Death toll and profiterole: A paranormal cozy mystery (Fangs and psychics mysteries Book 1)

by Penny BroJacquie

  “They are not really having a quarrel,” he said calmly.

  “They are definitely having a quarrel. And they are giving my shop a bad name.”

  They did not and the soulless man knew I was wrong. To my surprise, he did not try to make change my mind.

  “It is not your responsibility to patch the quarrel up between them; let them sort it out themselves.”

  His eyes locked into mine, and I felt warmth all over my body. The feeling of anxiety was gone and for the first time, I realized how beautiful his eyes were.

  “Want to play a game?” He asked but before I opened my mouth to utter a word, he stood up and started walking hurriedly toward the corner where the two old ladies were still squabbling.

  “Ladies, we need to evacuate the place. The manager just told me there is a gas leak and we must leave right now. There is an extremely high danger of explosion and fire. You do not want to get grilled, do you?”

  “What the heck?” I stand still looking at his act without trying to hide my puzzlement.

  “Dude, this place is freaking me out! Kiss my ass goodbye!”

  The young student who I poked fun at earlier ran out of the patisserie, freaked out of fear of the supposedly gas leak. And I had not served his lunch yet. I could not blame him. He was only looking for a cheap meal, and he ended up having to deal with a telepathic chick, two old ladies and two men quarreling, and a life-threatening danger. I was sure that I was not going to see him again.

  “Sir, please, you need to leave this place,” my new friend said to a black-clad man who was sitting at a table close to the door.

  “Okay,” the man finally replied after a few seconds silence, “I’m leaving. That does not mean I will not have what I want,” he said as he stood up on his feet and walked toward the door. Right before he crossed the exit, he turned around and stared at me in a way that made me feel chilled to the bone.

  “You’ll be mine before dawn cracks,” I heard him saying into my mind.

  Horrified by the unspoken threat, I did not realize that I had grabbed my new friend’s arm, squeezing it fiercely. It was that touch that opened the door to his soul to me.

  It was like my touch had penetrated the soft fabric of his blue-black suit and had reached the depths of his heart. What appeared to be cold, it was, in fact, radiating warmth and caring. I was still holding his left arm in a tight grip when he slipped his right arm protectively around my shoulder. Suddenly, a stream of spinning images filled in my mind and my heart raced frantically as the images projected into my mind carried a blast of sentiments in me. Pictures of men, women, and children, some of them dressed in modern clothes, others in garments that resembled old paintings of past centuries, whirled in my mind. Anger, terror, happiness, grieve; all kinds of emotions whipped simultaneously my soul.

  Panic-stricken by the uncontrollable flow of memories of lives that I had never lived and emotions that I had not personally felt, I pushed his hand away from me.

  “Do not be afraid. I will not let him hurt you,” he said softly.

  “No, thank you! I do not need your help,” I yelled. “I already lost four customers because of you. They left before they even paid the check.”

  I turned my back to him, walking away toward the kitchen. “Please leave,” I ordered him without even looking at him.

  “I will not leave you alone, I will keep you safe,” he whispered into my mind as I walked across the corridor to the kitchen door.

  How did he do that?

  That was freaking weird. All my life I had been trying to block other people’s thoughts from entering my mind, and now I had some dude into my own mind.

  With shaking hands, I straighten my tight skirt and continued walking towards the kitchen. I was scared to death. But I would not let him know.

  “Leave, now!”

  That was officially the worst day of my life. I wanted to go home and crawl into my bed. I wanted to be in the safety of my home and pretend that nothing of that weird stuff happened to me.

  A girl could dream.

  CHAPTER THREE

  *

  I PUT IN A BROWN PAPER bag a couple of croissants, a baguette cut in half with each piece filled with slices of the delicious cheese that I had bought from the neighborhood delicatessen. I was going to have a picnic at home. I looked around my shop which was now empty and, after I switched off the lights, I locked the door and took the way back home.

