by A. Gardner
"You're ruining a perfectly good apology."
"Are you allowed to speak to me like this?" I joke. "Aren't I at the top of your suspect list?"
"Maybe." He relaxes the muscles on his face, reminding me that he's not as experienced as his partner. I forget that we are probably similar in age, and Lewis is just doing his job. Frustratingly doing his job.
"Come on." I peer out the front door and see the back of Detective Casey's suit jacket disappear in the stairwell. "You've got to tell me. Why did your boss turn to ice when I mentioned Cira?"
"I shouldn't be telling you this."
"Won't it all come out eventually?" I ask.
"Bollocks," he murmurs. "Fine. Your suspicions about Cira are correct, only we found out about her relationship with Lord Dovington too late." He pauses. "The night of the murder, after you left for the train, I went looking for Cira, but there was no trace of her. She's disappeared."
* * *
I wait nervously as Detective Casey explains my dilemma to Michel, insisting that I stay somewhere else in case the thief turns out to be a repeat offender. I'm grateful that Detective Casey seems to believe my story, and since I only just arrived in Paris he should believe me. Who decides to kill someone within a week of meeting them?
Don't answer that.
"I see what you mean," Michel agrees, "but a hotel is much more costly than the intern apartment. I will have to ask for favors."
"If anything should happen, Mr. Rolph, you don't want the bakery to be criticized for not taking the proper precautions." Detective Casey figured out Michel's weakness—protecting the bakery's reputation.
"You needn't worry about that, Detective." A smile shines through underneath puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. "I know just the person who can help."
"Good." Detective Casey turns to me. "Be cautious, Poppy. Call us if anything happens, and we'll be in touch very soon."
I take slow and steady breaths to keep myself from feeling lightheaded. It's still unbelievable to me that someone broke into my place, took something, and left without a peep. I cringe, wondering if I was sleeping while it happened or even in the bathroom. Maybe it happened while I was at the bakery? Whoever did it knows my schedule—when I work and when I'm home.
The pounding in my chest feels irregular. It's like I'm back to that moment last Christmas at my parent's house when Dirk, the Shurbin Farms rancher and devil in disguise, revealed his plot to wipe out my entire family for ruining his profitable smuggling operation. He poisoned the entire spread at my parents' annual holiday party. Of course, no one would listen when I warned them not to eat anything. My sanity was already questionable among circles of my relatives, so I guess raving about tainted veggie trays only proved my mother's point. With no time to wait for police or keep on pleading my case, I did the only thing I could think of. I destroyed all the food.
If you can get through that, you can get through this.
"I have the perfect solution," Michel declares.
"A new apartment?" No way that's happening.
"Non. You will stay with Marta."
Maybe it would be better if I took my chances with the stalker.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Marta unlocks the door to her apartment. The walk from Le Croissant to her apartment is about fifteen minutes, but we took the metro right after swinging by my place so I could grab my suitcase. Traveling down the busy street and wheeling a suitcase feels like England all over again.
Her building is nicer than mine with an elevator that actually works. She lives on the top floor of her building, and I quickly imagine what her living space might look like. Neat and tidy. Maybe with a list of rules posted next to the door for guests to abide by. She seems like the take your shoes off or else type of woman.
I smile when a cat greets us in the hall with a friendly purr. Every inch of her is as white as snow. The cat sniffs my luggage as I wheel it into the living room. There is a plain bookshelf against the wall next to a pea green sitting chair, a beige sofa with decorative throws, and a gorgeous view of the city. The kitchen is quaint, but in comparison to mine it's the kitchen royale.
"This is Peppercorn," Marta says, petting the snow-white cat. "She used to belong to my neighbor, but she's mine now."
"Oh," I reply. "Did your neighbor…pass away?"
"No." Marta laughs and sets her bag down on the counter. "Peppercorn used to wait outside my door every night for me to come home from work. She insisted on spending the night too, so I started feeding her, and the rest is history. My neighbor gave her to me when he moved. Peppercorn didn't seem to mind. I think she rather prefers it here."
