At noon the day after chasing Rousel along the canal and setting off a chain of events that ended with Rhonda being taken into protective custody in Paris and Rousel arrested for we knew not what at Port-Lauragais, we treated ourselves to a long and lavish lunch on the Canal.
The weather had warmed some and the wind calmed, so a quay-side outdoor cafe that is dog friendly was just the venue for deciding our future in France.
We were, as usual, unfashionably early, and so had the place to ourselves. We'd barely settled into our chairs and opened our menus when Jean Luc called.
"Where are you, Hetta?"
"Castelnaudary, where I was the last time we talked...like eight hours ago."
"Non, I mean, where exactly are you?"
"You writing a book?"
"Amusant. We are at your boat and you are not."
I stood up and peered down the street, where I spotted the Austin Princess with René, André, Jean Luc and the lawyer dude standing nearby. About that time Po Thang, who had been half-asleep under the table, what with no diners to beg from, suddenly sprang to his feet and took off running down the quay. Half way to the boat, Charles met him for a wag fest.
"Follow the dogs," I told Jean Luc, and hit the whistle button to recall my dog.
The waiters, who had pretty much ignored us, fell all over themselves when the four men entered, and the chef came out of the kitchen to jaw with René. One waiter snatched the menus and waited for the chef and René to choose our lunch. I so love being in the "in" crowd.
Tables and chairs were rapidly rearranged, this time in the area with the best view and obviously reserved for Frenchmen. We had no sooner been seated again when a Jeroboam of Vueve Clicquot La Grande Dame arrived.
"Holy crap, what are we celebrating?" I asked. Once upon a time or two I'd been treated to Clicquot on someone else's expense account. Even in France, I figured this magnum, which is a three-liter bottle, had to run nearly five hundred bucks.
"Un moment, s'il vous plaît, Hetta," Jean Luc said as the waiter filled six tulip glasses.
"A toast!" René stood and proclaimed.
All the men jumped to their feet, grinning like the chat who ate the canari.
I started to stand, but was waved back into my chair.
Jan and I were wondering what was going on when Jean Luc's lawyer said, “The government of France salutes you!"
Jean Luc, René and André raised their glasses and repeated, "Á nos amies américaines!
Not having any idea what the proper response would be, I raised my glass and made a toast of my own. "Vive la France!"
That brought smiles and raised flutes. After we all took a sip—mine was more of a glug—and we were reseated, I quipped, "Hey, I'm not one to turn down a salute, although now that I think of it, I don't recall that ever happening."
Jan drawled, "Ain't that the truth? Most times Hetta's given the boot, not a salute."
More chuckles and lifted glasses. At the rate we were toasting, that jeroboam wasn't gonna last long.
"Okay, are you going to tell us what this is all about?"
The lawyer nodded at Jean Luc, evidently pre-chosen because of his command of English.
"Have you ever heard the term, 'dry run'?"
I had to think a moment. Of course I'd heard the saying, mostly remembered from a dreaded debate class in college. We'd do dry runs ad nauseam, practicing our rebuttals in front of a critique group before going into an actual debate.
"Yes. It means a practice run. Someone once told me it came from the bootlegging days of Prohibition. The rum runners would make dry runs, with no booze in their vehicles, to learn the roads so they could outrun the revenuers.
I should have picked a better example, as I now had to explain Prohibition to a bunch off Frenchmen, who found the concept not only unfathomable, but downright uncivilized.
"How very strange," Jean Luc said, but then shrugged that French shrug and pulled a face that says, "But then again, it was the Americans."
The Frenchmen all nodded in agreement. Actually, so did Jan and I.
"Anyway, where was I?"
"Dry run," I prompted.
"Oh, oui. Dry run has taken on a whole new meaning in these troubled times and, thanks to you lovely ladies, one has most probably been unearthed."
"Orly?"
"Yes. Your friend Rhonda was never in danger, as there were no explosives in any of those bags. The entire set up has been deemed a dry run, perpetrated by someone who wanted to observe whether an American female tourist, waiting alone in a busy passenger terminal would raise suspicion."
"And it didn't," said Jan, who was starting to slur a mite.
Luckily food arrived in the form of that wonderful hot brie on toasted baguette that I dearly love. Being French, they served only one per person, but when Jan and I—the Barbarians at le table—devoured ours in one bite, they got the hint and went for more.
"No, not until I called Claude. Had it not been for your...diligence in trying to protect your friend from what you perceived as a gigolo gold digger, they would have succeeded."
"And who is they?"
"That is unknown for certain. It is suspected that Rousel Badiz al Bin Jasseron is affiliated with at least one of many militant groups here in France."
René spat, "Beurs." He said it like a curse.
Both Po Thang and Charles also softly rumbled.
"Obviously this was well planned out, but why did he come back to the boat?"
"Because it worked once."
"What does that mean?" Jan asked.
A light went off in my head. "He was in Paris during the November fifteenth attack, then returned to the boat and went cruising. No one was looking for him down here, but had he stayed in Paris, he was certain to be on the radar if he's a known militant. Right?"