  I used to take long walks on the Paris streets before I returned home, but that evening I was going straight to my apartment. I was way too scared to wander around, and all I needed was to seek refuge in my personal haven the soonest possible.

  The exploration of Paris had always been my favorite daily activity. I loved discovering little houses snugged between centuries-old apartment buildings, ancient amphitheaters tucked into hillsides, neighborhood parks and community gardens. I loved discovering new small cafés and enjoying my coffee while watching the tourist horse carts crossing the streets.

  But not tonight. I left my own little shop behind and I rushed into the busy Boulevard Saint-Germain. I did not even feel like taking a relaxed stroll in the winding streets of Quartier Latin.

  I was walking fast, as fast as I could, wrapped in my fluffy pink faux fur jacket. The black tight mini skirt I was wearing as part of my waitress uniform was giving me a hard time. It was that tight, and my black flats could not compare to the comfortable sneakers I used to wear during my long walks in the breathtakingly beautiful capital city of France.

  It had been five years since I moved to Paris, a young inexperienced girl from Idaho with a dream to become a world-known pâtissière. After three years of studies in one of the most famous Culinary Institutes in Paris, I had started gaining recognition as a prominent pastry chef. I was hoping for a brighter future, even if I barely saw the daylight, a result of working long hours.

  “Sometimes I think I am a vampire,” I muttered as I turned right into Boulevard Saint-Michelle. I did not truly complain though. I loved Paris. My life there had its hardships, but I was in love with the City of Lights. And I loved the vibes of the Latin Quarter of Paris which I was crossing right now.

  Situated on the left bank of River Seine, Quartier Latin was famous for its student life, lively atmosphere, and bistros. It had taken its name from the Latin language, which was widely spoken in and around the University which was located there during the Middle Ages.

  “Someday, I will open my own bistro here,” I said out loud, making a passerby turn and look at me. But I did not care. I was working hard to expand my business. In my student years, I realized that being a pastry chef would be an extremely stressful and lonely job for an out-going extrovert like me. My new life plan now included a small Parisian restaurant, which would serve French home-style cooking and slow-cooked foods, moderately priced and in a modest yet tasteful setting. I would become a bistro owner.

  A bohemian warmly lit bistro, frequented by artists, thinkers, and travelers, in that lively neighborhood of ethnic eateries, second-hand bookstores, and cool nightlife was my dream and the reason I had accepted to work late shifts. And everything was going according to my plan until today when some nutcase threatened to drink my blood till the last drop.

  I was convinced that it was the case of a vampire-obsessed wacko with a fetish for drinking blood. I had read the mind of many fetishists in my life; however, no one had been such a cold-blooded prick like him.

  Everything that happened that day was weird. Mrs. Guillaume called me crumb bum. Mrs. Toussaint defended me and argued with her old friend. A police detective visited my shop. A gorgeous police detective. A man threatened me with death. Not to mention that tall soulless guy. How creepy.

  I had never felt so uneasy in my life. I should have called a taxi to take me home, but Le Coeur was less than ten minutes walking distance from my apartment. I was scared not only because of the absurd death threats that man spat out into my mind but also by the dark abyss I met when
I dove into the soulless man’s mind.

  I did not even know what his name was.

  I had never met a person who was able to block me from reading their thoughts, and suddenly I crossed paths with two dudes who could speak into my mind.

  The soulless man’s interference made me feel safer for a moment, but when he touched my shoulder, an unprecedented stream of memories of a life I had never lived flooded my mind and gave me a vivid feeling of emotional suffocation. And like the evening was not going crazy enough, he called for the place to be evacuated, leaving me without customers to serve and no tips to collect.

  “What a jerk!”

  The funny thing was that none of his facial features had been imprinted in my memory and I was sure that if I ever met him again, I would not recognize him.

