French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Gotta go, Mom,” said Elizabeth, already on the move.

  “Just a minute,” Lucy said, hustling to keep up with her. “Don’t you think Serge was being a bit cagey?”

  Elizabeth stopped and faced her. “What did you expect? You practically accused him of being complicit in a black market scheme. I’m sure he was offended. I just hope he figured you’re only another rude American.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend him,” said Lucy, her cheeks reddening.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Elizabeth. “He’s used to dealing with all sorts of people. I think the French take a smug sort of comfort in the idea that they are the most civilized people in the world.”

  “Well, I have news for them,” said Lucy. “We Americans think the French are rude.” To her horror, she realized that she’d been speaking, rather loudly, to nobody in particular. Elizabeth was already at her desk, slipping gracefully into her chair and greeting the woman with a big smile. The only thing she could do, she decided, was to make a hasty retreat.

  She hurried to the door, which was opened for her by a liveried doorman. With no taxis, buses, or Métro, Lucy realized she had a long walk ahead of her, and her back was beginning to bother her. Thank goodness she had disregarded all that advice about looking like a Parisian and had worn her comfy running shoes, she thought, producing a small packet of ibuprofen from her purse and popping a few tablets into her mouth.

  As she strode along the Grands Boulevards, looking in the store windows, she decided she wasn’t convinced that Serge had been completely truthful with her. For one thing, he didn’t seem genuinely upset that Chef Larry had been attacked. Sure, maybe they were only colleagues, as he’d insisted, but she knew that if her colleague at the Pennysaver, Phyllis, was nearly stabbed to death and was lying unconscious in a hospital, she’d be very worried. Frantic, even.

  He was smooth, she decided, and charming and terribly handsome, and those were good things, right? Except maybe they could be used as camouflage to hide his true nature. Her mother used to say, ‘Never trust a handsome man,’ but then, her deceased mother seemed to have had something to say about everything, and the pity was that she remembered all her pronouncements, even when they were ridiculous, as this one clearly was. Of course you could trust a handsome man. Why ever not?

  On the other hand, thought Lucy, it was the ones who knew they were handsome that you had to watch out for, and Lucy was pretty sure Serge had a very good idea of his effect on others and wasn’t afraid to use his good looks to his advantage. No, she thought, turning onto the boulevard de Sébastopol, she had a feeling that Serge was hiding something, and she suspected it was something to do with Chef Larry. She remembered talking to that prep cook at Sylvie’s birthday party, who had said Chef Larry was stealing luxury foods and selling them on the black market, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if Serge and probably other employees were in on the game. You didn’t get yourself stabbed for nothing. Chef Larry must have gotten somebody very angry, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if that somebody turned out to be Serge.

  It was quite a hike from the Cavendish to the apartment near the place des Vosges, and Lucy was dragging a bit when she turned onto the rue Rambuteau. It wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, if she could stop and rest in a café, but they all seemed to be closed, expressing solidarity with the farmers. Only in France, she thought, could the problems of a few potato growers cause the entire country to shut down in a general strike.

  The rue Rambuteau eventually turned into the rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, which, she guessed, meant that sometime long ago it was a path for mules, perhaps used to transport cargo from the Canal Saint-Martin. Only a few blocks more and she’d be back at the apartment, where she intended to give her feet a good, long soak in Epsom salts. Finally reaching the place des Vosges, she walked under the arcade, ducking through the passage by the Hôtel Pavillon de la Reine and down the rue Roger Verlomme to the apartment. It was a tiny street that opened at the other end into a small treed plaza, where Chez Loulou set out tables. It was rather chilly these days for eating outside, and the tables were usually occupied only by a few hardy souls. Today the bistro was closed because of the general strike. So why was that man sitting at one of the tables, leaning his chair backward against the wall? And why did he look so familiar?

  Of course. It came to her in a flash. He was the guy who had followed them to Versailles. The closer she got, the surer she was. It was definitely him lolling in the chair, smoking, looking like someone who had nothing better to do. He must be keeping an eye on them, but why? And for whom?

