by Amber Crewes
“Excusez-moi,” the male panelist repeated. “It appears we are only missing one panelist, now. To keep us on schedule, we shall begin the panel discussion. Assistants? Assistants, please bring out the trays of apéritifs! ”
The crowd gasped as ten uniformed assistants appeared with trays of appetizers. “Those look amazing,” Molly giggled as a handsome assistant passed her. “The food looks nice, too.”
Meghan giggled as Molly winked at her. “With all of the French appetizers we could ever imagine, this should be a fun morning, even if Andrew Meekse is here.”
Suddenly, the sound of static filled the room. “Excuse l'interruption--excuse the interruption,” called out a frantic-sounded man’s voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to ask that all demonstrations and seminars end immediately. There has been an emergency.”
Molly looked nervously at Meghan. “What do you think is going on?”
Meghan shook her head. “I don’t know...it is a food and baking convention. Perhaps there was a fire?”
Before Molly could respond, a woman burst through the door of the Green Room. “Stop the seminar,” she gasped. “Monica Baptise has been found dead!”
4
SCREAMS FILLED THE GREEN ROOM as the woman who had announced Monica’s death ran back outside. “She’s….she’s….” Molly sputtered as she blinked her eyes. “She’s dead?”
Meghan gasped as Molly fainted, and she struggled to hold her new friend up as Molly slumped in her chair. “Molly,” Meghan said softly as she patted Molly on the cheeks. “Molly, wake up. Wake up, Molly.”
Molly leaned over, and Meghan helped guide her down to the tiled floor. “Easy, Molly,” she whispered as she placed a hand on Molly’s pale forehead. “You have to wake up. It’s an emergency, Molly, and I don’t know if we’ll have to evacuate….” she muttered.
“Stay calm, everyone,” Meghan heard Andrew Meekse call out as the crowd shrieked. “Just stay calm, people. There’s no need to get upset.”
Meghan raised an eyebrow, but she did not look away from Molly. “Okay, Molly,” she said gently. “I hope you can forgive me for this, but you have to wake up!”
Meghan reared back her left hand and slapped Molly’s face. Molly began to cough, regaining consciousness instantly. “Meghan? What happened? Why am I on the floor?”
Meghan reached for Molly’s hand and squeezed it. “Monica Baptise was found dead,” she informed Molly. “They just announced it, and you passed out.”
Molly raised herself onto her elbows and looked around the room as the crowd dispersed. “Should we go?”
Meghan shook her head. “I think the best thing to do is stay calm and stay put,” she assured Molly.
“That is correct,” a French-accent affirmed. Meghan looked over her right shoulder to see a middle-aged man peering at her from behind a pair of stylish glasses. “I am Detective Thierry Giroud, and you, mademoiselle, did a wonderful job of resuscitating your friend.”
Meghan rose from where she had been crouched beside Molly on the floor. “Thank you,” she responded. “Detective Giroud, what is going on?”
The detective shook his head. “Forgive my English--I have not spoken it for years, but I heard you talking with your friend after she fainted, and I thought I must stop by to commend you. It appears there has been a murder at the convention,” he said slowly. “This convention is---how do you say it? Oh, oui. This convention is cursed.”
Molly’s blue eyes widened. “What do you mean, Detective Giroud?”
Detective Giroud narrowed his eyes at the two American women and stroked his thick, brown beard. “This isn’t the first time someone has died at the convention,” he informed Meghan and Molly. “Seven years ago, there was another unexpected death. We never caught the killer and my sincere hope is that that won’t happen with this case. I shudder to think that whoever was behind that tragedy seven years ago is also behind the death of Madame Baptiste could be connected to the death from years ago. This is a disaster.”
Meghan’s jaw dropped. “What happened to Monica, Detective?”
The detective shook his head. “The investigation has just begun, but I will warn you, mademoiselle, it is best if you and your friend get out of here immediately. People are panicking, and with a murderer on the loose….well…. I don’t want to see anything happen to two such lovely ladies….”
Meghan nodded, and she helped Molly to her feet. “Thank you, Detective Giroud,” Meghan said. “We’ll go straight back to the hotel.”
As Meghan led Molly away from the Green Room, she noticed the trays of appetizers and desserts scattered on the floor. She felt a squishing sensation under her foot, and she realized she had squashed an éclair with her high heel. The inside of the pastry leaked out, leaving a trail of white cream behind Meghan. One of the things Meghan hated was seeing food going to waste and all over the convention center, she could see evidence of her major pet peeve. She didn’t envy the team that would be tasked with cleaning up.
“Monica Baptiste has been killed,” Meghan thought to herself as she grimaced at the chaos growing inside of the convention. “And Molly fainted. I hoped for a fun trip, and now, things have gone awry. I sure hope there’s no more trouble in Paris…..”
“You there!”
Meghan turned to see a French police officer storming toward her. “You! I heard you speaking English. Come with me, please!”
