Trust him? The last time I did that, I ended up brokenhearted and practically suicidal in my hurt and angst. But I figured, it's his country, he has the pull and we need all the help we can get, so I nodded and passed the note to Jan, wondering if we even knew how to tell the truth anymore.
Of the three of us left in the suspect's room, as I now called it, I guess I was deemed the most suspicious, as they chose me to go first.
"Mademoiselle Coffey," a dour man said, handing me my cell phone, "you may make one call. Choose carefully, and you must put the conversation on speaker. And, do you wish for an interpreter?"
"You have one here?"
"Non, but we can arrange for one within an hour."
The very first thing you learn when speaking a second language, no matter how good you think you are, when accuracy matters you'd better call in a professional. Even during my courses in Brussels, I was allowed to take most exams in English.
"Will the interpreter be a lawyer by any chance?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you think you will require un avocat?"
I was about to say, "Maybe," but the nee-uh, nee-uh of police sirens and then flashing lights distracted me. Several vehicles slid into the restaurant's dimly lit parking lot. Within a few seconds, the door flew open and in bounded Po Thang and Charles, followed by René, André in full chauffeur's livery, and two men I didn't know but who looked mighty important.
Po Thang made a beeline for me, causing my interrogator to slide his chair back in alarm, but my dog only had eyes for me. After a hugging and whining session, Charles joined in for an ear scratch until called back. Po Thang reluctantly followed, and I turned to ask the man if I could use René as my interpreter, when an aide of some kind trotted up and handed him a phone. A little impatient with all the interruptions, he grabbed it and huffed, "Maintenant ce que?"
Evidently his "what now" received a strong answer, as he went very quiet and a little pale while listening and finally said, "Mais monsieur le Ministre de cours!"and handed the phone back to his aide.
"Minister of what?" I mouthed at Jan.
Jean Luc, who had rushed to meet the group of men who'd arrived with such fanfare, bear-hugged one I recognized from his photo on the Internet as d'Ormesson, the elder. "Papa, this is all a complete misunderstanding. You did not have to—"
The other man with them, a formidable-looking sixty-ish, deepened what I figured was a permanent frown and commanded, "Jean Luc, do not say another word, except goodbye to all these," he made a wide sweep of his arm, "people." He said it like, "peasants."
"Monsieur le avocat, I cannot leave Hetta and Jan here."
René patted Jean Luc on the shoulder. "Of course not. They have been vouched for. We all leave together."
The Austin Princess, a seven-passenger vehicle, now contained seven humans and two dogs, as the authorities absolutely insisted that Jean Luc's vehicle remain at the scene of the crime. What crime, we still didn't know, but I had a pretty good idea.
After Jean Luc introduced Jan and me to his father and his father's lawyer, we surveyed the chaos in the marina. There were now military boats involved, probably fifteen official vehicles, sniffer dogs, a bomb squad, a fire truck, and two ambulances.
I whispered to Jean Luc, "Obviously they've found the .380. I've heard of some pretty strict gun control laws, but don't you think this is a little extreme? It was only one little pistol."
He chuckled and said, "Text only. Just stay silent and let me do the talking, all right?"
Jan mumbled, "That'll be the day."
As soon as we pulled away, two motorcycle cops fell in with us, one behind, one in front. I texted Jan, who had landed the passenger seat in front but had to share it with our furry friends. See if you can get a photo or two. I know, I'm not using proper texting acronyms and shortcuts, but for now I remain an AFZ: Acronym Free Zone.
My phone vibrated, announcing a text from Jean Luc: Is the you-know-what traceable to you?
I thought about that. I didn't have a concealed carry permit in California, but I bought the Taurus in Texas at an estate sale from a friend of a friend whose father who owned it had died. I certainly didn't register it anywhere. Maybe, but it will take a lot of doing.
He nodded his head. I texted, Ask about Orly. He shook his head. Wait.
René opened the bar. "Anyone care for a drink?"
