Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [42]
A long pause. “So what am I going to be doing there?” D’Agosta asked in a dubious voice.
“Examining a brace of stuffed parrots.”
Another, even longer pause. “And you?”
“I’ll be at the Bayou Grand Hotel. Tracking down a missing painting.”
19
Bayou Goula, Louisiana
PENDERGAST SAT IN THE PALM-LINED COURTYARD in front of the elegant hotel, one black-clad leg draped over the other, arms crossed, motionless as the alabaster statues that framed the gracious space. The previous night’s storm had passed, ushering in a warm and sunny day full of the false promise of spring. Before him lay a wide driveway of white gravel. A small army of valets and caddies were busy ferrying expensive cars and gleaming golf carts here and there. Beyond the driveway was a swimming pool, sparkling azure in the late-morning light, empty of swimmers but surrounded by sunbathers drinking bloody Marys. Beyond the pool lay an expansive golf course, immaculate fairways and raked bunkers, over which strolled men in pastel-colored blazers and women in golf whites. Beyond passed the broad brown swath of the Mississippi River.
There was a movement at his side. “Mr. Pendergast?”
Pendergast looked up to see a short, rotund man in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit, the jacket buttoned, and a deep red tie bearing only the subtlest of designs. His bald pate gleamed so strikingly in the sun it might have been gilded, and identical commas of white hair were combed back above both ears. Two small blue eyes were set deep in a florid face. Below them, the prim mouth was fixed in a business-like smile.
Pendergast rose. “Good morning.”
“I’m Portby Chausson, general manager of the Bayou Grand Hotel.”
Pendergast shook the proffered hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Chausson gestured toward the hotel with a pink hand. “Delighted. My office is this way.”
He led the way through the courtyard into an echoing lobby, draped in cream-colored marble. Pendergast followed the manager past well-fed businessmen with sleek women on their arms to a plain door just beyond the front desk. Chausson opened it to reveal an opulent office in the French Baroque style. He ushered Pendergast into a chair before the ornate desk.
“I see from your accent you’re from this part of the country,” Chausson said as he took a seat behind the desk.
“New Orleans,” Pendergast replied.
“Ah.” Chausson rubbed his hands together. “But I believe you are a new guest?” He consulted a computer. “Indeed. Well, Mr. Pendergast, thank you for considering us for your holiday needs. And allow me to commend you on your exquisite taste: the Bayou Grand is the most luxurious resort in the entire Delta.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“Now, over the phone you indicated you were interested in our Golf and Leisure Packages. We have two: the one-week Platinum Package, and the two-week Diamond Package. While the one-week packages begin at twelve thousand five hundred, I might suggest upgrading to the two-week because of the—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Chausson?” Pendergast interrupted gently. “But if you’d allow me to interject for just a moment, I think I could save both of us valuable time.”
The general manager paused, looking at Pendergast with an expectant smile.
“It’s true I did express some interest in your golf packages. Please forgive my little deception.”
Chausson looked blank. “Deception?”
“Correct. I merely wished to gain your attention.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure how much plainer I can express myself, Mr. Chausson.”
“Do you mean to say”—the blank look darkened—“that you have no intention of staying at the Bayou Grand?”
“Alas, no. Golf is not my sport.”
“That you deceived me so that you could… gain access to me?”
“I see the light has finally dawned.”
“In that case, Mr. Pendergast, we have no further business to discuss. Good day.”
Pendergast examined his perfectly manicured fingernails a moment. “Actually, we do have business to discuss.”
“Then you should have approached me directly, without subterfuge.”
“Had I done that, I would almost certainly never have