French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  In her heart, she realized with a shock, she distrusted all Frenchmen. It seemed to her that they were egotistical, self-absorbed, cared way much too much about fashion, and were much too casual about sex. They didn’t respect women, at least not in the way she expected. Of course, she admitted, her experience was limited pretty much to Bill and the example set by her father. But why couldn’t Elizabeth settle down with a man like Bill? He was dependable, he drank beer, he liked sports, and he didn’t care what he wore as long as it was clean and comfortable. Like her dad, he never cried, and she liked that about him.

  She thought about Chris Kennedy and wished things had worked out differently. He was a nice guy, and he’d certainly seemed stuck on Elizabeth, but that was apparently all over. She wondered if Elizabeth hadn’t encouraged him enough. The days when a girl could play hard to get were long past. Now that men were all so afraid of commitment, she had to help him along. She couldn’t throw herself at him, of course. It had to be subtle, and Elizabeth wasn’t subtle. Maybe that was the problem. Or maybe Elizabeth was right, and he really was focused on his career right now.

  It had been so much simpler for her. She and Bill met in college and started going steady. They got engaged during senior year and were married the week after graduation. She’d never had a career, really, just a series of jobs until she got pregnant with Toby. Then they’d moved to Tinker’s Cove, and her focus was on their growing family. She enjoyed her part-time job at the Pennysaver newspaper, but it was hardly what you’d call a career. Phyllis, the receptionist at the paper, always said they were really volunteers, because the pay was so low, and Lucy was lucky if her check covered a week’s worth of groceries and a tank of gas.

  Sometimes she wondered if she’d made a mistake by missing out on a career, but she didn’t think so. She was happy with her life, and she wanted Elizabeth to be happy, too, and she didn’t think having casual sex with every Frenchman who came along was the way to achieve that. Especially now, when you couldn’t tell the good guys from the terrorists and criminals. What did Elizabeth really know about Serge? What if he turned out to be one of those monsters who preyed on women, a French version of Ted Bundy?

  Her thoughts kept going round and round, until eventually she heard the birds chirping in the vines that covered the building and Bill woke up.

  “Damn birds,” he muttered, burying his head in her neck. “Just like home.”

  “I wish,” sighed Lucy. “I wish we were home.”

  She debated with herself whether to tell Bill about her midnight adventure and finally decided he didn’t need to know. He’d be furious with her, for one thing, and she wasn’t sure how he’d react to the idea of his daughter having an active sex life. But it was Elizabeth herself who broke the news, calling her father on his cell phone and catching him when Lucy was busy in the bathroom.

  “What were you doing running all over Paris last night?” he demanded, confronting Lucy as she poured herself a cup of coffee. For once, they were alone in the kitchen.

  “I was worried about Elizabeth. I called, and she didn’t answer, so I borrowed one of those bikes downstairs and went over to her apartment.”

  “She says you woke her up, and she’s worried that you’re freaking out.”

  “Woke her up? That’s funny,” said Lucy.

  Bill furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  Lucy would never have said it if Elizabeth hadn’t put her in the awkward position of having to defend herself. “She was entertaining a male caller,” said Lucy, regretting the words the moment she said them.

  “My little girl?” demanded Bill. “Are you sure?”

  “She’s a woman, Bill,” said Lucy. “And I’m quite sure.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Putting two and two together, since she left here on a motorcycle with Serge, I imagine it was him.”

  “That bastard,” growled Bill.

  “You said he seemed nice. He made her wear a helmet,” said Lucy, throwing her husband’s words back at him.

  “That was before I knew he was screwing my daughter.”

  “Look, I’m glad to know she survived the night,” said Lucy. “I don’t trust anybody anymore.”

  “Neither do I,” said Bill. “I’m going to have a word with this guy, make sure he knows that he’d better treat my daughter right, or he’ll have me to deal with.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bill,” said Lucy, but it was too late. Bill was already on his way out the door.

