French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  When the taxi pulled up in front of Elizabeth’s building, Lucy was out before the car had fully stopped, leaving Bill to pay the driver. He joined Lucy at the doorway, where she was frantically punching at the security keypad. Finally, the door opened, but they were confronted by a uniformed flic, who was blocking their way. “Désolé,” he said, firmly shaking his head. He went on to offer a lengthy explanation, but all Lucy understood was the word interdit, which meant they were not going to be allowed in.

  “Nous sommes les parents de Mademoiselle Stone,” responded Lucy, and after checking via two-way radio with a supervisor, the flic stepped aside with a nod.

  They hurried up the stairs, all four flights, and arrived at Elizabeth’s apartment completely out of breath, finding the door open and Elizabeth seated on the futon, looking very small and pale, between a couple of plainclothes cops.

  “Mom! Dad!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sounding greatly relieved. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  The cops moved to the other side of the room, allowing Lucy and Bill to embrace their daughter and reassure themselves that she was all right. Lucy’s first reaction was that the French police were wonderfully polite. Then she realized they were watching and noting everything they did.

  “Madame, monsieur,” began one of the detectives, who had a sad, sympathetic face, with bags under his eyes, which, she figured, served him well in his chosen line of work. “This is a very sad event for your daughter, and we are most sympathetic. Let me assure you we do not consider Elizabeth a suspect, but we believe she may have important information that will be most helpful in this investigation.” He spoke English with a pronounced accent, saying “ahn-for-mah-see-on” for “information,” but Lucy wasn’t about to quibble. She was deeply grateful that he spoke English at all. “My name is Guillaume Girard, Commissaire Girard.”

  “We understand,” said Bill. “Elizabeth will be happy to cooperate.”

  “And so will we,” said Lucy. “This is terrible. I assume Sylvie’s death was not an accident?”

  “Pas du tout,” he said, with a doleful shake of his head.

  Just then a couple of crime-scene investigators, wearing white jumpsuits and toting cases of equipment, arrived and were directed to Sylvie’s bedroom. Lucy and Bill were asked to seat themselves at the round table, which took up most of the small room, and Girard continued his interrogation of Elizabeth.

  Lucy and Bill listened as Elizabeth explained Sylvie’s disappearance at the café in the flea market, becoming uneasy as Girard pressed Elizabeth for details.

  “You were not concerned about your friend’s absence?” he asked, furrowing his creased forehead.

  “No,” replied Elizabeth. “She had done this sort of thing before, left me when we went out together if an attractive man came along. She came and went. She didn’t share the details of her life with me. There were a lot of men. She would bring them here. It made me uncomfortable.”

  “Did she seem upset, tense, in the last few days?”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “If anything, she was nicer than usual. I was surprised when she offered to bring my mother and her friends to the flea market. It wasn’t at all typical.”

  “Do you think she had some reason for going to the market, other than being a good hostess?” asked Girard. “Could the trip have been a cover for something else?”

  “Like what?” asked Elizabeth. “Drugs?”

  Girard was right on it. “Did she use?”

  “A little pot. She said it helped her relax. That’s all.”

  “Where did she get it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not interested in that stuff.”

  “I see,” said Girard, sounding skeptical. He turned to Lucy and Bill. “Your daughter cannot stay here tonight. We must conduct a thorough search of the apartment, and there is also the matter of her emotional well-being. She should not be alone. Can she stay with you?”

  “Of course,” said Lucy, thinking of the second sofa in the living room at the apartment. “Can she take a few things? Clothes and a toothbrush?”

  “Bien sûr,” agreed Girard. “And before you go, you must all give me your contact information.”

  Bill took care of that while Lucy helped Elizabeth gather a few necessities from the ugly 1930s sideboard trimmed with crudely carved wood, where she kept her clothes, tossing them into a duffel bag.

  “How long will she need to stay away?” asked Lucy when Elizabeth went into the bathroom to get her toothbrush and other toiletries. Lucy took advantage of this opportunity to question the detective and also asked for one of his cards, for future reference.

