After the tuxedoed maitre d' had seated them, Fred had made a pronouncement in his best French accent, "There are no problems, no worries at Café Richard. You, madam, for the evening shall be Cynthia, head mistress of a poor, but academically superior school for restless girls. You are taking a much deserved vacation in Europe." He pointed at David. "Our friend here, is Prince David of Dean, vacationing incognito. We're all trapped by a raging blizzard in an obscure little hotel on the French Riviera."
"Snow on the French Riviera?" Cynthia laughed.
"A most unusual occurrence for the season, Madam," Fred replied.
"And who are you?" Dean asked.
"Chief Inspector Hercule O'Connor, at your service," he answered, with a bow. "Taking a short holiday after freeing this august establishment from the scourge of an international jewel thief."
There was total absence of mention of the disappearance of Jeffrey Byrne, Dean's trip to Norfolk, or any real-life matters for the entire evening. All pedestrian concerns were put aside and collectively forgotten while the group concentrated on the created adventures of the mythical three. The characters became more absurd with each passing round of tales. They whispered conspiratorially about the "true" identity of the other guests-the bearded gentleman on the left, by the palm tree? A defrocked priest conspiring to blow up the local abbey. The gorgeous blonde on the far side of the room? A famous movie star on a secret rendezvous away from her alcoholic husband, a graft-taking senator from the mid-west. In spite of himself, Dean enjoyed the evening, more than he had in weeks. They laughed their way through two bottles of good Bordeaux and a dessert, brought in flaming splendor to their darkened table. They were still giddy when Fred paid the check, by peeling a large number of ten-dollar bills from a roll that started twice as large as it finished.
"Just thank the quarter slot machine at Mr. Trump's place," Fred said, as they rose to leave. Dean brushed aside a pang of guilt for sticking the old man, but it served him right.
It was still early when the group left Café Richard, but to Dean's surprise Fred suggested Dean drop him off before taking Cynthia Byrne back to Sherwood Forest.
"Us old timers need to hit the sack early," Fred lied.
Cynthia kissed him on the cheek, telling him he didn't look a day over 50.
"I'm so old I won't even buy green bananas no more," he smiled as Dean rolled his eyes.
The moon was out, the evening was mild and had circumstances been different, Dean would have put in a plug for continuing the evening's pleasure. Instead, he spent a half-hour in her driveway, discussing the Norfolk trip and the search for her missing husband. She accepted his report, not without obvious sadness but with business-like decorum and no sign of tears. She, in turn, brought him up to date. Her mother was to arrive the next day and stay through the memorial service on the following Wednesday. The neighbors continued to help, but they had their own lives to live and she was encouraging them to get back to their normal activities. She was coping, forcing herself to acknowledge that it might be weeks, or possibly never, before her husband's body was recovered. Yes, money was a problem and she hadn't any idea how to tackle the matter.