Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

I sat carefully on the edge of her bed, my hand hovering in the air for a moment before I laid it gently on her shoulder, which made her flinch.

“Gisele, the person—or people—who hurt you … did it have anything to do with Jerry?”

She trembled under my hand. Was it sadness? Fear?

Finally, she turned her gaze back toward me.

“I do not remember. Anything.”

“It was in front of your house. Were you going somewhere and got mugged—um, surprised by the attacker?”

She turned her head away again and bit the side of her mouth. Something between fear and anger twisted her lips. I sensed she remembered something. Was the attacker someone she knew, someone she feared—or wanted revenge against?

“I remember walking through the gate, then everything is black. Next thing I remember, I woke up here.”

She studied Truck, looked him up and down, then did the same with me.

“Americans, yes?”

“Right.” I pulled Lou Atlas’s letter out, cleared my throat, and read it aloud.

“To whom it may concern, Buck Reilly is in St. Barths on my behalf to determine what happened to my nephew, Jerry Robert Atlas. Please accord him the same courtesy you would to me, cooperate with him, and help him to understand what happened. If you have any questions about his authenticity, please call my assistant, Annette. Merci.”

“He says nothing about us—nothing about his grandchildren.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Truck shook his head, presumably because he thought the same thing I did: that Lou Atlas was a heartless prick. Another curse of wealth—you question the sincerity of everyone close to you, especially those who marry into your family.

“That’s why Truck and I are here now,” I said. “We’re here to check on you and to find out why someone might do this.”

The door swung open. Truck and I turned to find the doctor, his eyes ablaze the moment he saw his patient’s tears. He launched into a torrent of French, way too fast for me to understand, then rushed to Gisele’s side, placed his hand on her forehead, and spoke in a soothing tone. I understood him saying it was okay.

He turned back toward us.

“You’ve upset her, you must leave.” He herded us toward the door. Once in the hall, his eyes and tongue sharpened. “What is wrong with you? Can you not see what this poor woman has been through?”

“Why do you think she was attacked?” I said.

He shook his head, grumbling to himself.

“Did it have something to do with her husband?” I said.

“Of course it did! Opportunists looking for money—but she has none!” His voice rose with each sentence. “Penniless, that’s how he left her—good that she is a Rigaud, her family can support her—but that pig left her nothing!” Then in a low voice: “And now she is alone and terrified. It is time for you to leave. Take your letter and large friend and go home. St. Barths will take care of its own.”

“But I—”

“Go, now!” He shooed us out.

Outside, Truck and I took a moment to collect ourselves. I stared out into the deep abyss of blue water and wondered where Jerry had capsized. A large sailboat tacked toward the harbor, its crew scurrying about like ants.

“Damn, Reilly,” Truck said. “That was some heavy shit.”

“Heavy bullshit, I’d say. “

“What you mean?”

“Someone attacked her for money she doesn’t have and certainly wouldn’t have on her? I don’t think so.”

“You’ve got a mess down here, Lou,” I said into the cell phone he’d provided. “Your nephew apparently drowned, and someone beat the shit out of his widow. She’s in the hospital and needs money.” I bit my lip. “I thought I’d be finished early, but after seeing Gisele I feel obliged to figure out what the hell else is going on.” I paused. “Consider this your first report. Bye.” I hit End, then took a long gulp of cold Carib beer.

We were seated on the outdoor patio of Le Select, awaiting cheeseburgers and the arrival of my old friend Marius Stakelborough, the nonagenarian proprietor. The patio was full of locals, boatmen, and designer-clad tourists. Le Select was the melting pot on St. Barths, just a block away from the harbor, where all demographics blended harmoniously to drink, dine, smoke, and see friends. It had been there for over sixty years.

“Was starting to think I was the only black man on the island,” Truck said.

The several generations of Stakelboroughs who ran the restaurant were various shades of brown, a calaloo of interracial offspring that bespoke the progressive community on the island.

“St. Barths was never agricultural,” I said. “No sugar plantations, no crops of any kind—”

“So no slaves is what you’re saying?”

“Basically,” I said. “It wasn’t considered really valuable back in the colonial days, so the island was slow to develop. The French sold it to Sweden, then bought it back in the 1800’s—”

“Buck Reilly!”

Marius walked through the door from the inside bar, leaning on a cane as he went. He’d aged a lot since I’d last seen him. I slid the plastic chair back, stood up, and gave him a hug. His bones pressed against me.

He said it was good to see me and asked how I’d been, in French. He knew my history, even though the last time I’d seen him was when I was here on the mega-yacht.

“Comme si, comme ça,” I said.

He nodded, the smile never leaving his face. Marius was a living legend, gentlemen and entrepreneur, and was considered royalty in Sweden. The wealthy from around the world had courted him. St. Barths was part of France, but if it were its own country, he’d have been the foreign minister.

We sat back down and I introduced him to Truck.

“Which yacht you on this time?”

“My flying boat—an old Grumman Goose.”

“Don’t be landing her in these waters.” He laughed. “Not like it used to be around here.”

A young man brought him an Orangina. I knew Marius wouldn’t ask,