  “I do not know, madame,” said Girard, stepping close and presenting her with his card. “You must keep an eye on your daughter, take special care of her. What happened to Sylvie was not pretty.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She was tortured. . . .”

  Lucy gasped.

  “And then she was killed execution-style. A very professional job.”

  “Ohmigod.” Lucy felt the floor shifting beneath her feet. “What was that girl involved in?”

  “That, madame, is what we must discover.”

  All three were silent in the taxi they took to the apartment, each thinking their separate thoughts. Lucy kept remembering Sylvie as she last saw her, with her blond hair cut in a chic bob, her porcelain skin, those delicately arched eyebrows, and that bemused smile, and struggled to understand why anyone would want to hurt, much less kill, such a beautiful young woman. She held her daughter’s hand tightly, troubled by Girard’s warning, but Elizabeth pulled it away in a gesture of stubborn independence. Lucy knew she had to tell her the truth about Sylvie’s death, but decided to wait until morning, until after she’d had a good night’s sleep. If her daughter could sleep, which Lucy doubted. She knew that Elizabeth took after her and was a light sleeper, unlike Bill, who could sleep through a tornado.

  When they arrived at the apartment, the friends were gathered around the kitchen island, sipping herbal tea and recounting their evening activities.

  “Chamomile tea?” offered Pam. “I also have Sleepytime, which I brought from home.”

  “Sleepytime would be great,” said Lucy. “Elizabeth’s staying with us for a few nights. Her roommate . . .”

  “Sylvie?” prompted Sue. “What’s she getting up to?”

  “Sylvie had an accident,” began Bill, intending to break the news as gently as possible.

  “She was murdered,” Elizabeth announced abruptly. “The police said I can’t stay in my apartment.”

  There was a long silence, finally broken by Ted. “Another homicide?”

  “So it seems,” said Lucy.

  “That does it. We’re never going home,” said Bob, shaking his head. “Being involved in one murder is bad enough, but two . . . ? This is a legal nightmare.”

  “Is that all you can say?” demanded Rachel. “This isn’t about us. Two people are dead, two people we knew and liked. Two friends. Two young friends. It’s tragic.”

  “I can’t believe it’s happening,” said Sue.

  “That’s a normal reaction,” said Rachel. “It’s going to take time to process. It takes time for the reality of death to really sink in.”

  “And they say America is violent,” offered Sid.

  “Isn’t France supposed to have a much lower murder rate than the U.S.?” demanded Ted.

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” said Pam.

  “Something’s going on,” said Sue, “and somehow we’re involved.”

  If you only knew the half of it, thought Lucy, cradling the cup of hot tea in both hands and inhaling the grassy, herbal scent. She was convinced they had stumbled into something very big and very bad, and she was afraid they weren’t going to escape unscathed.

  Maybe it was the tea, or maybe it was some sort of subconscious effort by her brain to delay processing Sylvie’s death, but Lucy slept soundly right through the night and woke in the morning, sur
prised to find she felt refreshed and optimistic. She had known Chef Larry only in a casual way, she realized, which made it almost impossible to investigate his murder. But Sylvie, on the other hand, was her daughter’s roommate, and Lucy had much better access to information about her. Elizabeth maintained that Sylvie had been very private, but Lucy suspected her daughter knew more about her roommate than she realized. This time she had a real opportunity to get to the bottom of things, and she was determined to take advantage of it. Her primary motive was to protect her daughter. She knew she wouldn’t feel that Elizabeth was safe until whoever had killed Sylvie was caught and jailed, but she was also convinced that the only way she would ever see Tinker’s Cove again was if she solved both murders. She had a hunch the two deaths were connected, perhaps even committed by the same killer. The police didn’t seem to be making much headway, and they wouldn’t get their passports back until the matter was resolved.

  Now all that remained was deciding on a plan of action. She yawned and stretched and got out of bed and, tiptoeing past her sleeping husband and daughter, went into the kitchen to start the coffeepot. She had just come back from the bathroom and was pouring herself a cup when Elizabeth joined her.

  “You’re up early,” said Lucy.

  “I’ve got to be at work by eight,” said Elizabeth.

