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

by Jinx Schwartz

  First light bathed Cannes as Jan, Jean Luc, and I sipped strong coffee from bowls. We sat inside a glassed area off the pool as a cold front moved in with the dawn.

  Evidently recovered from the indignity of being trussed and menaced by a couple of women, Jean Luc donned sweats—Pierre Balmain, of course—and had joined us at the pool house. We sort of apologized for roughing him up, but he shrugged it off, pulling a face before saying, "Oh, I quite enjoyed it."

  Just to let him know I hadn't forgotten his lying ways, I filled my cheek with air and pushed in with my finger, making a "Ppffff," sound, the classic French gesture for, I don't believe a word you say.

  He laughed. "I've missed you, ma petite vachère."

  "Can it, Jean Luc. That false charm of yours doesn't work any longer. And I am not your little cowgirl anymore, so quit calling me that."

  "Yeah. Besides, Hetta ain't the cowgirl in this rodeo," Jan chimed in.

  "Évidemment, Jan. You are quite accomplished with that rope. I watched René's video of you and the bollards on the canal. Bravo."

  Jan wasn't ready to accept compliments from the enemy. "Let's get down to business here. We know René gave you the information we have on this Rousel dude, so have you learned any more about him?"

  He shrugged. "He is who he says he is."

  "He is? Then maybe we are overreacting here?"

  Jean Luc shook his head. "Not necessarily. He seems legitimate on the surface. No troubles with the authorities, but that does not mean he will not take advantage of your friend."

  Unable to edit my mouth, I grumbled, "Says the world-class expert on taking advantage of women."

  "Would you kids like to be alone?" Jan asked.

  "No!" I yelled at the same time as Jean Luc said, "Yes!"

  "We have a tie. I have a great idea. Let's just shelve your past crap until we deal with today's crap? How's that sound?"

  I nodded, as did Jean Luc.

  "Okay then, let's get back to the subject at hand. We've gone above and beyond for Rhonda, but I say that after tomorrow, when she gets on that plane, we wash our hands of the whole danged mess. Agreed?"

  We did.

  "Jean Luc, do you know anyone with enough pull in Paris to check if Rhonda and Rousel have reservations on an Air France flight tomorrow? Who knows if he even bought those tickets?"

  "I just might. Give me her full name and address in the United States, and I will contact a friend in Paris. After breakfast, I suggest we go into town for le petit déjeune, and then I will make my calls. We French cannot work on an empty stomach, you know. And, being attacked by wild Texans in my own home has given me quite the appetite."

  "This is your house?" I blurted.

  In his best Inspector Clouseau English, he said, "But of curse."

  I stomped back into the pool house, a little dazed to learn we were staying in the rat's nest. Or, as he made clear, one of his nests. As I paced in our living room, I threw up my hands and told Jan, "We gotta get out of here. Right now. I mean it."

  "Why? You skeered you'll fall under his spell again?"

  "Not at all," I huffed. "He's hardly irresistible."

  "Oh, please. This guy could charm the skin off a rattlesnake."

  "Not me. Never again. My skin is perfectly safe."

  "And now you bite."

  I grinned. "True."

  "Then why do you want to run away? One more day and we'll be done with the Rhonda affair and set off on new horizons, but we need Jean Luc's resources in Paris today. And I'm starving and he's buying."

  We piled into a Land Rover—which the family must have deemed appropriate for braving the cobblestones of Cannes—parked along with two other cars in his large garage, and Jean Luc took us down the hill to the imposing and historic Carlton Intercontinental Hotel. Pulling up in front, he was greeted by name as he turned his car over to a valet. We entered the century-old Belle Époque lobby and Jean Luc was repeatedly fawned over as we made our way to the breakfast area.

  "It is unfortunate you are here off-season," he told us. "Outdoor dining during warm weather is a wonderful location to watch the rich and famous. I once saw Grace Kelly."

  "I'm surprised you didn't know her, what with your wife's social ties," I sniped.

  "Why, Hetta. You have been checking up on me? I am delighted."

  I opened my mouth to let him have it, but Jan intervened. "Hetta, put a plug in it. You two can duke it out later, but right now I want a large cheese omelet without a side of lip. From either of you."

