Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

from inside the house. Madame stood, her wrinkled, knobby hands grabbing hold of her husband’s shoulder for balance before she turned and shuffled inside.

What had she meant by getting even with Jerry?

“My grandchildren,” the old man said. He looked into my eyes. “Why are you here?”

I pulled the letter out of my pocket, unfolded it and held it out to him.

“From Lou Atlas.” He read it, nodded once, then folded it up and handed it back.

“My daughter and grandchildren will be safe. We will make sure of that.”

Truck and I were quiet for much of the drive south. I wanted to drive through the rural part of the island to think, up over the highest point on Mount Vitet and into Gustavia from the back side of town. Neither Marius nor the Rigauds had been on Lou’s list, and both had provided unexpected information.

The memory of the Grumman last night made me flinch. Was Jack Dodson on-island now, following some obscure connection to the Concepcíon?

“Hey, Reilly,” Truck said. “When we gonna eat?”

At least there was one question I could answer. I jerked the wheel to the right and parked the Jeep across from Santa Fe, a sports bar high above Gouverneur Beach.

“Right now.”

Once back in Gustavia, we left the Jeep by the massive anchor at the head of the harbor and continued down the walkway. Truck was amazed by the many yachts. Dinghies buzzed around like water bugs and an air horn pierced the air. The sky was a brilliant cerulean blue, unencumbered with clouds, and St. Martin was a gray silhouette on the horizon. The sounds of boats, motorcycles, laughter, seagulls, and bells clanging provided a steady white noise. Trendy shops faced the water from the other side of the road, where smartly dressed people relaxed in cafés or strolled along the sidewalk.

Le Select was crowded, and Marius was holding court in the front corner. We hurried along the narrow street.

“Buck, ça va?” Marius waved to us.

I pointed to an empty table inside the bar.

He nodded and by the time Truck and I entered he was already there, calling to the bartender for drinks.

“Back so soon?”

“We went to see Gisele’s parents in Toiny this morning,” I said.

Marius sat back in the plastic chair. “Salt of the earth.”

“They greeted us with a pitchfork.”

He laughed.

“They said two men from the Dominican Republic had come asking questions about Jerry and Gisele,” I said. “Monsieur Rigaud chased them off.”

“That reminds me of another story from Remy’s days,” Marius said. “When the French government tried to impose a tax on the island and sent a tax collector, Remy, me, and a hundred others greeted him at the airport with pitchforks and machetes. He never even got off the plane! It turned around and left to loud cheers.” Marius shook his head. “After he resigned as mayor, Remy moved to the Dominican Republic. He considered St. Barths his home, but he needed peace that a small island like this could not provide. Everyone knew him here, looked up to him.”

“You think he told people in the Dominican Republic about his adventure with Jacques Cousteau?”

“He was an old man by then.” Marius smiled. “And old men like to tell stories, so yes, good chance.”

A well-dressed elderly couple came in and the man put his hand on Marius’s shoulder. He turned with a ready smile as the woman bent down to kiss his cheek. They spoke together in the local French patois.

“Okay, Buck, I catch you later—”

“One last question?”

He hesitated, his face serious.

“Does Remy have any family left on the island that might know more?”

He nodded slowly and I could tell he was trying to remember names and faces, who was alive and who had passed.

“Yes, I’m sure … his daughter—no, granddaughter—Nicole. I think she’s still here.”

I stood. “By the way, you said Jerry met with the BNP manager a lot. What’s the manager’s name?”

“Philippe Piccard.”

We shook hands and I again pulled his bony frame in for a hug. Back out on the street, Truck turned to me.

“I thought you said this Concepcíon was a wild goose chase?”

I thought of the package Jack Dodson sent me, and his demand that I stay out of his way.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”

Inside, the Gustavia branch of the Banque Nationale de Paris looked like any other bank, albeit with a higher finish to the décor. But with a stellar view out onto the harbor, it was prime real estate and obviously catered to the wealthier residents and visitors on the island. I could only imagine the magnitude of funds wired through here on a daily basis.

A young man with slicked-back hair and a well-tailored gray suit approached us as soon as we entered.

“Bonjour.” He glanced at our shorts and polo shirts. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Philippe Piccard,” I said.

“Your names, please?”

“Buck Reilly and my associate Clarence Lewis.”

The young man nodded once, spun on a heel, and walked directly toward an internal corridor, no questions asked. Since we’d asked for the manager by name, he probably figured we had good reason to be here. Truck wasn’t so sure.

“Why we seeing this guy?”

“Something Marius said yesterday made me curious.”

“He on that list from Lou Atlas?”

“Nope.”

The young man reappeared and waved us back. He delivered us down a short hall to an office where a bald man in an even nicer suit sat behind a paperless desk.

Monsieur Piccard stood and offered his hand.

“How can I help you, Mr. Reilly?”

I passed over Lou’s letter. After a moment, he sighed and handed it back.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of Mr. Atlas’s—Jerry’s—accounts, with you or the other Mr. Atlas.”

“Of course,” I said. “We’re not here to ask about his accounts—we’re already apprised of the balances and status—but given Jerry’s disappearance, we’d like to get your non-confidential thoughts on him as a person.”

“I cannot share—”

“Monsieur Piccard, I said non-confidential. We know Jerry