  She was tired and cranky. She was really beginning to hate Paris, which wasn’t at all what she had thought it would be. She wanted it to be like the Lancôme ad that she’d seen playing on a giant screen at the airport, in which Natalie Portman skipped along the cobblestones in a filmy chiffon dress, only to be wrapped suddenly in a handsome man’s arms. Only she wanted to be wrapped in Bill’s arms, kissing him passionately beneath the Eiffel Tower. But instead, the entire city was shut down in a general strike, and she was involved in a sordid crime.

  Making a quick decision, she marched right over to the guy, who watched her approach coolly through dark sunglasses, taking a long drag on his cigarette and slowly inhaling the smoke.

  “Why are you watching us?” she demanded, arms on hips and bright white running shoes planted firmly on the paving.

  He wasn’t the least bit fazed, just flicked his cigarette. “Those shoes are terrible,” he said.

  “They’re very comfortable, and I’m glad I brought them, because I’ve had to walk a long distance because of the general strike. Now, answer my question. Why are you following us?”

  “I am not following anyone,” he said. “I’m just getting some fresh air.”

  “I don’t believe you care the least bit about fresh air,” said Lucy, challenging him. “If you did, you wouldn’t smoke, would you? And besides, I know you’re following us, because I saw you in the train station the other day, and then I saw you in Versailles.”

  “Ah, you were in Versailles, too? C’est magnifique. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Quite frankly, it seemed a bit over the top.”

  “Over the top?”

  “Too much. De trop. I think that’s the term.”

  “Ah, yes. But now the château belongs to the people of France.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” said Lucy, refusing to be charmed. He wasn’t good-looking, like Serge at the hotel, what with the sunglasses and the stubble of beard and the shaved head, which she didn’t like. Nonetheless, there was something appealing about him, and that disturbed her. What was it? His accent?

  “But I have. I have told you I am not following you. It is a coincidence that we were both in Versailles, nothing more.”

  “You were sightseeing?” asked Lucy in a rather satirical tone.

  “Ah, sadly, no. I was visiting Grand-mère.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Can’t you come up with something better than that?”

  “The truth, madame. What is better than the truth?”

  Lucy had definitely had enough. “Listen, buddy,” she said, glaring at him. “I don’t want to see you again. You stop hanging around. Get that?”

  “What? This is not a free country? I cannot go where I want?”

  “You can go wherever you want, preferably far, far away. Just leave us alone!”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and marched back down the empty street to the double doors, which were still covered with graffiti, and punched the security code into the keypad. The buzzer sounded, and she opened the door, looking over her shoulder before she went inside and noted with satisfaction that he was gone and the little plaza was empty.

  When she entered the apartment, everybody rushed to greet her.

  “Where were you?” demanded Bill in an accusing tone of voice. “You were gone for hours.”

  “You l
ook exhausted,” said Rachel.

  “Did you find any food?” asked Sue.

  “Oh, the food! I forgot all about it. I’m sorry. But that little ethnic store is open. At least it was when I went by.”

  “Maybe there’s hope for dinner,” said Sue, grabbing her jacket. “C’mon, Sid. Let’s check it out.”

  “Where have you been?” persisted Bill. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Didn’t think of it,” said Lucy. “I started walking, and I found myself near the hospital, so I thought I’d see how Chef Larry’s doing, maybe pay him a visit, but he’s still under police guard. Then I decided I might as well visit Elizabeth at the hotel and check on her. . . .”

  “You walked all that way?” Rachel’s eyes were round with disbelief.

  “You must be exhausted,” said Pam.

  “I am,” admitted Lucy, unsure whether she should tell the others about her encounter with the guy outside the café.

  “I can’t believe you just went off like that,” said Bill angrily. “I was really worried. You better not be up to your tricks, investigating the attack on Chef Larry. This is France, not Tinker’s Cove, and you’re just going to get yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  “And us, too,” added Bob.