  Jean Luc looked a little smug, but Jan stabbed a finger at him. "Oh, and by the way, you rat, I ain't through with you. However, we have to work together right now, so I will try to keep Hetta from emasculating you. I want in on that part later."

  "Somezing to look forward to," Jean Luc said drolly.

  In my anger over the years, I had forgotten what a great sense of ironic humor he has and how well he delivers it. Ye gads and little fishes, did I just think a kind thought about a man I've wanted to murder for twenty years?

  "Champagne. We need champagne," I told a hovering, snooty-looking waiter, who turned to Jean Luc for affirmation.

  Sensing possible trouble on the horizon, Jean Luc said, "I shall let mademoiselle choose our Champagne today, as unfortunately she is without her personal sommelier."

  The waiter did a half bow, I chose a champagne, he complimented my choice and I replied, "Merci, garçon." He slinked away, properly put in place.

  "Bravo, Hetta," Jean Luc whispered. "You have not forgotten some things I taught you."

  I think I blushed. Oh, I have not forgotten many things you taught me.

  Jan giggled. "Were you two always this funny together? I can see why..." I kicked her under the table, "never mind."

  Jean Luc wisely chose to ignore Jan's question. "René tells me you are leaving tomorrow. What time is your train?"

  I didn't think it necessary to mention Jenks's warning about trains and planes. "We have to pick up my car at Negra, on the Canal du Midi. We'll rent a car."

  "Nonsense, I shall drive you. And tonight, perhaps you will join me for dinner?"

  "Sure," Jan said, before I had a chance to say something like, No. Way. In. Hell!

  "Wonderful, I am having a few friends in this evening, so come over around eight?"

  "And me without a thing to wear," I said.

  Jan and I were sorting and packing for our trip to Negra and back to the boat the next afternoon. Jean Luc said we'd head out mid-morning because he had a meeting earlier. This would still leave Jan and me plenty of time to get back to Castelnaudary before dark.

  "This is the Riviera. Everyone seems to be decked out in beachy stuff." She held up a gauzy dress she bought the day before. By my estimates, it cost around a hundred dollars an ounce. "How about this? Cool, huh?"

  "Cool being the operative word. I'm freakin' freezing. I hope it'll be warmer in Castlenaudry, but if not, the heater on the boat works well. Maybe this wind won't get that far inland."

  Jan threw the filmy frock into a suitcase and pulled out a lightweight sweater and slacks. I plucked a navy boyfriend blazer, striped turtleneck, and white denim pants from the closet. I had no intention of freezing my butt off at a dinner I didn't want to attend in the first place.

  When we entered Jean Luc's kitchen, the warmth of a crackling wood fire and candlelight galore greeted us. The table was set for twelve, and on the hearth sat at least a dozen bottles of red wine already uncorked and breathing. A sideboard held an array of bottles: Pastis, Dubonnet, Perrier, and ice buckets with bottles of Campari Soda and Champagne, alongside plates of fancy hors d'oeuvres.

  Memories of Jean Luc standing at the head of a makeshift table in my tiny Left Bank apartment made my knees go weak. It was a weekend ritual, when we invited friends for an evening of food and fun. At least for the five weekends we spent together.

  "Gee, I guess I didn't get the memo," Jan drawled, taking in the fact that, under his apron, Jean Luc was dressed in a
blue blazer, striped turtleneck, and white jeans.

  What the hell kind of sick psycho crap led me to dress exactly the same? Oh, yeah, now I remember, that's what we used to do.

  Jean Luc DooRah gave me a once over. "Tres chic," he teased.

  "One of us has to change clothes, right now. This is seriously sick."

  "Oh, lighten up. I think it's kinda cute," Jan said, grabbing her phone and snapping a wide-angle selfie of the three of us.

  Jean Luc poured a bottle of Campari Soda over ice, put in a twist of lemon, and handed it to me. Crap, after all this time he remembers what I used to drink? "I will, as you wish, change my clothes. I did not even realize I was..."

  I took a sip of the bitter drink, recalling how much I used to love it. "No, it's okay. Neither did I. I'm just...." I'm just what? Confused?

