Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  Our praise brought tears to her eyes. “I don’t think you two have any idea what it means to me to be told I’ve done a respectable job. My mother never once did that, no matter how hard I tried to please her. If I made A’s in school—we still used letter grades back then—she wanted to know why they weren’t A-pluses. When I was Salutatorian, why wasn’t I Valedictorian? I just couldn’t win with her.”

  Jan handed her a gold-monogrammed tissue from a golden-monogramed box. “She must have been very disappointed in herself to be so jealous of you.”

  Rhonda’s eyes widened at Jan’s statement, which I thought very insightful, then she dabbed away her tears, looked at the damp tissue and giggled. “Who the hell monograms Kleenex, for crying out loud? In gold?”

  “A guy who is considered a disgrace by his own family,” Jan said. “So, he literally gilds the lily!”

  “There you go, success is the best revenge,” I said. “Look at you now, Rhonda. You look good, feel good, you’re on a luxury yacht in the South of France, and in the company of such cool folks as Jan, Po Thang, and myself.”

  “And all that nerdy stuff you and your friends did for entertainment?” Jan added. “It’s stashed under that slick new hairdo and paying off in spades.”

  “You two rock,” Rhonda said, giving us both a hug.

  Po Thang whined and she grabbed him. “Sorry. You three rock.”

  “Now, enough of all this schmaltzy stuff, let’s return to major snoopery.” Jan put the speaker on and played back Rhonda’s recorded conversation with Roberto, and the partial message on his phone from the mystery woman.

  “‘¡Hola¡ Roberto. It’s Dueña. You haven’t called this morning, so I suppose you are very busy. I am anxious to know of your progress. I love and miss my special cousin so badly, and pray Juanita will be returned in time for our novy—.’” That’s evidently when Roberto managed to kill the speaker.

  “Boy,” I said, “did we get lucky, or what? Timing. Right place. Right time. And a new player in this mystery we didn’t even know existed. Nacho sure as hell wasn’t gonna tell us about her, you can bet your sweet arse on that.”

  Jan nodded. “Got that right. Our Nacho, control freak that he is, sure ain’t gonna play nice and make us privy to anything he doesn’t want to. We called it mushroom management when I was working for a large accounting firm.”

  Rhonda snorted. “I know that one. Keep us in the dark and feed us merde, right?”

  “Right. I do believe, team, the gauntlet has been thrown. Shall we pay the poor woman stuck in that hotel a visit?”

  “Great idea, Hetta. Only one problem: we don’t know which hotel, and if we did, we don’t have a name. And I imagine Roberto has shared with us all he’s going to. Nacho bringing her into what he considers the enemy camp…namely us…fat freakin’ chance.”

  I flicked my wrist. “Details, details.

  We’d had a super productive morning, but now it was time to get back to playing the roles Nacho assigned us. After all, we had to let him think he was in charge, right? He called an after-lunch meeting before we went off to mingle with the beau monde and lowlifes in Cannes.

  “You all know what to do now,” he said, “so maybe today we will uncover some helpful information. Yesterday was fairly non-productive, but it was only day one,” Nacho said, trying to sound upbeat, but he looked grim. “I had hoped for some progress, but we are stuck at square one.” He sighed deeply. “We had expected our employer would receive a ransom demand by now, but it is not so. He is prepared to pay whatever they ask, but first they must ask.”

  Jan waved her hand in the air and Nacho gave her a reluctant nod to speak. “Are you sure she was kidnapped? What if she’s, like, taken off with a boyfriend or somethin’? It happens, ya know.”

  Roberto shook his head. “Juanita would never worry our grandfather like this. She would have at least let him know she is safe. She adores him, and knows he has a bad heart.”

  Nacho shot the chef a look of warning. Roberto had mentioned his cousin by name, and that was the first time anyone on Nacho’s team had done so. Or so he thought.

  “So Juanita,” I emphasized her name and gave Nacho a satisfied smile, “didn’t have a boyfriend you know of? By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, how Juanita,” I rubbed it in, “ended up in France at such a young age without her parents?” I directed my question at Nacho, but my peripheral vision caught Roberto’s eyes widen slightly. He cut a look at Rhonda, who gave a slight, innocent-looking shrug and an almost imperceptive head shake.

