French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  When the doors slid open, Lucy was able to worm her way through the packed bodies, but Bill, she realized with horror, wasn’t able to make it out of the train before the doors closed. She stood, horrified, on the platform, watching helplessly as her husband was carried away.

  What to do? She knew that Bill depended on her to navigate the complicated system and wasn’t at all confident that he could manage on his own. It was like that silly song about Charlie who got lost on the MTA and had to ride forever beneath the streets of Boston. But no. Bill was smart. Bill was sensible. He’d surely manage to get off at the next stop. Hopefully, he’d remember to cross over to the other side of the tracks, and he’d show up on the next train. Hearing the announcement that the train for Saint-Ouen was approaching the station, she ran up the stairs and over to the other side, making it just as the doors closed and the train swooshed away. She glanced up and down the platform, but there was no sign of Bill in the crowd of debarking passengers.

  Her chest was tightening, and her anxiety was growing. What if he got confused? Who could he ask? He didn’t speak French. She doubted he even knew the address of the apartment, so he couldn’t even take a taxi. She sat down on one of the benches and tried calling him, but her cellphone didn’t work in the underground station. Lucy tried to calm herself, watching as a train arrived on the opposite side. She checked the electronic sign on her side, learning the next train was in three minutes.

  It seemed a very long three minutes, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest when the light appeared in the tunnel and the train finally pulled into the station. She crossed her fingers and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the train was leaving and Bill was making his way through the crowded platform to her. “Maybe we should have done that lock thing,” he said as she threw her arms around his neck.

  Lucy was beginning to think that Elizabeth was right and Paris wasn’t the fairy-tale city she’d imagined. It seemed a hostile place, teeming with people who were not the least bit friendly, who’d knock you over for a spot on the subway. There was so much she didn’t understand—her high school French wasn’t much help—and even the food was weird!

  When they arrived back at the apartment, Lucy was exhausted and wanted a bit of peace and quiet. That was impossible, however, because Ted had invited his friend from the International New York Times, Richard Mason, to join them for dinner. Richard was a good-looking man in early middle age. His temples were graying, but he took care of himself and was fit and trim in dark pants and a leather jacket, with a scarf looped around his neck in the French manner.

  Sue and Sid had gone shopping at the nearby Monoprix supermarket and had whipped up a mushroom risotto, so they all gathered at the sleek white Parsons table to eat.

  “To Paris and good friends,” said Ted.

  “And old friends,” added Richard.

  “Old friends are the best friends,” said Pam.

  They all joined in the toast and then settled down to fill their plates. The risotto was delicious, the salad crisp and fresh, and the bread was light on the inside and crusty on the outside. There was also plenty of wine, drawn from the stockpile in the apartment.

  “We have dessert,” announced Sue as Sid began collecting the dinner plates. “I stopped at the school and snagged a couple of tartes.”

  “How’d you manage that?” asked Pam.

  “You know Sue. She usually manages to get her way,” said Sid with a nod.

  Sue was quick to defend herself. “I happened to bump into Chef Larry on the street outside his patisserie and asked. There was no arm-twisting involved. He also said not to worry about drinking all the wine or eating up the gourmet groceries, because he can get us more at very good prices.”

  “So he supplied all the stuff that’s here?” asked Ted.

  “Yeah. He said he always makes sure Norah’s cupboard is well stocked,” replied Sue, lifting a slice of tarte tatin onto a plate and passing it to Richard.

  “It must be nice, living the good life at cut-rate prices,” said Richard, accepting the plate.

  The tarte tatin was a revelation. They all agreed they’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  “Who knew apples could taste like this,” mused Bill.

  “The trouble is, you get used to it,” said Richard with a wry grin. “Now when I go back to the States, I really miss French cooking.”

  “No McDonald’s for you?” asked Pam.

  “No trips to the American grocery for peanut butter and brownie mix?” asked Sue, referring to a Paris institution.

  “Nope. I shop like the rest of Paris, at the market on Saturday morning.”

  “We went to the market today as part of our cooking class,” said Ted. “As a matter of fact, some guy roughed up our teacher.”

