The Hotel Riviera(20)

“Oh, you bad dog!” she yelled, stamping her foot, making Jack laugh.

Her brown eyes blazed at him through a disorderly fringe of taffy hair.

“It’s all your fault,” she said accusingly.

“I agree. And I’m sorry.” He bent to rescue whatever he could from the cobblestones. “You got Bad Dog’s name right, though, but he considers anything on the floor fair game. Of course I’ll replace the cheese,” he added, glancing at the dog, still hopefully sniffing the cobblestones. “And Bad Dog will apologize. Come on, boy, say you’re sorry.”

The shaggy black mutt rolled his dark eyes at Jack in a give-me-a-break-why-don’t-you look, then flopped reluctantly onto his belly. He rolled over, paws in the air, and gazed beseechingly at Lola.

“Fraud!” Lola snapped, unmoved by his charm.

“Hey, you can’t say he didn’t try.”

“Yeah, after he ate the cheese.”

Looking at her angry face, Jack thought she was definitely cute, if a little edgy. He held out his hand, giving her the smile that had wowed many women but had no effect on this one. “Anyhow, how are you this morning, Lola Laforêt?” He grinned as he said the name and she said defensively, “I used to be plain Lola March before I married the Frenchman.”

“The Frenchman, huh.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I detect something ominous about that phrase?”

Lola clutched her string bags to her chest; she wasn’t about to spill her problems and her life story to a stranger. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said defensively, but Jack Farrar was looking over her shoulder.

“Then maybe you also don’t know why a guy who looks very much like a cop is following you?”

“Bonjour, Madame Laforêt.” Detective Mercier tipped a careless hand to his hat, ignoring Jack. “I trust you have not yet heard from your husband?”

Lola bristled like an old hairbrush, every ginger hair seeming to stand angrily on end. “Would I be here, doing the marketing, if I had?”

“I must warn you to be careful, madame,” the detective said. “Do not stray too far. We need to know exactly where you are at all times. Please remember that.” And touching a finger to his hat brim again, he melted back into the crowd.

“Sounds like the French version of ‘lady, you’d better not leave town’ to me,” Jack said, with a grin. “So, what have you been up to, Lola Laforêt?”

To his horror she looked ready to burst into tears. He glanced quickly around for help and saw Sugar making her way toward him.

Actually, you couldn’t miss Sugar. She was in a skimpy red bandeau top and a white skirt that just about covered what was necessary. Plus she was in the company of a couple of bronzed young guys who might have stepped out of the male-model-of-the-year calendar. Jack guessed his time with Sugar might be up, and anyhow she certainly wasn’t the right woman to comfort another woman.

He glanced uncomfortably at Lola, who looked very definitely upset.

“So, what’s up, Lola?” he said, wishing he’d never met her.

She looked back at him, brown eyes wide and scared. “The police think I killed my husband,” she said.

From out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Sugar’s pouty red mouth form a silent wow. He flung an arm around Lola Laforêt’s shoulders, grabbed her string bags, and called to Bad Dog.

“Tell you what,” he said, “why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee and a brandy, and then you can tell me all about it.”





Chapter 19




He found a quiet table under the sycamores at the always bustling Café des Arts, then helped Lola into a chair facing away from the other customers. He summoned a waiter, ordered deux fines and deux cafés, then added a couple of croissants in the belief that if drink didn’t make her feel better, then maybe food would.

“So, okay,” Lola said, pulling herself together. “And thank you, Mr. Farrar.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. He took a good long look at Lola Laforêt. “That’s okay,” he said. “And it’s Jack.”

“Jack.” She managed a smile and he thanked God she wasn’t going to cry.

Sensing his concern, she said, “You don’t need to worry that I’m about to bawl my eyes out.”

“So what’s wrong with crying? It’s the normal thing to do when you’re upset.”

“And how would you know?” she said.

He shrugged. “I’ve had my moments.”

“Hah,” she snorted. Jack grinned; she actually snorted. “I doubt that. And anyhow, I’m supposed to be the strong one.”

“Sure,” he said, though he wasn’t sure about it at all.

“The strong woman, that’s me,” Lola added. “I’m the one who always looks after everybody.”

Jack put the glass of brandy in front of her. She gazed doubtfully at it. “Aw, come on, Lola Laforêt,” he said, exasperated. “I’m not trying to get you drunk. I’d just like to get you back to the point where when my dog eats your cheese you don’t fall to pieces.”

“It wasn’t the cheese.”