  Nacho hadn’t been in a particularly good mood at the beginning of the meeting, and having the victim’s name suddenly revealed to us lowly women didn’t help. “And why is this your business?”

  “It’s not really. Just doesn’t make sense a grandfather, especially a Mexican grandfather who dotes on his granddaughter, Juanita, would allow her to travel alone at her age.”

  Nacho huffed, then sighed in resignation. The cat was out of the bag. He looked to Roberto for permission to speak freely. Interesting.

  Roberto nodded, probably since he was the one who loosed the gato in the first place.

  “You are correct,” Nacho admitted. “If you must know, Juanita was not alone in France. She was with a trusted companion, a family member, who is devastated with the girl’s disappearance, and does not need strangers annoying her in her grief. Do I make myself clear, Hetta?”

  “Me? Annoy someone?”

  After we finished dressing for our afternoon reconnaissance missions, we gathered in Jan’s cabin for final touches and, in my case, makeup correction. “Well, crap,” Jan said as she added too much blush to my cheeks, “I had hoped for a clue from Nacho about the girl’s dueña’s whereabouts, but no luck there.”

  “Actually, he did say something before that might be of use. Remember at our first briefing, he told us the girl was last seen boarding a yacht? By whom, and from where, one might ask, my dear Watson.”

  “Genius. The dueña? Maybe from her hotel window?”

  “It’s a stretch, but somewhere to start. Dang, we have so little to go on. I’ll drag Cholo to waterfront hotels today, but only those with a view of the yacht harbor. My gigolo and I will hit those with promise, try to figure out which suites have the views. Did I just say my gigolo and I? How far and fast the mighty can fall.”

  “The only thing mighty about you, Hetta, is your ass. These afternoon teas certainly aren’t doing much to help. Especially after that lunch you just destroyed.”

  “It’s the pressure. Leave me alone.”

  “Your funeral. Okay, Rhonda and I will try to ferret out which yachts hosted parties last week.”

  “We also need to zero in on the exact date she disappeared, which we still don’t know. I’ll brace Cholo, and Rhonda, pay Roberto another quick visit before you and Jan leave. Then you two mine the beach cafés for more info. The way I hear it, this place is a hotbed of yacht parties, so we need to know which yacht and day to narrow our search. And, dontcha just wonder, though, how Juanita would have gotten an invite?”

  Rhonda reminded us that Rousel, the would-be gigolo slash terrorist, told her about finding women to party on yachts. And his fellow gigolo, Étienne, was still around and would be their target of the day, since he’d hinted at yacht parties in the works.

  Yachts and gigolos; good grief, what happened to baguettes and brie as French favorites?

  My gigolo groused at being dragged into the fifth hotel in as many hours. In each one, I steered us into either the bar or tea room, then excused myself for the ladies’ room. Lieutenant Martinez, our watchdog/bodyguard, was also looking more dour than usual, but since he couldn’t approach us, he grumpily slurped yet another tiny cup of coffee while I made for the front desk.

  As I had at each hotel, I approached the concierge and asked about waterfront view rooms available, even though I knew they were probably all booked. He apologized as to lack of availability, but I said it was for next year, so he was quick to
give me the info I needed for suites with views of the boat harbor, and the suite numbers for when I booked.

  Stuffing brochures and suite plans into my large carryall with the others I’d collected, I went back to join Cholo. He stood as I approached, and even though annoyed, bussed my cheek and pulled out my chair. Just as I sat down, I heard someone say, “Hetta? Hetta Coffey? Est-ce vous, ma chère?”

  Well, crap.

  Nacho was livid.

  “You were recognized? How is that possible?”

  “My fiery hair and spectacular looks?”

  “Not amusing. Who is this person?”

  “Uh, she’s the cousin of a friend of mine who owns a home here in Cannes.”

  “What friend?”

  “Jean Luc.”

