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

by Jinx Schwartz

  "Everyone who counts. We old timers are not fond of the nouveau riche."

  André glanced in the rearview mirror and brayed. "I might remind you, René, you are the nouveau riche."

  "Not so. I am old money because I married it. And my wife's family stole it, fair and square. "

  The men enjoyed another chuckle based on a long relationship not at all typical of an employer/employee status.

  "So, André," Jan asked, "you raced cars?"

  "Yes, when I was much younger. René was my mechanic for the matches, as he had learned much about engines from our fathers' fishing fleet."

  "And now you're his chauffeur?"

  "Only because he insists," René explained. "I have told my cousin many times we can hire someone, but he wants to kill us personally. He is very stubborn that way."

  The men's camaraderie, banter, and warm laughter made me smile. I could only hope that when Jan and I reached their age we'd still have that kind of friendship.

  Unless I got us killed.

  We screeched into René's garage a scant forty-five minutes after leaving Castelnaudary.

  "And so, here we are," René declared. "And amazingly alive."

  It was no surprise to me we'd headed for René's house at Gruissan. As he'd told me before, why go out to eat when he had Celeste to cook for him?

  René gave Jan the tour of his fabulous home, André took the dogs for a walk, and I sneaked into the kitchen to talk with Celeste, who surprised me by asking for my recipe for biscuits and gravy.

  "Monsieur is very fond of your biscuit—she pronounce it biskwee—with sauce."

  I wrote down my grandmother's recipe for biscuits with sausage gravy, making notes of the substitute ingredients I'd had to use. I told her if she could get her hands on some buttermilk, they would be better, then I spent ten minutes trying to explain why on earth anyone would want buttermilk.

  Getting back to making our lunch, she rebuffed my offer to help and shooed me out to the library, where one of Renés fabulous bottles of wine awaited.

  All of us sat at the enormous round table that I'd learned started life in the great hall of a castle. Charles and Po Thang had their own chairs and place settings, which set me to worrying.

  While we conversed in Frenchlish so Jan could follow, I kept a wary eye on Po Thang. I had a mental picture of him taking a run across the polished table top, snatching up and scarfing down any and all edibles and maybe a candle or two, while sending priceless crystal and china flying with a sweep of his tail of doom. The only thing left standing would be a heavy cut-glass fruit bowl that probably outweighed him. Charles must have read my mind, for he pawed down Po Thang's slightly elevated leg before he could gain traction.

  The pooches, well, at least one of them, waited patiently while Celeste dished oversized rimmed soup bowls full of specially prepared dog food before we humans served ourselves family style. Po Thang sniffed and stretched his nose a bit toward a platter piled high with braised lamb chops surrounded by tiny roasted potatoes, onions, and baby carrots, but I gave him the stink eye and he sat back.

  After a cheese course, followed by soufflé au chocolat et au Grand Marnier, I moaned and rubbed my stuffed gut. "Okay, René, that's it. I am stealing your dog, your chef, and your home."

  Jan nodded agreement. "And the car."

  René shrugged. "So be it. You have already stolen my heart, as I love seeing women actually eat. The French women, Celeste here the exception, claim to love their food, but then barely take a bite. You two can really eat."

  I was sure that was meant as a compliment, but Jan howled with laughter. "You have no idea. Between Hetta and her dog, one can barely keep the larder full."

  René smiled. "It is good. A woman who enjoys food? I am surprised you remain unmarried, Hetta."

  "That's cuz she keeps picking men who are betrothed to others."

  "No, I do not."

  "How about Jean Luc d'Ormesson?"

  All sounds of clinking cups and silver stopped as mouths around the table dropped open. René recovered first. "Jean Luc? He is one of my best friends. Much too old for you, Hetta. And himself married," he chided.

  André piped up. "Perhaps she means Jean Luc, the younger? He is near to Hetta's age and is not married. At least, not at the moment."

  "Really?" Jan grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Gee, Hetta, maybe we should look him up so we can kill him for old time's sake, and all."

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Jan suggested the possibility of offing one of their countrymen, and a friend of theirs to boot, our hosts exchanged puzzled looks across the dining table.

