French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy took a deep breath. This was embarrassing, for sure, but she knew there was no option but to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I looked around a bit,” she began, inwardly wincing as she recounted her foolish behavior. “His eyes opened. He asked me to call a friend for him, to ask Serge to pay him a visit. He gave me a phone number. Then a nurse came, and I left. That’s all. I didn’t do anything to Chef Larry. He was definitely alive when I left the room.”

  “Where did you go after leaving the hospital?”

  “I went to visit my daughter, who works at the Cavendish Hotel.”

  “Mon Dieu! You walked all that way! Why, may I ask?”

  “Well, because I recognized the number he gave me as the number for the hotel. I thought Elizabeth might know this Serge.”

  “And did she?”

  “Yes. I met him. His name is Serge d’Amboise, and he’s the assistant manager.”

  “Did you tell him Larry wanted to see him?”

  “Sort of. I said there was still a police guard, but perhaps in a few days he would be able to have visitors.”

  “And his reaction to your suggestion?”

  “Definitely noncommittal.”

  “This is good information. Do you think he is the one who killed Monsieur Bruneau?”

  “I certainly hope not,” said Lucy, finding it was one thing to harbor a vague suspicion and quite another to hear an official investigator voice it. She didn’t want to entertain the possibility that Elizabeth had stumbled into a ring of criminals and was working beside thieves and murderers.

  “Are you certain it was murder?” asked Lucy. “Perhaps Larry simply took a turn for the worse.”

  “I suppose that is possible, but unlikely,” said the proc. “We must wait for the medical examiner’s report.”

  “Serge has a position of some responsibility at the Cavendish,” Lucy said, quickly adding, “But I can tell you that nobody in my group had anything at all to do with Chef Larry’s death. Nothing. We are simply tourists, nothing more. I understand your investigation has to be thorough, and I don’t mind that the police searched our apartment, but it would have been better if we had been notified and could have been present for the search. And I really don’t think they should have left it in such a mess.”

  For the first time in the interview the proc showed a flicker of emotion. She furrowed her beautifully shaped brows, as if troubled. “But that is impossible,” she said. “I was just going to inform you of the necessity of a search and arrange a time.”

  “Well, you can do it again, of course, but this time we’d really appreciate it if the searchers would leave things the way they found them. I mean, dumping bags of flour into the sink and spilling coffee all over the floor . . .”

  “Madame, I am telling you that there is no record of a search in this file. Now that we are investigating a homicide, it is a necessary procedure, but we have not done it yet.”

  “The concierge said it was the police,” said Lucy, standing her ground.

  “She was clearly misinformed.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t the police, who was it?” asked Lucy.

  “We will endeavor to find out,” said the proc, “but in the meantime I am warning you, Madame Stone, that it is a very serious matter to interfere in a police matter. I suggest you limit yourself to sightseeing while you are here in France.”

  “I certainly will,” said Lucy, struggling with the idea that Chef Larry’s murderer, or murderers, had been in the apartment and had rifled through their things. Why? Quite a few moments passed, her mind busy trying to figure out what this meant and whether they were in danger, before she realized the proc had fallen silent and was making notes in the file. “Um, pardon me, but may I go?” she asked.

  “Will tomorrow afternoon—let’s say three o’clock—be convenient for the search?”

  Lucy didn’t feel as if she really had much choice in the matter. “Okay,” she said.

  The proc didn’t look up from the form she was filling in with a slim gold pen but dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “You may go.”

  “Before I go, I think I ought to mention that someone’s been following us,” said Lucy. “Kind of a rough-looking fellow.”

  “You are very observant,” said the proc with an amused smile. “I believe the police have been keeping an eye on your group. It’s for your own safety, of course.”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped; she didn’t know how to respond. Should she be grateful for the protection or appalled at the intrusion? And was it even true? The proc had said only that she believed the police were watching them.

  “Did you order this surveillance?” asked Lucy. “And on what grounds? Was there a warrant? In the U.S. police have to go to a judge—”

  “Madame Stone,” interrupted the proc, “might I remind you that you are not in the USA. You are in France, and we have our own way of doing things.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, deciding that nothing was to be gained by irritating the proc. It was definitely time to go. “Good day to you,” she said, heading for the door and not looking back.

  The general strike had lasted only for a day, and the Métro was working again, although on a partial schedule. When she finally emerged from the station by the Bastille monument, she thought she was beginning to understand the anger that had driven the Paris mob to destroy the hated prison. She herself would happily join a mob bent on tearing down the police headquarters at the quai des Orfèvres. But that would have to wait. She would begin her counterattack by questioning Madame Defarge.

  Madame was sweeping the courtyard, dressed rather oddly for the job in her skirt and kitten-heeled pumps, with a string of big pearls dangling around her neck instead of her usual scarf.

  “Bonjour, Madame Stone,” she said. “Your companions are all out except for Monsieur Stone.”

  “Merci,” said Lucy. “I have just been interviewed at the police headquarters . . . ,” she began.

  Madame Defarge clucked her tongue, and Lucy wasn’t sure if it was an expression of sympathy or disapproval. Probably both, she decided.

