Macchiatos, Macarons, and Malice

by Harper Lin

  “So do we!”

  He looked at me like I’d shared something deeply personal or possibly disgusting. After a second, he shook his head and looked back down at the bar top. “Local guys said the spa will be closed for at least a day, maybe longer depending on what evidence they do or don’t find and how the investigation goes.”

  “When’s your massage scheduled for?” Ours was Sunday morning. I wondered if the spa would still be closed by then. I hoped not. I was really looking forward to it.

  Mike looked at his watch. “This time tomorrow.” He took another swallow of his beer.

  “And you don’t think the police will have it figured out by then?”

  “I don’t even know if they’ll be done processing the crime scene by then. Do you know how many fingerprints there are down there? They keep it clean, but—” He stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Franny.”

  “The restaurants are open. You could take her for a romantic dinner, maybe go for a walk outside. Didn’t I see that there’s a piano bar somewhere too?”

  He shook his head. “I already planned to do all that. I had the whole weekend all planned out. But the massage was supposed to be the big romantic couple thing. But with this girl turning up dead—she thinks it’s a bad sign. Like the universe is telling her we shouldn’t get back together.”

  Even if I hadn’t been able to hear the pain in his voice, I would have known he was upset by the way he was working his jaw.

  I hated to ask it, but I had to: “Will she change her mind if they catch whoever did it?”

  He turned his hands palms up and shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s my only chance.”

  I nodded slowly, wondering as I did if there was anything I could do to help the investigation along and whether it would actually make a difference. One thing I did know was that I would try, for Mike and Sandra’s sake. They’d been together almost twenty years, since we were all back in high school. I remembered them back then—Mike quiet and serious but a good enough athlete to letter in three sports and Sandra his opposite, bubbly and friendly, with long, shiny sandy-blond hair that swung as she bounced down the halls. They’d always been polar opposites but in the best possible way, where every one of her strengths complemented his weaknesses and vice versa. And their two kids were little mini-mes, except with opposite personalities. I didn’t want to see Mike and Sandra break up, for their kids’ sake and for their own.

  “Okay,” I said quietly.

  “Thanks,” he replied, stone-faced and without meeting my eye. It was the most effusive expression of gratitude I could expect from him. He slugged back the rest of his beer and stood up. “I better get back up to the room. She wanted some alone time to take a bath, but I don’t want her to think I wandered off.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  Tommy appeared instantly with the slips to charge our drinks to our rooms. We signed, thanked him, and headed back toward the lobby.

  “Which way’s your room?”

  He pointed to the right.

  “Ours too.”

  He paused by the lobby elevator.

  “If we use the other one, we can go by the patisserie. Have you been in there yet?” I wondered if maybe he and Sandra had managed to catch the girl who worked there. Of course, if they’d been by and the counter had been as empty as when Matt and I stopped in, I knew that Mike would have had little patience with it.

  “The patty-what?” he asked.

  “Patisserie. The French bakery.”

  He shook his head as he ambled alongside me with his hands in his pockets. “Sounds fancy.”

  I wasn’t sure whether saying that it was would be a selling point with Mike. He was the primary consumer of drip coffee at my café after all. Drip coffee that he drank piping hot and black, of course. I ignored the comment. “You could get something to take up to Sandra. They had some really beautiful tortes and tarts when Matt and I went by earlier.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow.

  I knew what he was asking without him even having to say anything. The eyebrow was enough. “Fancy cake and pie.”

  He nodded. “Told you it sounded fancy.” And he smirked. Which was at least a good sign that he was agreeing to stop in to see what they had.

  To my pleasant surprise, a petite brunette with a chin-length angled bob who had an overall very French vibe stood at the counter.

  “Bonjour!” she cooed. “Welcome to the Pâtisserie Alford. I am Sophie. How can I help you?” Her English was good, but her accent was French.

  I eyed the rows of macarons but figured I should get Mike taken care of first since he was likely to decide it wasn’t worth it and wander off if I spent too much time debating between the lemon- and raspberry-flavored macarons. Or chocolate and red velvet. Or vanilla bean and cookies and cream. There were lots of options, and I could see Mike getting impatient long before I made up my mind.

  “We’re looking for something that he can take back to his wife,” I told her.