  “Really?” Richard’s tone was sharp, but he quickly added, “That’s not at all typical. They must have a history.”

  “Apparently not,” said Sue.

  “I think he was an Arab,” said Bob. “He was dark, swarthy. He had that look.”

  “Could be,” offered Richard. “There is a lot of tension in the Arab community. It’s spilling over from the Arab Spring. The old dictators, like Gaddafi and Mubarak, are gone, leaving a power vacuum. There’s a lot of rivalry between different factions, even here in France.”

  “I don’t think you should jump to conclusions,” said Pam, sipping her decaf. “We don’t know if he’s Arab or Italian or Romany, or anything at all about him, except that he seemed to have some sort of issue with Chef Larry.”

  “Larry said not. He insisted he didn’t know him,” said Lucy.

  “Maybe he was a pickpocket,” suggested Rachel.

  “Well, I have an issue with Chef Larry,” said Sue, narrowing her eyes. “He’s a nice guy, but I can’t say I’m terribly impressed so far.”

  Lucy started to mention her suspicions about the guy she’d seen lurking in the doorway, but was cut off by Bob.

  “Why are you defending that thug?” he demanded, challenging Pam. “He attacked Larry. It’s a good thing we were all there. If Larry had been alone, I don’t like to think what might have happened. These Arabs are out of control. They hate America, and they want to destroy Israel.”

  “We don’t know what was behind the attack,” said Ted. “It could be a woman, a debt, a grudge.”

  “And it was just a shoving match,” said Bill. “High school stuff.”

  “Bob has a different perspective, that’s all,” said Rachel, eager to smooth things over. “When you visit the Mémorial de la Shoah, well, you see how intolerance and prejudice can have catastrophic results.”

  “That’s right,” said Pam. “But it’s a two-way street. Isn’t Bob being intolerant in this case?”

  “Is that what you think?” demanded Bob. “Six million Jews died in the Holocaust, and these Islamic radicals want to finish off the rest of us! Remember nine-eleven? They call it jihad and think they’ll go to heaven if they kill infidels.”

  There was a long silence until Sid spoke up. “This infidel found a rather nice bottle of brandy at the Monoprix. Who’d like a taste?”

  “I’ll bite,” said Bill. “You wouldn’t believe what I had for lunch. . . .”

  Chapter Four

  After a second bad night spent beside Bill, who slumbered peacefully, Lucy had to admit she wasn’t really all that interested in the cooking classes. If she had her way, she’d skip the class and sleep in, but that was impossible since her bed was in the middle of the apartment’s living room. The others tried to be quiet and tiptoed through on their way to the kitchen area, but Lucy found it difficult to ignore them. She’d hear a rustle or a footfall, and she’d have to lift her eyeshade and see who was there. After doing this several times, she gave up and got out of bed, reaching the kitchen just in time to get the last cup of coffee.

  She was still a bit groggy and out of sorts, however, as the group of friends made their way to Le Cooking School. The others were walking ah
ead of Lucy and Bill. Lucy was eating her croissant breakfast as she walked, and it slowed her down. Rain was forecast, so she’d brought her travel umbrella, which was also a hindrance as it dangled on a cord from her wrist. The others had disappeared inside when they reached the school, and Bill couldn’t remember the entry code.

  ���Is it one-oh-four-oh-A or four-oh-one-oh-A?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, who was watching the early morning parade of pedestrians making their way to the Chemin Vert Métro station. “Try them both.”

  Bill punched in one number, and nothing happened. “I guess it’s the other one,” he said. “Which one did I use?”

  “I didn’t see,” said Lucy, who was staring across the street at a man standing in the doorway of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle shop, dragging on a cigarette. “Don’t look now, but isn’t that the guy from the market?” she asked, whispering. “Unibrow?”

  Bill immediately turned his head in the guy’s direction. “I’m not sure,” he said.

  “He’s dark and has a three-day beard, just like that guy. And he’s smoking.”