"There was no paper trail to the Canal du Midi. The boat was rented by mademoiselle Rhonda Jones, her credit card was used for the rental. He was invisible to authorities. We suspect he planned to lie low on the canal, then perhaps make his way to Marseille and disappear."
"How?"
"He had a rental car stashed at Castelnaudary and from there to Marseilles is a short drive."
"Let me guess, the rental car is in Rhonda's name."
"Yes, her passport and credit cards were on Trebes, but also her driver's license."
Food arrived again, this time a poached sea perch, so talk of Rhonda and Rousel was suspended temporarily. One does not discuss un-pleasantries while eating in France; it is bad for the digestive system.
My mind evidently did not get that memo. While we ate, my brain was in overdrive. Breaking all protocol, my fork stopped in midair as I blurted, "The November attack was by ISIS!"
Jean Luc nodded slowly.
Jan and I stared at each other as reality settled in like a bombshell.
"Oh, hell."
"Dang!"
Not to be left out, "Ruff."
Chapter Thirty-three
When the reality that we had been messing with ISIS hit us, Jan and I suddenly lost our appetites.
The group is well known for retaliating against anyone they deemed the enemy, which is just about everyone. They go after the families, friends, and pets. Just how far would they go to retaliate for a foiled dry run? We'd stalked Rousel and were responsible for his arrest! This is no way good.
Po Thang must have picked up on my panic and began to whine. Tears flooded Jan's eyes. I was just in shock.
The lawyer waved his hands in the air and said, "Non, non, non. Do not worry. Your names have never been revealed to anyone. All your names, including that of mademoiselle Jones, have been erased from any reports."
He said this in French, so I let Jean Luc translate. Jan relaxed some, but then she said, "Rousel won't put two and two together?"
"Think about it. When was the last time he actually saw you?"
"The day he and Rhonda left for Paris."
"Exactly. He has no way of knowing you were in touch with Rhon
da at Orly, n'cest-ce pas?"
I saw where he was going with this line of reasoning. "But what about Rhonda? She'll tell the feds about the phone, and how we told her to leave the terminal in a big hurry.''
"Yes, that is so." He looked at his watch, and asked the waiter to turn on the television. "Just wait a few minutes, and all will be revealed. Anyone for brandy and coffee?"
Four hands and one paw raised. Charles was too polite to beg.
Just as our coffee arrived, the unmistakable notes of breaking news came from the television, and a man materialized behind an official looking podium. Camera clicks sounded, bulbs flashed, and everyone behind the man looked very solemn. Talking heads informed us of the topic to be addressed: the recent evacuation of Orly airport.
The spokesperson, who delivered his address in French, was talked over by a translator because the restaurant had tuned into one of the English-speaking business channels found where foreigners gather. Normally, the voice-over was annoying, but not when I didn't want to miss a word of what the man said when my precious self might be involved.
Basically, he said that as everyone was aware of by now, the Orly airport had been evacuated as a matter of caution, and he wanted to reassure the French people there had never been any danger to anyone in the area.
It was a short conference with a brief Q and A session afterwards. We were all glued to the image, hanging on every word. When the regular program returned—a weather report for all of Europe—the lawyer asked the waiter to turn it off.
"Feeling better now, Hetta?" Jean Luc asked.
"Well—" my phone chirped and I glanced at it. "I gotta take this, it's Jenks!"
I walked away from the group to talk with him, although I was bouncing off the walls with excitement after that press conference.
"Hetta, did you by any chance just see that press release?"
"Yes, I did! They covered our butts! According to the powers that be, there was no emergency. Security simply reacted when a female tourist left luggage unattended in the terminal while she went outside to look for her boyfriend, who was late for their flight."
"Nice spin. Works for me."
"Hey, how did you see that on television? Where are you?"
"Lille. I'll be back on the boat by tomorrow afternoon."
"Yee haw!" I yelled, catching the attention of my fellow diners, and Po Thang, who came on the run to share my excitement with yips and whines.
After I talked with Jenks, I returned to the table and grabbed my glass. "Jenks is coming back. Tomorrow!"
Jan, who was in her cups by now, slurred, "Well, hell, there's my eviction notice."
"Yep."
We all wove our way back to the Austin Princess and were saying our goodbyes, with promises to visit René and Charles once Jenks returned.
Jean Luc, before he joined the others in the car, asked me for a word in private.
We walked a few feet away from the car, and he said, "So, I have to ask, or I'll regret it the rest of my life. What about us?"
"We'll always have Paris."
Epilogue
Jan was long gone by the time Jenks arrived at the boat, hightailing it for Paris where she'd been invited to stay with Rhonda in Jean Luc's apartment. Any qualms she had at being in close quarters with Rhonda were immediately assuaged; she bombarded me with snapshots and videos of DooRah's "guest apartment"—all five bedrooms of it. Her suite, a one-bedroom with a view of the Eiffel Tower, included a sitting room and kitchenette.