  A coy smile crossed her lips. “Ah, yes, of course.” She looked from Mike to me with a gleam in her eye. “Something to make madame a little more forgiving, non?”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose as my eyes got big.

  “What?” My voice came out probably a little louder and much shriekier than I intended. I took a step away from Mike. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant! His wife is upstairs. We were just talking.”

  Sophie smiled. “Mais oui.” The look on her face said she didn’t believe me. She turned to Mike, who looked like he was ready to turn around and walk out. “Your wife, she likes chocolate, non? Perhaps she would like an éclair. Or pain au chocolat. Or perhaps an entremets?”

  Mike looked at me with wide eyes as Sophie gestured at the various confections. I was pretty sure the only one of those words he’d understood was éclair. To be fair, I only knew the others because I liked to bake.

  “We also have many types of macarons if you think she would prefer.” She walked over to the macaron case. “Such pretty colors, non?”

  Mike looked at the rainbow of cookies in the case and then back at me.

  “They’re almond cookies with filling,” I told him.

  He didn’t look too sure about them, but I figured they would be a safe enough choice. Sandra could always come down later and pick out one of the rich, chocolatey pastries if she wanted to.

  “She’s not allergic to nuts, is she?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, let’s get macarons, then.” I looked at the options and decided to get her a box of six. Two chocolatey, two fruity, one vanilla, and one vanilla rose. That last one was risky, partly because rose wasn’t a flavor everyone necessarily liked, but also because when it wasn’t done right, it had a tendency to taste like soap. But if anyone could make a good rose macaron, it was Jacques de Gaulle.

  I went ahead and picked out a box for myself too. Well, for me and Matt. I would probably share with him. Probably.

  For my box, I chose the pretty purple lavender coconut, another vanilla rose with the soft pink shell, a coffee, and an espresso (so I could taste the difference), then rounded out the box with lemon in the rich yellow, and raspberry with, well, a raspberry-colored cookie shell.

  Both boxes looked beautiful, but I had to stop Sophie when she tried to put them in one bag. “No, he needs to take his to his wife in their room.”

  She gave me that disbelieving look again but moved the boxes into separate bags. She handed over the bags. We signed the separate slips—which took yet another reminder that neither we nor our orders were together—and we left to go back to our rooms.

  “So, what are these things called again?” Mike asked as we went down the long hall toward the elevators.

  “Macarons.” The hall we were in was lined with conference rooms on both sides, another lounge area with a collection of scattered chairs and couches, and an art installation I wanted to come back and look at.

  “Macaro
ons?”

  I sighed Hadn’t I just had this conversation with Matt? “Macarons,” I enunciated, emphasizing the key last syllable that differentiated the name of the French sandwich-style almond cookies from the sweetened piles of coconut.

  Mike’s eyebrow predictably rose in an expression that somehow communicated that he expected that there was more to the story. I had a feeling it was incredibly useful when he was interviewing suspects back in Cape Bay.

  “Well, some people do call them macaroons, but that’s incredibly confusing because they’re nothing alike, so now more people are using the French pronunciation and calling these macarons to cut down on the confusion. Which is good because you’d hate to order a macaroon and get the shredded coconut kind when you were expecting these.”

  “Would I?” Mike punched the button for the elevator.

  He had a point. “Okay, maybe you wouldn’t, but normal people would.”

  I actually got a chuckle out of him. We stepped onto the elevator.

  “Which floor?” he asked, his finger hovering over the number panel.

  “Three.”

  He groaned and punched the three and nothing else.

  “You’re on the third floor too?”

  “Maybe Sandra was right about this trip being a bad idea.”

  We got off the elevator and both turned right. Mike groaned again. I could see his exasperation growing with every door we passed. A little more than three quarters of the way down the hallway, he stopped at a door and watched as I walked two more doors down to my room.

  I held my key card over the lock but didn’t put it in yet. Mike was still watching me. “What?”

  “I’m waiting to see if that’s really your room or if you’re just messing with me.”

  I grinned, slid the key into the slot, and opened the door.

  He rolled his eyes and unlocked his door. “Hey, Fran?” he said just as I stepped one foot into my room. “If you need any help with that thing we talked about, let me know. I might be able to get some information. Professional courtesy.”

  I nodded and thanked him then stepped into my room, where I found, lying on the table in the entryway, a macaron box from the patisserie downstairs just like the one I had in my bag.