  “There are lots of dark guys with three-day beards in Paris,” said Bill, poking at the keypad. “And they all smoke. I can’t tell one from another.”

  “You have a point,” admitted Lucy as the keypad buzzed and Bill pushed the door open. “But I’m pretty sure I saw him yesterday in the same spot, when we were leaving class.”

  Upstairs, in the classroom, Chef Larry was togged out in chef’s whites, with a high toque on his head. The class was already under way. He was breaking eggs into a pot and whisking them furiously. “We’re making profiteroles,” he told Lucy and Bill, “beginning with pâte à choux.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” said Lucy, tying on her apron.

  “It’s just a fancy name for cream puffs,” said Sue scornfully. “I bet you’ve made them a million times.”

  “Pâte à choux is not complicated,” admitted Chef Larry. “That is its beauty. But I am going to teach you my fabulous chocolate sauce—with a secret ingredient.”

  “Can’t wait,” muttered Sue, who was justifiably proud of her own chocolate sauce recipe, which had just a hint of coffee.

  “And today we will have a coffee break—very American, right?—and eat our profiteroles and tarte tatin,” said Chef Larry, spooning the pâte à choux into a pastry bag. “The bag is not necessary,” he said. “You can just spoon the pâte à choux into little balls for baking, but I like to make swans,” he said, demonstrating with a flourish.

  “Swans!” muttered Sue, rolling her eyes. “What a cliché!”

  “I think they’re cute,” said Pam.

  “And I can’t wait to have another piece of that tart,” added Bill.

  “All that pastry will spoil your lunch,” advised Lucy, who was a firm believer in three square meals a day and no snacks.

  “I’ll have salad,” promised Bill.

  But after eating generous helpings of tarte tatin, plus the profiteroles, which were absolutely delicious, containing a luscious brandy-flavored cream filling and topped with the amazing chocolate sauce Chef Larry had sprinkled with his secret ingredient, a special sea salt called fleur de sel, nobody was eager to face a large lunch.

  The friends were debating the issue, standing in the tiny vestibule and watching the heavy rain that was pouring down outside, when two young men approached, engaged in a lively conversation. They were both wearing baseball caps pulled low on their heads, and like most men in France, they had scarves wrapped around their necks and had turned up their coat collars against the rain. They were carrying briefcases and packages, as well as umbrellas, so there wasn’t a free hand between them with which to operate the security keypad. Realizing they were locked out and were getting pelted with rain while they fumbled with their stuff, Pam opened the door for them. The two ducked inside and passed the group without making eye contact and went straight for the stairs.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” hissed Bob, watching the two bound up the stairs. “What’s the sense of a security system if you just let people in?”

  “It was the polite thing to do,” said Pam defensively.

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, the French aren’t really big on politeness,” huffed Bob. “They didn’t even say thank you.”

  “What’s your problem?” demanded Pam. “They were getting soaked.”

  “I’m sure Bob only wants to keep us safe,” said Rachel, attempting to smooth things over.

  “That’s right. They could be up to no good,” said Bob. “They had scarves covering their faces.”

  “I don’t know how you’ve missed it, Bob, but all the men in Paris wear scarves,” said Sue, who had pulled a small folding umbrella from her purse. “I think I’d like to do some shopping and work up an appetite,” she said. “What do you think, Sid?”

  “Sooner or later you’ll hit your credit limit and this madness will stop,” teased Sid.

  “What do you say, Lucy? Want to come with us?” asked Sue.

  “Sure,” said Lucy, checking with Bill and getting a nod. “We can buy some presents for the kids at home.”

  Sid opened the door, and Lucy reached for her umbrella, discovering she didn’t have it. “Oh, darn. I left my umbrella upstairs,” she said.

  “We’ll wait,” said Rachel in a philosophical tone. “Maybe the rain will let up a bit.”

  “That’s Rachel,” observed Pam. “Always the optimist.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” offered Bill.

  “Don’t bother. I could use the exercise,” said Lucy, guiltily aware of the profiteroles and tarte tatin she’d eaten.

