Death toll and profiterole: A paranormal cozy mystery (Fangs and psychics mysteries Book 1)

by Penny BroJacquie

  DEATH TOLL & PROFITEROLE

  Fangs and Psychics

  Book 1

  by

  Penny BroJacquie

  *

  DEATH TOLL & PROFITEROLE

  Copyright ©2020 Penny BroJacquie

  All Rights Reserved

  Editing: Learning To Fly

  Cover Art: Cosmic Cream

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Death Toll and Profiterole (Fangs and Psychics, #1)

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PROFITEROLE RECIPE

  PENNY BROJACQUIE’S BOOKS

  Acknowledgments

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In loving memory of my author friend, Joan E. Harman

  CHAPTER ONE

  *

  “HER BREASTS ARE PRACTICALLY falling out of that top. Does she have no shame? Or does she want men to look at her like she’s a piece of meat?”

  I could not help but adjust the blouse I was forced to wear one-handed as I finished pouring Mrs. Guillaume’s hot tea. It was not like I did not know what I looked like in that uniform, but I could not exactly help it.

  I had not worn the green-black outfit in months. Now the skirt was too tight, and the striped shirt could barely cover my cleavage. I had to wear them though. Marie, my waitress, was no show – Heavens knew why – and I had to serve myself that day.

  I was aware of how sexy I looked in that uniform. And most people kept their mouths shut about it. It was their thoughts I had to worry about.

  Rays of sunlight were shining through the glass door. Patisserie Le Coeur was full that morning. My tiny French patisserie in Paris, France. My very own French patisserie with the pink checkered tablecloths, chairs, and the light-green walls.

  Customers would line up daily to get one of the beautiful, bright, colorful cakes, pastries, and tarts that I personally baked. With hard work and long hours, my dream for an old-school French patisserie had come true. The always freshly baked authentic tarts, cakes, and pastries would make you feel like you have stepped into the Parisian cafes of old. In a short time, Patisserie Le Coeur had made a name on the classics; buttery croissants, fluffy baguettes, and fancy Belle Epoque cakes; the perfect French craft which I had mastered during my studies in Paris. Le Coeur Instagram account had dozens of thousands of followers. The custard crème filled French crepes had become my signature dish. I was immensely proud of my baby. However, there was a slight problem.

  I could read minds. Do you think it is cool? Well, let me tell you; it is not as cool as it sounds.

  You see, for as long as I could remember, I had always been a telepath. I could always read the thoughts of others around me.

  In the beginning, it was bad. Not just bad; it was awful, unbearable. I could read the thoughts of everyone around me. Everyone! When I was a toddler, I was living in hell. I used to hide into closets and cupboards to protect myself from the voices that were trying to invade my mind. Every time we had guests in my parents’ home, I screamed my lungs out until my mom sent me to my room. There, I could stay in silence for the rest of the night, away from the voices that would drive me crazy.

  My mom, my sweet mom. She was the kindest person in the world, and she suffered big time because of my abnormal and inexplicable behavior. We had visited many doctors and all of them had said that I suffered from some sort of serious developmental disorder and I was unable to communicate. It wasn’t until Carly Mason that we finally figured out what was wrong with me.

  I was five years old when my mom visited Carly Mason, the local leaves-reading fortune teller. My father had just abandoned her flat broke and, as desperate as my mom was, all she wanted to know was whether there was hope for us in the future. Hiring a babysitter was not an option so she took me with her to Carly Mason’s home. It was a cold winter afternoon, and she had made me wear a pink knit beanie which I had pulled down until it covered my ears so I could not listen to the thoughts of others. Alas! I listened to every word Carly Mason had formed in her mind before she uttered a word. And I dared to spit out every sentence Carly meant to speak before she got a chance to do it.

  “This kid is a telepath,” Carly said, and that was when my life changed. Not necessarily for the better, but at least my mom and I had been able to figure out what was wrong with me.

  “Je voulais... err... qu'est-ce que c'est... err...,” the young man trying to speak French brought me back to reality.

  “Do you want me to help you with the menu, sir?” I offered to get him out of his misery.

  “You speak English!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, I am starving and all these dishes sound gibberish to me.” A decayed tooth appeared behind his smile.

  “Have not you ever heard of oral hygiene?” I almost spit out as I sensed him caressing my curves with his eyes while his thoughts were mostly concentrated on how he could ask me out.

  “I am sorry it’s taking too long, but I am really confused, and I could use some help,” he said.

  “It is okay, take your time.”

  “What’s all this French crap? I just want a burger and a shake!”

  The young man’s voice echoed loudly in my mind. However, I had to stand still and patient, as if I hadn’t listened to the words that had been formed in his mind, holding a small notepad and a pencil in my hands and waiting for him to order his meal.

  “Are you American? Your accent sounds American. Where are you from? I’m from LA and I just got to Paris for a student exchange program,” he said joyfully.