  I crossed Boulevard Saint-Michel and, after I passed by the Italian restaurant where I used to have lunch every Sunday, I turned right into Boulevard Saint-Germain. My pace was fast as I had always been feeling uncomfortable walking around the city alone at night. Although I was walking across a busy boulevard, it was still the wee small hours and I could not get rid of my mother’s saying that I should never walk alone at night. I had always been cautious but that night, in particular, I was extra cautious after the weird events that had occurred to me in the last 24 hours.

  As I was passing by one of my most favorite buildings on Boulevard Saint-Germain, I raised my head, as I always did, to admire its extraordinary ornate wrought-iron balcony, its curved façade and its elaborate wrought-iron front door. I wondered if I kept doing that ritual because I was obsessed with the beauty of that mansion or it was simply an act of superstition, an unconfessed prejudice that if I did not set up my eyes on it, something bad would happen to me.

  A turmoil of thoughts suddenly erupted into my head, accompanied by a shrill sound. It was like a vortex of thoughts was swirling in a mist of contradicting emotions.

  Memories of my childhood flooded my mind, from when I was still unable to raise a mental wall and protect my mind of intruding thoughts. With my eyes tightly closed and my fingers pressing my temples, I did the trick that I had perfected throughout the years.

  I imagined a large front door, like the one I had admired a few minutes ago, closing with a loud sound, keeping all evil outside and keeping my thoughts and memories safe. An unearthly strong force tried to prevent the door from closing, but I proved to be stronger and won the mental battle. My mind was safe. Now I had to care for the safety of my body.

  A strong wind blew abruptly behind my back and got my hair fly into the air. I knew instantly that the blow was not caused by a natural phenomenon. My sensors had already been warned about the imminent danger. What had really scared the crap out of me was the signal that the source of danger was not a living being, nor an object. The sight of one huge dark silhouette was caught out of the corner of my eye right as I turned around. My heart started beating faster when I realized that it was not one huge entity that had almost hit my back, but two human beings embraced in a hug so tight that they looked like one unity. They nearly hit a car as they flew across the boulevard and crashed on the steel of a closed warehouse.

  Suddenly, one of the men pulled out a large brass syringe filled with a radiant silver liquid and nailed it in the middle of his opponent’s chest. The injured man howled eerily as his body massed started being decreasing, as if he was on a super-effective diet, until it shrank and within seconds it was dissolved in tiny white particles All that left of him was a pile of salt on the pavement.

  Frozen to death, I stood still on my side of the road, silent and breathless, trying not to draw the attention of the man with the large brass syringe. Alas! In a blink of an eye, the man came to stand in front of me. He did not cross the boulevard running, he did not even walk, he moved through the air like a leaf carried away by a strong wind.

  “Supernatural Private Détective Alexandre Favreau. At your service,” he said before he hid the syringe in the inner pocket of his suit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  *

  PRIVATE DÉTECTIVE ALEXANDRE Favreau stood above the pile of what seemed to be white salt stashed on the pavement. He knelt down and started placing the ashes in a plastic bag using a small shovel he slipped out of his jacket.

  “What is this?” I asked hesitantly in fear of what that I would hear might be.

  “You mean the salt? It is what has remained of the victim,” he said casually.

  “How did you do that to him? Is it he or she anyway?”

  “He was a male. I scorched him down as a punishment for his crimes.”

  “What was he? And how did you exterminate him just like that? What does make you think you are entitled to punish him? What do you think you are? A vigilante?” I had so many questions.

  Favreau leaned towards me and whispered close to my ear, making sure he would not be heard by any passerby. “Because I am given the power to punish him.”

  My heart thudded in my chest and my feet tingled. “I do not want to be here anymore. Have a good night.” Yeah, as terrified as I was, I had not abandoned my good manners. Good customer service ran through my veins.

  I strode off, away from that weird crime scene; Alexandre did not try to stop me. On the contrary, he was gone. Lost in my thoughts as I was, I did not see him leaving. One half of me was happy I did not need to say goodbye to him and hoped that I would never have to meet him again. The other half of me had already started missing him. The telepathic connection we had barely developed had more impact on me than I initially thought it had. For 24 years, I believed that I was the only telepath in the world and I suddenly found myself dealing with two. One of them ended up dead and exterminated by the other.

