by Sandi Scott
“We’ll have to lounge for half an hour.” Georgie reminded her, “Don’t want to cramp up in the water.”
“Oh, dear. Lounging by the lake. If we must, we must.”
The ladies headed back to the lodge, chattering just like the birds in the trees.
AN ANGRY VOICE FLOATED towards the twins as they entered the front foyer of the lodge. “I don’t care what you say, Merv. Even if it is a utility closet, we have standards here.”
“Joyce, I’ve been the custodian for longer than you’ve been alive and...”
“That might be so. But I’ve got a job to do. If we get a surprise inspection by the fire chief and he finds greasy rags or bottles of chemicals strewn around like beer cans after a frat party, it’ll be my hide. And you can bet I won’t go down alone.”
“In all my years here there has never been a single complaint or...”
“Merv, do you like your job here?”
Embarrassed Georgie and Aleta looked down at the floor as they walked past the two staff members in the hallway leading toward the restaurant.
They didn’t hear the man, Merv, reply. But they heard the woman, Joyce, continue as if she were scolding a student in the hall outside a classroom.
“If you think the Lodge has become too much for you then maybe it’s time you move along.” Joyce’s voice was shrill.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then I suggest you get used to doing things the way I say. Now clean up this room and when you are done with this there are two loose stone slabs by the pool. And don’t forget to get the wood for the bonfire tonight. I don’t want the guests waiting like they had to last Tuesday.”
“Yikes.” Georgie whispered. “I wouldn’t last five minutes working with that woman.”
“You wouldn’t last five minutes working for anyone.” Aleta whispered back.
“What are you talking about? I am the easiest person to get along with.”
“Ha!” Aleta burst out. “Right. I’ve heard you say this before. Just because you repeat a thing doesn’t make it true.”
“Well, I still wouldn’t work for a woman like that. Take the poor guy in your office or something. You don’t do it where people can see and hear.”
“You’re right about that.” Aleta pointed to a sign that said Please Seat Yourself. “Should we take a seat by the window?”
“That looks perfect.”
Before long they each had a slice of pie and a scoop of maple ice cream in front of them and two steaming cups of coffee.
“I feel like we are in a completely different country and not just off in the suburbs. This is really nice.” Aleta said as she looked out the window to yet another stunning view.
“I’m going to bring my sketchbook to the lake.”
“Good idea. I’m going to bring some candy bars.”
“Aleta, sometimes your brilliance is blinding.”
After their snack they went back to the cabin to change clothes.
To keep reading Murder at the Bonfire, get it online.
PREVIEW: Crêpe Murder
The following is a preview of Crêpe Murder, the prequel to the Seagrass Sweets Cozy Mystery Series.
CHAPTER 1
ASHLEY ADAMS LEANED back in her computer chair and stretched out her arms. “Hooray!” she exclaimed. She’d been on the computer for hours—lots of hours. Her eyes burned, and her legs felt like she had forgotten how to use them—but she was done. She had been working on one of her boyfriend Serge’s white-hat hacking projects since—hmm, just how long had it been?
The couple had come all the way from Texas to Paris-oh my gosh-France to work on a bunch of security jobs across the city. Now they were testing out the security protections for a real estate management company named L’Ancien Chêne, which translated to “The Old Oak.” The goal was to hack into the company’s computer system a multitude of different ways, find out what was vulnerable and what wasn’t, and then try to sign up with a fake ID to rent one of their apartments for about a tenth of what it was worth.
Ashley had not only managed to do so, and she had finished all her reports about the loophole as well. Although it was unlikely anyone else would discover what she had, it was divulged in the report anyway. Serge had promised to take her out to her favorite restaurant—an expensive treat—if she could find and document a novel way past the security. Serge didn’t think I could do it, Ashley thought. Why? Because he couldn’t! Chuckling to herself, she emailed the report to Serge, cc’ing it to his boss and to the owner of L’Ancien Chêne as well.
“Ooh la la”, she said to herself, “I think someone owes me a dinner at L’Oiseau Bleu!”