  “Oh, no,” said Lucy. “No work for you today.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mom,” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ve got to go. I think that whatever happened to Sylvie—”

  “What happened to Sylvie was dreadful,” said Lucy. “You need to know what Girard told me. She wasn’t attacked by some random rapist or something. She was grabbed and tortured and killed execution-style. They think she was involved in something that got her in trouble, probably drugs.”

  “Duh,” replied Elizabeth sarcastically. “And I’m pretty sure that it’s happening at the hotel.”

  Lucy thought her daughter was on to something. The Cavendish had gold-plated faucets in the marble bathrooms and Yves Delorme linens on the beds. The upper crust gathered in the tastefully decorated dining rooms to enjoy delicious food, excellent service, and distinguished company. But the hotel also employed a small army of workers who didn’t earn very much and were expected to serve people who had more money than they knew what to do with. No wonder there was a thriving black market operation, and now, she suspected, a drug operation. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that a hotel like the Cavendish, with staff and guests coming and going, not to mention a constant stream of deliveries, would be an excellent cover for illegal activities.

  “I don’t want you—” began Lucy.

  Elizabeth cut her off. “And I’m not going to be able to figure out what’s going on unless I’m there.”

  Lucy didn’t like the idea, but she knew that Elizabeth was right.

  “I don’t want you to put yourself in danger,” she said, this time finishing her sentence. “You’re going to have to be very careful,” warned Lucy. “And you better watch out for Adil and Malik. I’m pretty sure they’re involved somehow.”

  “I’m not going to trust anybody,” said Elizabeth, surprising her mother by actually agreeing with her. “Getting Sylvie’s killer behind bars is the only way I’ll ever feel safe.”

  If only there was some way she could be there, helping Elizabeth, thought Lucy, and then she realized that there was. “Okay, but you have to stay in constant contact with me. You can text, okay?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Elizabeth, with a relieved sigh. “I’ll feel better if I know you’re keeping tabs on me.”

  “That’s a first,” said Lucy, causing Elizabeth to grin.

  “I’d like to get into her locker,” continued Lucy. “But I have a feeling the cops have already sealed it.”

  “Probably,” agreed Elizabeth, “but she used to keep a black duffel bag of stuff under the reception counter, way in the back. I don’t think anybody knows about that but me.”

  “We have to find out what’s in that bag,” said Lucy, and Elizabeth nodded.

  It took some convincing, but in the end Bill finally agreed to let Elizabeth go to work, as long as either he or Lucy accompanied her to and from, and she promised to text them regularly throughout the day. Lucy took the morning shift, leaving with Elizabeth and taking the Métro to the hotel. Finding the lobby sparsely populated at this early hour, Lucy decided to stick around for a while, hoping she’d have an opportunity to check out that black bag belonging to Sylvie that Elizabeth had mentioned.

  Elizabeth had to change into her Cavendish uniform in the locker room, and Lucy waited anxiously, sitting on one of the luxurious velvet sofas, for her to reappear and take her usual place at the concierge’s desk. Moments later, after taking a phone call, Elizabeth moved over to the reception desk, apparently filling in for the deceased Sylvie and joining a similarly young and attractive colleague. When the other worker took a break, she signaled her mother and reached under the reception desk, passing her the duffel bag that had belonged to Sylvie.

  Lucy tucked it under her arm and made her way to the delicately perfumed ladies’ room, where she installed herself in one of the roomy cubicles, each one of which was equipped not only with a toilet but also with a private sink and a makeup table with a stool and large mirror. She sat right down, eagerly unzipped the bag, and pulled out the contents. These were the sorts of things any working girl might keep on hand at her job, including a couple of packs of panty hose, a cosmetic bag, tampons, and cigarettes. There was also, more surprisingly, a French sex manual and some items that Lucy suspected—but she wasn’t absolutely sure—were sex toys. One clue was the fact that they were wrapped in a very skimpy black lace teddy.

  Living in New England was a curse, thought Lucy, thinking that at her age she ought to be a bit more sophisticated. She was an experienced woman, a mother of four, after all, and she shouldn’t feel squeamish about the things consenting adults did. But in her world, she admitted to herself as she stuffed the sex aids back into the bag, you wore thick flannel to bed, and lots of it.