"Yes!"
"Oui!"
"Absolutment!"
"Is there an armadillo in Texas?"
"Certainment!"
"I am driving, but yes."
"Yip!"
"Wouf!"
Chapter Thirty-one
By the time we were dropped off at the boat in Castelnaudary it was after eleven, and all the restaurants were closed—if, in fact they were ever open—but we had plenty of snacky stuff in our larder. The Frenchmen declined the suggestion they join Jan and me for crackers and cheese, opting instead to continue on to Gruissan and probably much better wine and cheese.
Po Thang, delighted to be back home, immediately searched for his swan friends, but evidently they'd found someone else to steal bread for them. Fickle fowl.
It was good to be back on the boat, especially since the French feds kept our luggage. Jan and I always carry travel kits, leaving our toothbrushes and the like at home, wherever that may be. Not only that, we have emergency bags in our vehicles so we can hit the road in case of, well, an emergency. It has held us in good stead over the years, as we have a tendency to get run out of Dodge.
We showered, put on warm jammies, and had a glass of wine before turning in. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow but was awakened by a menacing rumble I first thought was thunder but quickly realized it was my guard dog. He headed for the main cabin, where he set to menacing the quay-side slider. Jan arrived about the same time I did.
"And me without my gun," I whispered.
"Dang. I'm gonna take a peek, so don't turn on a light."
For lack of a better idea, I grabbed a metal mooring stake as a weapon.
Jan moved the curtain a tiny bit and peered out. "Two men, no uniforms, in an unmarked car."
"Just sitting there?"
"Yep."
"What do you think? Friend, foe, or fortuity?"
"After the past day, I don't think we have the luxury not to be paranoid. And, we do not believe in coincidence."
"So, they're either here to hurt us or guard us? Guess we better find out which and deal with it so we can get some sleep. Saddle up the dawg."
I put the critter cam on Po Thang, we tested the signal and loosed the hound. He made a beeline for the car, jumped up with paws on the window of the driver's side and set up a furious, saliva-slinging attack certain to ruin the paint job. I've got to remember not to let him watch Cujo again.
Lights flicked on in the buildings across the street and a couple of people came out on their balconies to shout obscenities at Po Thang.
Fearing Po Thang would hurt himself, I hit a button that sends out a high-frequency signal only dogs can hear, his command to cease and desist. He immediately shut up, backed off and sat glaring at the driver, giving us a good camera angle.
"Well, good grief." I hit the button twice and Po Thang returned to the deck, looking quite pleased with himself. I pulled on a sweatshirt and tromped out to the car and the men I recognized from the interrogation room back at the restaurant in Port-Lauragais. They seemed mighty miffed at being outed by a dog and two women.
The driver rolled down his window. "My apologies, mademoiselle. We thought to wait for a decent hour before disturbing you, but your dog had other ideas."
"Well, now that we're disturbed, you might as well come in for coffee."
They were sent, they said, to return our bags but were in no hurry to leave once they placed our luggage on the boat. They gratefully accepted bowls of hot coffee and cookies, commenting on the fact they'd never had an Oreo but liked them. I hope to shout they did, because those stupid cookies cost me a
fortune when I bought them in the imported section at the Super U. Okay, the stupid one is me for buying packaged cookies in France.
"So, can you tell us what happened after we left Port-Lauragais?" I didn't ask what I wanted to, like what happened to Rousel, but I wasn't ready to admit to anyone in authority that I actually knew him.
The guy had to be a mind-reader. "Mademoiselle, we are not at liberty to discuss the events of last evening at this time, only that we are now aware that you are acquainted with the man we arrested, monsieur Rousel Badiz al Bin Jasseron."
Rats.
Chapter Thirty-two
Jan and I exchanged a look when the cop said they knew I knew Rousel Badiz al Bin Jasseron. Jean Luc's lawyer had warned us not to talk with anyone, especially the authorities, about the situation, but the way they said they knew I was "acquainted" with Rousel le Roué hinted they thought we were much more chummy.