"Sounds like the two of you have a lot in common," I comment.
"How do you mean?" Marta pauses.
You're both stubborn as mules.
"Nothing," I mutter. "Look, I'm sorry about all this. Once they figure out what's going on I promise—"
"Poppy," she cuts in. "You're in a new place meeting new people, and your apartment was burgled. I wouldn't want to be alone either, especially if the crook is likely to come back."
"You never know." I glance down the hall at one bedroom and one bathroom. I can see most of the apartment from where I'm standing.
"You'll be on the couch," Marta clarifies. She glances at the sofa. "It's not the most comfortable, but it'll do, I suppose."
"It beats the floor." I take a seat, assessing my new bed. It's soft like my bed back at my apartment.
"I usually cook myself dinner." Marta gets on with her usual routine. She pulls a few things from the cupboards and retreats to the living room to pull a handful of herbs from her spice garden—a collection of painted pots on the windowsill.
"I can do my own thing if you want," I say.
Marta shakes her head as she crinkles the side of her mouth.
"Don't be silly. I always cook too much anyway. Isn't that right, Miss Peppercorn?" She changes her tone of voice when she speaks to her cat. It's light and friendlier. If I were a cat we'd have no problems.
I scan the selection of reads on her bookshelf, which consist of as many cookbooks as romance novels. I stop when I get to a collection of framed photos of various doors around the city. Each one is unique. I pick up a photo with a bright red door and brass knocker.
"What are all these?" I ask. Marta clangs away in the kitchen. When she has a spare minute, she looks toward the bookshelf.
"I assume you like prawns," Marta responds. She fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. "Oh, I collect those. They're pictures from my travels."
"Why doors?"
"Why not?" she immediately responds. She must be tired of that question. "They're so mysterious, aren't they? You never know what might be behind them. It could be something incredibly beautiful."
"Or it could be a nasty surprise," I reply.
"That one you're holding is from Arcachon." She dumps a pile of flour in front of her and shapes a well in the center for an egg. She speedily forms a basic pasta dough like she does it every day. By the time her water is boiling she's already running her dough through a hand-cranked pasta machine, creating long noodles.
"Where's Arcachon?" I ask.
"It's here in France near the coast. It's where locals like to vacation. I went there last year." I observe as she tosses a bundle of prawns in a large frying pan. They cook quickly. Marta pulls them out before they cook too long and starts on the pasta sauce.
"You must make this a lot," I comment. "Can I help?"
"I make pasta most nights." Marta keeps her back turned, ignoring my offer. She lets the noodles boil as she waits for her sauce to bubble. "I bought the prawns last night."
It doesn't take long before the noodles are done, and Marta transfers them to her saucepan. She adds the fresh herbs, most of them whole, and adds back the prawns. She divides the pan into two portions and dishes up two plates.
"Grab two glasses, will you?" she instructs me. Her head tilts toward the sink where four wine glasses are
hanging by the rim next to a mini wine rack. I grab two glasses and look around the room for the absent dinner table. I must have missed it.
"Where do I put them exactly?"
"Come on." Marta grins. She grabs silverware, hands me a wine bottle, and heads toward her bedroom. I follow her and the smell of grilled prawns in white sauce.
Marta enters her bedroom and opens the window. A terrace sits off of the window in her room. It doesn't look very big, but it's big enough to house a foldable bistro table. Just barely. Marta steps through her window and sets our dinner down on the table. Our two plates barely fit. Marta squeezes past the iron railing and makes herself comfy. I set down our wine glasses. I might have to hold my pasta in my lap.
"Wow." I get a chance to inhale the sights around us. A bustling street below and majestic buildings in the distance holding infinite amounts of history. "You eat out here every night?"