  There was also a special compartment in the duffel that, Lucy knew, was designed to keep sweaty workout gear separate from the bag’s other contents. Lucy was just about to open it when her smartphone buzzed. It was Elizabeth, sounding rather frantic.

  “It’s Sylvie’s parents. They’re coming from Chartres. They have to identify the body.” She paused. “They want me to meet them at the station.”

  “Not a problem,” said Lucy, sensing an opportunity. “Your dad and I can meet them.”

  “They’re taking the train. It arrives at Montparnasse station at nine-oh-two.”

  Lucy glanced at her watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes!”

  “You’ve got to hurry,” said Elizabeth. “Are you going to give them the duffel bag?”

  Lucy hesitated. The bag would absolutely have to go to Sylvie’s parents eventually, but perhaps not just yet. A collection of sleazy sex toys wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you wanted to present to the grieving parents of a young woman.

  “Oh, I don’t want to cart it around Paris,” said Lucy, hedging.

  Elizabeth’s interest was piqued. “What’s in it?”

  “Just tampons and cigarettes and gym gear.”

  “Oh,” said Elizabeth, sounding disappointed.

  “And a few sex toys,” said Lucy.

  “Why am I not surprised?” asked Elizabeth with a sigh, ending the call.

  Lucy made a quick stop at the reception desk and handed over the bag, then called Bill as she hurried out of the hotel and into a cab. He agreed to meet her at Montparnasse station, and true to his word, she found him waiting for her at the main entrance. They had only minutes to spare before the train from Chartres was due to arrive.

  Even though she’d never met them, Lucy had no trouble identifying Monsieur and Madame Seydoux when they debarked from the train; they wore their grief as plainly as their practical tan raincoats and sensible shoes. Monsieur Seydo
ux was tall, and his gray hair was cut military-style. He held himself stiffly, as if he feared he might explode if he relaxed. Madame was much shorter and rounder, her hair dyed strawberry blond, and she held on tightly to her husband’s arm. Lucy noticed she’d tucked a black and beige scarf into the neckline of her coat. It seemed that Frenchwomen had an appropriate scarf for every occasion, including a trip to the morgue.

  “Nous sommes les parents d’Elizabeth Stone, la camarade de chambre de votre fille,” said Lucy, who had checked her dictionary for the term for roommate and had practiced the sentence. “Je m’appelle Lucy, et mon mari est Bill.”

  Monsieur and Madame stared at them, clearly wondering what on earth they were doing here at the station, meeting them.

  “Pas de police? Pas d’autorités?” Monsieur asked, puzzled.

  “Non,” responded Lucy. “Nous voudrions vous aider,” she added, hoping she was saying they wished to be of service.

  Monsieur responded with a barrage of French, which Lucy did not understand, and she decided to admit defeat. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

  “A leetle,” said Monsieur.

  The conversation continued in a mixture of French and English, with many stops and starts, as Lucy and Bill led the Seydouxes to the taxi rank, where Monsieur gave the driver the address of the morgue. The driver emitted a sympathetic sigh before shifting into drive and diving into the constant stream of traffic.

  Lucy and Bill accompanied them inside, waiting on a bench in the hallway as the couple went through a heavily scarred metal door. They were gone a good three-quarters of an hour, most of which, Lucy suspected, was devoted to the endless red tape the French were so fond of, before they emerged. Both looked as if they’d been sucked dry by vampires. Their faces were white, and Monsieur had to support Madame, who seemed ready to collapse. Bill jumped up to help, taking her other arm, and between them they were able to lead her out of the building and into a nearby café, where Lucy ordered café for everyone and double brandies for the Seydouxes.

  Lucy didn’t know what to say, even without a language barrier. They sat at the table in the nearly empty café, two sets of parents separated by a gulf deeper and wider than the Atlantic Ocean. The Stones’ daughter was alive, busy at work building her future, and the Seydouxes’ daughter was laid out in the morgue, her life over.