  "Jan's just kidding," I said. "We Texans josh about things like this, but we rarely go about doing in people. Almost never. Besides, Jean Luc is ancient history. I once thought I was in love with him, but it was many years ago. And then he married someone else." I didn't want to get into how shabbily I'd let myself be treated by one of their own. It was downright embarrassing.

  "And so now you have Monsieur Jenkins, who seems like a very fine fellow." He lifted his brandy snifter. "To Jenks."

  I returned the toast with enthusiasm. Other than my father, Jenks is far and away the best man I've ever known, and certainly the best one I've dated. So why on earth was I even checking up on that rat, Jean Luc?

  René begged off on the return trip to Castelnaudry, so André and Charles delivered us back to the boat. When we arrived just before dark, I found a note on the door from Rhonda.

  "What's it say?" Jan wanted to know.

  "They're leaving tomorrow morning and she hopes to see us before they go."

  We walked to their boat, but it was dark. "Guess they went to dinner. Let's sit out and enjoy this weather while we can, cause it won't last. When it blows, it gets downright chilly."

  Even without a breeze we needed a sweater. We had a glass of red, decided we were still full from lunch and skipped dinner. As we were getting ready to go back in for the night and play cards, I spotted Rhonda and Rousel returning to their boat and waved.

  "Hey, you two," Rhonda trilled, earning a dark look from her hunk, who had reluctantly followed her when she picked up the pace to see us. "How was your lunch? You guys really know how to live, what with limos, chauffeurs, and the like. I want to be you."

  Rousel, trying to catch up with Rhonda, evidently wasn't warming to that idea. He was struggling to look pleasant and interested, and failing badly at both. Po Thang, staring intently at the man, snarled softly when he put his hand on Rhonda's shoulder, trying to stop her forward movement.

  Strike three on the possible abuser's list: putting on of hands in a controlling manner. Rhonda slipped away and continued toward the boat. Which is, of course, why I insisted they come aboard; I knew it would piss him off.

  "Grill him like a French McDonald's Grand Royal Cheese," I whispered to Jan, letting her know we were going into our good-guy/bad-guy routine.

  After Rousel turned down the wine offered to both of them, then coffee offered to both of them, he reluctantly sat down. Rhonda scooted next to her prize and clamped onto his arm like a limpet. She didn't seem to notice she'd practically become a ventriloquist's dummy with her dreamboat doing the talking for her.

  "So," I chirped, using every chance I had to annoy Rousel, "how long do you think it'll take you two to cruise up the canal before you catch a train to Paris?"

  Rhonda found her voice before Rousel could usurp it. "We're gonna take our time. Maybe a week? Then to Paris, and then fly home. Right Rousel?"

  Rousel just nodded, but I could tell he didn't like Rhonda sharing their plans.

  "How romantic," Jan cooed, joining in on the roast. "You just met and, bingo! You clicked. What were your plans before you met Rhonda, Rousel? I mean, this is like, life-changing."

  She said it so innocently I don't think Rousel smelled a rat yet, but he squirmed a bit. "I was on a short vacation before going back to work at my father's firm. But now that has suddenly changed." He gave Rhonda's sho
ulder a squeeze.

  My turn. "And how very fortunate you met again in Gruissan, after seeing each other in Cannes."

  Rousel glowered, and rather than deny the encounter at Cannes, clammed up.

  Jan zeroed in on the man, who was visibly unhappy with us. "And even more fortuitous, you can just change horses, so to speak, in the middle of the race and take off for the United States."

  Rousel looked confused at Jan's turn of phrase. Rhonda giggled and told him, "It means being able to act upon an impulse." He nodded, but I could tell he still didn't get it.

  "I guess the flexibility of working in the family business has its perks. What exactly do you do?" I asked.

  He sighed, probably happier to get the conversation onto safer ground. "We import food stuffs from the Middle East and distribute them to grocery stores throughout France."

  Never one to let a clue like this lie fallow, Jan blurted. "Hey, with all the Muslims here in France, that has to be a good business to be in. Are you a Muslim?"