I couldn't let that slide. "Yes, I did meet Rousel, but I cannot say I liked him."
Jan, bless her heart, jumped in. "Like him? We think he's a despicable gigolo. We're pretty sure he was using a friend of ours, trying to get to her money."
He looked at a notebook he took from his pocket. "Your friend, mademoiselle Rhonda Jones?"
We'd received a text from Jean Luc telling us Rhonda was in "protective custody" and was not allowed to communicate with us for the moment. Claude had assured Jean Luc that although distraught and confused, she was safe.
"Yes, she was romantically involved with Rousel, but we did not trust him."
"Her passport was on the boat, along with her credit card. Do you know where she is at the moment?"
"Paris. I'm sure she will be happy to get them back."
"Have you talked with her since last night?"
Uh-oh, trick question. "Uh, let's see." I pretended to think, stalling for time, not wanting to admit I knew a danged thing about Orly.
He switched to English, "And you, mademoiselle Simms, you have not talked with her?"
"Can you tell me something?" Jan asked, cleverly answering a question with a question.
"Perhaps."
"Why did you storm that gigolo's boat. All he did was steal a passport and credit card, right?"
Sometimes Jan is a genius. We were all tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, and it was time to break out the peanuts.
The men exchanged a glance, then the one who said almost nothing focused on Jan. "There was a report of an intruder with a gun. Made by you, mademoiselle. And, I might mention, mademoiselle Jones was in possession of a cell phone you bought in Mexico."
Oh, man, are these guys fast, or what? If they didn't know yet, I figured they'd nail me for said gun soon enough. A little chill ran down my spine.
Jan, however, isn't one to be cowed easily. "So what? Do you usually call in the entire freakin' French Foreign Legion to round up one guy with a gun?"
I thought she side-stepped that fairly well, but these guys weren't a couple of dummies.
"Mademoiselles, I think we all know there is far more to this story, n'est-ce pas?"
In for a penny... "The gun thing aside," I said, trying to duck that issue, "we thought Rousel was just a roué who was gonna take our friend to the cleaners, but in retrospect, if he planted a bomb in his luggage and sent her off to Orly? Call me crazy, but if you ask me, if you're planning on cleaning out someone's bank account, blowing her up seems counter productive."
Jan, never one to be left out of anything, piped up. "Yep. Here we just thought he was a gigolo and he turns out to be some kind of terrorist? Right?"
By now, unless they wanted something from us, they should have beat feet, but even though they'd evidently both lost their ability to speak, they sat still. If we hadn't been deemed off-limits by someone on high, they probably would have happily broken out le waterboard. Finally, they stood as one. "Please excuse us for a few minutes," one said. As they headed for their car, they were both on their cell phones.
"Uh, Hetta, now that you let the cat out of the bag, ya think we oughta make a run for it? It's four in the morning! Who the hell are they talking to?"
"You're reading my mind. Call Jean Luc."
"Me? He's your boyfriend."
"Not. Besides I'd have to say "merci" to him, and I'm not ready for that."
"Get over it." Then she broke into the chorus of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover."
She was right. I'd "Jump on the bus, Gus," and set myself free.
Jean Luc sounded wide awake when he answered. "Hetta? What's wrong?"
"Not sure if anything is. Sorry I had to call so early, but we might have a situation here. Two French feds from the roundup at Port-Lauragais showed up here to return our suitcases, or so they said. I get the feeling they're really here to get more information."
"Like what?"
"That's just it, they really haven't asked many questions. I sort of put them on the spot and they hightailed to their car to call someone."
"Oh merde, what have you done?"
I felt my blood pressure bump up a notch but chose not to verbally flip him off. "Well, they kept beating around the bush, trying to find out how well we knew Rousel, so I told them we knew him only casually but we felt the man was a gigolo trying to take advantage of our friend, Rhonda."
