Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8)

by Jinx Schwartz

  "Did not."

  "Did too. Anyhow, he was an alleged importer, right?"

  "No," I said. I could see where Jan was going with this, trying to give Rhonda a warning based on my own stupidity, but, for some reason I felt like arguing with her. "FYI, Jean Luc is an architect and took over his father's firm a few years back. The most prestigious in France, as a matter of fact." Crap, why am I defending that rat, anyhow?

  Jan squinted one eye. "Ah, the infamous DooRah suddenly has a name. Jean Luc, is it? And you say that, after treating you like a piece of ca-ca, he went on to better things? You know this how?"

  Uh-oh. Nailed for a cyber-stalker.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After dinner, Rhonda left to await her prince charmless, and Jan zeroed in on me.

  "You got some 'splainin' to do, Chica. Like how you know what happened to this Jean Luc after all these years. You told me he just disappeared and you never heard from him or about him again. One might be inclined to ask you how you came to have this new info. Oh, wait, I taught you everything you know about running people to ground, and it sounds like you've done so, but why in Heaven's name would you do this to yourself? Have you gone round the bend?"

  "I was lonely after Jenks took off and curiosity got to me. Okay, and a few memories. First off, Jenks and I stayed at the George V, the scene of the crime so to speak, and then we went to Gruissan."

  "Which is where?"

  "Just southwest of here, on the Mediterranean. Didn't have the Internet back when Jean Luc disappeared, and I had no way of knowing why he never came back to Paris. And you're right, I was devastated. I was such a damned idiot I followed him to where he said he was going, Gruissan, but again, once there I still had no way of tracking him down."

  "He didn't want to get tracked down, you bimbo."

  I downed my wine and poured another glass to stem the tears of stupid threatening my eyes. Jan reached over and patted my hand. "Sorry. You were so young, and I'm just so pissed with this SOB who hurt you like that."

  "I was a bonehead."

  "So, getting back to what you've been up to on that computer, now you're still a bonehead, just an older one? Just kidding."

  I took a deep breath. "I never really told you the details about Paris, only that I'd fallen hard for someone who dumped me and broke my heart."

  "You whined ad nauseam, but I thought you'd let it go long ago. You probably told me his real name, but we haven't talked about him in ages."

  I nodded. "Jean Luc d'Ormesson. I named him DooRah with good reason."

  "Sounds appropriate."

  "Well, I was sort of surfing the net and found him."

  She tilted her head and drawled, with a good deal of irony lacing her words, "Yeah, right. You were casually searching the net and up he popped?"

  "Smarty pants."

  "So, pray tell, why on earth were you looking him up now, after all these years?"

  "I told you, I was bored and lonely and being back in France resurrected memories."

  "I'll give you that. But what reasonable purpose can be gained by checking up on this guy now? Why?"

  "Because I could. Remember, DooRah simply disappeared from my life and I pined for months, seriously hurt and brokenhearted, even fearing he was dead. As it turns out he got married in a huge society bash one week after he walked out of my life."

  Her mouth fell open. "The bastard."

  "My thoughts exactly. The entire month he lived with me, he said he was attending classes, or working at his father's office every day, and all that time he was planning his wedding and getting fitted for a morning coat."

  "A morning coat?" she said with mock indignity. "That does it, let's kill him."

  This made me laugh at myself. "It has crossed my mind."

  "I'm in. I'll get more wine, and then I want a look at this world-class dirtbag."

  While Jan fetched the wine, I brought up the folder on my laptop entitled: Jean Luc DooRah. Jan chided me for even having such a folder, but jumped into my sordid past with great glee. Reading over the file, looking at downloaded photos and newspaper articles, she whistled. "You're right, Hetta, the dude was, and by the way, still is, a looker. Hells bells, I'd'a jumped his bones, too. Says here the wife's some kind of debutante…oh, jeez, and a model for Christian Dior? Now that was some kinda serious competition."

  "Thank you for your undying support, Miz Jan. I wasn't that ugly!"

  "That's not what I meant."

  "I know, but it does sting, even now. But I'm madder than sad."

  "I hope to shout you are. Says here she was off on a shoot for the time he was boinking you. You were his pre-marriage fling. His bachelor party. His—"

  I pointed my finger at her, our signal for that's enough.