"Usually," Marta answers. "I love Paris. I've loved it ever since my grandfather brought me here as a little girl. Well, not to Paris per se. We often went to the countryside to visit my great uncle."
"That must have been beautiful." I take a bite of her herbed pasta with prawns.
"It was." She sits backs and takes a deep breath before digging into her meal. Peppercorn quietly takes her place underneath the table. I move my legs to the side as she stretches out. Her tail brushes against my calf. "My grandfather was an experienced horseman and a bit obsessed with the Wild West." She pours herself a glass of wine and takes a sip. "The French countryside is the closest he ever got to country living. He even had a cowboy hat just like the ones John Wayne wore on screen."
"I think every grandpa in the world was into John Wayne at some point," I joke.
"I've seen many of his films," Marta responds. "They hold such fond memories."
"I have some like that too," I admit. "Horses. Cowboys. Shootouts."
"Really?" She sets down her glass and takes her first bite.
"Yeah," I admit. "I've seen some of those movies."
"I never pegged you as the nostalgic type." She picks up a prawn with her fingers and carefully tries it. She nods as if approving of the taste in her head.
"I guess I'm just full of surprises." I glance down at the street below as I eat more of the pasta on my plate. As the sun sets, I can't help but think of the last time Marta and I shared a meal. It was in England. Every time I try to move forward, Dovington Manor resurfaces from a hole in my brain and reels me in again.
I hope the Detectives find the killer soon.
"It will be alright." Marta is looking at me—her fork stuck on pause midway to her mouth. I notice that the grip on my utensil is much too tight.
"That's what people say right before all hell breaks loose," I respond.
"I'm saying it because I really believe it." Marta resumes eating the noodles wrapped around her fork.
I want to believe, and I should believe it. The last time my world was turned upside down, I barely made it out. But I did survive, and I'm still a student at Calle Pastry Academy with an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet in my apartment thanks to Bree. She bakes for just about any occasion, even her time of the month. I should put England behind me and eat my way through Paris.
"Let me ask you this," I say. I take a moment to think through my question, hoping to avoid a repeat of our confrontation in the pub. "Aside from Dovington Manor, do you really think everything is alright at Le Croissant?"
"Sure." She wrinkles her forehead.
"You really think I'm doing a good job?"
"Poppy, what on earth are you getting at?" Marta's patience is on a short fuse. She keeps herself from frowning by observing a young couple enjoying their evening glasses of wine a few balconies over.
"Chef Gautier is what I'm getting at," I finally say. "He doesn't think much of me. I'm starting to wonder why he invites interns into his kitchen at all."
"To teach them." Marta leans forward. "I was his intern once."
"Did he actually talk to you?"
"My first couple of weeks were worse than yours," she answers. "For one, I made a rather horrid batch of French macarons on my first day. He refused to try one."
"And…" I set my fork down and listen carefully. "What happened after that?"
"I kept at it." She nods. "I soaked up everything I could in that kitchen. I was like a sponge of information. I went back to patisserie school and finished at the top of my class."
"And Jean Pierre offered you a job," I finish.
"No," Marta corrects me. "It took me years to get this job. Jean Pierre Gautier is a perfectionist."
"He'd make every pastry himself if he could." My heart jumps as Peppercorn walks across my feet and jumps back through the bedroom window. "Just like those madeleines."
"He's very protective of those." Marta says it casually, and it makes me wonder how she looks at the Le Croissant kitchen. The things that bother me don't seem to bother her.
"Why?" My heart thuds waiting for the answer. I've observed Jean Pierre making his precious madeleines many times. If he looked at his employees the same way he looked at those sponge cakes, his kitchen would be a very different place.
"Why do you think?" Her eyes widen when she looks at me like the answer is obvious. "His mother used to make them every Sunday."
"I guess everyone knows the story but me."
"Michel told me," she admits. "Chef Gautier uses her recipe at the bakery. If they don't turn out absolutely flawless he refuses to sell them."
"What about the box?"
