French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Their spirits were high when they met the girls on the platform, but Sylvie cautioned them. “It’s a—what you say?—rough sort of neighborhood. You’ll need to watch out for pickpockets and, even worse, bag snatchers.”

  When they exited the station, they saw she hadn’t exaggerated the case. This neighborhood was far from the heart of Paris. It reminded Lucy of the Bronx and Brooklyn neighborhoods she’d been warned to avoid as a girl growing up on the East Side of Manhattan, the neighborhoods where her father made sure the car doors were locked when he had to drive through them to get to the zoo or the beach.

  “Sylvie wasn’t kidding,” Sue murmured in Lucy’s ear, with a nod at the tough guys, who seemed to be everywhere. “I’ve never seen so many shaved heads and leather jackets in my life.”

  “Keep your bag close,” whispered Lucy, thinking that if they were still being followed by that guy she’d seen tracking them at Versailles, it would be very easy for him to blend into the crowd.

  “It’s this way,” said Sylvie, leading them down a street lined with stores offering low-priced, low-quality goods and with street vendors, who urged them to buy illegal, fake designer scarves and “Rolex” watches for twenty euros.

  “Keep moving,” urged Elizabeth. “Don’t make eye contact.”

  Reaching an intersection, they had to wait for the traffic light to change, and Lucy made sure to glance around, keeping a wary eye on her surroundings. It was then that she saw the three black men, their arms loaded with counterfeit purses, dashing through traffic, with a couple of flics in hot pursuit. “Watch out!” she warned as one of the vendors crashed through the crowd of pedestrians waiting to cross the street. While Lucy and her friends were shocked and alarmed, nobody else seemed at all disturbed by the scene, so she guessed it was a frequent occurrence.

  Making a left turn, they followed Sylvie down a grimy side street that ran along a highway exit ramp and that was lined with stall after stall of junky knockoffs, fake Levis, and cheap T-shirts and shoes.

  “This is not at all what I expected,” declared Sue. “Where are the antiques? The brocante?”

  “Just up here,” said Sylvie, leading them into a covered arcade with a sign identifying it as the Marché Dauphine.

  It was chilly in the market, which had a cement floor and metal stairs that reminded Lucy of the stairs leading to the elevated train lines in New York.

  “The best antique shops are mostly down here, on the rez-de-chaussée,” explained Sylvie. “Upstairs, on the mezzanine, that’s where you find old posters, books, costume jewelry, the less expensive brocante.”

  They soon discovered the shops on the main floor were far beyond their budgets, featuring shabby Louis XV armchairs, fragile sets of Sevres china, gleaming gold vermeil flatware, and shimmering crystal chandeliers.

  “I love those,” said Sue, pointing out a pair of bird sconces, “but not for four thousand euros.”

  “And not a wine-bottle rack in sight,” said Pam.

  “Let’s try upstairs,” urged Rachel. “I have a thing for Bakelite bangles.”

  Even the Bakelite bangles were too expensive for Rachel, who declared she could get the same at home for less, but Lucy fell hard for a pair of 1950s educational posters picturing the city and the country in bright primary colors. “I could have the country in my kitchen and give you the city for your apartment,” she told Elizabeth. “How much?” she asked the vendor. “Combien pour les deux?”

  “Deux cent cinquante,” replied the seller, a well-padded woman who was the exception proving the rule that Frenchwomen don’t get fat, and who was dressed against the chill in several sweaters and a pair of fingerless gloves.

  “Two fifty? Too much,” said Lucy as Sylvie stepped up. “Cent cinquante, c’est juste,” she said in an authoritative voice.

  “Non, c’est trop peu,” said the vendor with a dismissive shrug. “Deux cents.”

  Then Lucy lost track of the negotiation until Sylvie seemed satisfied. “One seventy-five. Is that okay?”

  Lucy thought it was too much, well over two hundred dollars, but then again, she might never get back to Paris. “Okay,” she agreed, emptying her wallet and producing a handful of bills.

  The vendor carefully counted them, coming up ten euros short.

  “Oh, gee, that’s all I’ve got,” said Lucy. “Will you take a credit card? Carte de crédit?”