  She put her coffee down and ran after him, grabbing her coat and handbag as she went and catching up to him as he rounded the corner and headed for the Métro station. The slowdown was over, and the trains were running on schedule today, delivering them to the boulevard Haussmann in record time, which Lucy found ironic. If only the Métro workers had continued their protest today, she wouldn’t be in this situation, terrified her husband was going to get in a fight and end up in one of those dreadful French prisons.

  “Please, Bill, we can’t meddle in Elizabeth’s love life,” she protested as the doorman in his splendid green Cavendish uniform trimmed with gold braid held the door wide open and Bill marched into the lobby, looking very much like a man with a mission.

  Elizabeth was seated at her desk and spotted them; she hopped to her feet and met them in the middle of the enormous lobby. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I want a word with that Serge fellow,” said Bill.

  “You can’t do that,” she protested.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because . . . ,” Elizabeth began, hesitating. “Because he’s not here.”

  “Funny, isn’t that him right over there?” asked Bill.

  He was high on testosterone, thought Lucy. That was the only explanation. She reached for his arm, trying to restrain him, but he brushed her off and strode across the plush carpet, planting himself in front of Serge. “I understand you’ve been seeing my daughter,” he said. His voice was even, but Lucy noticed Bill was clenching and unclenching his fist, itching to punch Serge in the face. She hurried after him, trailed by Elizabeth.

  Serge didn’t seem the least bit intimidated, however. “Yes, I have,” he said in a respectful tone, taking Elizabeth’s hand. “Elizabeth is a lovely woman, and I have great respect for her and her family.”

  “Well,” said Bill, somewhat deflated, “that’s good.”

  “I would never do anything to hurt Elizabeth,” continued Serge, gazing at her fondly.

  It occurred to Lucy that he truly was ridiculously handsome, and the French accent didn’t hurt, either. More importantly, he did seem to care for Elizabeth. Perhaps he was even in love with her.

  “Of course not,” said Bill. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  “You understand why we’re concerned,” said Lucy. “After what happened to Sylvie . . .”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Serge with a solemn nod.

  “And Chef Larry,” continued Lucy. “I’ve heard rumors he was involved in something dodgy here at the hotel, and since you work here, too, naturally we were . . .”

  “It is understandable that you would be concerned. Rest assured, we are conducting our own investigation here at the hotel,” said Serge. “We are cooperating with the police and expect the matter to be resolved, perhaps as soon as today.”

  Lucy could hardly believe it, wondering if this meant the police were finally wrapping up the investigation of the murders. Maybe this awful nightmare was coming to an end. “Really?”

  “I am hopeful,” said Serge, leaning close to Lucy and Bill. “I don’t know the details, but we have all been told to watch for a certain man, an American. If he comes, we are to call the police immédiatement.”

  “I just got his photo,” said Elizabeth, “but I haven’t had a chance to look at it.”

  “Maybe your parents know him,” suggested Serge.

  “I doubt it very much,” said Lucy, thinking it was ridiculous
for Serge to think all Americans in Paris must be acquainted with each other. “We hardly know anyone in Paris.”

  Reaching the ornate boulle desk that served as the concierge’s post, Elizabeth picked up an interoffice manila envelope and brought it over to the group. Getting a nod from Serge, she returned to her post at the concierge’s desk, where a guest was waiting for her.

  Lucy unwrapped the little string fastener and pulled out a grainy photo, shocked to discover she recognized the man captured by the security camera.

  “That’s Richard Mason!” she exclaimed.

  “It sure is,” said Bill, shaking his head. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Impossible,” said Serge. “The investigation has been very thorough.”

  “I can’t believe it,” insisted Lucy. “He’s such a nice guy.” She paused. “Ted’s going to be devastated. Imagine. His best friend is involved in the black market.”

  “Not merely involved,” said Serge. “He is the—what you call it?—brains of the operation.”