  “I am from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho,” I replied, enjoying his confusion over my olive skin color tint, and my exotic facial features. However, getting personal with customers was not my personal policy, so I abruptly changed the matter of subject.

  “I recommend that you have the Clafoutis,” I said keeping a strictly professional face on. “It is a baked dessert of black cherries, arranged in a buttered dish and covered with a thick flan-like batter,” I added when I saw him staring baffled the open booklet in front of him. “Our Crème brûlée is also excellent. This is a rich custard base topped with a super delicious layer of hard caramel. Or, you can have a delicious piece of galette des rois; a buttery puff pastry filled with mouthwatering almond cream,” I explained trying to look as sophisticated as I could.

  “Dude, this will cost me a fortune,” he snorted. “Isn’t there anything more affordable? Like a burger?”

  “This is a traditional French pati
sserie, sir, located in the heart of the beautiful city of Paris. We do not serve burgers,” I said with a snobbish tone in my voice. “If you would rather have savory over sweet, then I would suggest that you have a croque monsieur or a croque madame. It’s quite cheap,” I frowned.

  “That monsieur thing sounds great,” he gave up dishearten, however, I knew he didn’t have any idea what he had just ordered.

  “It is a fried boiled ham and cheese sandwich. Excellent choice. Would you like something to drink? A glass of our finest Citron Presse; a nonalcoholic drink made from fresh lemon juice, ice cubes, sweetener, and water? Very refreshing and highly recommended.”

  I knew he could not afford that kind of stuff, but I loved the feeling of the phycological pressure I was putting on him. I was never good with men calling my butt “perky and round”, even if they had kept their thought for themselves.

  “No, no, I am good with whatever that I am having is,” he exhaled surrendered as he handed the menu back to me.

  After I took the menu back from him, I strengthened my tight black mini skirt and turned around to get the order to the kitchen staff.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  A male voice made me stop walking halfway through to the kitchen.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  He was sitting at a table close to the main entrance, dressed in a black leather jacket and worn-out jeans. He looked gorgeous with his blond unruly hair and his three days beard.

  “Hello, handsome,” I almost let slip out. I forced myself to behave and instead I said, “I am sorry, sir, I didn’t see you coming in,” while I stepped towards him.

  As I approached his table with the pink checkered tablecloth and the white chair, I put on my most beautiful smile, playfully batting my eyelashes. Flirting with a good-looking guy had always been fun to me. Flirting with a customer would sometimes end up with a generous tip in my hands, however, I would rarely cross the red line and date one.

  “Welcome to Le Coeur. Today’s dessert is Clafoutis with cream,” I said as I handed him the menu.

  “I will take the Clafoutis. And a small glass of pastis,” he said, and our eyes met.

  “You are so delicious. I am going to take you home and do unspeakable things to you,” he thought.

  “That is never going to happen!” I cried out and I rushed to cover my mouth with my hand, thunderstruck and embarrassed for the words that slipped out of my mouth.

  “What did you just say?” The man yelled and fixed me with a surprised gaze.

  The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made us both turn our heads to a man who was sitting at a table in the back of the room. His brown eyes flashed with a fierce light and he had his fist clenched beside his body as he came to stand by my side.

  “Is everything alright, miss?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” I replied after a moment of hesitation.

  The Thor lookalike drew his chair back and stood up in a slow manner. “I’m Detective Lucien Fournier, sir. What is your name again?”

  “I never said what my name is.” The newcomer lifted an eyebrow. “I am glad everything is alright. I am ready to place my order, miss...” He squinted his eyes to read my pink name tag.

  “Alysson. It’s Alysson.” I volunteered to help him.

  An old lady having her tea in the back of the patisserie giggled. “Alysson; a woman with secrets.”

  “Madame Toussaint, what did you say?” I asked irritated.

  “My dear, do not take it personally.” The woman with the curly white hair and her worn-out classic white-black Chanel tailleur smiled politely. “I am not implying that you are a woman with secrets. I am just saying what your name means.”

  “And what does my name mean exactly?” I did not know if I really wanted to know the answer, but I did not want to cut off Mrs. Toussaint’s lecture. She was a good customer after all; she was polite, and well mannered, and she never complained, even when her tea was served lukewarm instead of hot as she liked it.

  Mrs. Toussaint lifted her cup and inhaled the red berries and Tibetan flowers aromas that were blended with the sweet smell of cream and sugar.

  “An Alysson is firm and balanced, however sometimes she feels repressed and emotionally unstable. She needs to be loved and told so. An Alyson can be hard-working and go beyond the limits that her body can take. I had a friend called Alysson when I was at school. She had an excellent memory and precise elocution.”

  She looked at me over her steamy cup and smiled before she took a sip. “Onomastics; the study of the etymology, history, and use of names. Mmm, this tea smells like heaven.”