  The woman recoiled, looking as if Lucy was proposing to pay with a handful of wriggling pythons.

  “Oh, let me,” said Elizabeth, digging into her pocket and producing a fistful of change. “I’d like to get rid of these, anyway, since they’re so heavy,” she said, counting out five golden coins.

  The woman examined them closely and returned one to her, shaking her head.

  Elizabeth took it back and tucked it in her jeans pocket. “Oh, sorry. That’s my good luck piece,” she said, producing another two-euro coin, which the woman accepted.

  Then she rolled up the posters, wrapped them carefully in brown paper, and handed them to Lucy with a flourish, as if they were da Vinci originals.

  “That could have been a tragedy if she’d taken my good luck piece,” said Elizabeth as Lucy presented her with the city poster. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I didn’t know you were superstitious,” said Lucy.

  “I know it’s silly, but I found it in the apartment when a loose tile fell in the bathroom, and since then my luck really has changed. Now, how about some lunch?”

  “Somebody has to pay for me,” said Lucy hungrily. “I don’t have a sou.”

  “Not to worry,” said Rachel. “We’ve got you covered.”

  Following Sylvie’s lead, they all trooped through a maze of narrow side streets to a corner café with a cute little car parked outside. “A Deux Chevaux,” said Sylvie as they admired the antique auto. “It’s in excellent condition, the sort of car you would see in a Jean-Paul Belmondo film.”

  “Remember Jean Seberg hawking newspapers?” asked Pam, reminiscing. “What was the name of that film?”

  “I don’t remember the name of the film, but I do remember Jean-Paul Belmondo with that cigarette and those bedroom eyes,” said Sue.

  “Breathless,” said Lucy as they entered a tiny restaurant with only ten or twelve tables, all crowded together. Up a step, some very small booths were arranged along the mirrored walls, giving the restaurant the air of a theater. They were filled with singles, who nursed coffees or brandies and read the newspaper.

  “Do you need to sit down?” Rachel asked Lucy, looking concerned.

  “No, it’s the name of the movie. Breathless. Belmondo plays a thief.”

  “That’s right,” said Sylvie, who had gotten the nod from the bartender and was pushing two tables together, pausing a moment to let a tall, gray-haired man squeeze by on his way to the door. Lucy saw him only from behind, taking in his silver hair and pin-striped suit, but she noticed the obvious way he gave Sylvie the once-over. These Frenchmen, she thought, didn’t they ever get too old to cherchez les femmes?

  Sylvie, she noticed, didn’t seem to relish the attention. Her usual smug expression changed briefly, and she seemed troubled or perhaps anxious. But almost before Lucy could register the change, the clouds cleared and the sun was shining once again.

  “We could use some menus,” said Sue when they were seated, but Sylvie shook her head.

  “This sort of place doesn’t have menus. You get whatever they’ve prepared, the plat du jour. Today it’s lentilles avec saucisses et jambon.” Sylvie seemed the slightest bit distracted, plucking at her napkin and glancing past Sue’s head at the windows. Lucy followed her gaze but saw only a couple of heavyset guys, probably deliverymen who worked for the antique dealers in the area.

  “How did you figure that out?” asked Pam, puzzled.

  “My nose,” said Sylvie, laughing. “I can smell it. Like my mother makes. Délicieux.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, noting that the diners at the tables around them
seemed to have no complaints and were happily tucking into lunch, all the while keeping up lively conversations.

  The barman soon delivered baskets of bread and bottles of water and inquired if they wanted wine. They did, and a big carafe of red appeared, along with big plates of lentil stew with sausage and ham.

  “I never much liked lentils, not until now,” confessed Rachel.

  “It’s a classic dish, and they do it very well here,” said Sylvie with an approving nod. She had a few mouthfuls and then rose. “Excuse me, please. I will be back in a moment.” Then, moving quickly, she disappeared behind the bar, in the direction of the kitchen, following the arrow on the TOILETTE sign.

  Lucy cast an inquiring glance at Elizabeth, who responded with a whisper, “The toilet. She must really need to go, as it’s considered rude to absent yourself from the table while people are eating.”

