French Cuisine Can Kill You

by Rebecca Dunsmuir

  She hurried to the stove to remove the frying pan from the burner. The onions and bacon that were supposed to be brown were a bit too dark and crusty, but not in critical condition. She put them aside.

  Then she removed baking trays from the oven, put them on the counter and placed ten round flattened pastry pieces on them. She kept working at a fast pace, looking like a contestant on a show that could’ve been titled 'How to cook in fifteen minutes what you're supposed to cook in sixty.'

  She put the Camembert halves, cut lengthwise, and all the other ingredients on each round bit of pastry, added some pepper, covered them with the other halves, and closed the puffs by crimping the edges with her fingers. Then she put the trays in the oven and lit a match to ignite the gas stove. "Done!"

  Amanda set the alarm on her phone and pulled a chair in front of the fireplace. She sat and reviewed the information she had gathered about the murder of Martin Plouque while the puffs were baking in the oven. A mouth-watering smell of cheese, onion and bacon spread throughout the kitchen.

  Thirty minutes later, the timer went off. Amanda removed the Camembert puffs from the oven and set them carefully on the counter. Suddenly, the fire burning in the fireplace and the light fixture on the ceiling went out. Amanda stood in the kitchen in pitch black darkness, petrified. She didn't move an inch. Then she felt a light wind brush against her cheek.

  "Get out of my kitchen," whispered a woman’s voice in her ear.

  Amanda yelled and the power came back on. There was nobody in the room, but the door leading to the basement was wide open, revealing the steps going down to the dark cellar.

  Amanda was shaking, holding onto the counter, too scared to move. ‘Ghosts don’t exist, ghosts don’t exist…’ Although she was losing faith in her mantra, she decided she wouldn’t allow a ghost to bully her. It was her castle, after all, and she had the right to be here. So she took a deep breath, walked to the door and closed it, wishing Mr. Perrier had never unlocked it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find anything around to block the door.

  The puffs with their golden domes were cooling on the counter. She hurried to put them into plastic boxes, gathered all her things and placed them in the plastic grocery bags.

  Before she left the kitchen, Amanda turned around. “Make no mistake,” she said out loud, “I’ll be back.”

  Chapter 37

  W hat is that smell? I like it. What did you cook?

  D'Artagnan followed Amanda, who was pacing in her hotel room and talking on the phone with Kate. The dog sniffed her hands and raised inquisitive eyes to her.

  "I heard this voice, Kate. I swear, it was real!"

  "Are you telling me that you believe in ghosts, now?"

  "I don't know... maybe. I didn't make this up."

  "I know, I believe you, but it's so creepy. Next time you go there, you'd better bring d'Artagnan with you, just in case. So, what did you learn about this weird customer staying in the hotel?"

  "Unfortunately, nothing so far. I went to question the man who wrote the article in the Gazette, but he didn't know him. He gave me some relevant information about Montel and Barbon though, and I believe that I should dig into this a bit more. In fact, this is exactly what I'm planning on doing tonight."

  "Ah, you’re talking about this event at the Village Hall, right?" Kate switched to dulcet tones, "what will you wear to please Mister Sexy Baker?"

  "Very funny, Kate... I didn't come here to go ballroom dancing, so I don’t have fancy clothes with me. I just have a few jeans, some shirts, and a couple of sweaters, mostly."

  "Geez! How many times have I told you that you seriously need to revamp your wardrobe? Don't you even have a nice blouse?"

  Amanda opened her closet to have a glance at the five simple pieces of clothing that hung there sadly among thirty unused hangers.

  "Hmm... Ah, maybe. I have a white blouse. Simple, but nice."

  "Jeans and white shirt, not bad. Wear them and make an effort with your makeup and hair, and it should do it. You're pretty enough to make it work. Are you going to do it?"

  "Yeah, yeah... " Amanda sighed.

  "With more enthusiasm, please, it'll work better. All right, have fun tonight introducing people to your Camembert puffs. I have to go. There are three ogres here who are waiting for their breakfast."

