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

  JUST PARDON MY FRENCH

  By

  Jinx Schwartz

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  OTHER BOOKS BY JINX SCHWARTZ

  The Hetta Coffey Series

  Just Add Water (Book1)

  Just Add Salt (Book 2)

  Just Add Trouble (Book 3)

  Just Deserts (Book4)

  Just the Pits (Book 5)

  Just Needs Killin’ (Book 6)

  Just Different Devils (Book 7)

  Other Books

  The Texicans

  Troubled Sea

  Land of Mountains

  Boxed Sets

  Hetta Coffey Boxed Collection (Books 1-4)

  Boxed set of three novels: 3 Mexico Mystery Masters

  (with Carmen Armato, John Scherber, and Jinx Schwartz)

  JUST PARDON MY FRENCH

  Every damn fool thing you do in this life you pay for—Edith Piaf

  Don’t care what people say. Don’t give a damn about their laws—Edith Piaf

  Ditto—Hetta Coffey

  Want to hear Edith sing, with an English translation? Check out the website below.

  http://lyricstranslate.com/en/non-je-ne-regrette-rien-no-i-have-no-regrets.html

  Chapter One

  Ever try varnishing a teak rail with a big ol' furry critter attached to your leg?

  Po Thang planted a cold nose-nudge to my bare thigh and grumbled.

  "Okay, okay, you win. Fetch your leash." A second after I said this I realized using the F word can mean many things to him, but miracle of miracles, the L word must have overpowered the fetch thing, for he bounded onto the dock, leash-in-mouth. I just have to learn to give one-word commands other than NO.

  Tossing a deteriorating foam paintbrush into a bucket graveyard holding many of its recently deceased relatives, I peeled off latex gloves, wiped sweaty hands on my tee shirt, and hurried down the boarding steps to the dock to that impatient golden retriever. I wanted to get to him before he decided to return to the second deck and sideswipe my morning's labor. As it was, I'd still spend way too much time later on tweezing about a bajillion fine red hairs—none of them mine—from my otherwise perfectly varnished rails.

  Po Thang twirled and whined while I clipped the leash to his harness. "Jeez, you'd think you hadn't already had a walk today. This pitiful act is gonna be good for exactly one more day, then you gotta get over it, you hear?" He showed me a retriever smiley face before jerking me down the dock toward the gate.

  "And that's another thing," I said in a warning tone while giving his leash a firm tug. He immediately obeyed and gave me a sheepish look before I could finish my threat of more doggy obedience training. I swear, that dog can read my mind.

  "Good dawg. For that, there is a breakfast burrito in our immediate life. You got any money?"

  He leaned against my leg while I searched his saddle pack and pulled out a hundred pesos. "We're rich! Brekkies it is. Before or after our walk? Your choice."

  We split the diff. I took him out for a quick whiz in a vacant lot next to the marina before we grabbed an outdoor table at the Dock Café.

  Several boaters I knew gave my dog a pat and greeted me with, "¡Hola! Hetta." A single-hander dude, who obviously drank enough breakfast beer to derail any good judgment remaining in his booze-and-weed besotted gray matter, tried giving me a pat as well but was intercepted by a slobbery muzzle and a soft growl. The growl was mine.

  The sailor quickly jerked his arm back, downed his beer, and staggered away to a chorus of hoots from those familiar with my notoriously less-than-patient reputation.

  Po Thang, after acknowledging his adoring humans at other tables, sat on my feet and put his head in my lap. This needy thing was growing old fast, but I knew where he was coming from; we were both suffering from an acute case of separation anxiety.

  Within the past few days, Jan, my best friend, drove back up the Baja to her sig-other's Pacific Coast whale camp a little under four hundred miles to the north, and then Jenks, my long-distance significant other, left for Dubai. Too many suitcases, backpacks, and goodbyes had my dog in a dither and glued to me lest I disappear as well.

  "I'm not going anywhere soon," I whispered in his ear. He'd been abandoned for real before, left to die on a desolate Baja roadside where I found him. He'd settled into boat life well and, up until now, remained fiercely independent. I guess all this leave-taking was just too much of a threat.

  My eyes prickled as a momentary twinge of my own self-pity washed over me, but when an egg and chorizo burrito, refried beans, and a fizzy, overly sweet lemonada arrived, Jenks and Jan became a distant memory.

  Po Thang and I are easily distracted by food.

  Our section of the café cleared out and we were left to stuff our faces and enjoy what I call magic time in the Sea of Cortez. A slight breeze off La Paz harbor's still-warm water—a gift from a strong El Niño event touted as the most intense in fifty years—made for perfect weather. Even in late October we were still wearing shorts during the day and running a fan some nights.

  Brilliant blue skies, clear turquoise water, and hundreds of boats bobbing on the bay painted a Chamber of Commerce poster kind of day. Po Thang nosed my elbow and eyed the refried beans left on my plate. "Oh, no. No frijoles for you, Podner. Our boat ain't big enough for your farts."

  As if in protest he let one and a couple preparing to sit at the next table fled. Po Thang has a way of ensuring privacy.