  Even I was surprised by her bluntness, bordering on rudeness. I mean, I am rarely PC, but these days one needs to tread a little lightly on ethnic and religious territory.

  "One is not a Muslim, one is Muslim," Rousel said, his eyes flashing angrily.

  Rhonda blinked rapidly and looked at Rousel, who smiled. Not a very genuine smile, I have to add. "My parents are Muslim. My generation is not very much into religion."

  Jan nodded her head. "Kinda like Hetta and me. We're what are called backsliding Baptists in Texas."

  Rousel relaxed a mite, but I could tell he didn't like being put on the spot like that. Maybe more than a little of his parents' religion was embedded in him than he realized, at least where women were concerned, what with his control freak ways.

  Maybe it was time to lighten up? Not! "Your family lives in Paris, right? So I guess you're looking forward to introducing Rhonda to them while you're there. How exciting for both of you."

  Rousel looked decidedly uncomfortable and didn't answer.

  Ball to Jan. "And, Rhonda, what will you do when you two get back to your hometown? I know you cannot wait for your friends to meet your handsome Frenchman."

  "Well, gosh, I guess I haven't thought much about it, other than selling the house. I'd already planned on that, but now things are happening so fast...."

  Her answer let me know she hadn't asked Rousel about their future, probably out of fear of being pushy. Strike four: avoiding certain topics out of fear of angering your partner.

  Jan has no problem with pushy. "Yeah, Rousel, what's the plan here? We nosey broads want to know. Will you come back to France together? How long can you stay in the States? Do you need a visa, or what?"

  "We French only have to produce a valid passport." I could just picture René hearing that "we French" thing and hawking up spit. He continued his explanation. "We must produce a return ticket to prove intent, and can stay ninety days, just as you were allowed when you arrived."

  Hmmm. I didn't have a return ticket, so did Jan? I was still steamed that I spent three days getting to France on a cargo plane while she and my dog were whisked over in a corporate jet. For the first time I wondered how and when we'd all get back to Mexico.

  "Which airline are you flying?"

  Rhonda looked at Rousel. "You exchanged my return ticket for the new ones. Hope it didn't cost you a bundle to switch to Air France."

  "It was not a problem." He looked at his watch. "We must be going, I wish to leave early."

  "Not too early, or you'll have to wait for the locks to open."

  "That is so. Well, good evening." He stood to leave, pulling his extra appendage to her feet.

  "Maybe we'll see you in the morning before we leave," Rhonda said. "If not, you have my phone number and email address. Please let me know what you two are up to."

  "Oh, trust me, we'll keep in touch," Jan said, and surprised me by giving her, and then Rousel a hug. Maybe it's just that French thing, but I didn't like him ogling Jan with poor Rhonda by his side. Even though he'd been making crawdad eyes at her, Jan's embrace obviously embarrassed him, so I loved her taking him by surprise. Po Thang, not liking his Auntie Jan that close to someone he didn't care for, growled softly. I agreed.

  The minute they were gone, Jan declared, "Gigolo for sure. I bet he doesn't even have a job. Family firm, my rear."

  "I know. I hate this. He's gonna clean out her bank account and dump her like a hot baguette."

  "But what can we do? She's a grown woman, naively and madly smitten with a libertine. She's not going to listen to anything we have to say. And we don't have one iota of evidence, besides our well-honed instincts." She reached over and patted my hand. "Your instincts, especially. You're practically the Queen of catastrophic dumpees."

  I wanted to protest, but she was right. Seemed like once a decade I got dumped, first by Jean Luc, then again about ten years ago by Hudson in Tokyo. Both were devastating events I wouldn't wish on anyone. At least that rat Hudson was seriously out of my life after "surfacing" face down in my hot tub in Oakland.

  And no, I didn't do it.

  But if I could've, I probably would've.

  What with time on my hands in France, I might just have to even the score with that first rat to gnaw his way into my heart, Jean Luc d'Ormesson, a.k.a. DooRah.

