French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  It was obvious that the interview was over, but Lucy still had something to say, although it was not something she wanted to say in front of Bill and Elizabeth. As she put on her coat, she reached into the pocket and found the apartment key, which she tucked beneath her on the chair, leaving it behind. They were about to leave the building when she pretended to discover the loss.

  “I’ll go,” offered Bill.

  “No, no,” she said a bit too quickly. “It was my mistake. I’ll go. Why don’t you wait for me in that café?”

  “Okay,” he said somewhat dubiously.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” she promised, heading for the stairs.

  When she returned to Lapointe’s office she found him with his elbows propped on the desk, dangling the enormous key from its silk cord, clearly waiting for her to return. “Madame, you have forgotten your key.”

  “I left it on purpose,” she said. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Vraiment?”

  “Oui.”

  “You have something to confess, madame?”

  “I did a foolish thing,” she began. “I went to the hospital after Chef Larry was attacked. The guard left his post for a moment, and I slipped into his room. I was looking for some clue to the attack.”

  “Did you find this clue?”

  “I think I did. He was conscious, and he asked me to deliver a message for him. He wanted me to tell Serge at the Cavendish Hotel to visit him.”

  “And did you do that?”

  “Indirectly. I went to the hotel, and my daughter introduced me to Serge d’Amboise. He’s an assistant manager. I didn’t want to admit to him that I’d broken the rules and gone into Larry’s room, so I just told him that Chef Larry was no longer unconscious and was recovering.” She took a deep breath. “Also, as I told you before, the two boys who broke into our apartment, they also work at the hotel. Their names are Adil Sadek and Malik Mehanna.”

  “Ah, yes, I will look into this connection,” said Lapointe.

  “I just wanted to get this off my chest. I know I behaved very foolishly.”

  “Indeed,” said Lapointe. “This is very serious, interfering with an investigation.”

  “I am most sincerely sorry,” said Lucy, once again imagining the dark, dank cell that most probably awaited her.

  “No matter,” said Lapointe with a wave of his hand. “Go to your husband and daughter, and do not involve yourself anymore with this matter. Today it is bœuf bourguignon at the café on the quai, and I can recommend it. And the house wine is not bad, either. Allez.”

  “Merci,” said Lucy, somewhat shocked and definitely puzzled. She would never in a million years understand these French people.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As she made her way to the café, Lucy decided that perhaps France really wasn’t so bad, after all. No one in America would expect an employer to grant a worker time off for equilibrium recovery, but it was apparently the norm here in France. And there was no eating breakfast on the run or eating lunch at your desk, either. You never saw anyone carrying around an enormous cardboard container of coffee and a doughnut, as you did in the States, and snacking was out of the question. Instead, the entire country paused at noon for a three-course sit-down lunch with wine. And nobody rushed through that meal, either. She thought of the gentlemen she and Bill had sat next to a week or so ago, when Bill ordered that dish of tête de veau. They were obviously businessmen of some sort, but they were in no hurry to get back to work. Not only were they the two founding members of the clean-plate club, but they had each polished off a generous carafe of wine, too, and had even lingered afterward for coffee and brandy. In America, she thought, that sort of thing was a relic of the past, resurrected for the twenty-first-century audience’s amazement in the TV show Mad Men.

  It was a bit early for lunch, so Bill and Elizabeth were able to get a table by the window in the café, where they were studying menus.

  “Get the bœuf bourguignon,” suggested Lucy when she joined them. “It comes highly recommended.”

  “Okay,” said Bill, always agreeable when it came to food.

  “Not me,” said Elizabeth. “I will have a salade niçoise.”

  The waiter came with water and bread and took their orders, returning quickly with their wine.

  “When in France,” said Lucy, allowing Bill to fill her glass. Elizabeth declined, which worried Lucy. “You aren’t thinking of going back to work, are you?” she asked.

  “Not today, Mom, but I’m definitely going tomorrow.”

  “What’s the rush?” asked Bill.

  “Lapointe said you should take a leave of absence for a week or two, for your own safety,” said Lucy.

