Breakfast was welcome and the twinkling eyes of the hostess indicated that she felt they were honeymooning. Keith laughed and called Barbara honeybun in front of her, drawing giggles and big grins.

"You're awful."

"Makes her happy." His expression changed and he blew out some air, catching the look from Barbara. "I meant-"

"You think too much sometimes, Detective." She laughed and drank the last of her coffee. "Time to tell me what we are doing today."

He nodded and leaned closer. "My cop friend gave me a lead on Frossard, the seller. Apparently he pulled up stakes, but his car's GPS puts him in a place called Juan-les-Pins. It's about half way between Antibes and Cannes."

"He used his own car? Why didn't they pick him up for questioning?"

"He hasn't done anything here that they're interested in."

"Not even after you told them the story?"

"They tracked him down for me and that's about it."

"So you are going to speak to him today?"

"I have to find him first. I only have the last location of his car."

"But he might have left already."

"That's a detective's lot – I keep looking."

"Could we go through Antibes instead of around. I know time is important but . . ."

"I guess if I'm conscripting you as my translator, a little detour is reasonable."

"Ah, merci!"

"See! There you go. Right away you get to choose where we eat lunch."

"We just finished breakfast."

"True, and since we have, it's time to straighten up and get on the road."

With the handy map supplied by the rental company, Barbara navigated them down to the coast road, and they followed that to Antibes, turning off and taking the Av. de Verdun into town. Another turn-off to get to the Promenade Amiral de Grasse and it was like driving on top of a wall – actually it was.

The incredible blue of the Mediterranean Sea, dotted with white sails took Barbara's breath away. Keith found a little lay-by and they stepped out of the car to take in the views. Behind them, to the east, on a hilltop was the sixteenth-century Fortress Carré, a star shaped structure overlooking the Port of Antibes.

Near where they had stopped was the Musée Picasso, formerly Château Grimaldi, where the famous painter had lived for a short time. History was everywhere they looked. The Roman walls, the lighthouse, the ancient structures – Barbara gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek and thanked him for bringing her along.

The rest of the trip was through winding roads past huge villas and spectacular properties and finally into the town of Juan-les-Pins. Like everywhere in France, parking was at a premium and no one balked at bumping their way into tight spaces. Dents seemed to be medals of persistence for drivers.

They found a spot at the edge of town and elected to walk. The weather was made for it, and Barbara took his arm, squeezing it affectionately.

"I could handle this for two weeks no problem," he said, putting his hand on hers. "Last night was particularly nice."

"Do we know where we're going?" She avoided his comment, reflecting on how she felt the same.

"No. I need you to find that out for us."

Several frustrating tries later, they spotted a real estate agency, and with the co-ordinates provided by the police, the man pointed to a street on a wall map. He told Keith it was a parking facility used by various apartments in the area.

"At least we can work with that. We know what he was driving and we have the plate number."

"He said it was a fair distance to walk from here, what do you think, some food first then get the car or do you want to-?"

"Food! Absolutely. Let's hit that place we saw - Pom Pom or something" He said, enthusiastically.

"Pam Pam. According to the guide map it's one of the top places in town and tres expensive."

"Oh . . . maybe something a little less so.
"There's this one, Restaurant les J. It's more family oriented. They are all pricey in this town."

***

Down the street from the apartment complex where his source had said Frossard was staying, Gregory Snelgrove sat on the patio of a tiny bistro. A whole week since his arrival in France and he was getting nervous. He had been inside and there was no answer, so watching became his life.

He was smart enough to go into hiding, Gregory thought. No wonder with the likes of Jean Paul Vateur hunting him. What if his employer's men were hunting him too? Somebody could be watching him! He suddenly felt exposed.

Paranoia had him leaving the bistro and finding another watch-post, this time, closer to the apartment on another small café patio. Who would know he was even in France? He chided himself. Still, he checked the description he'd been given for the tenth time to keep the features clear in his mind, Frossard wasn't going to slip past unnoticed.

***

Maurice Frossard hung up the public phone and ran a hand over his balding head. Edward Tewksbury could not be reached, he was away indefinitely.

"Merde!" He slammed his hands together, frustrated and angry. Always trying to get more, he raged inside. If he had just sold the scroll, all this running and hiding now wouldn't have been necessary. "Merde, merde, merde!"

It was almost a certainty that Roger Aubert was killed by the person he'd stolen it from, and it was also likely that person had arranged for Roger's death to stop the sale and was now most likely tracking him. He took off his glasses and massaged his eyes.

He wouldn't even know who it was; the owner had connections everywhere. If he hadn't tried for more and hadn't used Aubert, he would be unknown and maybe rich. Even if he offered it back now, there would need to be a lesson.

"Merde!"

***

Keith sat busily make entries in his little notebook while Barbara enjoyed people watching. They had found a space they manage to fit the rental into within walking distance of the parking garage where Frossard's car was kept. Providentially, it was situated across from a small park flanked by shops and cafés.

"We should have come here first," he said, staring at his notes. "I'm going to have a job justifying some of these expenses if this takes the two weeks I was given."

"I can pay my own way you know." She said, observing his downcast features.

"I invited you along with the premise I would cover your land charges."

"You sound like a travel agent. Look, you have a job to do and accounting shouldn't be your prime concern." She pushed his shoulder and laughed. "Besides, we haven't found a place to stay tonight yet."

He groaned and gave a soft snort.

"You want to give me a refresher on this person's description so I can at least help look?"

He put the book and pen away and stretched out his legs, clicking his shoe soles together.

"Maurice Frossard, five-nine, one sixty, about, balding, glasses. My cop pal says he's a known criminal with a sheet for a number of scams and fraudulent activities. Nothing violent that they are aware of . . . or apparently care about."

"You think the scroll he was offering to our client was a fraud?"

"No idea, but if history is anything to go by . . ."

"Our research showed the item represented was interesting enough to be considered possibly real, but we only had a digital photo and we couldn't find anything to dispute his claim. The letters of provenance he offered was a complete surprise to us because we didn't find anything."

"Considering a man was killed and they were stolen, might that not give them credence." Keith looked at her.

"Unless the killer was scammed too. I told Arthur I thought they could be phony. Do you have a theory at all?"

They stopped talking as an elderly lady with a large poodle paused to let it examine their shoes. Keith reached out to pet it but she wrenched the leash away and then tottered off, looking like something out of The Triplets of Bellville.

"Bon mot to you too." Keith called after her, and Barbara broke into a shaking laughter. "What?"

"Bo-n-n-n mot," she wiped tears from her eyes.

"What? Isn't that, goodbye?"

"Bonjour is good day. Adieu or au revoir is goodbye. Bon mot is a clever saying – which that really wasn't if you were saying goodbye." She leaned against him laughing again.

The warmth of her body against his took the sting out of the faux pas – a term he did know – and he had to share her amusement.

"For a person who lives in a bilingual country, you really suck. I think I should do the French from now on." She sighed wiping at her eyes and kissing his cheek.

"I don't like Poodles anyway."

Barbara laughed again and looked away, stopping suddenly and clutching his arm.

"Don't start again, it wasn't that fun-"

"No. Keith look. That man across the street at the café. Is that Frossard?"