"I'm quite sure the authorities know you befriended Rhonda. No problem there. What's the bombe?
"How do you know there's a bombshell?"
"Because I have gotten to know you quite well the past few days. You are not one to laissez le chien dormir."
He's a fast learner; I rarely let sleeping dogs lie. "Okay, so I got tired of them pussyfooting around and told them we'd thought Rousel was just a roué who was gonna take Rhonda to the cleaners, but if he planted a bomb in their luggage and sent her off to Orly to go boom, that doesn't make any sense. If you're planning on cleaning out someone's bank account, blowing her up seems pretty stupid."
Jean Luc burst out laughing. "Yes, I suspect that could take the romance out of a relationship, n'est-ce pas? Do not worry. By now they will have talked to Claude and realized that I was the one who raised suspicions at Orly. We were on scene at Port-Lauragais and even though they do not think we are suspects in any kind of terrorist plot, they are, as you say, connecting the dots."
"I wish I could. When will we hear anything about what really happened at Orly?"
"We already know that Rhonda is fine, Rousel is under arrest for the moment, and there was no explosion at Orly."
"Then I guess—uh-oh, here come the fuzz. I'll leave the phone on so you can hear what they say."
The two were smiling, something new. Either they were delighted they'd gotten permission to rough us up a bit, or they had good news. I was hoping for the latter.
Po Thang only growled at them a little this time, but I still finger-tapped his head and he settled onto the settee with a small gnarl. He always has to have the last word.
Jan, ever the hostess, put down the length of rope she was fondling and offered more coffee. The men passed on it, but the one who did most of the talking said, "We cannot divulge more than the fact that your friend in Paris is safe and the man from the boat in Castelnaudary is in custody. However, we were told to thank you for your assistance in this matter. So, thank you, and good day."
As they hustled back to their car I told her what they said and then remembered Jean Luc was still on the phone. "Did you hear what they said? Did I understand that correctly? They were thanking us for our assistance?"
"It would seem so."
"Assistance when? What we did? Or what they want us to do. You're French, was there an innuendo there that I didn't catch?"
"Good question. I will call the lawyer as soon as it is polite, since there does not seem to be an emergency. Have you heard from your friend, Jenks?"
"No, but he's, uh, not always at liberty to call."
"He is in prison?" He sounded hopeful.
I had to laugh. "No, but he is the man I love.
He happens to work in security and is not always able to use certain phones." Or be around when I need him.
"You are in love with a spy?"
Am I? "He's not a spy. And even if he were, it's none of your business."
"Au contraire, Hetta. It was on his advice that I alerted my friend Claude of a possible threat at Orly. They evacuated the airport, no small matter. If there was in fact no danger, I could possibly lose my credibility."
"You have credibility?"
He sighed. "I am resigned that you are not interested in reigniting our...liaison de coeur, but can we be friends?"
"Don't you mean our liaison amoureus?" I spat. Evidently my resolve to let bygones be bygones was very short-lived as I rejected his term, love affair, and threw back the French street talk for a stressful illicit affair with a married man.
"I was not married," he protested.
I ended the call, not willing to even discuss such a lame defense.
"Why do I get the feeling that didn't go well?"
"He was about to launch the French cherche la femme defense. It really means that he got in trouble trying to impress me and is a convoluted way of saying if a man has a problem, there must be a woman involved. We can thank Alexandre Dumas for coming up with that one."
"Men! They try to justify their bad behavior with semantics."
"So do we."
"Yep, but we get away with it. I say we get back to our vacation, how about that? Where do you want to go next?"
"Mexico."
"Cut and run, huh?"
"Sounds good to me. Well, it would if we had not been told to stay put in France until our lawyer says we can leave."
"Oh, yeah, like that's gonna stop us."
"Let's sleep on it. We're exhausted and not in any condition to make decisions."
She grinned. "Like a few hour's sleep will keep us from making our usual bad ones?"
Chapter Thirty-two
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 20
