a blackout, and at times, the authorities had to resort to cutting the power.

  The cook was an elderly French woman, who created the most divine meals. Lady Pettifer had running battles with the woman who preferred the heavy French palate with thick sauces, scoops of butter and cream. It didn’t agree with Lady Pettifer’s digestion, but cook had her strict view of what made a decent meal. Gladys, Dory’s aunt, would likely be offended by the woman and the meals she served, but Dory could never complain. The French food was marvelous—although, at times, she had to take an extra hour to walk it off.