"Box?" she repeats.
"Yes, the to-go box he tucks away every once in a while. I'm assuming he takes them home to her for her approval now and again?"
"Oh, no." She takes a large gulp of her wine. "His mother is dead."
"Wife?" I guess.
"No."
"Children?"
"No." Marta shakes her head. "He comes across as a stubborn man, but that's only because he's a very lonely one. If only his mum were alive to see how far he's come."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Destin scrunches his nose, disappointed.
"A cat?" he repeats for the hundredth time. "I always assumed she lived in a dungeon somewhere with a gargoyle for a pet."
"Sorry to disappoint you." I grin, taking a sip of my café au lait. I'll forever cherish my afternoon coffee breaks with Destin, and you can't beat the view from the back garden. The sky is gray, like it might rain at any moment, but that doesn't stop the city from doing its business.
"Did you look in her cupboards?" he asks. Since I came in this morning he has been hounding me for details about Marta's apartment. "Did you find a cauldron?"
"I can't tell you that," I tease. "She swore me to secrecy."
"Oh, Poppy." He shakes his head. "I thought you were on my side."
I've spent most of my morning assisting Destin with special orders and trying to convince him that Marta isn't a witch in a chef's jacket. I take another sip from my warm mug but almost choke on the liquid when Marta intrudes.
"I'm almost done," I say quickly, unsure if she was listening to our conversation through the door this whole time. I lean against the stone wall and force myself to act casual. Marta's expression is stern. Her hair looks like it's pulled back tighter than usual.
"There are paps out front," Marta explains. She waves at us to come inside. "Come inside before they start nosing around the back."
"Eh, they won't bother us back here." Destin brushes off her concerns.
"You obviously haven't seen the latest headline in Closer," she states.
"I don't keep up with those women magazines, Marta."
"Sweetheart Versus Ex-Tart," she recites, ignoring Destin's comment. "The Truth Behind Lord Samuel Dovington's Death."
I bite the corner of my lip.
Truth? What truth?
How can the papers know what's going on before the police?
"Who's the sweetheart, and who's the ex-tart?" I ask cautiously, though I
can probably guess.
"You better come inside for this one." She scans the garden to make sure it's secure. "Every mag in Europe will want an inside scoop now."
Destin follows me back inside. I finish the last of my coffee and prepare myself for Marta's scoop. If the case has been solved then things will go back to the way they were. No more looking over my shoulder. No more gut-wrenching anxiety whenever Michel enters the room to make an announcement. It'll be like England never happened. I'll have my little studio apartment back.
Marta doesn't look excited.
"So?" I wait for her to volunteer the details, but she has trouble finding a starting point. She crosses her arms and glares at a tray of vanilla French macarons with apricot filling instead. "What did the article say? I take it the sweetheart is Olivia, the unlucky bride?"
"Correct," Marta answers. "It appears that she got into a row last night with a certain cheeky ex."
"Not an ex from the wedding?"
"Oh, yes." Marta nods. "Some woman called Billie claims to know who killed Lord Dovington. Apparently, she's going to give an exclusive to the press this weekend."
"Will she be sober?" I grin, thinking of my last encounter with her and her man-activated cleavage.
"Poppy," Marta mutters. "What if she spouts off something random like the caterers did it?"
"She would have to remember us first."
"I don't want my picture all over the tabloids." Marta resorts to biting her nail as she glances toward the hallway. "There were loads of cameras out there when I left for my afternoon stroll."
"We'll start using the back from now on," I suggest.
"This whole thing is just…out of control. I mean it's one thing to read about this stuff with a nice cuppa, but to actually be a part of it? Poppy, I think I might go mad."
"You can't go mad. You're supposed to the sane one. Everything will be alright, remember?"
"Yes," she quietly answers. Marta rubs her eyes before attempting to compose herself. She lifts her chin when she looks at me—her usual look of superiority. "Let's get back to work then."
