Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2)

by A. Gardner

  "Right," I agree. "Those cake orders aren't going to frost themselves."

  * * *

  Marta's floor creaks. I noticed it last night when Peppercorn decided to sleep under the coffee table. I was awake and still getting used to the feel of Marta's sofa on my sore back, and I heard her creep toward the living room. It freaked me out.

  Now I'm tossing and turning again. The night sky is black, and I desperately need to sleep a little longer before Marta wakes me up. The reporters hanging around the bakery have easily doubled. Some of them ordered a coffee and sat outside for hours waiting for Jean Pierre to emerge from his stainless steel palace. Chef Gautier is a sneaky man. Oftentimes I don't know whether he's in or still at home. I swear at times he appears out of nowhere, and the papers have yet to snap his picture or shout a million questions at him.

  I don't want to know what that feels like. I kept my distance when we left work for the day, letting Destin bask among the flashes. He and Dandre were more than happy to distract the crowd while Marta and I left. Marta hardly said a word all night. I think she was too busy stressing over Billie's fifteen minutes of fame. We both went to bed early.

  It seems pretty pointless because I'm having trouble sleeping. I roll to my stomach again and glance at the opposite wall. Marta's bookshelf is plethora of the world's two greatest pleasures—food and sex. I'm just as tempted to thumb through one of her steamy romances as I am her book on the history of puddings. I take a deep breath and switch positions again. This time I stare up the ceiling.

  "That's it," I whisper out loud. I stand up and slowly tiptoe to the bathroom to splash a little water on my face. Maybe I should pick a book and read until my eyes are so heavy they can't take it anymore?

  There's too much going on in my head. I hate nights like this.

  There's a slow scratching by the front door. The floor creaks near the kitchen, and I stop in place, assuming Peppercorn's furry paws will come pittering into view. She watches my every move and has yet to let me pet her. Peppercorn keeps an eye on me like Marta is her daughter, and I'm the shady prom date.

  The floor creaks again, and there's still no sign of Peppercorn. The noise is faint. It comes again, moving in a slow yet deliberate pattern. It's keeping a pace.

  That can't be Peppercorn.

  A shadow comes into view, and all at once I realize what's happening. Intruder. My heart races. I grab my throat—hardly able to breathe. My lungs burn from the double shot of adrenaline that pulses through my veins. Hide, Poppy. Now.

  My feet are like two buckets of gelato. They're too heavy to move, but I force myself to duck into the bathroom. I drop to the floor, watching as the shadow slowly moves into the living room. The figure is larger than me and Marta with broad shoulders and bricks for arms.

  What do I do?

  I try closing my eyes and telling myself it's all a dream. I'm sleepwalking. I'm in the middle of a nightmare. I'm anywhere but here right now. Another creak pierces through my thoughts. I open my eyes. This is real.

  Stay calm. Stay calm.

  The figure stops near the sofa.

  It's after me.

  Whoever he is, whatever he wants, I have to stop him before I end up like Sam. I don't want to end up like Sam. I attempt to calm myself down, counting my breaths in my head. If I can get to my cell phone in time, I might have a chance at catching this guy. Well, the police will.

  The shadow in the living room moves. It changes direction and heads down the hall keeping a slow and steady rhythm as it slinks in my direction. The pitter-patter of tiny paws sounds from Marta's room, and there's no sign that she's awake.

  I curl up against the wall as the figure moves past the bathroom, stopping briefly to glance inside. I stay frozen in place, crouched behind the open door where I can't be seen. My heart pounds as I wait. And wait. And wait.

  Keep walking. Just keep walking.

  To my relief, the shadow enters the bedroom. I look into the hall, wide-eyed as it disappears into the darkness of Marta's room. Now is my chance, and I can't mess up. As quietly and as quickly as I can, I head toward my phone in the living room.

  I'm interrupted by a heart-stopping hiss loud enough to wake the entire floor.

  Marta screams at the top of her lungs.

  Time's up.