  She stopped talking, but then an evil grin followed. "Ya know, I think this guy needs some kinda comeuppance. He used you."

  "I doubt he even remembers me."

  "Well then, maybe we need to change that. Wanna track him down and de-ball him? We got nothin' else to do."

  Of course we didn't.

  Who else but Jan and I would use an all-expenses paid trip to the South of France to zero in on a couple of guys we perceived as rats?

  No one, that's who.

  The phone rang at ten that night and I hoped it was Jenks, but I'd been warned he might not be able to call. What was he doing that was so secretive? Had to be something to do with the Paris attacks. I sooo wanted to talk to him, but it was not to be. Caller ID said, René.

  "Bonsoir, René. So nice to hear from you. I was going to call you tomorrow, as our plans have changed. Jenks and I still want to visit you before we leave France, but it might be later than we thought."

  "Yes, I see you 'ave many new friends."

  "What? Are you here in Castelnaudary?"

  "No, you were (he pronounced it “ware”) on the local television news this evening. You, the lovely blonde cowgirl, a very 'andsome dog, and another woman. I think we saw 'er on the beach 'ere with that Beur. And, of course, two swans following."

  "We were on TV? Why?"

  Jan, who had been on her laptop stalking Jean Luc in depth, looked up, all ears. She whispered, "René? Who's René?"

  "Tell you later," I mouthed.

  René was saying, "At the end of the news each day they show videos taken by local people, and an all-female crew with a bollard-roping Texan and a swan entourage on our canal they found interesting. Where is your Monsieur Jenks?"

  "Uh, he had to go to Lille on business."

  "Ah, the Paris thing. He mentioned he was in security. Those bastards need to be eliminated. Will you be in Castelnaudary tomorrow? I would love to meet…."

  "Jan. And Po Thang, he's my dog."

  "Yes. Charles and I would like to take you all to lunch, if you are available."

  "We'd love it!"

  I hung up and smiled at Jan. "We have a luncheon date tomorrow."

  "With whom, I might ask?"

  "René and Charles."

  "Jeez, Hetta, Jenks leaves for a few days and men start coming out of the woodwork."

  René arrived at ten sharp in his shiny, vintage limo. André was decked out in full chauffeur's livery.

  Charles bounded from the car and headed straight for me, knowing full well what a sucker I am for handing out treats and ear scratches. Po Thang, corralled inside the cabin in anticipation of his unruly doggie ways, didn't like me disloyally petting another dog one little bit. His fury bordered on apoplexy as he fogged up the galley windows with hot breath and slobber.

  "Allô!" René called to us, then chided his poodle. "Charles! Do not be rude. Cannot you see the American dog is jaloux? Well, of course he is jealous…not everyone can be French, n'est-ce pas?"

  Charles did an about-face, trotted back to René, and sat politely at his side. He totally ignored the hissing, wing-flapping swans who'd sidled over to check out the commotion.

  Jan, a huge grin on her face, stepped off the boat. "Oh, Hetta, I can a
lways trust you to deliver a surprise." She shook René's hand, said, "So nice to meet you both," and leaned down to give Charles a hug.

  This bit of added betrayal sent Po Thang into further fits of barking and howling. "Looks to me as though your Charles could teach Po Thang a thing or two about the rules of etiquette. That dog of Hetta's almost got us kicked out of a couple of cafés already."

  René kissed Jan's hand, causing her to blush. "What do you say, Charles? Do you think an old dog can teach a young dog new tricks? Come, you must meet this unhappy chien."

  My unhappy chien was attempting to eat a window in order to escape. "Uh, René, do you think that's a good idea?"

  René gave me a Gallic shrug. "We shall see, shall we not?" He bent down, talked into Charles's ear, walked him to the boat, pushed him inside the slider and slammed it before Po Thang could charge.

  I held my breath. Po Thang, to my knowledge, had never attacked another dog, but if there is one thing I've learned about dogs it's that what you think they won't do, they will. I fully expected a mêlée to ensue, but things went quiet. Ominously quiet. After what seemed like an eternity, Charles barked, "Wouf, wouf,"—French for "Woof, Woof,"— René opened the door and the two dogs trotted out with Charles in the lead and Po Thang meekly following. He didn't even give the swans a glance.