  “Yeah, you’ve got to leave the investigation to the police,” said Ted.

  Lucy didn’t much like this united front of male opposition. “You know, I am a grown-up,” she said. “I don’t need a bunch of men telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

  “Right,” Pam said, chiming in. “You guys are acting like male chauvinist you-know-whats.”

  “I think we should all have a glass of wine and let Lucy relax,” suggested Rachel. “Let’s all try to relax.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said Lucy. Her feet were now aching, as well as her back, and she was dying to sit down. She had almost reached one of the sofas when there was a knock at the door.

  “Who could that be?” Rachel wondered aloud. “Did Sue and Sid forget their keys?”

  “I’ll get it,” said Pam, opening the door and revealing Madame Defarge, neat as ever in her usual twinset, skirt, and pumps.

  “Bonjour,” she began in a formal tone. “I am so sorry to disturb you.”

  “Not at all,” said Pam. “Come in. We were just about to have an aperitif.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I am just here to deliver some papers to you.” Her voice became quite frosty. “From the police.”

  “Really?” Bob stepped forward. “I’ll take them. It’s probably our passports.”

  “Perhaps, monsieur,” said Madame Defarge, giving him a thick envelope, “but I don’t think so.”

  “Well, thank you for your trouble. Are you sure you won’t join us for a glass of wine?” asked Bob.

  “Thank you, but no,” she said. “I must go.”

  Pam had just closed the door behind her when Bob ripped open the envelope, pulling out a sheaf of white papers.

  “Not passports,” said Ted.

  “No,” answered Bob, studying the printed documents. “My French isn’t very good, but these seem to be orders to return to police headquarters for more questioning.. . .”

  “We’ve done that,” fretted Rachel. “What could they possibly want now?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have an idea,” said Bob. “Does mort mean what I think it does?”

  “It means ‘dead,’ ” said Lucy.

  “Well, then, we’re in big trouble, because Chef Larry est mort.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dead? How could that be? thought Lucy, struggling to comprehend the terrible news. She had just seen him a few hours ago, and he’d been very much alive. Not in great shape, but definitely alive and on the road to recovery.

  “That’s terrible! Poor Chef Larry!” exclaimed Sue when she heard the news, dropping full plastic shopping bags on the marble island. Tears sprang from her eyes, and she fumbled in her purse, producing a cute vintage handkerchief picturing poodles and the Eiffel Tower.

  “I didn’t think you thought very much of Chef Larry, rest his soul,” said Rachel.

  “I definitely had that impression, too,” added Lucy.

  “Oh, he wasn’t much of a chef,” said Sue, blowing her nose, “but the classes were fun, weren’t they?”

  “I guess,” said Sid. “Personally, I was kind of relieved when we didn’t have to go to the cooking classes. . . .” Sue gave him a look, and he quickly added, “But I’m really sorry he died. I mean, I didn’t wish him any harm. He seemed like a really nice guy.”

  “I’ve got to call Sidra,” said Sue, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket. “I’m sure Norah will want to know.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Lucy.

  “Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Chef Larry was one of her protégés. That’s why she included the cooking classes in the trip.”

  “I think I saw him on one of her shows,” said Pam. “He made crepes.”

  “Well, be sure to let Sidra know that this puts us in a real pickle,” said Bob. “Now it’s a homicide, and we’re really at the mercy of the system. They can arrest and detain us without cause. There are no limits to search and seizure, no plea bargaining, no jury, and no presumption of innocence.”

  “When you put it that way, it looks like we’re in deep doo-doo,” said Bill.

  “Oh, make no mistake about it. We are in it up to our necks,” said Bob.