  “The proc told me that the police did not search our apartment. In fact, she wanted to make arrangements for a search in the next few days.”

  “Impossible,” said Madame Defarge, shaking her head. “They were policemen. They showed me their credentials.”

  “Were they wearing uniforms?”

  “No. They were detectives. They had black wallets, and they held them up for me to see.”

  “Did you examine their IDs?”

  Madame bristled. “There was no need. They were police.”

  Lucy understood completely. The concierge hadn’t wanted to get involved, which was only natural. She probably gave the IDs a cursory glance and went about her business, putting as much distance between herself and the flics as possible. And now, after all she’d been through, Lucy couldn’t blame her. She’d like nothing more than to forget all about Chef Larry and get on a plane and fly home. “They weren’t police,” said Lucy, “but the police will be coming tomorrow.”

  “We must cooperate with the police, of course,” said Madame, using a broom to gather up a few bits of debris that had strayed from the pile, “but I hope this investigation will not take much longer. I have consulted the owner, who told me your group has the apartment for only one more week. After that I must prepare it for a new group of tenants.”

  Ah, thought Lucy. The new tenants, the nice tenants, the tenants who aren’t involved in a murder. “I understand,” she said, tempted to walk right through the small pile of sweepings, scattering them, but instead walking carefully around them.

  “How’d it go?” asked Bill when she entered the apartment. He was sprawled on one of the sofas, watching a soccer game.

  “Well, I didn’t get to talk to Lapointe this time. Instead, they sent me to see his boss, the proc. She was a really scary woman. She didn’t throw me in jail, but I think she would have liked to,” said
Lucy, unwilling to confess that the police knew she’d gone to the hospital to see Chef Larry. She sat down on the other sofa, slipping out of her plaid coat. “But get this. It wasn’t the police who searched the apartment.”

  Bill swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. “Who was it, then?”

  “I don’t know, but probably somebody involved in the murder, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Bill.

  “It only came to light when the proc wanted to arrange a search and I said it had already been done.”

  “So the police are going to search again?”

  “Well, not again. This will be the first time for the cops, but another search. We can be here and observe this time. It’s set for three o’clock tomorrow.”

  “This sucks,” said Bill, clicking off the TV with the remote. “And you know what? The game’s over, and the score is nil. That means nobody scored. Nobody. What kind of sport is that? I ask you. Like they never heard of sudden death overtime?”

  “No more talk of death,” said Lucy. “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

  “My interview isn’t until five o’clock, so in the meantime, let’s forget all this,” said Bill, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s wander where we will and see where we end up.”

  “We’ll be flaneurs,” she said, causing Bill to adopt his Groucho Marx impression.

  “Speak for yourself,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and pretending to tap ash from a cigar.

  It was corny, but Lucy found herself laughing as they left the apartment, practically skipping down the stairs.

  Water presented an irresistible attraction to these homesick Mainers, and Lucy and Bill soon found themselves walking once again on the quais that bordered the Seine. It was a gray day, but not dark, and the soft light gave a monochromatic hue to the cityscape. The river streamed by, lapping at the stone quais, offering changing patterns of light and dark. It was also a surprisingly busy thoroughfare, and they watched with interest as bateaux-mouches and tugboats and barges all chugged by. They passed the Louvre and wandered on into the Jardin des Tuileries, buying sandwiches and drinks from a snack bar for lunch. They ate at an outside table, watching the passing parade, mostly old people, young children with caretakers, and the inevitable tourists.

  “The Orangerie is just over there,” said Lucy. “It has Monet’s water lily paintings. I’ve always wanted to see them.”

  “Okay,” said Bill, draining his glass of beer and getting to his feet. “I’m game.”

  “Water lilies are called nymphéas in French. Isn’t that a beautiful word?”

  “Sounds sexy,” said Bill, nuzzling her neck.

  Lucy was surprised by this public show of affection. “What’s with you?” she asked as they walked along hand in hand.

  “Paris, I guess.”

  “I’ve read about these paintings,” Lucy told Bill. “Monet created a beautiful garden at his home in Giverny, with the intention of using it as a subject for his paintings. He dug a pond and built a Japanese bridge and planted tons of flowers, and he painted them in all seasons, at different times of day. It’s about the colors and the light.”

  “Yes, Professor,” said Bill.

  “I just want you to be able to appreciate them. They’re supposed to be amazing,” said Lucy defensively. “Besides,” she added with a sigh, “it will be nice to look at something beautiful. It will be a welcome distraction.”

  The Orangerie itself was a rather plain stone building and had once been used to winter over the potted orange trees that were so popular with eighteenth-century aristocrats. There was the usual security system, and Lucy’s bag had to be checked and they had to go through a screening device before they were allowed to enter the two galleries containing the water lily paintings. The first gallery wasn’t crowded and there were benches to sit on, so Lucy sat down and gazed at the huge canvases, which she thought must be at least ten feet high and perhaps eighteen or twenty feet wide.

  “Whoa,” said Bill, sitting beside her. “They’re big.”

  “Monet built a special studio for them,” she said, consulting her guidebook. “They’re in sequence. They’re supposed to be different seasons.”