  Kate hung up. Amanda looked at d'Artagnan, sitting on the floor. Bronx was hiding maliciously behind a sheer curtain, observing them, persuaded that they couldn’t see him.

  "OK, guys, you'll be my fashion judges."

  The pets didn't react.

  "I see. Thanks for the help."

  Amanda went to the bathroom and closed the door.

  Chapter 38

  T rotting along the dark streets of Orvilly and facing the strong winds that thrust her backward, Amanda held tight to the hood of her raincoat with one hand, pressing a large plastic box containing the Camembert puffs against her body with the other. She stopped at an intersection. Should she turn right or left? Damn. What did Paul tell her?

  French villages were built like labyrinths. The irregular and narrow streets went in all directions and took unexpected turns; very much unlike the square and simple North-American road system that Amanda was used to. She stood at the corner, trying to read the blue street signs. One of them was so old that she could barely read the letters that time had blurred. The sound of steps slapping the rainy sidewalk distracted her attention. A few feet away behind her, a tall and slender man with a black coat and a hat was approaching at a fast pace. Amanda recognized the mysterious customer from the hotel. He was getting closer, staring at her. She felt the urge to make a decision. Right. Now she remembered.

  Amanda turned to her right and increased her speed, checking over her shoulder to see if the man was still following her. He was. She walked as fast as she could, wondering if she should run instead. Would it look suspicious? Who knows, maybe the man would run after her and try to catch her?

  As she was going up the hill, Amanda saw a building that looked like an old farmhouse. Two lit up lanterns hung on both sides of the main door were dancing and swirling in the wind. Several cars were parked around the building and people were walking hastily to the porch, some of them carrying things in their hands. She had found the right place.

  Amanda felt relieved and safe when she finally stepped into the Village Hall. She was soaked from head to toe, but her Camembert puffs were safe. The place was crowded, and a lot of people were in line, waiting to buy their admission ticket.

  "What does she have here, our little Canadian?" asked Régine, who sat behind a table, collecting money and handing out tickets.

  "Ten Camembert puffs," answered Amanda proudly.

  Amanda put the plastic box on the table and removed her raincoat to hang it on a rack behind her. Régine opened the box.

  "Mmm... They smell delicious, my dear. OK, no need to pay. Here's your ticket."

  Régine leaned toward Amanda "keep it safe because there will be a draw at the end of the evening. You could win a nice bottle of Calva." The woman winked.

  Amanda shoved the ticket into her jeans pocket, took her plastic box and turned around to walk into the main room, banging the arm of a woman who was holding a glass of red wine. The wine flew out and landed on Amanda's white blouse. The only piece of nice clothing that she owned, which looked somewhat elegant, had turned into a bloody red disaster.

  "Be careful!" protested the woman.

  "Sorry," answered Amanda.

  She apologized a dozen times, having to push people here and there to make her way through the busy Hall to reach the bathroom. She was stopped by a familiar voice, in the middle of the crowd.

  "I told you to dress nice!"

  Liliane was standing in front of Amanda with a dismayed look.

  "It looked nice a few seconds ago, I swear," said Amanda with an apologetic face.

  "What happened to your blouse? Why is your hair so flat and your makeup running all down your face?"
<
br />   "What? My makeup is running?"

  Amanda brushed at black smudges of mascara underneath her eyes. She sighed. Crazy and messy wasn't the look she had aimed for.

  "It's pouring and windy outside, didn't you notice? And, obviously, I had a wine accident."

  Liliane took the plastic box from Amanda's hands.

  "Go to the bathroom and clean up, quickly. I told Pierre that I'd introduce you as soon as you arrive."

  "Who's Pierre?" asked Amanda.

  "Pierre Sablon, the baker, you silly! Go, go!"

  "Oh my God!" Amanda ran to the bathroom, knowing very well that there was only so much she could do to fix this issue. Wine stains were a killer. She pumped the yellow liquid soap from a dispenser that was nearly empty and rubbed it on her blouse energetically. What was red turned pink, and the stain spread all over her chest. She had to stop this.

