A Paris Guide

Raincoat draped over her ample arm, a solitary Charlotte Williams waited at the curb in front of Hotel Lyon Bastille, the cheapest hotel she could find. She carried a dog-eared travel guide in one hand, and her French for Dummies in the other. Bus #52, the 'public conveyance' that would take her on the next leg of her Paris adventure, was due to arrive at any moment.
What had been planned as a week-long adventure with her long-time friend, Abby, had ended up as a solo excursion; Abby's 'fear of flying' had kicked into overdrive at Dallas/Fort Worth International, and no amount of coaxing could drag Charlotte's hysterical traveling companion onto the Boeing 747.  Consequently, Charlotte Williams was left to celebrate her recent divorce on her own.
The battle had been a contentious one, and the divorce settlement was still up in the air. All she was asking for was her half of the family business, which had become lucrative mainly because of her twenty-eight years worth of sweat equity. Charlotte had planned this trip before she realized that her attorney would not wait for his hefty fee. And, now that Abby wasn't in the picture to share expenses, the forty-nine year old divorcee would have to watch every penny.
Charlotte had purchased French for Dummies and The Cheapskate's Guide to Paris at a used bookstore in the 'City of Light' when she first arrived, six days earlier.  She had mastered a few French words: oui (yes), adieu (farewell), merci (thanks) and mon chere (my darling).
She had looked up adieu and mon chere immediately after a strange incident on the day of her arrival: a male hotel guest had passed her in the hall as she made her way to the water closet. He had taken hold of her wrist with his bony hand, whispered "adieu, mon chere" in her ear, and then disappeared down the stairwell.  The mysterious man looked vaguely familiar. She had watched for him every day since, but to no avail.
Charlotte had been studying The Cheapskate's Guide to Paris each night, trying to make her money stretch as far as she could. The guide listed Porte d'Auteiul as a reasonably priced destination, a "must see while in Paris"; so the cash-strapped woman boarded Bus #52, intent on spending a few hours "strolling leisurely through one of Paris's most pleasant residential areas", on the cheap.
Ominous clouds gathered in the afternoon sky, unexpectedly extinguishing the sun's rays, as the sparsely populated Bus #52 arrived at Porte d'Auteiul. The clouds exploded just as the 'umbrella-less' tourist stepped from the bus, ahead of the only other passenger. The sideways rain pelted Charlotte's flushed cheeks, chilling her to the bone, as she made her way along the deserted street, toward a storefront's friendly striped canopy. She had planned to spend the sunny afternoon "strolling leisurely (and cheaply) along rue d' Auteiul", and "getting lost in Fleur Parfum's floral offerings--the freesia, dahlias and Dutch irises." After that, she had planned to "pop into the framagerie for a wedge of Brie, and select a sable glace' at the patisserie down the way", squandering the last of her 'mad money' before heading back to her drab matchbox-sized hotel room.
The tourist hurried past the shops, raincoat collar turned up against the biting wind, barely glanced in through the steamy shop windows at the French wares and delicacies, as she hugged the facades of  the shops. She moved under the canvas overhangs along the route, trying to catch her breath as she dodged ruthless raindrops.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The soggy sightseer slowed her pace, shook the water from her floppy-brimmed rain hat, put on her readers, and opened her trusty travel tome. Her fogged-up glasses perched on the tip of her runny nose, Charlotte picked her way around Parisian puddles as she perused the worn pages. "Turn left on rue l'Assomption to av Mozart, or go down any street that looks interesting--and they all do."
Alone at the curb, the travel guide riding in her right coat pocket, Charlotte stopped to blow her nose in her new French hankie. Her plan was to cross rue l'Assomption, turn left toward av Mozart, and seek the cheap thrills mentioned in the guide.  At the same instant, Bus #53 came barreling down the rain-slicked rue l'Assomption.
The hapless woman felt the pressure of the bony hands on her back a moment too late. The last thing Charlotte Williams ever heard was the familiar voice whispering, "Adieu, mon chere!"