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

Back in the Jeep I pondered over whether to stop for coffee and breakfast, but Toiny, where Gisele’s parents lived, was on the far end of the island and I didn’t want the morning to be lost. I swallowed my hunger and took the high road—up through Lurin, all the way down past the road to Saline beach, and around through the quiet southeast corner of the island. With the Grand Fond beach on my right, I continued up the road until I again found the driveway leading to the Rigaud’s farm.

Monsieur Rigaud was in the yard when I arrived, pitchfork in hand until he saw it was me. He walked up to the passenger side of the Jeep before I got out.

“How’s Gisele?” I asked.

His lip curled. “Safe.”

He studied my face. A lot had happened since the first time I’d met him, and I wanted to warn him—and his daughter.

“Can I see her?”

He shook his head. “She is not here.”

“I’ve learned some things she should know about, and you too—”

“Two other men were here yesterday. Americans.” He spoke the word as if it had a bitter taste. “Asking the same questions as the others.”

I sank into my seat. “Can you describe them?”

“One was skinny and tall, the other was big, no hair, and his arms were painted. Many muscles too.”

“Blue mirrored sunglasses, right?”

He nodded. “They asked if you had been here and what you wanted to know. The skinny one wanted to know if you had mentioned the Concepcíon.”

I sank into my seat. Had I?

“I told them you only asked about the Eden Rock and Jerry,” he said.

“Did they threaten you—or Gisele?”

He patted the pitchfork and smiled.

“I had this. But they asked about gold and silver. Where Jerry had kept it.”

Something occurred to me. “How well did you know Remy de Haenen?”

He laughed. “Everyone knew Remy, but we were not friends. I am a farmer, he was a dreamer and politician. Yet we shared some interests.”

I remembered the story Marius told of Remy leading a hundred men with pitchforks to repel the tax collector sent from Paris. I figured there was a good chance Monsieur Rigaud was among them.

“Do you remember when Jerry bought the Eden Rock from Remy?”

“It was before he and Gisele were married, so all I knew was that Remy had sold the hotel at a profit to a foolish American.” He shrugged. “How was I to know that the fool would soon become my son-in-law?”

To his amazement, I explained that the Americans and the Dominicans were all looking for the treasure of the Concepcíon Remy and Jacques Cousteau might have found back in the 1970’s, and that for some reason they were now focused on Jerry.

“So now you have mentioned this Concepcíon too.”

“I’m not looking for it. If the other Americans come back, please don’t tell them I mentioned it. This is important, Monsieur Rigaud.”

He nodded solemnly.

“I remember when Captain Cousteau was here,” he said. “It was exciting, but they returned with nothing but stories. Why would this have anything to do with Gisele—or Jerry?”

“I’m not sure.” I sighed. “But I am sure they won’t give up until they’ve turned over every rock. And if they think Gisele’s lying …”

He grunted. “She is protected now.”

“Would you please let her know I want to speak with her about what I’ve learned, and about the men who’re asking questions?”

His eyes caught mine and held for a long moment before he gave a short nod. He explained she was at her house in Flamands, and promised to phone her for me.

As I drove back down the gravel driveway, it seemed every goat on the Rigaud’s farm had lined up along the fence to watch me pass. It sent a chill down my arms.

Did they know something I didn’t?

After a quick espresso and pain au chocolate at La Petite Colombe, I turned down the road to Flamands. The descent was full of turns and twists, neither of which calmed the speed of motorists who knew the road by heart. I caught flashes of aqua blue water below, and as the road flattened and cut to the left the beauty of the water, the foliage, and the homes I passed sent a sense of warmth through me for a few moments.

Monsieur Rigaud had told me Gisele’s house was the fourth driveway on the right. Once there, I turned into the gap in a stone fence taller than the Jeep and came to a closed gate. There was a call box, so I pressed the button and announced myself to the man who’d answered. The gate opened and I pulled into the beautifully landscaped compound. A pristine white villa stood between the beach and me. Jerry might have acted like a fool and a lush, but he had excellent taste in real estate.

Before I made it to the front door, a muscular man with a baseball bat came out—at least it wasn’t a shotgun.

“Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” he said.

“I’m here to see Gisele. Her father should have called to say I was coming—”

“Book Wiley?” he said.

“Close enough. Buck Reilly.”

He stepped aside and pushed the door open.

“She’s resting by the pool.”

The house was sparsely furnished, and what was there was disordered. Clothes were in piles, dishes were abandoned on counters, and magazines littered tables. To be fair, the family was in mourning and Gisele had just returned from the hospital. Curtains were pulled mostly closed and the sun cast odd shadows on the walls, where I saw a photo of Jerry, Gisele, and three young towheaded children seated at a picnic table. Crude modern paintings of circles and squares hung intermittently along the way toward the open double doors that led to the shimmering blue tableau out back.

I paused in the doorway. The beach was just past the low wall behind the pool, and the turquoise water seemed to thrum in a rhythmic dance throughout the bay. A