  “He didn’t say that at all, Mom. He said I should take time to recover my equilibrium, and I don’t need that. I am équilibrée. No problem. I didn’t like Sylvie, and I’m not going to pretend I’m broken up about her death.”

  There was a pause in the conversation while the waiter delivered their dishes, but as soon as he was gone, Lucy spoke up, leaning across the table for emphasis. “Look, for your safety, I think you should stay with us. I don’t think you should be alone. And I definitely think the farther you stay from the Cavendish, the better.”

  Elizabeth speared a piece of tuna and chewed it thoughtfully. “Look, I know you’re concerned about me, but I can take care of myself. The last thing I want to do is hang around with your weird friends.” Elizabeth caught herself and apologized. “Sorry, Mom.” Then she continued, “I’ve finally got a place to myself, and I can’t wait to claim it. I’ve been thinking that if I work just a little overtime, I can afford the rent all by myself and I won’t need to get a roommate.” She poked at the salad with her fork. “I’m just not cut out for sharing, I guess. I really want my own place.”

  Lucy caught Bill’s eye, prompting him to deliver a fatherly ultimatum and getting a slight shrug in return, and scowled back at him. It was always like this. He came on tough at first, but then he’d cave, unable to deny his children anything, no matter how misguided.

  “I think you’re making a big mistake,” said Lucy, “but you’re all grown up, and I suppose you can take care of yourself. You’d better be extra careful, though.” She popped a tiny white onion into her mouth. “So what are your plans for the apartment? We’re happy to help, you know. We’ve got plenty of time on our hands. Do you want to paint?”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Elizabeth, pleased that her mother had changed her tune. “But first things first. I have to pack up Sylvie’s stuff.”

  “I can help you with that,” offered Lucy, sensing an opportunity to investigate.

  “I’ll go to BHV and pick up some paint chips,” said Bill. “What colors were you thinking of?”

  “Something neutral,” said Elizabeth, grinning. “Anything would be better than that green!”

  Lucy felt uneasy when she and Elizabeth returned to the apartment, but she had to admit Elizabeth had a point. The place was tiny, really too small for two people to share. It had been built, she guessed, in the early 1900s as cheap housing for workers leaving the farms and coming to the city to work. An entire family, or perhaps even two, had probably once squeezed into the three small rooms, sharing a toilet on the landing.

  As time passed, some improvements had been made, and a miniscule bathroom had been installed when the kitchen was remodeled, sometime in the 1950s. The previous tenant was an old lady who had moved in with her husband many years ago and had remained after his death. Sylvie had moved in when the old lady died, but she hadn’t made any changes apart from the addition of the cheap futon in the salon. The bulky oversize furniture, the mossy green walls, and the busy rug with its faded pattern of roses had all remained in place, along with some ugly green and black mod curtains, which had probably been hung in the swinging sixties.

  “A coat of paint will make a big difference,” said Lucy, looking around. “A light color will make the rooms
look much bigger.”

  “I don’t know how much I can do. I have to check with the landlord,” said Elizabeth.

  “Just getting rid of the curtains and this horror of a rug would be a start,” said Lucy. “What’s the bedroom like?”

  “About like the salon,” said Elizabeth. “Dark and crowded.”

  Elizabeth was right, thought Lucy, taking a good look at the huge armoire and the double bed with its ornate carved headboard and footboard. The bed was covered with a leopard-print duvet. Pulling it back revealed red satin sheets.

  “Oh, my,” gasped Lucy. “The cops must have loved these.”

  “I don’t think they searched very thoroughly,” said Elizabeth. “They certainly didn’t disturb anything.”

  Lucy remembered a series of flashes, indicating the crime-scene investigators had taken photographs, but she had to agree that Sylvie’s room was quite neat and tidy. It must be the policy of the French police to leave things as they found them, she thought, recalling that they had done the same when they searched the friends’ apartment. And Girard had told Elizabeth the police had no further need to examine the apartment, and he’d given her the okay to return.