  At first, I feel helpless. My mind goes blank like I'm watching myself do nothing from far away. I'm standing and waiting. I've hit a wall, and I can't climb over it. But my head eventually catches up with my body all in one moment. I'm left a little light-headed. I can't think. I can't breathe. All I can do is listen to my heart crashing against my rib cage.

  Do something, Poppy!

  My Grandma Liz used to tell me I was stronger than I realized. I always thought she was referring to my tendency to beat myself up over the little things like getting a C on a test or tripping during an audition. I hear her voice in my head telling me that I've got what it takes.

  Every second that passes might be a second too late.

  I do the first thing that pops into my head and open a kitchen cupboard—one I've seen Marta use before. I grab something heavy. Something with a wide enough surface to whack my target without missing. A frying pan.

  A second later I'm in the middle of a nightmare. I'm in the doorway of Marta's room, watching as the figure reaches for her. Marta writhes underneath a rock-like hand. She squirms, trying to wiggle her way out of her bed while Peppercorn hisses some more.

  I gather every ounce of courage I have. This could go completely wrong, or it could go completely right. I raise the frying pan as high as I can and aim for the figure's masked head. With both hands on the handle, I use every muscle in my body to ram Marta's attacker. I yelp when his body goes stiff and falls at my feet.

  Marta jumps out of bed, and Peppercorn bares her teeth at the slumped body on the floor. I drop the frying pan, glancing down at my throbbing hands. I'm almost sure the handle made permanent marks in my palms.

  "What…he…I…" Marta is shaking. She backs away from the masked burglar and rushes out of the room. I'm horrified to look at the body any closer. I immediately shut the bedroom door the second Peppercorn bolts for her owner.

  "The police," I blurt out. "Call them now." I rush toward my bag, keeping an eye on Marta's bedroom door. I toss her my phone, and she dials.

  Marta says something in French, but she's speaking too fast for me to understand. Each sentence comes out in gasps until she's too breathless to continue. She rubs her forehead and drops to her knees.

  "Marta?" I place my hands on her shoulders to keep her from falling on her face. Marta looks pale. Her skin is damp and clammy. "Marta, can you hear me?" I grab the phone from her. "Hello? Please, hurry!"

  "Oui. Oui." The voice on the other end is calm and collected.

  Marta takes a deep breath and looks at me.

  "Stay with me, Marta."

  "Those coppers better get here soon," she replies. "We have to leave for work in an hour."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marta taps her fingers on the kitchen counter. Detective Berry probably assumes it's because of what happened, but I think it's because we're late for work. It's breakfast time, and Le Croissant has already opened its doors for the day. After the police showed up and arrested the masked intruder, we waited for Detective Berry to arrive for a chat.

  The man in Marta's apartment didn't look familiar, and he was still unconscious when help arrived. I can't stop thinking about what might have happened if things played out differently. Would Marta be the one on the floor? Would I even be standing here with pan-handle imprints in my hands?

  "Alright," Detective Berry says. He takes a moment to observe Marta's apartment. "Tell me exactly what happened. Did this man say anything to you?"

  "No." Marta shakes her head. "Like I've already said, Peppercorn woke me up, and I saw a shadow hovering over my bed."

  "And Peppercorn is?"

  "My cat," Marta answers.

  "Right." Detective Be
rry chuckles. "Of course." He shifts his weight, taking an extra glance in Marta's direction.

  "It was horrible," Marta goes on," if you must know. I don't know how I'll be able to sleep now after that nightmare. I mean, how the bloody hell did he even get in?"

  "We found a copy of your house key on him."

  "What?" Marta's eyes widen. "You're joking."

  "I'm afraid not," he replies. "Tell me, does anyone else have a key to your flat? A neighbor? Relative?" He casually clears his throat. "Boyfriend?"

  I raise my eyebrows at that last one and study Detective Berry's demeanor. He's much nicer to be around now that Marta's in the room, and the tone of his voice is quieter than usual.

  "She doesn't have a boyfriend," I inform him.

  "Thanks, Poppy," she mutters. "No Detective, I'm single. And no one has a key to this flat apart from me." She rolls her eyes and looks down at Peppercorn who is purring at her feet. "Wait. I suppose my landlady has a spare copy, but she lives near Versailles."