  “Bulimia?” asked Rachel, also whispering. “She’s very thin.”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s the smoking that keeps her thin. Believe me, if they didn’t smoke, a lot of skinny Frenchwomen would be a lot fatter.”

  “Maybe she’s smoking in there, like we used to do in high school,” said Pam.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t think so.” But as time passed and Sylvie failed to return, they began to grow concerned.

  “Do you think she’s sick?” asked Rachel.

  “Maybe she’s pregnant,” said Pam, speculating.

  “Or shooting up,” offered Sue, getting disapproving looks from the group. “Just a thought,” she added, defending herself.

  “I’ll go check on her,” offered Elizabeth, taking the same circuitous route behind the bar, where the barman was busy slicing up a couple of baguettes and filling the bread baskets.

  When she returned a few moments later, her expression was puzzled. “The toilet is empty. She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” asked Lucy. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. There’s just one bathroom, and it’s tiny. There’s no place for anybody to hide. She must have left through the kitchen. There’s a back door.”

  “Did you ask the cook?” demanded Lucy. “Did anyone see her go?”

  “I did ask,” said Elizabeth, “but he just shook his head.”

  “I’ll ask the barman,” said Lucy, popping up. “La jeune fille qui . . . uh . . .”

  “No, Mom, I’ll do it,” offered Elizabeth. “I don’t think your French is up to it.”

  But all Elizabeth was able to get from the barman was a shake of his head and a muttered “Désolé.”

  “People don’t just disappear,” said Rachel, her eyes huge. “Do you think she was kidnapped?”

  “No way,” insisted Elizabeth. “She probably just encountered some guy. Could be the pot washer. I wouldn’t be surprised. She’ll go with anything in pants.”

  “Really?” asked Rachel. “She seems like such a nice girl.”

  “She seems to me like a girl who knows her way around,” said Sue.

  “You can say that again,” agreed Elizabeth. “Honestly, I never know who’s going to be tiptoeing through my room in the morning, shoes in hand, heading for the door.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “I can’t believe it.”

  “That’s very risky behavior,” said Lucy, remembering how the old guy had looked Sylvie over. Was it that simple? Was a look enough to initiate an assignation? Did Sylvie really just go off with anyone? She found the idea disturbing. “She could be putting you in danger, you know, bringing strange men into your apartment.”

  “I know, Mom, and I’ve asked her not to do it, but she just tells me it is none of my beez-nees,” said Elizabeth, mimicking Sylvie’s accent.

  “Well, what do we do now?” asked Sue.

  “Back to the marché?” suggested Pam.

  “I’ve spent all my money,” Lucy reminded her.

  “I can’t afford anything I want,” said Sue.

  “My feet hurt,” complained Rachel.

  “Then I guess we’re done here,” said Elizabeth, signaling for the check. “I’m going to go home and hang up my poster, and then I’m going to spend the afternoon washing my clothes at the laverie automatique.”

  “You’ll get no sympathy from us,” said Lucy, earning a few chuckles. “Between the four of us, we must have washed thousands, maybe millions, of loads of wash.”

  When the footsore group straggled back to the apartment, they found Bill and Sid in the courtyard, cutting up wood, constructing a closet for Madame Defarge.

  “A real American-style closet,” she announced, beaming. “All my friends will be very jealous.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” said Bill. “We’re repurposing this door she had.”

  “And we found some plywood in the shed. When it’s painted, it will blend in with the walls,” added Sid. “We’re not going to have to mess with Sheetrock at all.”

  “Sounds good,” said Lucy, who suspected that constructing the closet was a peace offering to Madame Defarge, who had made it quite clear that she wasn’t thrilled about the group’s involvement with the police. Or maybe the two contractors simply couldn’t resist an opportunity to saw wood and bang nails and show off their abilities. “How long is it going to take?”

  “The rest of the afternoon probably,” said Bill, releasing his tape measure, which rewound with a snap.

  “We didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Sid. “Where are the packages?”