  She heard their voices as she hurried up the three long flights of stairs, growing fainter as she climbed. When she reached the second floor—really, the third, because the French counted floors differently—she paused to rest and catch her breath, reading the sign on the landing that listed the various businesses on that floor: a lawyer, a dentist, a masseuse, and a podiatrist. One more floor to go. As she climbed, she wondered how many calories she was burning. Probably not all that many, she decided, recalling an article in a women’s magazine that claimed you would have to run a marathon to burn off one Big Mac.

  She hoped Chef Larry was still in the classroom. She’d be out of luck if he’d already locked up and left, though she didn’t think he had, because they were all standing in the doorway and would have seen him. Of course, she speculated, there were probably other doors to the building, surely a back door for deliveries and garbage removal, and probably even a second flight of stairs. If only they’d thought to put in an elevator, she thought, hurrying down the hall.

  She had passed the doors for Compu-Tech and Marie-Ange, Modiste, whatever that was, when she noticed the door to the cooking school was ajar. Good, she thought. Chef Larry must still be here. She called out his name and pushed the door open, but when she stepped inside, she found the classroom empty. It was a bit odd, she thought, but maybe Chef Larry was somewhere else in the building. Perhaps he was chatting up Marie-Ange, or shooting the breeze with the geeks at Compu-Tech, and hadn’t bothered to lock up. Lucky for her. She grabbed her umbrella, which was hanging on the coatrack, where she’d left it, and turned to go, catching a glimpse of a tray of spilled profiteroles on the floor in front of the counter Chef Larry used for his cooking demonstrations.

  Taking a closer look, she noticed a trail of red splotches leading behind the counter. A trail, she realized, horrified, that must be blood. Okay, blood. The morning class was a pastry course, but maybe the afternoon class involved some sort of meat recipe, something like bœuf bourguignon. But even a very juicy package of beef wouldn’t produce this much blood, would it? She was already crossing the classroom, thinking she’d better investigate, just in case Chef Larry had accidentally cut himself while chopping up some meat or something. If he’d severed an artery, for instance, he would need immediate medical care.

  But when she rounded th
e corner of the counter, she found Chef Larry was indeed bleeding, lying flat on his back in a growing pool of blood and smashed profiteroles, but he hadn’t accidentally cut himself. Not unless he’d plunged a knife into his own chest.

  Lucy immediately began yelling for help, unsure what to do, but nobody seemed to be coming. She started one way and then another, shocked and panicked. At home she would call 9-1-1, but this wasn’t Maine. It was France. This was an emergency, she was yelling her head off, but where were all the other people in the building? She feared he was already dead, but then he groaned, and she realized she had to get help, fast. Looking frantically around the classroom, she noticed a phone on the wall. Beside it was a neat list of numbers: sapeurs-pompiers, médecin. . . . What to dial? The number twenty-five was large and printed in red, so she punched it in the keypad.

  A bored voice answered, saying something she didn’t quite catch. “Un homme b-blessé,” she stammered, her voice quavering as she struggled to remember her high school French. “Vite! Vite! Beaucoup de sang!”

  “Calmez-vous, madame,” replied the voice. “L’adresse?”

  Lucy couldn’t remember the French words for numbers, so she gave the address in English, which didn’t seem to faze the dispatcher at all. “Please hurry! Dépêchez-vous! ” she pleaded. “I’m afraid he’ll die. He was stabbed with a knife.”

  “Help is on the way, madame,” said the voice. “Stabbed, you say? Is this a matter criminelle?”

  “I don’t think he stabbed himself in the chest,” said Lucy.

  “Do not leave,” advised the voice. “That would be a matter sérieuse.”

  “I’m staying,” replied Lucy, hearing the varying woo-wah tones, which indicated an ambulance was on the way.

  Hands shaking, she replaced the phone handset on its hook, noticing that Bill was in the doorway, wondering what was keeping her. “Don’t come in,” she warned as he was pushed aside by the arriving medics. Then the rest of the group of friends arrived, curious to see what all the fuss was about, and they were herded in a tight little bunch into one of the student cooking areas.