There's Something About St. Tropez by Elizabeth Adler

the sea. It was a simple guest room with a white iron bed and white-painted cabinets, fashioned to fit the curve of the pale blue walls.
    Downstairs again, they checked the large sitting room that led onto a terrace at the rear of the house. The furniture was covered in dust sheets and only the three Murano chandeliers, feminine confections of crystal and pink glass roses, glimmered with life.
    Quite suddenly the shuttered house with its covered furniture seemed to suck the breath out of Sunny’s lungs. Claustrophobia threatened. She ran back outside and stood, arms folded over her chest, gasping in the fresh sea air. Chez La Violette seemed to breathe mystery and secrets that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
    â€œMac?” she called, suddenly aware she was alone.
    â€œOver here, hon.” His voice came from inside the house.
    She walked back into the hall, remembering Nate brandishing his sword at the top of the stairs. Come to think of it, where was the sword? She had last seen it on the kitchen table right before they all left.
    â€œMac?” she called again.
    â€œHere.” His voice came from the direction of the bedroom.
    Picking up the dog, Sunny tiptoed through the hall, asking herself impatiently, why, for God’s sake, she was walking on tiptoe in an empty house.
    The door to Violette’s boudoir stood open. It was dark. She called Mac again, running her hand down the wall, blindly searching for the switch. A lamp flashed on and Sunny jumped.
She had not touched the light switch
. Telling herself not to be so silly, that it must be Mac, that he was probably in the bathroom, she waited.
    The bathroom door swung slowly open. Her heart beat so loudly she could hear the blood thundering in her ears. Her voice quavered as she said, “Mac? Are you there?”
    There was no reply, but the musty room was suddenly filled with that same sweet scent of flowers. Sunny closed her eyes, unable to move.
    â€œHere I am, honey,” Mac said from behind her. She leapt about two feet in the air. “I went to check the basement, lost you for a minute.”
    She sagged against him. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œDon’t ever leave me alone in this house again.”
    Mac looked at her, puzzled.
    â€œDo you smell the flowers?”
    â€œWhat flowers? I don’t see any.”
    â€œNo! Do you
smell
them?”
    He sniffed. “No, honey, I don’t. And nor do you. This place is getting to you. Come on, let’s go.”
    He stopped to switch off the light, aware of Sunny’s eyes on him.
    â€œMac, I swear I didn’t turn that lamp on,” she said. “It went on by itself.”
    â€œOld houses,” Mac said easily. “The electricity can be a bit uncertain.” They walked back into the kitchen. Something about it still bothered Sunny but she was anxious to get out and waited on the steps in the dark for Mac, breathing that soft moist air that smelled of green growing things and wild strawberries.
Living things
.
    It wasn’t until they were in the car and driving back to the hotel that she remembered what had bothered her in the kitchen. “It was the piano,” she said.
    Mac glanced at her. “What about the piano?”
    â€œThe lid was up. I could see the keys.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œLast night that piano lid was down. It had been down for a very long time. There was dust all over it.”
    â€œOkay.” Mac gave her a so-what smile.
    Sunny stared straight ahead. She said, “Not one of us ever touched that piano.”

 
14.
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    At eight o’clock the following morning Café le Sénéquier was not crowded, merely a few local coffee drinkers, newspapers to hand, croissants ready to be dunked, indifferent to the glittering array of expensive yachts moored directly across the road. Farther along, the
livrarie
had its magazine stands out and the tourist