  “Maybe we should get rid of these bedclothes,” suggested Lucy. “How can we pack them up for her parents?”

  “Just fold them up and put them all in that hamper,” said Elizabeth, pointing to a wicker trunk in the corner. “If there’s one thing I know about French people, it’s that they keep track of their stuff. If the sheets are missing, there’ll be hell to pay. They’ll think I stole them.”

  “They stink of musky perfume,” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose as she shook a pillow out of its red satin case. “I was thinking this decor might be ironic, kind of a joke, but this perfume tells a different story. But I still can’t get a handle on it. She dressed so conservatively, she used very little makeup, and she had that simple little haircut.” She paused. “I don’t think she even wore perfume. I bet this scent came from the guys she, uh, entertained here.”

  “That’s disgusting, Mom,” said Elizabeth, opening the armoire and revealing only a few pieces of clothing. “Regarde,” she said. “The typical Frenchwoman’s wardrobe. One black tailored jacket, one jean jacket, one pencil skirt, two pairs of black slacks, a white blouse, a black turtleneck, a gray cashmere sweater, a puffy down jacket, black pumps, a pair of Tod’s driving shoes. C’est tout.”

  “She was wearing jeans, boots, and a trench coat when she disappeared, right?” asked Lucy.

  Elizabeth had pulled open the drawer at the bottom of the armoire, revealing carefully folded lacy lingerie in a variety of colors, a neat stack of scarves, and rolled-up hosiery.

  “This will all fit in her suitcase,” said Elizabeth, hoisting the large roller bag that was stored on top of the armoire.

  Lucy wandered over to the fireplace, which was closed off, and checked out the items arranged on the mantel, beneath a spotted old mirror. There was a half-empty bottle of Le Muguet cologne, which, after one sniff, Lucy knew was not the musky, overwhelming scent that permeated the bedding. There were also a few childhood books, including Le Petit Prince, several Babars, and the fables of La Fontaine, and a carved wooden box containing a few pieces of jewelry. Good jewelry, noted Lucy, examining cultured pearl earrings, a gold cross and chain, a simple gold bangle bracelet. Closing the box, she gathered it all up and added it to the linens in the wicker hamper.

  “Are her parents coming?” asked Lucy. “Is there going to be a funeral?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from them. The police may still have her body. I don’t know how that works.”

  “Neither do I, but I’m sure her parents would like to get their daughter buried as soon as possible,” said Lucy, sitting down on the bed. “Everything here speaks of a neat, organized girl, albeit with an interesting sex life, but she still had her Babar books. And that nice jewelry, probably gifts from her parents for graduations and first communion . . . but she was tortured and murdered. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Like girls who wear cashmere sweaters and pearl earrings shouldn’t get killed?” asked Elizabeth.

  “That’s the hope,” said Lucy. “Your Coach bag is a talisman that will protect you from evil.”

  “It would be one thing if she was mugged or raped. That sort of thing could happen to anyone. This was different. Her killers were after something,” said Elizabeth. “And Adil and Malik know about it and want it. That’s why they searched your place, and why they tried to get in here. I don’t think they killed her, but I think they’re involved somehow. But whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “It’s kind of funny,” said Lucy thoughtfully, watching as Elizabeth yanked the duvet off the bed and began folding it. “There’s no checkbook, no bills, not even a savings account.”

  “She used a debit card for everything. Everybody does now,” said Elizabeth, stuffing the bulky down-filled comforter into the wicker hamper. Lucy joined her, stripping off the red satin sheets, revealing a thick quilted mattress pad, which was somewhat stained.

  “Ugh,” said Elizabeth, wrinkling her nose at the sight. She added the pillows to the linens in the hamper, then flicked loose one of the elastic straps that held the mattress pad in place. It popped up, revealing a second pad made of memory foam. “I guess she liked her comfort,” said Elizabeth, who was folding up the quilted pad.

  “Most likely the mattress is worn out. This was cheaper than replacing it, I suppose,” said Lucy, wondering how she was going to pack up the bulky thing. And, there was also the black duffel that Sylvie kept at work. What had Elizabeth done with it?