  “That really green one is probably spring,” suggested Bill.

  “I guess the dark one is winter, and the very green one must be summer.”

  “That one with the big orange and yellow area would be fall.”

  “And the one with pink is Soleil Couchant, which means ‘sunset.’ All those brushstrokes . . . There must be millions, and by themselves they don’t look like anything. But when you get a bit of distance, it all comes together, sort of.”

  “Yeah, see, that must be the bridge.” Bill pointed to a green arc in the middle of one of the paintings.

  “And those drapey things are willows, I think. I like the paintings with willows best. It gives a sense of perspective.”

  “Are you disappointed?” asked Bill.

  “Well, it’s a lot of swirly colors. Maybe too chaotic for me right now,” admitted Lucy. “Though you have to admit the man was a genius.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bill, standing up and taking her by the hand. “But I think I know a better way of taking our minds off our troubles.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucy.

  “Well, my interview isn’t until five. I think we should spend the rest of the afternoon like Parisians. You know, the apartment might be empty.” He leaned close, his beard tickling her neck, as he whispered, “I’m thinking of a romantic matinee.”

  “We can’t,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “What if they come home? That sleep sofa is the first thing they’d see.”

  “I was thinking of the salle de bain,” said Bill. “The door has a lock. I checked.”

  “The bathtub? That would be kind of cramped. And cold.”

  “No. The floor.”

  “The floor!”

  “It’s been done before, you know. We could bring in some pillows and blankets and make a little love nest.”

  Lucy gave him a little sideways glance. “The bathroom floor . . .”

  He was nibbling on her ear. “What do you say?”

  She giggled. “I guess the Métro would be the quickest way home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sue had good news to announce at breakfast on Saturday morning. “I got a call from Sidra last night,” she began, “and you won’t believe this, but Norah actually called the president and told him about our situation! She’s a big supporter. Remember, she not only gave tons of money to his PAC, but she also interviewed him on her show, showered him with praise. Sidra said the president promised to instruct the ambassador himself to look into the matter and see what he can do.” She paused to refill her coffee cup. “So I think we can expect this whole mess to go away. There’s nothing like knowing somebody who can make things happen.”

  “That’s super!” exclaimed Pam. “Now we can stop worrying and can actually enjoy our vacation.”

  “That’s if the ambassador can actually fix things,” grumbled Bob. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Oh, Bob, give it up,” snapped Sue. “He’s the ambassador. He can fix it.”

  “I hope you’re right, Sue,” said Rachel. “It’s definitely a positive sign that the ambassador is looking out for us.”

  “But his influence is limited,” said Bob. “This is France, and they do things differently, and they’re not all that happy with the U.S. right now.”

  “Or ever,” added Bill, who had minored in modern European history.

  “We’ve got Norah and the president and the ambassador on our side,” said Sue. “Between the three of them they ought to be able to come up with something.”

  “It’s a very encouraging development—thanks to you and Sidra,” said Lucy, who was only too aware that she wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. For one thing, she was the only one of the eight who had bee
n subjected to an in-depth interview by the proc. All the others, including Bill, had merely been asked to confirm their identities and contact information. She was afraid that she was the prime suspect in Chef Larry’s murder, and remembering Elizabeth’s assertion that you weren’t suffering from paranoia if they really were out to get you, she was pretty sure she wasn’t being paranoid.

  But while she still had her freedom, she was determined to enjoy it. “I, for one, am going to forget our troubles . . . for the day, anyway. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Paris flea market, and now I’m actually going,” she said, thinking it would be a day to remember when she was confined to a dark and dank French prison cell.

  “I know,” said Sue, grinning broadly. “I can’t wait for someone visiting my house to notice some adorable little treasure, maybe a watercolor or a Quimper plate, and being able to say, ‘Oh, I picked that up in Paris, at Les Puces.’ ”

  “You’ve got the tone right,” said Pam approvingly. “It has to be offhand, like you spend every weekend combing the Paris flea markets.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Lucy. “Like, oh, it was nothing. It just caught my eye at Clignancourt.”

  “What do you suppose they’ll have?” Rachel wondered aloud. “I hope I can find something small and packable.”

  “If I could find one of those gorgeous aged-wood wine-bottle racks, I’d gladly pay to have it shipped,” said Sue, earning a groan from Sid.

  “Shipping something like that would cost a small fortune,” he protested. “I thought you were going to look for a ‘little treasure.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  Sue ignored him, lost in an interior design fantasy. “And I bet I could carry a grape-picker’s basket on the airplane. I could even hold it in my lap, if I had to. I can just picture it on the wall in my dining room, filled with sunflowers or dried hydrangeas.”

  “Okay, ladies,” said Lucy, checking her watch, “we’ve got to get moving, or we’ll be late for meeting Elizabeth and Sylvie. Sylvie said we should get there early if we want the best pickings.”

  The four women wasted no time, leaving the men to clear up the breakfast things, and headed out to the Métro. They had agreed to meet Elizabeth and Sylvie at the Strasbourg–Saint-Denis station, where they would change to the number 4 line, which ended at Porte de Clignancourt.