  My murderous thoughts were interrupted by a ding on the computer and a carefully worded email from Jenks telling me and Jan to enjoy France, but to stay south. No word when he'd return.

  Jan looked up from her own screen. "Jenks?"

  "Yep, No real news, but I can tell he's worried about something happening again."

  "Hope not. Meanwhile, we have a boat, car, money, and we're in the South of France. Whatcha wanna do, Chica?"

  "I've been thinking—"

  "Oh, hell. That's never good."

  "I think you'll like what I'm thinking this time."

  "Only if it doesn't entail me gettin' shot, kidnapped, thrown in jail, or ending up in an emergency room."

  "How about a mystery cruise aboard the luxury ship, Sauzens, on the beautiful Canal du Midi toward Toulouse?"

  "Ooooh, I love it. How did I know you were gonna say that?"

  "Did you bring the bugs?"

  "Is there a Stetson in Texas?"

  "Good. We have to find out just who this Rousel is. Hell, we don't even know his last name."

  Jan reached into a pocket, raised her arm in a victory pump, and waggled a slim wallet. "As my grandma used to say, let's tip over the outhouse and see what stinks."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once upon a time Po Thang was a stray, which is how he got his name.

  He was stranded on the side of a lonely, lava-based road on the Baja, and it took us days to get him, but in the meantime, I'd throw food from the car on my way to work. Our quest to rescue the poor thing, as we called him, led to bags of food labeled Po Thang, and the rest is history.

  When he went from being a free-range animal to a pet, he didn't quite grasp that concept and had recidivist tendencies to stray once again. Enter one of my best friends, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine, Craig Washington, who had perfected a chip for tracking livestock that went off the reservation. He sent me one for my errant pooch.

  Now, with this clever device, I can track Po Thang via GPS for up to five miles.

  Jan and I have some recidivist tendencies ourselves when it comes to spying on people. We have amassed a nice array of bugs and tracking devices for planting on people, cars, and perhaps on a boat at the Canal du Midi? And what world-class snooper wouldn't have a critter cam on her dog? Where his collar goes, so goes the cam.

  To sum it up, Jan and I are equipped to delve into other peoples' bidness like nobody's bidness.

  Later that evening, after Jan lifted Rousel's wallet, I took Po Thang for a walk right past Rhonda's boat, and tossed Rousel's wallet on their deck to look as though it had fallen from his jacket. I made sure it was unseen from the quay, just in case there was
someone as disreputable as Jan and me about.

  The next morning we watched as Rousel stepped outside, spotted his wallet, picked it up, and patted his back pocket in surprise before slipping the billfold he hadn't known was missing back where it belonged.

  A few minutes later, he and Rhonda busied themselves in the business of clearing the decks, unplugging the electrical cord and water hose, and then Rousel went to the Harbor Master's office to check out.

  The minute he disappeared through the office door, I rushed to their boat with a bon voyage gift, a box of candy Jan hid from me and therefore was still intact. Once inside, I distracted Rhonda while Jan planted a bug under a cabinet where it couldn't be seen. It could be activated in short spurts if we needed it, and the battery would last a good ten days. Not that they could really go anywhere we couldn't easily find them by biking along the canal, but I didn't want to accidentally catch up with them until we wanted to.

  I considered planting Po Thang's critter cam on their boat as well, but that would be much too invasive, n'est-ce pas?

  Rousel returned and was less than pleased to find us on his boat, but being the good neighbors we are, we helped them with their lines, shoved them off, waved gaily as they motored away, then went back to Sauzens and tested the GPS trackers. Trackers, plural? Yep, the tiny bug embedded in the soft leather in Rousel's wallet worked just fine, thank you.

  Before turning in the previous evening, we'd scanned everything in our target's wallet and were dismayed to find Rhonda's credit card still in his possession. The last time we'd discussed this lousy practice with her, she said she'd get it back.

  "Two credit cards, one belonging to Rhonda. What a dork she is," Jan grumbled. "So, we have his driver's license, a train ticket stub and whoa," she counted out some bills, "Five thousand Euros? Rhonda better check that card's balance for a heavy cash advance."