  “We mustn’t forget the duffel bag Sylvie stuffed under the reception desk,” she said.

  “Oh, right,” said Elizabeth. “I shoved it under the bed when I saw what was inside.” Her cheeks reddened. “I see why you didn’t want to give it to her parents the other day.”

  “Sylvie was a very interesting girl,” said Lucy.

  “You can say that again,” agreed Elizabeth, pulling the bag out and plunking it on the naked bed. “But,” she said, speaking slowly, “she didn’t go to a gym. Frenchwomen despise exercise.”

  “So it isn’t sneakers in that compartment for sweaty gear,” said Lucy.

  “I doubt it very much,” said Elizabeth, reaching inside and pulling out a thick wad of euros stuffed into an envelope. “Ohmigod,” she said, dropping the bills on the bed, as if they were too hot to handle.

  “I guess we know what Adil and Malik were looking for,” said Lucy, examining the bundle.

  “How much is there?” asked Elizabeth.

  “It’s all five-hundred-euro notes,” said Lucy, who was busy counting. When she was through, she’d counted a hundred bills, totaling fifty thousand euros.

  “Where’d she get it?” Elizabeth wondered aloud. “She couldn’t have made this much working at the hotel, not unless she was paid a lot more than I am.”

  “Frenchwomen are known for their thrift,” said Lucy, earning a long look from her daughter.

  “Not funny, Mom.” Elizabeth gathered the bills into a neat stack and replaced them in the envelope. “I thought she was an enthusiastic volunteer, but do you think she was getting paid for sex? Could she have made this money doing tricks?”

  “I’m not up on the current rates,” said Lucy, “but I doubt it.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Elizabeth.

  “We’re calling Girard,” said Lucy, reaching for her phone.

  The call went to voice mail, so Lucy left a message, saying only that she had found something of interest that belonged to Sylvie. She didn’t know how messages were handled by the French police and was leery of giving too much information.

  “I don’t like this,” she said to Elizabeth, who was holding the envelope of money. “I feel like we’re in danger as long as we have this. I want to get rid of it.”

  “We could hide it.”

  “Not here,” said L
ucy. “It’s too dangerous. What about the Cavendish? They must have a safe there.”

  “Too many people have access,” said Elizabeth.

  “There’s a safe in the apartment,” said Lucy. “It’s like the ones they have in hotel rooms. You punch in a PIN code.”

  “Do you really want to be tortured for your PIN code?” demanded Elizabeth.

  “Not really,” admitted Lucy, thinking that it really wouldn’t be necessary. Any idiot could guess her code, as it was the last four digits of her phone number. “We have to take it to the police.”

  “You’re crazy. We can’t carry fifty thousand euros on the Métro.”

  “Who’s going to know?” asked Lucy.

  “They’re probably keeping watch on the apartment right now. They’ll see us leave with a package.”

  “I have a big purse.” It was true. Lucy was carrying a big catchall, with plenty of room for a camera, guidebook, and water bottle.

  “They’ll follow us. It’s a couple of blocks to the Métro station, and this isn’t a very good neighborhood.”

  “We could call a cab,” suggested Lucy.

  “I’m not leaving here,” said Elizabeth, hugging the envelope to her chest. “Try that cop again, okay?” Her face was ashen, and her lips seemed to have disappeared. “Please.”

  This time Girard answered his phone and promised to send a couple of officers to pick up the money. “Don’t open the door to anyone, even if they’re wearing a uniform,” he said. “Make sure you see their IDs.”

  “I couldn’t tell a real one from a fake one,” said Lucy, trying not to panic. This was really getting out of hand.

  “Give me a password,” he said.

  Lucy thought she’d stepped out of real life and into a film noir. “Breathless,” she said.

  “Interesting choice,” said Girard. “Remain calm. They are on the way.”

  Lucy felt a huge sense of relief. This would all be over soon. The cops were on the way. They’d be here any minute. In fact, they might be here already, she thought, hearing a knock on the door.