  She leaned toward the little sink and bent her body in an awkward and uncomfortable position to reach the tap. She spread water on her blouse, drizzling some on the floor. Two women arrived in the bathroom and gave her sidelong glances. Amanda smiled in return, feeling embarrassed and ridiculous with her butt in the air. The women pretended to ignore her, did their business and left, whispering to each other.

  The only thing that Amanda could see in the mirror was this giant pinky-soapy stain that covered the front of her blouse. It was definitely ruined, and so was the hope of looking glamorous in front of Pierre, the sexy baker. She gave up. It was time to dry this up.

  She rushed to the hair dryer, bent backward under it and switched it on. As she was contorting her body to adjust her position to make sure that the air was directed toward her chest, a little girl entered the bathroom, stopped to stare at her, and ran away. Great. Now she scared children and this damn thing would take hours to dry. The situation was ridiculous. So she gave up on the drying too and checked herself in the mirror again. She tied back her hair and wet a paper tissue to remove the black traces of mascara running down her cheeks. The little girl came back with a woman holding her hand.

  "It's her," whispered the little girl to the woman, pointing at Amanda.

  Amanda forced a smile.

  "Go, quick," said the woman to the child.

  The little girl ran into a toilet stall and slammed the door. Her mother stared at Amanda.

  "Bad weather outside, hey?" said Amanda.

  "Uh-huh," answered the woman, who didn't seem to be in the mood for a conversation with a crazy stranger.

  The mother and her daughter left while Amanda was still standing in front of the mirror, feeling desperate about the situation. What other solution did she have? She could spend the evening in the bathroom... No. Liliane would come and get her at some point, or she would be kicked out of the Village Hall, known forever as the 'creepy little Canadian who hides in the bathroom.' She came to the conclusion that she had to assume that she'd probably be the worst dressed woman ever to be introduced to a potential date.

  She walked toward the door and was about to leave the bathroom when she heard a man talking in the corridor.

  "He knew too much so it was time to get rid of him..."

  Amanda hid behind the door and gave ear to the conversation.

  "... The deal doesn't change and the police investigation being suspended is a good thing... There are still a few things I need to do so I'll stay here a few more days... I'll call you if we need to change our plans. If so, I'll take things in hand myself."

  Amanda tilted her head to better see the corridor. The man from the hotel was standing there, talking on his cell phone. Was he following her again? He ended his conversation and turned around as if he had felt a presence behind him. He saw Amanda's head and squinted. She quickly moved back her head behind the door. Had he seen her? She remained still for several seconds, hoping that he'd leave. Then she heard him step away. She checked the corridor. It was clear. She scurried back to the Hall.

  "What took you so long?" asked Liliane. "Oh my God! This doesn't look any better. Take this."

  Liliane wrapped a long red scarf around Amanda's neck, letting it fall on her chest to hide the stain. Amanda grimaced. It smelled like old pungent perfume, maybe rose or patchouli.

  "Lose this face," said Liliane, "smile!"

  "Good evening, ladies."

  The sexy baker was smiling, displaying his perfect white teeth. Hot and irresistible in his blue shirt and jeans, he looked like a fashion model.

  Are all French bakers that handsome? Wondered Amanda. If yes, she could become addicted to baguettes.

  "Ah, Pierre," said Liliane, "let me introduce you to Amanda McBride. Amanda, this is Pierre Sablon, our wonderful baker."

  They shook hands. Amanda blushed and smiled, thinking that she must look ridiculous with this big scarf around her neck while it was hot in the room. Liliane disappeared in the crowd, pretending that she had to go and speak to someone.

  "So, we meet again. Do you have a cold?" asked Pierre, pointing at her scarf.

  "No, I... I just twisted my neck last night."

  "I hope it doesn't hurt too much. How's Bronx? Has he attempted to escape again? He's quite a funny cat."

  Amanda chuckled. "I wouldn't describe him as 'funny,' but he can certainly be entertaining at times."

  "Liliane told me that you also have a dog?"

  "Yes, a Great Dane, d'Artagnan. Although he's a lovely and funny dog, he and Bronx often fight. I'm never sure who started the war first or why, but I'm afraid their feud will never end."