Meghan’s face grew hot as she followed the French police officer into a small, windowless room. “Who are you and where are you from?”
Meghan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m Meghan Truman,” she explained. “I’m here for the convention.”
The police officer raised an eyebrow. “Do you have your passport with you, mademoiselle? I need to see your documentation immediately.”
Meghan bit her lip. “I don’t,” she admitted. “I didn’t know I would need it.”
The police officer rolled his eyes. “You are what, American?”
Meghan nodded. “Yes, I am from Sandy Bay, a small town in America.”
“You Americans never have what you need,” he muttered underneath his breath. “Stupid Americans! You come to our city, you litter our streets, and you kill our citizens.”
“What?” Meghan asked, horrified at what she had heard. “What are you talking about?”
Meghan rose to leave the small room, but the police officer gestured at her seat and then at the door. “The door is locked, mademoiselle,” he informed Meghan. “You are considered a threat to national security, and you will be held here until we can transport you downtown. I suggest you take your seat and finish answering my questions.”
She began to wail. “What are you talking about? A threat to national security? I am from a small town and am here for the convention! I’m just plain, quiet Meghan Truman! Sir, help me understand what is going on?”
Her blood was boiling at the disrespectful attitude and harshness the police officer was showing towards her. She wished that she was back home in Sandy Bay where she could reason with an officer of the law. What this man was proposing was preposterous! How could she automatically be considered a threat to national security simply because of where she came from? The awkwardness of the whole situation made her pause to wonder if some foreigners ever felt this way when they came to her country.
The officer gave Meghan a look of disgust. “As a foreign national currently lacking your passport and documentation, you are considered a suspect in the murder of Monica Baptiste,” he explained to Meghan as her jaw dropped. “You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Monica Baptiste, and you will be held by the French authorities until we declare your innocence, Meghan Truman of Sandy Bay, America!”
5
“IT WAS HORRIBLE,” Meghan lamented over the phone to Trudy as she soaked in her claw-foot bathtub back at the hotel. “They held me for hours in the little room. I didn’t know that I should have taken my passport to the convention. They let Molly go immediately
because she just happened to have hers.”
“That’s terrible,” Trudy said. “I can’t believe they would lock you up just because you are a foreigner! It seems wrong.”
“I know,” Meghan agreed. “It made me think about how foreigners must feel when they visit America. It’s already scary to be abroad and away from everything you know, but when you are targeted just because of your nationality...it was something I will never forget.”
“Well, I’m glad that detective came to your rescue!” Trudy exclaimed. “You said he showed up right before they carted you off to jail? That’s such good timing.”
“It was,” Meghan agreed, remembering her relief when Detective Giroud had shown up to demand her release from the windowless room. “He told the officer that I had nothing to do with Monica’s death, and I’m so thankful I had someone from Paris to stand up for me.”
“I just hope your trip goes better from now on,” Trudy clucked sympathetically. “You’ve had quite a time already, Meghan….”
Later that day, Molly and Meghan ventured out of the hotel to do some sight-seeing at some of Paris’ most treasured locations. The convention had been shut down in order to aid the investigation, and despite the stresses of the morning with the police and tragedy of Monica Baptiste’s unexpected death, Meghan could not help but to notice the magnificent beauty of Paris as she and Molly strolled arm-in-arm through Champ de Mars, the perfectly manicured park just under the Eiffel Tower. They had already ogled Notre Dame, shopped on the Champes de Elysses, and now, were both looking forward to taking the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower for an afternoon they would never forget.
“Look at those crepes,” Molly exclaimed as she pointed to a stand selling pastries. “They are huge! Those crepes are the size of my head. We don’t have anything like that back home in Georgia.”
Meghan closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She was still shaken by Monica’s death; back at the hotel, she had heard the whispers of the staff and other guests, and Meghan was growing more and more anxious to learn the details of what had happened. It seemed that Meghan could not escape trouble; even at home in Sandy Bay, she had been scrutinized by the town whenever tragedy struck, and now, Meghan’s stomach churned as she thought of Monica’s demise.
“And the air is just delicious here,” Molly continued, running a hand through her gray hair as the wind lightly ruffled it. “I might just not leave Paris when this week is up!”
After a group of well-dressed French children skipped by, Meghan turned to stare at her new friend. “Molly,” she said slowly. “Molly, I love being in Paris too. I love seeing the people chattering in French and wearing the latest fashions. I love the beauty of the buildings and the rich history. I love the food here, and the way a simple baguette and bit of brie and jam make me feel elegant and sophisticated. I just don’t understand how you are behaving as if nothing happened…”
Molly raised an eyebrow at Meghan. “What do you mean?”
Meghan’s jaw dropped. “Monica Baptiste was murdered, Molly. That’s what the detective implied, and that’s what people are whispering back at the hotel. She was murdered, and you’re acting like nothing happened….”