  "Very good, Charles. You may sit now."

  Both dogs sat.

  Jan and I shared slack-jawed looks.

  "What in holy hell went down in there?" she asked.

  "My Charles? He is une vielle âme—an old soul. Perhaps like that gentleman, César, l'homme qui parlait aux chiens? Except Charles must have whispered in dog language. Now that the dogs have settled, shall we go for our lunch?"

  "Ya think Charles could do anything with those swans? Or Hetta, for that matter?"

  "Hey! I—" my nasty rebuttal was lost as I realized we had company. "Oh, hey there, Rhonda." I turned and stuck my hand out to her companion. "And you must be Rousel."

  For a moment the good-looking Frenchman looked as though perhaps my fingernails were fangs, then he recovered and gave me a limp shake. Up close, I was convinced for sure his hair was not naturally blonde. He was probably thinking the same about my enhanced red tresses.

  I made introductions and although they were not overtly rude, both Charles and René seemed less than delighted by Rousel. I didn't know a poodle could sneer.

  Po Thang, picking up on the vibe and nowhere nearly so genteel as René and Charles, let loose with a low growl, but remained seated. I reached down and tapped Po Thang's head in warning. He raised his eyes, whined, and leaned against me. "Sorry, he's cranky from jet lag. And getting beat up on by," I nodded my head at Odette and Siegfried, "those guys."

  Rousel shrugged and said, in French-accented but grammatically correct English, "I was unaware of their potentially violent nature."

  "Kinda like Hetta," Jan quipped.

  Rousel looked puzzled, and Jan added, "Never mind. A failed attempt at wit."

  "Ah, a jest." Rousel was doing his best to keep his eyes off of Jan's cleavage but was losing the battle, so he cut his eyes to the woman cleaving to his arm. He patted her shoulder. "Rhonda tells me you and the dog flew here from Mexico. Perhaps being in a crate for such a long flight in a cargo hold has left him unhappy."

  Jan lowered her sunglasses, fixed her big blue peepers on Rousel and said, "Oh, please. We do not fly commercial."

  René's wide grin let us know he approved of Jan's smart remark, and as soon as the couple were out of hearing range, let go with a perfect Maurice Chevalier, "Hon, hon, hon," laugh. Actually, I've never heard anyone except Chevalier, in movies, laugh like that, so I figured René was having some fun with us.

  Jan shrugged. "I dunno, something about that Rousel just ain't right. Rubs me the wrong way."

  "Looked to me like he'd like to do just that," I said.

  "Yeah, there's that. Plus some stuff Rhonda told us. René, it looks to me like you and Charles don't care much for him either."

  "Charles is very opinionated."

  I smiled. There's the pot calling the kettle black.

  "So's Hetta."

  "Hey, I'm not the one who just judged Rousel. Aren't you just a tad quick to pull the judgment trigger yourself?"

  "Justified. He comes off as a slime ball."

  "You just met him." Why was I defending this dude?

  "Ladies, please, let us go have lunch."

  That we could both agree on.

  In my opinion.

  André, after being introduced to Jan, opened the back door on the elegant motorcar and Jan slid across the soft leather seat, all grins. "Wow! What is this? Some kind of Seville?"

  André chuckled. "No, mademoiselle, this is a 1966 Austin Princess. Almost in original condition. Or it was, until ten years ago when a certain puppy ate the backseats."

  Charles dropped his head and whined. René petted him fondly. "In defense of our Charles, it was a very fine leather, so he already exhibited a taste for the finer things in life."

  I ran my hand along the elegant paint job and gleaming chrome. "It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful car I've ever seen."

  "That is what my wife thought when we bought it new, in England."

  "I wondered why the steering wheel was on the wrong side."

  André nodded, but said, "The British would, of course, take exception."

  René settled onto a rear-facing fold-down jump seat across from Jan and me. "S'il vous plaît, André, you must convey us to the best déjeune in all of the South of France."

  "I thought déjeune meant breakfast," Jan said.

  "Ah, non. Breakfast is le petit déjeuner."