  "Jan, might I have a moment alone with Hetta?"

  "I'll go hang out by the front door and greet your other guests as they arrive." She hoofed it out of the kitchen before I could object.

  "Please?" DooRah gestured to a chair and scooted one to face me.

  My face burned and my heart ping-ponging between my chest and stomach, with the odd trip much further south. If I was ever going to get a case of the vapors, it was probably at that moment.

  "Hetta, I do not have the words to tell you how very sorry I am for what I did to you. I have no defense, only regrets. Deep regrets."

  "So do I. I regret ever meeting you," I mumbled, staring into my drink. Tears threatened, damn it!

  "I, too."

  Anger blazed, bringing me to my feet. I whirled to leave, but he caught my arm. "I did not mean I am sorry I met you, but that it is devastating I couldn't...I should have fought to...." He sighed and wiped his eyes. "I was a coward of the worst kind. I didn't even have the courage to share my agony with you. Because of my selfishness, we both wasted years wishing things could have been different."

  "You did. Not me. I forgot you within a week and went on with my life. Which, by the way, has been fabulous."

  He smiled at that bit of bravado. "Then I am happy for you. I was miserable for years, always on the verge of trying to find you."

  "You knew where to find me, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you. You just vanished and, I might add, never let any information slip that might lead me to you. Not," I lied, "that I wanted to look after I realized how calculating you were. Oh, at first I worried you were dead in a ditch. Later, I hoped it was true."

  "I was not in a ditch, but part of me was dead. The part you created."

  "What I created? What the hell does that mean?"

  He was interrupted before he could answer by a group of people rushing into the kitchen, complaining about the sudden onslaught of winter while shedding coats. Multiple cheek kisses were exchanged as they headed for the apéritif spread.

  Jan moved to my side and gave my hand a squeeze. "Sorry, but you needed to face him one-on-one. I see he survived, but you look like you could use another Campari or two. Are you all right?"

  I nodded, and then smiled. "Yes, I am. I just realized he's spent the past twenty years hating himself, so I guess I don't need to do it for him."

  "Ha! Atta girl. Let us mingle with the beautiful people of the French Riviera."

  Jean Luc clapped his hands and shouted, "Á table!"

  "Soup's on," I told Jan. "Find your place card."

  "Good, I'm starving."

  "Pace yourself, Chica. Trust me on this one."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When I told Jan she'd better take it slow on each of Jean Luc's courses, I spoke from experience.

  Le Entrée: Crème de champignons: Not to be confused with the American use of the word; in French this means the appetizer, not to be confused with the hors d'oeuvres and aperitifs course, which is not technically a course. Confused yet?

  Jean Luc stood at the head of the table, with Jan and me seated on either side. I was significantly placed to his right, raising an eyebrow or two from his other guests.

  As he had all those years ago, he flourished a plump white champignon de Paris, recounted their historical significance—they were found in catacombs when excavation began for the Paris Metro—and garnered an expected titter by adding, “Well, not this mushroom of course.”

  He then expertly sliced scallions, chopped parsley and chives and scooped the mixture into a large glass bowl. Picking up a shallow bistro-style soup bowl, he hand-placed what he called his “salad” in the middle, then ladled a steaming scoop of crème of mushroom soup over it and topped it with a dollop of crème fraiche. He handed me the first bowl, which I automatically passed down the table.

  This familiar ritual set my cheeks, and a few other places, on fire.

  A champagne sorbet, served to cleanse the palate, did little to put out the burn, so I tried dousing it with a slug of crisp white wine. One does not drink red wine with le entrée.

  Le Plat Principal/Plat de Resistance: The main course: Moules.

  Jean Luc, by serving mussels as the main course, bypassed the fish course, which probably broke several French laws.

  In this case, he rolled out a mobile restaurant-style, gas-fired, stainless steel cooking cart that probably cost more than my pickup. Lighting the burner under a huge pot, he brought the contents to a simmer, then removed the cover and waved it, sending us an aromatic whiff of white wine, shallots, garlic, rosemary, thyme, parsley, with just a hint of the sea. He declared it, “Parfait,” then dumped ten pounds of shiny black mussels into his perfect broth, covered the pot, and in five minutes began serving up our bowls with plump and perfectly cooked mussels. On top of each bowl, he placed an empty shell to be used to pull out the meat.