  I did not know what the reason for their biff was. I was not sure I wanted to know either.

  “Sometimes, ignorance is bliss,” I thought.

  A clanking sound was followed by light, rhythmic knocks and the pavement got filled by little spots.

  Raindrops!

  Clouds had covered the moon over the rooftops of the Boulevard Saint-Germain buildings.

  Suddenly, all the weariness of the day fell off my shoulders. The clack of my heels resounded loudly as I hastily crossed the road and turned right into Rue Bonaparte. A few minutes later, I was at the entrance of the five-story building. It was pouring and I had no umbrella with me. I looked at the sky; large raindrops rolled down my face and, following a path of my body, dripped on the sidewalk, filtering out any negative feelings from my tormented mind.

  I walked in the rain without being alarmed by the sound of thunder; without caring about the wet clothes that embraced my body, nor about my soaked shoes. The raindrops that poured over my body flushed out the fatigue and the intensity of the day. A day that had started so beautifully with me baking my famous profiteroles and had diverted so unexpectedly in verbal attacks, death threats, and a so-called Supernatural Detective turning some dude into a pile of salt. Oh, and a gorgeous Detective – a real one – who came into my shop and left before I treated him with my best, well er, goodies.

  Walking along Rue Bonaparte, I felt tiny in the shadow of the white marble neoclassical buildings. I stopped in front of the window of an old-fashioned women’s clothing boutique. Its small green awning protected me from the rain. I noticed my reflection in the stained glass. Wet locks of brown hair embraced the angles of my face, most of my makeup gone. Using my fingertips, I corrected the melting eyeliner at the edges of my eyes. I opened my red bag, took a red ribbon out, and tied my wavy hair up into a high ponytail.

  As the storm seemed to have abated, I resumed my walking; I could not wait to get to my cozy home.

  I was walking through Rue Jacob when some young men holding beer bottles passed by. One of them turned and looked at me. His gaze focused on my hips underneath my soggy black skirt. Feeling discomfort from his shameless stare, I looked down and briskly walked away.

  “Hey, doll, you up for a night full of passion?” I liste
ned to his voice into my mind.

  “Crétin,” I mumbled and folded my hands in front of my chest, as if protecting myself from an invisible threat.

  Half an hour later, I was walking under the leafy canopy the Honey locusts created along Rue Jacob. Their autumn foliage formed a yellowish umbrella with brown touches above the road. The illuminated windows showed moments of family warmth inside the residential buildings with ornamental iron shutters and the wrought-iron balconies.

  I climbed the three steps staircase that led to the entrance of a neoclassical style, based on ancient Greek architecture, building.

  “Home at last!”

  “Bad day for walking,” I thought as I took my shoes off and climbed the stairs towards my apartment, leaving wet imprints of my feet on the wooden steps.

  As I opened the door to my apartment, my heart rejoiced. I stepped on the thick carpet that dressed my living room from wall to wall and with quick movements, I pulled my stockings off and placed them on the carpet. I took off the black jacket and skirt that had soaked up so much water and become even tighter. I unbuttoned my shirt and added it to the small pile of wet clothes by my bare feet, and then headed to the bathroom. A hot bath was what my body needed to regain its normal temperature.

  I opened the tap, and while waiting for the bathtub to fill with warm water, I looked at my naked body in the bathroom mirror. I had never been proud of my body. It was not quite thin enough, my legs were not long enough, and my breasts were small and asymmetrical.

  I did not mind it, though.

  After I poured a few drops of essential oils and two cubes of aromatic salts in the bathtub, I released my hair from the velvet ribbon and sunk into the fragrant, sparkling water.

  As my body was relaxing, my mind began to decongest from the pressure of the day. Mrs. Guillaume’s rant, Detective Lucien Fournier’s beautiful face, Supernatural Detective Alexandre Favreau mysterious soul... they all seemed so far away.