Molly shook her head. “Meghan,” she began. “I’ve thought long and hard about who the killer might be; my guess is that terrible Andrew Meekse, or even Carla Lizarazou….”
“Carla Lizarazou?” Meghan asked as Molly nodded.
“Yeah, Carla. She was on a panel I attended earlier in the morning; she and Monica were great rivals, it seems, and rumor is that Carla lost out on some big business when Monica’s newest shop opened.”
Meghan’s dark eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Molly pursed her lips. “I know that I was the one who fainted,” Molly softly admitted. “But you seem to be the one who is real upset, Meghan. I didn’t want to ruin our day in Paris with all of this talk of murder. We’re only here once, and I want you to have a wonderful time.”
Meghan exhaled, looking around the Champ de Mars. Trees lined the symmetrical pathways in the park, and Meghan felt calmed by the sound of the wind rustling the branches. She smiled as she heard the giggle of the group of French children nearby, and she turned to hug Molly.
“Thank you,” she murmured to her new friend. “You are right; we are only in Paris once, and while I am heartbroken about what happened to Monica, you are so sweet to help me enjoy our day.”
Later that evening, as Meghan and Molly relaxed in Meghan’s suite, they heard a knock on the door. “I wonder who that could be?” Meghan questioned as she tiptoed to the door and peered out of the peephole. She relaxed as she took in the sight of a young, fresh-faced maid smiling back at her.
“Bonjour,” the maid greeted Meghan as she swung open the door. “Je suis ici pour livrer des serviettes fraîches.”
Meghan shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry,” Meghan answered. “We don’t speak French….”
The maid smiled. “I speak English,” she informed Meghan. “I wanted to know if you needed some fresh towels?”
Meghan grinned. “We don’t, but thank you for asking!”
The maid winked. “Not a problem, mademoiselle,” she purred. “You are such a nice lady. Are you here for the convention?”
Meghan nodded. “Yes,” she replied. “I am. I own a bakery in Sandy Bay, in America.”
The maid bit her lip. “I think you are too sweet to be here for the convention,” she said under her breath. “Everyone at the convention is so angry and stressed, and you are so sweet.”
Meghan frowned. “I’m sorry to hear people have been fussy.”
The maid rolled her eyes. “It happens every year. People come in from all over the world to go to the convention, but they behave so terribly to the French people. I think the only French person having fun at the convention is James Dugarry, the owner of the Palais Brongniart.”
Meghan cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
The maid grimaced. “Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but while no Frenchman or Frenchwoman enjoys the convention, it sure looked like James Dugarry was enjoying it when I saw him on television earlier. He was talking about that woman’s death, and he was almost gleeful…”
Meghan frowned. “Monica Baptiste?”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Yes, her,” she whispered. “Everyone in Paris is horrified at her death, but James Dugarry seemed to be excited when I watched him on television. It sure looked like he was enjoying the attention her death brought to his event space. From the way his eyes shined as he spoke about her death, you’d think he had planned the whole thing, or something.”
6
MEGHAN’S HEAD WAS SPINNING as she strode across the Champs Elysees and into Le Magasin Lizarazou, the store owned by Carla Lizarazou, Monica Baptiste’s rival. After the visit from the maid the previous evening, Meghan and Molly had decided that they needed to do something; between Andrew Meekse and Carla Lizarazou, it sounded like someone had information that could reveal the killer’s identity and bring peace to the Baptiste family.
“Bonjour, belle demoiselle,” a blonde woman called out to Meghan as she stepped into Le Magasin Lizarazou.
Meghan bashfully looked down at her leather boots. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t speak French.”
The blonde woman smiled warmly and approached Meghan. “Ahh, an American, I see,” she said, kissing Meghan on both cheeks. “I’m sure you are here for the convention! Why else would you step into my cooking shop? Welcome to Paris!”
Meghan blushed. “Thank you,” she shyly replied. “I love Paris.”
The blonde woman winked. “Everyone loves Paris. Now, what brings you in? Are you looking for something today?”
Meghan nodded. “I’m looking for the owner of this shop, actually. Madame Lizarazou? I wanted to speak with her.”
“Well, Miss American, it is your lucky day,” the blonde woman said with a twinkle in her e
yes. “I am Carla Lizarazou. What can I help you with?”
Meghan studied Carla’s face. Carla appeared to be in her late thirties, and with her long, blonde hair and strong jawline, she was stunningly beautiful. “Can we talk in private?”
Carla raised an eyebrow. “There is no one here. Speak.”
Meghan sighed. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Monica Baptiste….”
Carla’s exquisite face darkened. “I don’t need to hear that name,” she muttered. “That woman is dead, and if I never hear Monica Baptiste’s name again, it will be too soon.”
Meghan nervously bit her upper lip. She glanced around the shop, her dark eyes widening at the cooking equipment displayed in immaculate arrangements, as well as the expensive price tags attached. “I just had a few questions…”