  Hearing this, Lucy felt dizzy and felt as if her legs were going to give way. Bill caught her by the elbow, and she leaned unsteadily against him. Taking in the situation, Serge was quick to act.

  “Perhaps you would like some refreshment? I can arrange for complimentary service in our Marquis de Lafayette Café.”

  “That would be great,” said Bill. “We didn’t have any breakfast.”

  “It is better to hear bad news on a full stomach,” said Serge, leading the way down a lushly carpeted hallway, past the discreetly labeled restrooms, to a sun-filled restaurant overlooking a walled garden. He had a quick word with the maître d’, and they were seated on upholstered chairs at a linen-covered table beside one of the several French windows and provided with menus.

  Acting on Serge’s murmured instructions, a waiter immediately brought Lucy a glass of orange juice, which she sipped gratefully. The sugar gave her a boost, and she began to feel better.

  “I guess I’ll go for the American breakfast,” said Bill, scanning the international array of offerings, which included a Japanese breakfast of miso soup, steamed rice, a soft-boiled egg and pickles, as well as a petit déjeuner pour le chien of steak tartare, Badoit water, and a genuine Milk-Bone biscuit.

  “They’ll even feed your dog, for a hefty price,” he said, trying to distract Lucy, who was, in fact, rallying and was beginning to take in the luxurious surroundings: the gleaming silver and porcelain, the potted orchids, the pleasant background music.

  A waiter arrived with a silver pot of coffee for each of them, and they gave their orders. Bill stuck with the American of two fried eggs with bacon and home fries, and Lucy chose the classic continental, with croissants and brioches. Soon they were tucking into the delicious food, enjoying every bite, although Lucy’s enjoyment was tempered with guilt.

  “The rich are different,” said Bill, wiping his lips with the enormous linen napkin. “They eat better food.”

  “But not much of it,” said Lucy, with a glance at the very thin ladies seated at the next table. Their teased and tangerine-colored hair was the most substantial part of their stick-figure bodies.

  A waiter appeared at the table and inquired if their breakfasts had been satisfactory, and Bill asked for the check, just in case he’d misunderstood Serge’s invitation. He hadn’t, and the request was dismissed with a smile.

  “We do hope you’ll come again,” said the maître d’ as they departed, the plush carpet giving them the feeling that they were walking on clouds.

  “That was lovely,” said Lucy as they emerged onto the busy boulevard Haussmann, where hurrying Parisians on their way to work were dodging the cleaners spraying the sidewalk with water and the gardeners tending the potted plants outside the grand hotels. “I can see how Richard was tempted. The good life can be addicting.”

  “Let’s amble on down and take a look at the Palais Garnier,” suggested Bill. “I could use some gentle exercise, if you feel up to it.”

  “I am fully recovered, and I could use a little distraction,” said Lucy, taking his arm and strolling along, enjoying the passing parade. “She looks like a secretary, don’t you think?” said Lucy, with a nod at a simply dressed girl absorbed in checking her cell phone.

  “Top executive,” said Bill, checking out a tall man in a beautifully tailored striped suit, carrying a very thin, very expensive briefcase.

  “Janitor?” guessed Lucy, referring to a disheveled fellow whose plaid shirttails were flapping.

  “No, too young. I bet he’s a techie,” said Bill.

  Lucy chuckled, then stopped abruptly and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Speak of the devil, that’s Richard.”

  “You’re right,” said Bill, spotting the journalist striding along on the opposite side of the boulevard, wearing a messenger bag and involved in a cell phone conversation. “Do you think he’s headed for the Cavendish?”

  “Let’s find out,” said Lucy, turning around and heading in the opposite direction.

  “What if he spots us?” cautioned Bill.

  “What if he does? He doesn’t know that we know about his illegal activities.”

  “I feel crummy about this,” said Bill. “He’s headed for a trap, and he was nice to us. Remember that seafood dinner?”