  “Yay.” I tried to look amused, but I had the suspicion that the smile that was formed on my face gave away my awkwardness.

  “Although she has a sincere sense of friendship and she is a good listener, an Alysson does not have many friends,” Mrs. Toussaint continued. “She prefers living in her secret garden with her imaginary friends.”

  “She is a crumb bum!”

  That was Mrs. Guillaume yelling from her table. I looked at her dumbfounded. Where did that hatred come from?

  “Oh please, Claudette, give the girl a break. It is not her fault you are so miserable.” Mrs. Toussaint defending me made my jaw drop. What on Earth happened to my sweet old regulars today? Was it something in the tea? Whatever that was, it was not my fault. I always knew that Mrs. Guillaume was a pain and the rudest customer I had ever had, but I always treated her like she was the jewel in my crown.

  I had three strategies for handling bad customers. Rule number 1: Stay Calm and Do not Respond. Rule number 2: Do not Take It Personally. Rule number 3: Apologize, even if it is not your fault – chances are it is not your fault anyway.

  “Desiree, s 'il vous plaît, stay out of this,” Mrs. Guillaume yelled to her friend.

  I knew Mrs. Guillaume did not quite like me and that my incredible profiteroles were the only reason she kept coming to my tiny little patisserie, however I could not understand what the reason for her outburst was. A telepathic contact would help me to figure out why she did not like me. I had just started the process of sneaking into the old lady’s mind, when Detective Lucien Fournier’s echoed instead.

  “Ladies, stop it right now or I will have you arrested!”

  “On what grounds?” Mrs. Guillaume retorted.

  “On the grounds of giving me a headache,” he ordered. “Mademoiselle Alysson, I am sorry, but I will not have the pleasure to enjoy your famous Clafoutis. Duty calls.”

  He placed a 20-euro banknote on the table. “Please consider this a tip. I would feel bad if I canceled the order.” He signaled to prevent me from protesting for his generous tip and put a small piece of paper beside the banknote. “If you ever need my help, do not hesitate to give me a call,” he said and winked before he turned his back and started walking towards the exit.

  “He is Thor incarnate,” I thought as he opened the door and stepped out of my patisserie.

  Loud voices started echoing again in the room as the door closed behind him. It was Mrs. Guillaume and Mrs. Toussaint who were now quarrelling about__ only Chuck Norris knew why they were quarrelling that time.

  “Oh, please, someone make them stop,” I muttered as I covered my ears why my hands.

  “Miss Alysson?” A velvety voice drifted over beside me. It was the brown eyed man I had completely forgotten about.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Are you leaving, too?”

  “Oh no,” he said and walked towards the table he had been sitting before the row of weird incidents occurred. “I would like to have a cup of coffee and something to eat. Can I have the menu please?”

  I stretched my arm to him to hand him the menu. And then I froze. Something was wrong with him; something was wrong below his skin. It was as if he was empty inside; as if he had no soul.

  “How can that be? Everyone has a soul.” I had not met before a single living person with no heartbeat.

&nbs
p; “Are you alright?” he asked having noticed me standing stock still in front of him.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied as if I had just gotten out of bed. “Welcome to Le Coeur. Today’s dessert is Clafoutis with cream,” I repeated my welcome greeting mechanically before I remembered that he had already been in my shop for quite a few minutes.

  Our fingers accidentally touched as I handed him the menu, and a shiver went down my spine. His hands were cold as charity, but what freaked me out the most was that I felt no sentiment, no feeling had been transferred to me through his fingers.

  That was freaking weird. All my life I had been trying to block other people’s thoughts from entering my mind, but that dude had no thoughts at all. How could that be possible?

  I fixed him with a stare trying to delve into his mind, but in vain. He had blocked all the gateways to his mind. My hands started shaking and my heart raced wild. That could not be happening. I had never met before a person whose mind I was not able to get into. Although grateful for his interference, that guy scared the hell out of me. It might had been the darkness in his eyes, his stern look, or his proud posture that gave me the chills.

  CHAPTER TWO

  *

  I WAS AFRAID. NO, NOT just afraid. I was terrified and all I wanted was to get the heck out of there and get back home.

  “I have heard that this place is famous for its profiteroles,” he said while he flipped through the menu. He seemed to have not noticed my shaking hands.

  “Not to brag but I am the profiterole queen.” I tried to crack a smile but from the way he stared at me, I understood that I looked like I was having a stroke.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again.

  “Oh, yeah.” I tried to appear cool, but my hands moved so erratically as if I were having spasms. “Those ladies are making me nervous. They have not stopped squabbling. I will have to ask them to keep their voice down.”

  Mrs. Guillaume and Mrs. Toussaint were still having a loud yet civil conversation, nothing to justify my nervousness. I just had to come up with a rational explanation as to why I had suddenly been transformed into nervous Nelly. I was sure he noticed the drops of sweat that rolled down my face.