Careful not to bonk her elbow into the countertop, Ashley slowly stood up, stretching her legs and arms. Their Parisian apartment in the 14th Arrondissement was cozy, which, in Texas, would have meant tiny and possibly even a little bit cramped—but that view! Her front window faced the area behind the buildings surrounding her block. That area had its own little courtyard and a whole extra row of houses tucked between the buildings. It was likely that the houses must have been carriage houses or servants’ quarters back in the old days but now they were separate apartments. Everyone had flower boxes on their windowsills and all the patios and balconies had wrought-iron railings. The tiny folding wood table on which she had her laptop was in front of the French doors leading to the balcony, and every time she looked out, no matter how gray or dark it was outside, she had to pinch herself. She was in Paris!
Whether she and Serge would stay there was another question. He didn’t seem to like the apartment any more. “Too small and not the best neighborhood.” Ashley didn’t know what he was talking about. She loved it here. Okay, the apartment was small. The fridge was only a little larger than a college dorm fridge, and the kitchen also contained the washer/dryer in place of a cupboard. There was no oven, only a ceramic range top and a microwave. Counter space was nonexistent, they had room for a tiny electric coffee pot but nothing else. As well, there was nowhere to sit other than at the kitchen table or on the bed, no living room at all. If they were both going to work at the same time, Ashley had to sit cross-legged on the bed with her laptop. The sink was built into the back of the toilet. To wash her face, she had to close the toilet lid and straddle it—so weird—but she was in Paris!
Ashley’s one grumble about the apartment was not being able to bake. A baker by nature she delighted in creating baked goods of all types. Bread, cookies, pastries, pies, cakes—oh, how she loved to make cakes—macarons, and Napoleons, Ashley’s first vision of moving to Paris with Serge had entailed herself piping rows of macaron shells onto sheet pans. When she was a little girl, she’d dreamed of making wedding cakes as tall as the Eiffel tower—not getting married, just making the cake. Instead, all she was making was lines of code. Although it wasn’t her life’s dream to be the world’s best programmer, she was good at it, and it paid well.
Sighing, Ashley took a shower and put on real clothes—black jeans and a mauve peasant blouse—rather than the scruffy sweats she’d been wearing for three days straight. She put on lipstick and grabbed a string bag in case she found something at the market that she had to have. The best cure for feeling sorry for herself while she was in Paris ... was experiencing Paris!
BY THE TIME ASHLEY returned to the apartment, there was a receipt in her pocket and a smile on her face. She had just signed up for a cooking class at L’Oiseau Bleu. It was expensive and intense, almost five hundred Euros for two weeks of eight-hour classes. She would be with a small group of five students, though, making real food. Okay, the food wouldn’t be served at the restaurant unless the owner, Monsieur Lemaire, gave them permission, but it would be eaten by the staff on duty, and the second week would be all baking.
The class started tomorrow. I am so excited, and I can’t wait to tell Serge!
“YOU DID WHAT?” SERGE demanded angrily.
Ashley’s heart sank. “As a treat, I signed up for a cooking clas
s at L’Oiseau Bleu,” she repeated. “It’s a two-week class, eight hours a day, costing five hundred Euros, which is going to come out of my pay for this last job. I need a break, Serge. I can’t stand the sight of code anymore, and frankly, I did a great job. I deserve this.”
“I’m not saying you don’t, babe. I’m just saying ...” There was a brief pause before Serge continued more calmly, “That’s two weeks that I don’t have you to cover projects for the company.”
“Which hasn’t actually bothered to hire me on as anything other than a freelance contractor.”
“I was counting on you.”
Just then, Ashley’s phone rang. She picked it up to check the number and froze, an American number but not her parents. She let it buzz and go to voice mail. “You could have said something,” she said.
“You could have asked for permission.”