  "Do you have her information?"

  "Why yes." Marta holds up a finger. "In my bedroom." She begins the short journey to her room, but slows down when she comes to the doorway. She clenches her fists and nods, forcing herself to enter.

  "I know the thief has been caught," I say quietly, "but you can't leave us here alone, Lewis. That guy was obviously after me."

  "Detective Casey is questioning him as we speak," he answers.

  "First my apartment and now Marta's? I can't take much more of this. Where are we supposed to stay now? Jean Pierre's?" I laugh nervously. "I'd probably be shunned from the pastry world after that one. I don't even want to think about it."

  "The culprit has been caught." Detective Berry looks over his shoulder as Marta comes striding back to the kitchen. "I think the two of you can rest easy now."

  "Oh no," Marta interrupts. Detective Berry stands straighter when she returns. He hesitates to look her in the eyes, whereas he has no problem making eye contact with me. "I'm not sleeping a wink until you figure out how he got in here without us knowing. All this Dovington Manor bollocks has followed us to Paris, and you need to find out why."

  Detective Lewis Berry is at a loss for words. I fold my arms and smile as Marta puts her foot down. She places her hands on her hips and twists the side of her mouth the way she does when she catches Dandre sneaking palmiers hot off of the pan. The one time I saw him do it, he claimed it was for Palmiers A La Dandre—two pastries sandwiching buttercream.

  "I promise you—"

  "Promises aren't good enough, Detective." Marta glimpses at the time. "Poppy and I shouldn't have to sit around and wait for another madman to attack us. First Poppy, and now this? Don't you see what's going on here?"

  "I think you should enlighten him." I egg her on, mostly because the look on Detective Berry's face is priceless. I can't tell if he's embarrassed or awestruck. Either way his eyes are like two round chocolate tarts.

  "Oh…" Marta exhales loudly, losing some of her fire. "I will."

  "Alright," Lewis quickly says. "I get it. There's something rather unusual about all of this."

  "Absolutely." Marta checks the time again. Michel was informed of our situation, but that doesn't mean Chef Gautier will be forgiving of our absence. Destin and Dandre won't be able to keep up with orders alone for very long.

  "What if someone else comes?" I butt in. "What then?"

  "We'll just have to hide kitchen equipment throughout the entire apartment," Marta adds.

  "I'll request for an officer to be stationed in the building."

  "That won't do much good if guy number two also has a key." I shake my head. I just want to get some sleep. Some real sleep.

  "I'll have the locks changed," Lewis continues.

  "And an officer right outside the door at all times," I say.

  "Yes," Detective Berry agrees.

  "An experienced one," I comment. "Or the next best equivalent."

  "Yes." Detective Berry jots down a few notes.

  "You."

  Detective Berry continues nodding his head. It takes him a minute to process my final request. He stops writing and looks up—staring at Marta for a tad too long before directing his attention elsewhere.

  "Me?" he repeats.

  "Yeah." I look at Marta and smile. "You should hang here where the action is. In fact, you can swing by tonight for dinner. I'd love to hear more about the case."

  "Well…maybe I could…" He pauses for Marta's response.

  "What do you think, Marta?"

  She doesn't seem fazed by my suggestion the way Lewis is.

  "We eat at seven," Marta responds.

  * * *

  "I don't have an extra chair, Poppy." Marta kneads leftover pasta dough while I chop asparagus. Marta is making a variation of her usual pasta dish—pasta with lemon cream sauce and vegetables.

  "I'll sit on the sofa, and you two can take the table," I suggest. When we got home from our half-day at the bakery, I brought her tiny café table inside for our dinner date with the Detective.

  "Or…" She begins running the dough through her pasta machine. "I can sit on the sofa, and you and Detective Berry can have the table."

  "I'm sure he won't mind if you call him Lewis."

  Marta stops and glares at me.

  "I know what you're doing here," she says. "Tell me, do I have an advert on my head that reads desperate spinster seeks amateur matchmaker?"

  "Is this a trick question?"