  Rhonda, watching this confrontation like a puppy happily chasing a laser beam, chirped, “Jean Luc d'Ormesson. You, know, Hetta’s French boyfriend. He’s very rich, and handsome and—”

  I cut her off. “He is not my boyfriend. He’s an…old friend. And by the way, running into Nicole just might work to our advantage.”

  Nacho lost some of his frown. “How is this?”

  “Nicole knows everyone in town. She lives here and manages the family properties, as well as dabbling in high-end real estate. She also knows who is in Cannes, and why. She can be an invaluable resource. We’re having dinner with her tonight.”

  “We?” Nacho bellowed.

  “Yes, me and Cholo. She also asked Jan, but I said she was busy.”

  “Hey! I’m not busy,” Jan huffed.

  “I know that, but I figured I could get more out of her if it was just me doing the digging. Cholo will be my silent partner, but taking mental notes. If I can keep the conversation in English, anyhow.”

  “I forbid it,” Nacho huffed, stabbing an index finger into the air.

  “Cholo, break that finger.”

  Cholo stood and advanced on Nacho. Nacho, taken off guard, stepped back, then realized Cholo was just messing with him. They both laughed, breaking up the standoff.

  Martinez, who joined the laughter, albeit almost choking to do so, cleared his pipes and said, “Hetta, you got Cholo trained a hell of a lot better than that mutt of yours.”

  Cholo cut those obsidian eyes at me, as though awaiting the nod to deal with Martinez’s insult, but I waved him off. “Respect your elders, Cholo, you’ll live longer.”

  Jan reached into a cabinet and pulled out a can of air freshener. Spraying the room, she mock-gagged. “Ugh, way too much testosterone floating around in here.”

  Nacho fanned his hand in front of his nose. “It’s Hetta. She has more huevos than anyone.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or pissed. “Just keeping the pecking in order,” I countered, practically daring him to dredge up the word, “hen.”

  Nacho is smarter than that. He poured himself a tequila and asked, “What, exactly, do you hope to learn from this Nicole.”

  “Not sure yet, I’ll have to wing it.”

  “Let’s sit down, have a drink, and put together a list of questions for Hetta to get answered, if possible.”

  We made that list, even though my agenda clearly trumped his in importance, but hey, I say let a man have his dreams.

  While I was getting dressed for dinner at Nicole’s, Jan asked, “So, what’s your take on Nicole’s thoughts about you and Cholo’s, er, relationship?”

  “She was extremely discreet, as if she ran into me all the time in the company of an obvious boy toy. I couldn’t get a read. These people down here are so effete I doubt my doings would even raise an eyebrow.”

  “True that.”

  “I have a feeling that Cholo and I are her amusement du jour. My guess is she’s gathering the local dilettantes and plans to use us as the main attraction. Kinda like Romans throwing Christians to the lions.”

  “But you’re going anyway?”

  I shrugged. “Throwing myself into the arena for the cause, as it were. They love nothing more than talking about themselves, and who’s who in town, so getting info should be a piece of cake.”

  “Just how did you introduce Cholo when Nicole ambushed you at your table?”

  “As my bodyguard. She could barely resist a burst of hearty laughter at the idea that my body would need guarding, but she somehow managed to contain her mirth in those hollow cheeks of hers.”

  “She’s probably still wondering how it is her cousin, Jean Luc the Hunk, is so enamored with you. Hmmm, I wonder if she’s more interested in Cholo than she is in you. He is pretty exotic looking compared to most of the metrosexual men around here. After all, if you recall, when we met Nicole at Jean Luc’s house, she wasn’t exactly spellbound by our self-proclaimed irresistible charms, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do recall. However, like I told you then, her ilk can consider us useful for amusement purposes during the slow season.”

  “Or, as you so charmingly put it, they find us très amusantes, kinda like stray puppies, until we pee on their Aubusson rugs.”

  “I will do my best to refrain from doing so. At least for tonight. We need their local knowledge, then maybe I’ll finagle an invite for the master pee-er, Agent Dawg.”

  Po Thang quickened at his name, and looked for all the world as though relishing a possible legally sanctioned pee on a carpet, an action which would, on my boat, result in his being rendered unto shark bait.