  Sue had done her best to come up with an appetizing supper, but the ethnic store’s offerings were meager, and all she’d managed to find was couscous, stuffed grape leaves, and tzatziki, with sticky dates and pistachios for dessert. It didn’t sit well with Lucy, who blamed her sleepless night on the unusual dinner, but she knew it wasn’t really the food that was keeping her up. It was her nerves. She was definitely feeling shaky in the morning, when she presented herself once again at 36 quai des Orfèvres, a feeling that only got worse when she wasn’t sent up to the fifth floor as before but was directed to the office of the procureur de la République.

  She was literally shaking with fear when she presented herself to a receptionist, whose only greeting was a curt nod. “Suivez-moi,” she said, rising from her chair and leading Lucy down a short hallway to the office of the procureur, or proc.

  The proc didn’t share her office, as Lapointe did. She had a spacious carpeted room with a large window and was sitting on a generously padded leather chair behind a beautifully grained wood desk. “Please sit down, Madame Stone,” she said, speaking perfect English in a lightly accented voice and indicating a Danish modern chair with a subtly manicured hand.

  No bright red polish here, thought Lucy. Just the slightest tint of pink.

  “My name is Giselle Hadamard,” she said, “and I will be asking you a few questions about Laurence Bruneau. I have been involved since the beginning of this investigation. As procureur, it is my responsibility to supervise the police and to determine the truth of the matter. You could compare my role to that of a district attorney in the States, with an understanding that a procureur has considerably greater flexibility and more far-ranging powers than a district attorney. I would also add that this is now a homicide case and you must give me your complete cooperation.”

  “Of course,” said Lucy, sitting down a bit more heavily than she would have wished, as her legs had suddenly given way beneath her.

  The proc didn’t seem to notice. Her head was bent as she studied the papers in a thick file. That gave Lucy plenty of time to take in her beautifully coiffed white hair, cut short. She was wearing what Lucy suspected was a genuine Chanel jacket, the same blue color as her eyes and trimmed with an intricate silver braid. When she looked up, it was obvious she treated her olive skin to frequent facials and was faithful about cleansing and moisturizing. She wore only a bit of makeup, concealer beneath her eyes, perhaps, with a touch of mascara and lip gloss. Lucy found her absolutely terrifying.

  “Pardon me, Madame Stone, but I am interested
in your shoes.”

  Lucy glanced down at her feet, clad in her favorite white running shoes, and wondered if wearing them was actually against the law. “I wore them because they’re very comfortable, and because of the general strike, I’ve had to walk a lot.”

  “They do look comfortable,” said the proc. “I have some foot problems. Bunions, I think they are called, and I wonder . . .”

  “Shoes like this would definitely help,” said Lucy.

  The proc bit her lip, then shrugged, shaking her head. “But no, I couldn’t.” She glanced at the papers, then leveled those steely blue eyes on Lucy. “Now to the business at hand, the murder of Monsieur Bruneau. I understand you found the wounded man and called the medical squad. Is that right?”

  So Lucy went through the whole story again, beginning with the rain and the two young men and going back to the classroom to fetch her forgotten umbrella and finding Chef Larry bleeding on the floor.

  “And I see here that you paid an unauthorized visit to Monsieur Bruneau in the hospital shortly before he was pronounced dead,” said the proc. She didn’t sound accusatory. She spoke in her normal voice, but Lucy felt as if the chair she was sitting on had been pulled out from under her.

  “How do you know that?” she asked, gasping for air.

  “It is in the file. You were observed, wearing, it says here, a cleaning smock. Why did you do this? You understand it puts you in a very bad position. You were the first to find Monsieur Bruneau after the attack and the last to be with him before he died.”

  Lucy did understand only too well and pictured herself spending long years in a dark cell with damp walls, barely surviving on bread and water. “I wanted to talk to him,” she said, “but there was an officer outside his room, so I had to use a disguise.”

  “And why did you want to talk to Monsieur Bruneau?”

  “I wanted to know who stabbed him. I thought that if I could figure that out, we’d get our passports back and be able to go home.”

  “What exactly did you do when you were in Monsieur Bruneau’s hospital room?”