“Your company could hire me as a full-timer,” she said. “Until then? This is supposed to be a vacation. A chance to try something new. Not to be cooped up in an apartment when all of Paris is outside, waiting for me. I’ve barely left the neighborhood. I haven’t even seen the Catacombs yet, let alone the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower or the ...”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I get it. But why two solid weeks at a café? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, out having fun?”
“I wanted you to go with me when we see the big things,” she said. “Trying to see the Louvre on my own sounds lonely.”
“And we will — just not now, now is too busy.”
“That’s what I figured.” Ashley grinned in excitement, “So, I’m going to take two weeks and learn how zee French really cook, no? And if you’re still too busy when I get done, we’ll talk about it.”
“You really want to do this?” he asked.
“I do. I really, really do.”
THE NEXT MORNING, ASHLEY showed up at L’Oiseau Bleu with three other students. The fourth had already dropped out. The students included one American couple, Jack and Jill Smith, and one very intense young Paris-born Frenchwoman named Marie Prieur, whose goal was to learn the ins-and-outs of running a small restaurant business and open her own café. They would not be taught full-time by Monsieur Lemaire, but by his sous chef, a woman named Patty LaFontaine. She wore a striped blue-and-white Breton shirt, black pedal pushers, blood-red lipstick, and a disdainful smirk.
After talking to Jack and Jill Smith, and then Marie Prieur, Ms. LaFontaine turned to Ashley and said, “What about you, ma chère? What brings you here?”
“I’m on vacation,” Ashley said. “I’m a programmer.”
“And you’re taking two weeks out of your vacation to learn how to cook the Parisian way, is that it?”
“Yes.”
Ms. LaFontaine rolled her eyes. “Americans — as if it were that easy — this will be the hardest two weeks that any of you will ever spend in a kitchen, and you still won’t have learned how to cook like a Parisian when you’re done here because that accomplishment requires years of dedication! Personally, I don’t think any of you are going to make the whole two weeks.”
Ashley quailed inwardly. She just met her first real French chef – and was completely terrified of her. Gulp!
THE FIRST DAY WAS NOTHING but prep work and knife skills, something that Ashley had never really been interested in. She was a baker at heart — not a cook. She struggled not to let herself get discouraged as she chopped her way through onions, onions, and more onions. Chef Lemaire walked through their area, praising the work that Ms. LaFontaine had just been criticizing. “Très bien, très bien.”
Ms. LaFontaine rolled her eyes at him the second his back was turned. “The pieces of onion are not even and will not caramelize properly.”
Ashley repressed a smile. Seeing that Ms. LaFontaine’s standards were above even that of the chef made her feel about a thousand times better already. If she could survive the mean sous chef, she could survive anything.
Next, they roasted bones and vegetable scraps for broth and then simmered and skimmed the broth, in between practicing their knife skills. Now, the onions had to be caramelized for soup. Soon, Ashley felt like she was sweating onions out of her pores as she stirred. “No, no, not like that!” was the constant refrain she heard from Ms. LaFontaine.
Will I ever pass the sous chef’s scrutiny? Ashley felt glum as she looked back into the pot she was stirring.
By the end of the day, the Smiths were looking daggers at Ms. LaFontaine’s back. Marie Prieur leaned over to Ashley and whispered, “I heard them telling Chef Lemaire that they wanted a refund!”
“I can’t blame them,” Ashley whispered back.
“What? Are you leaving, too?”
“If Ms. LaFontaine thinks that all it takes to drive me off is a few sarcastic comments, she’s going to have a surprise first thing tomorrow.”
“Good,” Marie said. “That’s the way to do it.”
The bread had already been made, fortunately. The onion soup, now carefully seasoned, was ladled into crocks, topped with toasted slices of baguette, and sprinkled with Gruyère.
“Ma chère,” Ms. LaFontaine told Ashley, “I am ashamed of you. That is an entirely insufficient amount of cheese. If I were to send that bowl of soup out to one of our customers, do you know what they would say? Où est le fromage?”
“Sorry.” Ashley sighed and looked at the floor.