  "Good dawg. Now for that walk, then back to work."

  We dawdled along the malecon, the wide waterfront sidewalk stretching over three miles from Marina de la Paz to the other end of town, admiring the oversized bronzes of pelagic critters both real and mythical, a gigantic bronze and chrome black pearl, and even a statue of Jacques Cousteau.

  My badly leash-trained buddy dragged me a mile or so before I turned around; someone was in for retraining and, according to dog whisperer Cesar Milan, it was me.

  As we approached a mermaid playing with a dolphin sculpture, Po Thang sat and stared. I wondered if he was remembering his dolphin gal pal, Bubbles. We hadn't seen her for a while, so I hoped she'd found more suitable friends. Like the kind who live in water? Anyhow, she—like Jan and Jenks—was also gone, so perhaps my dog and I should put in some time boning up on our social skills?

  Unable to justify the dog-walking excuse to evade the inevitable and very long list labeled 'STUFF THAT NEEDS DOING BEFORE BOAT FALLS APART' any longer, I reluctantly returned to my self-imposed boat projects. For almost two years in the Sea of Co
rtez I'd managed to avoid boat work. When I was working long billable hours I used that as a reason to let things slide. During the hot humid summer, well, it was too hot and humid to work outside when I had a perfectly good air-conditioned yacht, Raymond Johnson, in which to hole up. Now that I was unemployed and the temperature just about perfect, it was time to pay the piper and put some TLC into my forty-five foot motor yacht.

  After tweezing seemingly never-ending hairs from the last coat of Cetol, a resin coating I decided to use instead of my regular varnish, as it touts UV protection far better suited to Baja's varnish-eating rays, I threw down the tweezers and pushed Po Thang out of my lap. "What the hell, maybe a little fiber will help it last longer? Right?"

  Po Thang wagged tail approval, headed for his dog bowl and barked at its emptiness. I grabbed a wine glass and did likewise.

  Dog fed, wine in hand, I stretched out on one of my back deck lounges to enjoy my daily afternoon entertainment: watching other yachties fight a combination of stiff breezes and opposing swift tides to get into the marina.

  One might surmise my social life sucks.

  At the moment my professional life wasn't so hot, either.

  I am Hetta Coffey, CEO, CFO, president, and sole employee of Hetta Coffey, SI, LLC. The SI is my little inside joke on the phonetic pronunciation of Civil Engineer. A single woman of forty—yes, I can actually now say that without requiring a heart defibrillator—I'm an engineer by degree who stays somewhat employed thanks to a penchant for engaging in, shall we say, much less than run-of-the-mill endeavors. BFF Jan says I tread heavily upon the felonious side of life, but what does she know? She's a CPA who's flipping tortillas for her honey at a whale camp. At least I get paid.

  Perpetually single, I actually have a wonderful—but too often absent—man in my life. Jenks Jenkins works in Dubai and I live in Mexico. When we are together, all is well, but left on my own, I teeter on the brink of blowing the best relationship I've ever had because I'm bullheaded and as temperamental as any Texas redhead. I prefer to think of myself as self-governing.

  My friend Jan says I'm stubborn, incorrigible and morally corrupt, which is why she likes me so much.

  One can clearly see why Jan and I are practically like sisters.

  Po Thang and I were parked at the dock in La Paz, Mexico, but that was not the usual case. I'd spent most of my time in the central Sea where I managed to stay employed. Not always exactly safely or legally employed, mind you, but I'd made enough to keep us in kibble and refrieds. Back when I worked as a project engineer for large corporations, I traveled the world, stayed in five-star hotels, and ate and drank high on the hog, thanks to a fat expense account.

  Those days are but a memory.

  These days it's boxed wine and a dog for company.

  The light was fading and the air cooled, so I pushed myself up to grab a sweatshirt when I heard, "Ahoy, Raymond Johnson."

  Po Thang scrambled to the bow and woofed friendly, so I stayed put and yelled, "Permission to come aboard, but only if you have wine."

  Chapter Two

  My visitor wasn't bearing wine, but just stopped by to remind me of an upcoming event or two.

  So, I wrote that titillating bit of information on my calendar, as though by doing so I proved to myself that I actually had something to do besides walk the dog and varnish teak: Mexican Train on Wednesday, Baja Rummy on Friday. I added a footnote on a sticky label: SHAPE THE HELL UP. PS, buy more sticky notes.

  I've lived alone most of my life and rarely felt lonely, but Jenks being around and then gone left a void and I was reduced to playing dominos or cards with the ladies at a nearby restaurant twice a week. I knew I'd settle into doing my own thing quickly, but there are always those first few days of ennui after Jenks leaves.

  I considered cruising out to the islands, but there was a tropical disturbance promising to become a hurricane down south and those spaghetti-line predictions showed a possible track threatening everything from a category three direct hit to just a bunch of wind and rain. I'd weathered enough crap to know better than to leave port in a storm.