  “Whacha gonna wear to this little soirée?”

  “I’ll pass that decision to you. Too bad I can’t squirm into one of your chichi outfits.”

  “Betcha Rhonda’s got something you can wear. Let’s raid her closet.”

  “Fat chance there. She’s really slimmed down.”

  “Not so much as you might think. She’s taller than you, and looks slimmer because, well, she has a small waist.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “What I mean is, you wear about the same size….”

  “Unless there is a waist involved?”

  “You have much better hair.”

  I’d arranged to meet Cholo in the lounge during cocktail hour, figuring a good stiff drink would be in order before going off to mingle with the local masters of self-superiority.

  Cholo took one look at me and smiled, not something he does frequently. Nacho, always the charmer, wolf-whistled.

  I had to admit, when Jan wasn’t trying to make me look like an over-dressed and painted up South of France harridan, she had a knack for creating some serious glam. Decked out in one of those dresses with peek-a-boo shoulders that are the rage now, I was swankily swathed in a couple of layers of rust-colored gossamer silk that set off my hair, and that gauzy look covered all manner of sins.

  “Ready to do battle, Cholo? You sure look it.”

  He blushed. I think. At any rate, his dark skin turned a little darker around the cheek area. He was wearing one of the outfits I’d bought him on our shopping spree, and had been quickly tailored to his size. I doubt he’d ever worn white silk in his life, but it evidently suited him, for Rhonda was practically drooling.

  Martinez entered the sky lounge and gave us a once over. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  For Marty Martinez, that was the infinite compliment.

  Nicole’s pied-à-terre in Cannes—her main abode was in Paris, of course—took up the entire top floor of a four-story building that was probably built nearly a hundred years ago. If she considered this her ‘little foot on the ground’—second home—I could only imagine her digs in Paris.

  I suspected that most of the Belle Epoque décor was original, and I instantly spotted an Alphonse Mucha poster, Bières de la Meuse. I’d had a copy of it myself, but I’d bet my bottom euro this was no reproduction. I had a serious moment of poster envy.

  Nicole noticed my fascination with the Mucha and said, “Lovely, non?”

  Cholo, who was staring at the red-haired, flower festooned woman on the poster, said, “Yes, she is. She looks like you, Hetta.”
r />   Nicole smirked. “You think so? Of course, it is a beer sign, so….”

  I wanted to whop her, but we were on a mission, and clobbering the hostess in the first few moments doesn’t lend itself to schmoozing her later.

  Cholo was at first at a loss for words, then his fists clenched in anger. He’d probably never been exposed to the supercilious nastiness that only the French seem to excel at, so I saved her life. “Why, thank you, Cholo dear. I’ve always admired the Mucha period, and the women he depicted before they all discovered anorexia.”

  I was feeling pretty self-satisfied with my clever retort until I spotted what was surely an original Matisse oil hanging over an ornate hand-carved marble fireplace. A covetous hatred for this chick was building, and I considered blowing the whole evening by letting Cholo off his leash.

  As I was trying not to drool over her artwork, I caught her staring at my diamond bracelet. The one her cousin, Jean Luc, recently gave me in Paris. The one he’d meant to bestow upon me twenty years before as a consolation prize for being dumped like steaming dog doo-doo on French cobblestones.

  “Mon Dieu!” Nicole breathed, “is that Cartier? I have been looking for one like it for years.”

  I wanted to say, “You should have raided your cousin’s closet,” but instead said, “They are so hard to come by, n’est-ce pas? Thank goodness I already had the earrings and brooch. Having the complete parure is so satisfying.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly when I used the proper word for a jewelry set, then she gave me a touché nod.

  As we were introduced around the room, Cholo feigned indifference to the beautiful people and surroundings, maintaining a slight sneer worthy of a Frenchman, but he said to me, under his breath, “Wow.”

  “Indeed,” I whispered back, as I refrained, just barely, from secreting a Lalique vase into Rhonda’s Christian Dior handbag.

  No wonder they count the silver when mingling with the hoi polloi like us.