  “Which we now know he paid for with ill-gotten gains,” said Lucy. “Even in Paris I don’t think journalists make a lot of money.”

  As Richard neared the Cavendish Hotel, he suddenly dashed across the street, taking advantage of a break in the traffic. Lucy and Bill had nowhere to go and couldn’t avoid an encounter, even if they’d wanted to, which Lucy certainly did not.

  “Richard!” she exclaimed. “You’re out and about bright and early.”

  “Lucy, Bill! I could say the same to you. I thought vacationers like yourselves would want to sleep in.”

  “Not in Paris,” said Lucy. “There’s too much to see.”

  “Have you time for a quick coffee?” he asked, glancing at a nearby café, where a handful of diners were seated at the outside tables, sipping coffee and perusing their morning papers.

  Bill started to make an excuse, but Lucy seized on the invitation. “We’re on vacation, so we’ve got plenty of time,” she said. “We’re flaneurs today.”

  “That’s the best way to experience Paris,” said Richard. “Forget about Fodor’s list of must-sees and just relax and experience it.”

  The three seated themselves at one of the tiny round tables, and they were soon provided with tiny cups of espresso coffee. Richard downed his in one gulp, but Lucy and Bill sipped at theirs. Richard was a charming conversationalist, and they passed a pleasant quarter hour, during which Lucy found it increasingly difficult to believe Serge’s accusation. How could this wonderful, generous man be involved in crime? She had to know.

  “I’ve heard strange rumors about you, Richard,” she said, getting a sharp kick in the ankle from Bill. “That you have a second career.”

  Richard seemed taken aback and blinked a few times before pasting a smile on his face. “Paris is full of rumors,” he said. “I do pick up a little extra here and there. I have to. Paris is expensive, and a journalist’s salary, well, it doesn’t begin to cover the rent.”

  “But you don’t do anything illegal, do you?” asked Bill, offering him a way out.

  Richard tilted his head this way and that, grinning slyly. “I guess it depends what you think is illegal,” said Richard. “Sometimes I do skate on thin ice, if you know what I mean, but I’d never hurt anyone. That’s my red line, and I don’t cross it. A bit here, a bit there, sure, but only from those who won’t miss it. Big companies who rip off their customers and have lots of insurance, they factor a certain amount of loss into their budgets, right?”

  “I suppose they do,” said Lucy. “But sometimes people do get hurt, like Chef Larry.”

  Richard’s genial manner was gone, replaced with a stone face. “Chef Larry got himself killed, and that’s the truth.
”

  Something in his tone struck Lucy, prompting a memory. “You were at the hospital the day he died,” she said, but Richard was already on his feet, making a show of checking his watch.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to dash. I’m running late.”

  “Didn’t Richard invite us for coffee?” asked Bill, signaling the waiter for the check.

  “Yeah,” said Lucy. “What of it?”

  “Well, he should have paid for the coffees, right?”

  “Oh, I have a feeling he’s going to pay a hefty price,” said Lucy, watching as Richard gave a nod to the doorman and entered the Cavendish Hotel.

  A few moments later the woo-wah of sirens was heard, and a small fleet of tiny police cars with flashing blue lights swarmed down the boulevard, braking in front of the hotel. The flics dashed in, and moments later Richard emerged, handcuffed, and was stuffed into the back of a van. A few passersby stopped to watch, but the excitement was almost over before it began, and the police cars vanished as quickly as they had come.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes,” said Bill, counting out euros and putting them on the table.

  They were preparing to leave—Lucy was slipping the strap of her handbag over her head—when they noticed a harassed-looking Malik practically collapsing onto a café chair and lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

  This was her chance, she thought. She’d never have another opportunity to question him. “Malik, are you okay?” she asked, approaching his table.

  Malik’s shoulders jumped. He was clearly startled, but he relaxed a bit upon recognizing Bill and Lucy. “Monsieur and Madame Stone,” he said, hopping to his feet. “Enchanté.”