  "Maybe we should go to Texas, Po Thang. I'm a little homesick for Mama and Daddy, chicken fried steak slathered in cream gravy, and Shiner Bock beer And you can chase deer to your little doggie heart's content. Ooh, it’s deer season, so make that chicken fried venison with cream gravy, whaddaya think?" He wagged his approval, although I doubt he’d ever even seen a deer. You just gotta love a guy that agrees with almost anything you say.

  The more I thought about it, the better a road trip sounded. I could drive north to the border and then over to Texas. Or, take the ferry to the mainland and up. Or...the phone rang. Caller ID told me it was Wontrobski, and my heart stuttered. Both he and Jenks were in Dubai and, since I inherited the worry gene from Mom, I generally think the worst.

  "Yo, Trob," I said, doing a mental calculation of the time in Dubai: Eight in the morning. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing wrong. Job."

  Fidel Wontrobski is a man of few words. I pictured him at his desk, wild black hair, beak nose, and the posture of a buzzard sitting on a cactus. Probably dressed in his signature all black clothes despite the heat in the Middle East. Figuring I didn't look so hot myself, I was grateful he refuses to use Facetime.

  "Who do you want killed?"

  Not even a chuckle. The man is a genius but missed out on the humor gene. He knows I'll take on just about anything, but for the record, he really never asked me to off anyone. Honest. Collateral damage? Out of my control.

  "Courier."

  "Wontrobski, I am a highly trained professional. An engineer who fakes it as an expert in engineering stuff. Not a babysitter."

  "France."

  "France?" I gasped. "Mais oui!"

  "Email. Details."

  I hung up on this dazzling conversation, so dazzled the cabin spun. Either that or some jerk threw a wake in the marina.

  Selecting my favorite Edith Piaf song, I turned "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien,"—my theme song—up loud and serenaded Po Thang, doing my best to imitate France’s most famous chansonnière’s torch tones while declaring, "No, I don't regret anything." He covered his ears with his paws and whined. Everyone’s a critic.

  The ding of fate saved my dog from more of my singing. I rushed to my laptop and quickly read the Trob's email, summarizing for Po Thang as I went. "Okay, here's the deal, Dawg. Baxter Brothers is opening a satellite office in Lille, a French city on the Belgian border, and they want me to accompany a shipment of technical equipment and documentation from San Francisco. Lille? Hey, where's the Paris part?"

  The phone rang again and without checking caller ID I spluttered, "Hey, where's the Paris part?"

  Jenks’s deep laugh warmed me to my toes, leaving a smolder in an unmentionable spot on the way down. "That would be me, Hetta. After you get the load to Lille, we'll meet in Paris, if that's okay with you."

  "Okay with me? Are you friggin' kidding? How long can we stay?"

  "How's a week in Paris? Then I'm working on a surprise you."

  "I hate surprises."

  "Not this one, you won't."

  When I hung up the phone I was stoked. A job! An easy one for a change. All I had to do was accompany some Baxter Brothers stuff to France in a private plane, and then comes the good part: meet Jenks in Paris. Oh là là!

  Paris! I love Paris. I even lived there once upon a time. I was a student, living on the Left Bank in a cockroach-infested hovel with a gritty bathroom down the hall, but I was, at least in my mind, une vraie Parisienne—a true Parisian—living my dream, soaking up culture and wine. And now I was leaving Mexico for a few weeks of paid vacation in a country I loved.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  In those days, over twenty years ago, I spoke French like a native and frequented sidewalk cafés where I smoked fat, unfiltered Gauloises while looking blasé. I tried dressing the part, but my body is very un-French, so I went for Bohemian French, which is no easy tas
k. I even mastered the Gallic sniff of disdain for American tourists who talked too loud and dressed in baggy clothes, the Barbarians.

  Clothes! I'd been living on a boat for three years. What the hell was I going to wear in Paris? Panic set in, so I took a few deep yoga breaths before my heart jumped out of my chest. A bit calmer, I called Jan, who is a clotheshorse of the highest order. Even in that gawdawful fish camp she manages to look stylish. But then again, she'd make a burlap bag look good, so just maybe she could do something for me.

  She answered almost immediately and heard me panting. "That you? Or Po Thang? And what's wrong? Never mind, I don't even care because—"

  I cut her off. "I need you to come get Po Thang. Like tomorrow. I'm going—"

  She cut me off. "I'll be there by four."

  "Don't you want to know—"

  "Naw. Even getting dragged into one of your harebrained schemes sounds good right now. Whatever it is, surprise me. I'm bored to tears up here in this godforsaken camp. Hell, the whales haven't even shown up yet. Jeez, would you listen to me? I want whales? Just harpoon me. See you mañana, Chica."

  "But—" She hung up.

  Sleep wasn't in the cards, so I gave up trying at two in the morning and raided my hanging locker, throwing piles of rejects onto my bed. This sifting through clothes thing worried Po Thang, who sat on a pile of ratty sweats and whined.

  "Sorry, sweetie. I know I told you I wasn't going anywhere, but as you should know by now, I lie. I mean, we're talking Paris here. You'll go home with your Auntie Jan." His ears perked up at her name. "And chase seagulls and pelicans as much as you want. Also, you know how you love going out in the boat with Doc Chino," tail thump, "on the whale count."