  Once all the bowls were passed out, he melted a good quarter pound of butter in the broth, and then poured the savory sauce into pitchers for us to add to our mussels.

  As I tore off a piece of baguette, sopped up the buttery, savory broth, and stuffed it into in my mouth, I moaned with pleasure. I had not had a meal like this since I left Europe, and I’d forgotten how fabulous it was to share such a feast with good company, great wine, and—

  Warm breath caressed my ear as Jean Luc leaned over and whispered, "Was that moan for me, mon petite chou?"

  I didn’t bother lowering my voice and growled loudly, "Non, mon petit rat, it is for the food. And I am not your little cabbage or your anything else."

  Jean Luc laughed heartily, and after a slight hesitation from the other guests to see his reaction, everyone joined in. And when he added, "She is Texan, you know," they raised their glasses to me.

  "So," Jan asked, "is being Texan a ticket to ride, so to speak?"

  "Absolument! We French are enchanté with Texas and," he nodded toward me, "some special Texans."

  "And some Texans are totally not enchanted by you, Jean Luc."

  "I think someone protesteth a bit too much," Jan drawled quietly.

  "I think someone needs to eat her mussels and mind her own bidness."

  Le Fromage, Le Dessert, Le Café et Le Digestif :

  A huge board of local cheese and fruit, a fruit torte, strong coffee served with dark chocolates and, as if that were not enough, brandy.

  The dinner lasted until two, ending with that Napoleon brandy which was probably left over from the little dictator's personal liquor cabinet.

  My phone rang at five.

  I almost let it go and cuddled back down under the duvet, then thought it might be Jenks, and answered.

  "Hetta?"

  "Huh?"

  "Hetta, it's Rhonda."

  That sat me up. "Rhonda! We've been worried about you. Why didn't you call before?"

  "Well, you know, I didn't have a chance, really. Rousel has been by my side all the time and I didn't want him to think I was...disloyal by taking the phone you gave me."

  "Your phone's still out of order? Where are you?"

  "In an apartment his family owns in Paris. He had to leave early for a last minute family
problem, so I got a chance to call you."

  "So, you're all right?" As I asked, I had to fight to keep little spikes of temper from raising my voice. Here we'd jumped through all kinds of hoops, and she'd been blithely going on about her love affaire?

  "Oh, yes. We leave tonight, you know. Rousel's cousin is taking us to the airport."

  As annoyed as I was, I couldn't help mining more information. "Air France, right?"

  "I'm pretty sure."

  "You're pretty sure?" I grabbed a bottle of water by the bed and tried to will my blood pressure out of the ozone layer.

  "Rousel has the tickets and all that stuff."

  "All what stuff?"

  "You know, passports and tickets. He'll be back in enough time to make our flight. They want us at least four hours early now that the country is on high alert."

  "Well, I'm glad you called." Actually I wanted to strangle her. "And please, let us know when you get home, okay?"

  "Sure. I'll text you as soon as we arrive in the States. My phone should work there. Speaking of, what do you want me to do with this phone of yours?"

  "I'll let you know where to mail it. Right now we don't even know how long we'll be here in France."

  "Where are you now?"

  "Cannes."

  "Oh, that's where I first saw Rousel."

  "I know. Rhea posted a photo on the Teachers Who Travel Facebook page. Rousel and his friend are in the background."

  Rhonda giggled. "Oh, I remember that. The men were so handsome and we wanted to get a picture without them knowing. I'll look at it as soon as I get Internet again."

  "Okay. I guess you'd better save time on that phone I gave you. Maybe text me if you get a chance before you take off tonight."

  With my worries about Rhonda partially assuaged, I slept soundly until nine when Jan rousted me out.

  "Rise and shine, Sunshine. We gotta go on a road trip. Luc just knocked and said he'd be ready to roll in thirty minutes."

  "Jeez, I just went to sleep."