  "Why do people always feel the need to set me up?" Marta whines. "Do I come across that pathetic or something?" She cranks her pasta machine more forcibly and collects enough noodles for three servings. "I like living on my own. I like being able to come home and do as I please."

  "Sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it as an insult. Lewis seems to have a thing for you."

  "Whatever, Poppy." She chuckles.

  "He does," I insist. "Didn't you see the way he looked at you this morning? Or how he didn't look at you?"

  "Now you're just making things up." She gets started on the sauce by pulling out a fresh carton of crème fraiche.

  "Not at all." I grate a pile of Parmesan cheese and watch her heat the crème fraîche with lemon juice. "He was trying not to stare."

  "Maybe it was the bags under my eyes or the frizz around my head?"

  "I don't think so," I respond. "If the circumstances where different, he would've definitely flirted with you."

  "I wouldn't even know what that looks like," Marta admits. She stops and shuts her mouth. "I mean…I'm horrible with relationships."

  "You can't be worse than me." I grin, remembering my conquest from last year who turned out to be involved in the academy's secret smuggling ring. Of course, Jeff was blackmailed into it but still. Not the best guy to bring home. "When was your last boyfriend?"

  "I'd rather not say," Marta answers.

  "So it's been a while?"

  She stays silent, focusing on her cream sauce.

  "Well then, don't think of it as a set up." I glance at her bookshelf. "Think of it as the chance to live out one of your love stories. Handsome cop rescues damsel. You can't honestly tell me that the thought of that makes your—"

  "Poppy!" she shouts. "I don't want to talk about this." She reaches past me for the grated cheese and finishes her sauce without another word. I ready our wine glasses and prepare our plates for her finished dish. When the table and coffee table is set Marta pours herself a generous glass of wine and gulps it down.

  "I'll sit at the table with him." I break the silence with a peace offering. "And I wasn't trying to set you up or play matchmaker or anything like that. I thought messing with Lewis would be fun considering the day we've had."

  Marta sets her glass down and sighs.

  "I did have a boyfriend not so long ago," she admits. "It didn't end well."

  "I know the feeling."

  "In fact," Marta goes on, "he almost cost me my job."

  "Valentine has a crazier cousin?
"

  "I wish that's what happened," Marta says. "But no." She lightly touches the rim of her wine glass. "I let myself fancy the wrong man, and he left me in shambles."

  "Do I dare ask his name?"

  Marta pours herself a second glass and takes a sip before answering.

  "It was the last American intern."

  Now, Michel's special rule—no partying with workmates—makes sense.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I start off my third week in Paris with Sunday brunch at Marta's favorite bistro. It's our day off, and after a night of uninterrupted and much needed sleep, we decided to spend our afternoon window-shopping. Marta takes a small bite of her crepe, careful not to look like a ravenous cow when Detective Berry looks at her.

  "He's quite a funny man," Marta comments. Detective Berry is sitting two tables down. He insisted that we go about our day as normal while he and his surveillance team observes.

  "He's weird," I say. I ordered crepes as well. A savory buckwheat crepe with ham, eggs, and mozzarella. "I don't know why he won't just sit with us."

  "I'm telling you. He's dangling us around like fish bait."

  "Going out was your idea," I add.

  "I never thought he would agree." She takes a sip of her coffee.

  "He agrees with everything you say." I laugh, looking out onto the street. Our patio table is facing a small square seasoned with rows of colorful shops. Marta promised to take me to see her favorite chocolatier, and I've been saving my palate for sweetness ever since. The chocolate shop is down the street.

  "No he doesn't," she argues. She looks away when her cheeks go rosy. "He's doing his job."

  Marta dressed up this morning. I've never seen her in heels and an elegant springtime dress. It makes me feel like a pauper in my black skinnies. Marta's auburn locks hang past her shoulders in voluptuous waves. No wonder Detective Berry hasn't taken his eyes off of us.

  Or rather Marta.

  "Okay." I give in. I can't make Marta see what's right in front of her —a sensible man who isn't homebound in a month like the last intern who turned her heart into rock solid sorbet.