“Don’t be sorry. Be wonderfully excessive, especially with cheese. When all is said and done, people come to France for two things: cheese and pommes frites.”
“Not the Louvre?”
“Mais non! You cannot eat La Joconde!”
“What’s that?” Mr. Smith asked.
“The Mona Lisa. Sacré bleu! Stir those onions before they burn.”
After all that drama, however, the onion soup proved to be the most delicious that Ashley had ever tasted.
Is Ms. LaFontaine and her unending pickiness worth it? Ashley thought to herself as she quietly sipped her portion.
THE SMITHS DIDN’T THINK so. The next day, they were gone. When Marie and Ashley arrived for class at dawn as requested, Ms. LaFontaine was sitting outside the front door smoking a cigarette while she waited for them.
“The tourists are finally gone,” she said, apparently ignoring the fact that Ashley was essentially a tourist too. “Now we get down to the real business. Come with me.” She took them down to the far end of the street with wire carts to shop at the markets for the restaurant. “In America, restaurants have all their produce delivered from the back of a truck. All their meat, everything—even fish!”
“You’re not serious!” Marie said.
“No, it’s true,” Ashley said, “but how did you know, Ms. LaFontaine?”
Mumbling behind her cupped hands as she lit another cigarette, Ms. LaFontaine said, “Because I’m originally from Manhattan, ma chère, and stop calling me Ms. LaFontaine — it makes me feel old — my name is Patty.”
“Wait, where did you say you were from?” Ashley was incredulous.
“I’m from Manhattan. What of it?”
Ashley shook her head. “I don’t know if I would have ever figured that out, um, Patty.”
Patty let out a laugh. “All right, let’s see if your fish observation skills are better than your people observation skills. What kind of fish is this?”
“Um ...”
“Sole,” Marie inserted quickly.
“Correct. What are the classic methods of preparing sole?”
Marie rattled off several in rapid-fire French.
“Good. Today, we’re going to be doing sole meunière—très simple if the sole is good, and this is very good, so we’re going to be serving it to customers! The two of you are going to handle every sole meunière order that comes up for lunch today. And guess what? Today, L’Oiseau Bleu is having a special on sole meuniere! Are you up for it?”
They both assured her that they were. Ashley’s guts clenched. She hoped she wasn’t lying to both herself and t
he formidable Ms. LaFontaine.
THAT AFTERNOON ASHLEY went home exhausted but happy. Not only had she made sole meunière all day, but after a while, Patty had pulled Marie off the station with her, “Too crowded for two, non?” and had Marie cooking steaks for steak-frites orders. Thankfully, the day was slow because a few times they slowed down and ran behind, or dropped things, or overcooked something – but mostly it was a good day. Ashley climbed the stairs to the apartment, let herself in, and threw herself on the bed. Serge was out. She looked around for a note, but didn’t find one, so she texted him.
Home soon? Ashley got up, took a shower, and then sat cross-legged in her bathrobe on the bed.
Sorry, working late. Big project.
She knew he wasn’t trying to make her feel guilty, but she felt guilty anyway.
Supper?
No, all good.
Serge had been staying out late for a while now, working on projects for his company. He had an office cubicle that he could use at the company and had been spending more and more of his time there. So much time that Ashley was starting to wonder. Is he losing interest in me? Cheating on me? Nah, she’d never seen him so much as look at another woman. All he ever talked about since they had come to Paris was work – and money. As a working couple, they could easily afford a bigger apartment if the size of this one was really bothering Serge that much.
So, the big question now had to be, what was for supper? Ashley was tempted to go back to L’Oiseau Bleu to eat; on the other hand, that might seem just a bit too obsessive. Instead, she went downstairs to the little cheese shop just two doors from her apartment and bought a Brillat-Savarin cheese and some crusty bread. Belgian chocolate truffles from the chocolate shop next door to the cheese shop had somehow found their way into her shopping bag as well by the time she returned to the apartment. Hiding in the fridge were some greens for a simple salad and a bottle of Alsatian Pinot Blanc wine.