  "Maybe they secretly love it. You named your dog d'Artagnan, so I guess that you like Alexandre Dumas' book?"

  "I do, but I have to say that I prefer to watch the movies based on The Three Musketeers."

  "Do you have a preferred version?"

  "Yes, the French one from the early fifties."

  "Good choice. I believe that one is a cult movie. As news spreads fast here, I won't pretend that I don’t know that you inherited the old castle. I also heard about the murder. I'm sorry about that, it's horrible."

  Their conversation was interrupted by the voice of a man yelling and tapping a microphone. The sound was very loud and there was a high-pitched feedback squeal. People in the hall complained, and some of them put their hands on their ears. A man was standing on a little stage at the other end of the hall, holding the microphone. Amanda recognized Gérald, the man from the bar who had mentioned the ghosts in the castle.

  "One, two, one, two... It works," said Gérald.

  "Yes, we know!" yelled a man in the crowd. The assembly laughed.

  The mayor stepped onto the stage and Gérald gave him the microphone. "Good evening, my dear fellow Orvillians!"

  The citizens gathered in the hall shouted and whistled.

  "I'm glad to see you here in such a large number tonight. There are a few faces here that I haven't seen for a while. Where have you been hiding?"

  The audience laughed.

  "We're going to share another great evening together, with good food, good drinks, and good music. But before we do so, I would like to ask you to observe one minute of silence in the memory of Martin Plouque who tragically lost his life this week."

  The mayor and the room went silent. Amanda heard someone behind her whispering "a minute of silence? What a joke! The man was a real pest." Another person chuckled. Some other people shushed them.

  "Have respect for the dead!" said an elderly lady.

  Amanda noticed Auguste Barbon and Delphine Montel, a few feet away from the stage, whispering to each other. The man kept scratching one of his forearms.

  "All right!” said the mayor when the minute of silence ended. “Now let the fun begin. Please welcome to the stage the amazing band The Accordion Killers!"

  People applauded and whistled to welcome the three accordionists who appeared from behind the black curtain of the small stage. The musician in the middle walked toward a microphone stand placed at the front of the stage, and began playing the introduction of a famous Val
se Musette. Simultaneous exclamations of joy sounded in the room. The other musicians joined him after a few seconds. Couples started to gather on the dance floor.

  "Do you know how to dance a Valse Musette?'" asked Pierre to Amanda.

  Dancing? If there was something Amanda did not master at all, it was definitely dancing. "Uh... I'm afraid not."

  "No problem," answered Pierre, "me neither. But we could try? It's like a waltz, but faster. We just have to follow people around us. And it's not a contest, so nobody will notice how bad we are."

  Amanda laughed and offered her hand to Pierre. Getting closer to him, she noticed that the baker smelled like warm bread.

  They joined the group of dancers, turning in circles in the center of the room. The pace was too fast for Amanda who had trouble figuring out where to put her feet.

  "Wow," said Pierre, "I think you're a worse dancer than me!"

  "Thank you so much for the compliment," answered Amanda, "I feel so confident right now."

  Pierre laughed and lifted Amanda's arm to make her spin like a ballet dancer.

  "Not sure that's a Valse Musette move, Pierre. I don't see anybody else doing this."

  "I don't care," answered Pierre, "I just do what inspires me."

  They bumped into a few couples of dancers who gave them nasty looks.

  "Take lessons!" hissed a guy, who disappeared with his partner in the dancing crowd.

  "Pierre, are you from Orvilly?"

  "No. I moved here two years ago. I'm a Parisian. I had enough of the speed and stress of the big city. I happened to visit Orvilly a few weeks after the previous baker had died. I was just taking a few days off to relax, but the villagers were looking for another baker. So, I jumped at the chance—if I can say so—and bought the bakery from his wife."

  "Funny," said Amanda, "in a way, we have something in common. It looks like dead people lead us both to Orvilly. So, there's not one drop of Norman in you?"

  "Not a bit, as far as I know. What about you?"