She also reported that Rhonda was still heartsick, but not over Rousel; she was furious with herself for being such a dupe. I'm sure Jan would reassure her with tales of my previous cockups—you should pardon the expression—in judgment. However, if Rhonda was expecting a sympathy sister's shoulder to bawl on, she was sooo very wrong. Jan is a great bully to have around at times. And I suspected Rhonda was in for a massive makeover by a cadre of expensive Parisian experts. Like I said, Jan dearly loves to spend OPM, and Rhonda has plenty of loot.
Even had I not been glued to the window, Jenks's arrival would be hard to miss. The minute he stepped from the cab, Po Thang, who was lounging on deck, went bonkers. As did the swans.
All the honking, hissing, yipping, and sobbing—that would be me—would have sent a lesser man back into that taxi, but Jenks is a man's man, with enough sangfroid to weather such an emotional onslaught.
I had the boat stocked with his favorite foods, and spaghetti and meatballs on the menu for lunch, which also met with Po Thang's hearty approval. He wasn't so happy, however when, after lunch, we locked him out of my cabin.
During cocktail hour, Jenks shared news he had of Rousel. I suspected he wasn't telling all he knew, for Rousel had disappeared into the clutches of GIGN—pronounced, jhay jhin—the Group D'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, a seriously badass French counterterrorism organization, probably never to emerge. After all, with no crime to report to the public—if you don't count some silly tourist inadvertently leaving unaccompanied luggage in the terminal building—there was no crime to officially punish. No suspect to arrest. End of story, n'est-ce pas?
"So, where does that leave Rhonda? Or, more importantly, Jan and me?"
"Again, with Rousel gone, there is no connection to you or Jan."
"Okay, then, what about that cousin who dumped Rhonda at the terminal building?"
Jenks smiled. "Rounded up sitting in his car in the parking lot. Sang like a bird. He was not a cousin and had been promised a hundred bucks to say he was. Believe it or not, the so-called cousin was to pick her, and the luggage, up and take her back to that apartment where she'd been staying in Paris."
"What? You're kidding. Wait, let me guess. After assuring Rhonda that he was sincerely remorseful about the missing the plane thing, maybe using an excuse like a sudden death in his family, he would accompany her to the States, and right to her big fat bank account?"
"That's my take."
"Well, for crying out loud."
"You probably saved her life."
"There were times when I wanted to kill her myself."
Jenks chuckled and gave me a hug, only to get his arm nosed. "Hey, you've had Hetta to yourself for too long. My turn."
Po Thang stuck out his tongue.
"Better watch it there, Po Thang. This man is gonna get us back home, and unless you want a long and lonely ride in a baggage compartment cage with the lesser dogs, you'd better be nice. Speaking of, when and how will we get back to Mexico? Not that I'm all that ready to go. We still have to visit with René, cuz I promised."
"We have three weeks, then duty calls. And Air France, in appreciation for your assistance in a matter of security, will get you, Jan, Rhonda, and Po Thang back home."
Planning the next three weeks included another ten days on the canal, plus a two-day stay in Gruissan where we'd dump Po Thang with Charles while we bopped, dog free, around the South of France.
Jenks asked if I wanted to go back to Paris, but I gave that an emphatic, "NON!"
To paraphrase Edith Piaf singing "Non, je ne regrette rien," I have no regrets for the past because from now on, "…my joys, today, they begin with Jenks."
Oh là là!
FIN
If you have enjoyed this book, please tell your friends about Hetta, or post a short review on Amazon. Word of mouth is an author's best friend, and is much appreciated.
I have editors, but boo-boos do manage to creep into a book, no matter how many people look at it before publication, and if there are errors, they are all on me. Should you come upon one of these culprits, please let me know and I shall smite it with my mighty keyboard! You can e-mail me at [email protected]
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Oh, and no swans, dawgs, boats, or Frenchmen were actually harmed in the writing of this book.
JUST PARDON MY FRENCH
Published by Jinx Schwartz
Copyright 2016
Book 8: Hetta Coffey series
All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, my first reader and hubby Robert "Mad Dog" Schwartz is my rock. His patient tackling of techie stuff that has me screaming at my computer is invaluable. Maybe I should give him a raise?
Holly Whitman has been the editor of every one of my books, and she keeps me out of the ditch when my story heads there. The last eyes on the book before I hit the "publish" button, are Donna Rich's. Thanks Holly and Donna.
I have some amazing beta readers! And here they are, in no particular order: Karen Kearns, Sara F. Howe, Loretta Fairley, Lela Cargill, Frances Moore, Bonnie Julien, William Jones, Mary Jordan, Dan O'Neill, Jeff Brockman, Stephen Brown, Jenni Cornell, Lee H. Johnson, Fran Knowles, Brenda Lynch, Susan Hamm, and Dottie Atwater.
Also, we have to thank Tycho Biard, Champion, Canine Good Citizen, and Therapy Dog. He's a fun-loving boy who hangs with his friends, goes sailing and paddle boarding and hiking. He cheers up patients in the hospital and during the school year enjoys listening to classroom kids read to him. He also was kind enough to suffer the indignity of wearing a beret for this book cover shoot.
And for the cover art, we have Karen Phillips to thank.
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 21