  “I had them sent,” teased Sue. “I bought a dining table and a set of Louis XV chairs. Only fifty thousand . . .”

  Sid clutched his heart. “You didn’t!”

  “No, I didn’t,” admitted Sue as the doorbell sounded, and Madame Defarge went to answer it. She returned with a couple of uniformed policemen, one of whom was carrying a very official-looking warrant.

  “Is Monsieur Goodman here?” asked the first cop, a very good-looking young man with dark hair.

  “No,” answered Sid. “He went out with Ted. Didn’t say where they were going.”

  “I’m his wife,” said Rachel, determined to be helpful and cooperative.

  “No matter. We are here to search your premises. It will take only a few minutes, and you may accompany us.”

  “I’ll go,” offered Rachel. “I don’t think we all need to be there.”

  “D’accord,” said the second cop, who was shorter and darker than his colleague.

  “It’s this way,” said Rachel, leading them to the entryway.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Madame Defarge when the door had closed behind them. “I am so embarrassed. Those other men, they weren’t police at all, were they? But I was in a hurry to get to the market, and they looked like policemen. They were in uniform. I would not have let them in otherwise.”

  “It’s understandable,” said Pam. “They must have been in disguise.”

  “What did they look like?” asked Lucy.

  “Young men. They looked like flics. Good-looking. Polite. I never thought . . .”

  “Were they dark? Blond? Beards?” persisted Lucy.

  “Je ne me souviens pas!” wailed Madame Defarge.

  “She doesn’t remember,” said Lucy, translating.

  “It doesn’t matter,” observed Sue. “We don’t know many people in Paris. We probably wouldn’t recognize them, anyway.”

  Lucy didn’t agree. “A description would help the police. Whoever searched our place is probably connected to Chef Larry’s murder, right? They could even be the murderers.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” admitted Sue.

  “But wait! We have a camera,” said Madame Defarge. “A TV camera.” She pointed upward, to a corner of the courtyard, where a small surveillance camera was perched on a windowsill.

  “You have CCTV?” asked Bill.

  She nodded. “It’s part of the security system. I don’t bother with it, but a man comes every month and checks it.”

  “Can we look at the film?” asked Lucy.

&nbs
p; “Bien sûr, that is, if you know how to . . .”

  “Let me take a look,” offered Sid. He followed Madame into the concierge lodge and a few minutes later appeared in the doorway, beckoning to the others.

  They gathered inside the cozy living room, all eyes on Madame’s tiny TV. Sid used the remote to fast-forward through the grainy black-and-white images, which were as jerky as old silent films. They laughed, recognizing themselves, looking very tired and jet-lagged on the day they arrived, and they saw themselves coming and going in the days since, as well as the other occupants of the apartments that shared the courtyard. Then, when Lucy was beginning to feel slightly dizzy from staring at the speeding footage, the two fake cops appeared.

  “Stop!” she ordered.

  Sid hit the remote, and everything slowed down. They all leaned forward, studying the image. “It’s their backs,” complained Rachel.

  “They have to come out,” said Bill, and Sid hit FORWARD once again, until the two men reappeared, exiting the apartment entryway. He hit STOP, and they could see blurry images of their faces.

  “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, “but they look a lot like . . .”

  “Those friends of Elizabeth’s. We met them at the birthday party,” added Bill. “What are their names?”

  Sid hit REWIND and played the footage again, and a third time.

  “Adil and Malik,” said Lucy. “I think that’s them, but why? What were they looking for?”

  “Adil and Malik,” repeated Bill. “What the hell?”

  Chapter Twelve

  What on earth were Adil and Malik doing, breaking into their apartment? And what were they looking for? Lucy remembered how their supplies of kitchen staples had been dumped out, as well as Rachel’s creams and bath salts, all clear indications they were definitely searching for something. But what? And why? It was all very strange, very puzzling. “They seemed like such nice boys,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “What did you say?” demanded Bill. They were walking along the narrow sidewalks to the rue Saint-Antoine with Ted and Pam, on their way to meet Richard Mason at his favorite seafood place. It was a chance for the journalists to talk shop and for the others to enjoy les fruits de mer.