  Jan said, "Since I missed breakfast this morning, I don't care what you call it, just don't call me late to the table."

  André ushered Po Thang and Charles into the front with him, and Po Thang shot me his eye-roll beggy look over the seatback, but Charles nudged him with his aristocratic nose, so my dog circled and curled for a nap.

  I was going to have to figure out how to kidnap that poodle.

  "So, lovely ladies," René whispered, "I suggest you buckle in. We added safety belts years ago, as that maniac up front spent his good years on the race circuit."

  "I heard that," André threw back over his shoulder.

  René pushed a button and a privacy window glass slid shut just as André stomped the gas.

  "Wow, this thing has some power," Jan said. She has a thing for horsepower after dating a guy who raced muscle cars. He'd taught her a thing or two, which comes in handy once in a while. For instance, that time we stole a drug dealer's truck. Don't ask.

  While André drove as though warming up for the first lap of the upcoming Twenty-Four Hours at Lemans, we held on and tried distracting ourselves from impending death by discussing the Paris attacks, what it meant for France, and René's town in particular.

  "I do not think," René told us, "Gruissan or anywhere in my area of France is a target. We locals all know each other, and the tourists? Well, they look like tourists, not terrorists. We have adopted your American if you see something say something mode. And, we are armed."

  I caressed the Taurus in my pocket. "I thought you weren't allowed to have guns."

  "The government, much to their dismay, has little control over us. Many of us have survived a war or two and have no intention of being sitting ducks again. The new generation? Perhaps another story but they are learning. After all, they are the targets of these Beurs in their cafes and nightclubs."

  There it was again, that butter thing, but this time I asked, "I heard you call Rhonda's boyfriend a butter. What does that mean?"

  He broke out in a deep belly laugh that brought on tears and a coughing fit.

  Alarmed, André slid the privacy window open and both dogs stuck their heads through it and whined.

  René waved them away with the back of his hand. "I'm fine," he gasped. "For God's sake, keep your eyes on the road so I can remain s
o!"

  Opening a burled mahogany velvet-lined cabinet, René grabbed a bottle of Perrier from the mini-fridge, downed it, and motioned for us to help ourselves. I latched onto a mini-split of Champagne and Jan opted for a beer.

  Little hiccups of laughter still escaped his lips as René tried to regain control.

  "Okay, what's so funny? What did I miss?" Jan asked.

  René sucked a breath. "What Hetta said. I called that guy back there a Beur, and she wanted to know why I called him a butter."

  Now it was André's turn to howl, which set Charles to howling, which set Po Thang off. Just for fun, Jan and I joined in even though we didn't know why.

  A passing trucker, spotting all the gaiety and me drinking champagne direct from the bottle, wrapped his nose into a clenched fist and screwed it back and forth, the French gesture for saying you're drunk. Of course this made all of us laugh even harder. After we settled down, I asked, "No really, what did I say that was so funny?"

  "Not butter, Beur. I am certain this Rousel is one. An Arab. Or more likely, the child of Algerian parents, but born in France. I am old and my time in Algeria during the Guerre d'Algérie was very unpleasant. Charles' namesake," Charles perked up his ears, "President de Gaulle, gave them their freedom. Fine with me. But then a million of them, plus Europeans who lived in Algeria called pied noirs, or black foots, returned to France. We were in no way prepared for this onslaught. They stayed, and now look what we have. So, call me a racist—he pronounced it rahceest—if you wish, but I did not care for them in their own country and certainly do not like them here in my homeland."

  Jan and I exchanged a look and shrugged. I'd spent my childhood around his generation and had gotten an earful of his type of thinking, so I knew if I didn't change the subject we were in for a one-sided rant. I sure as hell didn't intend to mention I'd read that before the French pulled out of Algeria, they confiscated the guns of loyal Algerians, leaving them behind to die at the hands of rebels. The revolutionaries murdered about fifty-thousand defenseless people. The lucky ones were the very people he didn't want in France.

  "Gosh, Rousel doesn't look like an Arab," Jan said. I jabbed her with my elbow to shut her up, so she quickly changed the direction of the conversation. "So, René, Hetta tells me you know just about everyone in Gruissan?"