Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

I asked the woman in the cubicle to get Monsieur Toussard. He came back at a trot, running his fingers through his curly gray hair.

“I know Jerry did most of the work himself,” I said, “but he must have had some help. Do you know if he had a contractor working with him?”

A quick shrug answered my question.

“But … there is a box with some receipts that I showed to Nicole, if you would like to see them.”

A moment later I had a small shoebox full of yellowed papers, invoices, and lists from Jerry’s brief construction effort. The receipts had a hand-stamped name on the top: Antoine Construction.

I looked up to Monsieur Toussard, who was tapping his foot.

“Have you ever heard of Antoine Construction?”

“Oui, they are a reputable firm. Henri Antoine is the owner.”

I showed him the receipt with Antoine Construction on the top.

“That is him,” Toussard said. “His offices have been down by the port, near Maya’s, for the past ten years. A good man. We still use him for the occasional job here. I did not know that he had helped Jerry.”

“You said Nicole took some of Remy’s old papers? Any idea what they were?”

His brow wrinkled. “I’m sure she will tell you.”

I handed him back the box of old papers, thanked him, and jogged down the steps outside. At the bottom I found Truck on a lounge chair holding a drink with fruit on the rim of the glass.

“Where the hell you been, man? Thought you got dragged off or something.”

“I can tell you were concerned. I just dug up an idea. Come on, we’ve got someone else to see who isn’t on Lou Atlas’s list.”

Truck finished the rest of his drink, grumbling. I ignored him, focused on my latest question.

What was it Nicole found here, and why hadn’t she told us?

The port of Gustavia is situated on the eastern edge of town. Container ships drop off shipments from France and other countries—everything from rare wines to building supplies—so it made sense for Antoine Construction to be based here. As Monsieur Toussard had said, I found their work yard on the way to Maya’s, one of the better known restaurants on the island.

We pulled the Jeep into a fenced area filled with piles of rocks, rows of machinery, and multiple storage sheds, then Truck and I walked to the waterfront office. Though not much larger than a construction trailer, it had to be significant for an island the size of St. Barths. I walked up the steps and pushed open the door.

The room was open, with blueprints laid out on several tables. Hard hats hung from the walls, along with a few photographs of beautiful villas—mansions, really. Apparently Antoine focused primarily on residential construction.

A woman with a telephone cradled between her shoulder and her ear held one finger up as she spewed rapid French at the person on the other end of the line. I glanced at Truck and saw his brow raised high.

Once she finished her diatribe, she slammed the phone down and looked at us.

“Quoi?”

“Is Monsieur Antoine here?” I didn’t want to piss her off further by butchering my question in French.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

Clearly Antoine Construction didn’t get many walk-in customers.

I gave our names and said we’d been sent by Monsieur Toussard at the Eden Rock. She grimaced, then grabbed the phone as if it were a chicken whose neck she wanted to wring.

There were several doors along the back wall, some opened, some closed. The one on the end suddenly opened, and a man in his early fifties poked his head out, studied us for a few seconds, then waved us back.

The office was small, but the walls were covered with old photographs, and rolled-up drawings filled every corner. The man reached out his hand to Truck first.

“Henri Antoine.”

Truck and I introduced ourselves. He glanced back and forth between us, waved us toward the chairs, pulled his out from behind the desk and brought it in front of us.

“You are new with Eden Rock?” he said.

“No, sorry, I meant to tell your, ah—”

“Jeanette is a project manager.”

“Monsieur Toussard told me where to find you.” I explained we were on St. Barths at the request of Lou Atlas, looking into any information about Jerry.

“I knew Jerry, but it has been many years since I’ve worked with him.”

“You helped him with the Eden Rock, correct?”

He nodded, a scowl twisting his lips.

“I was never paid, but it was an early job for the company—one of my very first—and the exposure led to other work. So I overlooked those circumstances.”

“We’d heard Jerry did much of the work there himself.”

“Aside from me, there was nobody else. Jerry had used up most of his funds to buy the property—did you know two hurricanes struck just after he bought it? Of course that hurt his ability to finish the project.”

I looked around. “It seems the years since have been good to you.”

A toothy smile followed, with more nods and a shy, kind of boyish modesty.

“Yes, once St. Barths became the international hotspot, the demand for new and restored villas became very big. What is the American idiom—right place at the right moment?”

“Do you have any partners, or have you funded the growth yourself?”

The smile waned. “I’m sorry, Monsieur … Reilly, is it? What exactly are you here to discuss? Surely not my company’s history.”

I’d thought about this the entire ride over from St. Jean. There was no choice here but to be direct.

“It is precisely your company’s history that we came to speak with you about.”

Antoine crossed his arms. He wasn’t a big man, but he was fit, with salt and pepper hair and a gray mono-brow above his dark brown eyes.

“How so?”

“At the Eden Rock are a few pictures of Jerry working on the property—”

“Taken by me,” Antoine said. “Like any proud owner, Jerry wanted photos of himself and his new property.”

“There are only