  Chapter Eight

  “Did you get me macarons?”

  Matt appeared from around the corner (our room was big enough and fancy enough that it had corners you could disappear around) with a big grin on his face. “Yup! I looked at the room service menu and realized you could order from the bakery, so I just called down and had them delivered. I thought it might be easier than trying to catch somebody working in there.”

  I slowly raised the bag I was holding.

  Matt looked at it curiously for a moment. “I guess you found someone working there?”

  “Yup, and you’ll never guess what else I found. Or who, I should say.”

  “Who?”

  I grabbed the box from the table. “Let’s go sit and eat these, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Matt, good natured as he was, shrugged and followed me and my two boxes of macarons back around the corner and over to the sitting area. I sat down, put both boxes on the table, and opened them.

  Matt sat next to me and leaned over my shoulder to look at the boxes. “I didn’t know what kind you’d like, so I just asked for the most popular ones.”

  “Works for me.” If we had any duplicates, those would be the obvious ones to share with Matt.

  I opened the box he’d ordered first. I smiled down at the multi-colored cookies. It was one of my favorite things about macarons—all the beautiful colors and flavors they came in. Lucky for me, they’d included a key so I didn’t have to blindly guess the flavors.

  I looked from the key to the box and pointed. “The green one must be pistachio, yellow is lemon, dark pink and brown is strawberry chocolate, brown is chocolate, and white is vanilla bean.” I was surprised that there weren’t too many duplicates from my box, especially since I didn’t think my selections had been that out there. Well, except for the lavender coconut. That one was definitely out there. But that’s why I wanted to try it. Getting two different coffee flavors was probably unusual too. “Which one do you want to try?”

  “What kinds did you get?”

  I opened up the second box and told him the flavors. I definitely had no competition for the two floral flavors.

  “I’ll stick with vanilla to start.” He pulled the vanilla cookie out and bit into it.

  I watched him as his expression went from thoughtful to pleased.

  “It’s good. Interesting. But good.”

  True to my nature, I pulled out the espresso-flavored one from the box I’d chosen. The shell had a slight crunch as I bit down into it that gave way to the chewy inside. The espresso flavor was perfect. Whatever they’d used to achieve it had worked. It wasn’t bitter at all but had all the rich flavor of a perfectly roasted shot of espresso. I moaned a little and leaned back on the couch.

  “That good, huh?” Matt asked, one side of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

  “That good.” I took another bite and let the flavor roll around in my mouth. It really was delicious. One more bite and it was done. I mentally debated whether to have another one. I knew I really shouldn’t, but they were so delicious. I sat up to look in the boxes and realized Matt was already working on his second cookie. “What if I wanted that one?”

  He held what was left of the chocolate macaron out to me. “You can have the rest.”

  “No thanks.” I picked the vanilla rose instead. It had the same perfect crisp and chewy texture, the warm taste of vanilla, and the slightest hint of rose—just enough to detect it and nowhere near enough to taste soapy.

  When Matt reached for another one, I swatted his hand. “Don’t we have a dinner reservation soon?”

  “Not for another hour.” He reached for the box again.

  I closed both of them and moved them to the other side of the room. “Nope, saving the rest for later.”

  He mock-pouted but pulled me onto his lap as soon as I came back to the couch. “You really can’t make those?”

  “I can. I just don’t want to. Not for the café anyway. They’re not hard, but they’re finicky. And I have enough to worry about with the café anyway.”

  Immediately, everything that had been on my mind back in Cape Bay came rushing back, and I wondered what I’d been thinking to even agree to come on this trip. I had too much to do, too much to figure out. I felt confident that the café was in good hands with Sammy, but she was there to keep it running, not to do all the budgeting and planning that I’d been working on before I left.

  “We’re not thinking about the café this weekend, remember?” He kissed me on the neck, and I forgot a little bit about the café. “We’re thinking about us—” Another kiss, and the café faded away a little more. “And relaxation—” I started to wonder what I’d been so worked up about after all. “And whether you can make me some of those cookies when we get home.”

  I giggled. “I think I can do that.”

  “Good,” he murmured and kissed me again, a long, slow kiss that banished every last thought of Cape Bay and the café from my mind.

  An hour later, we went downstairs for our dinner reservation at one of the hotel’s fancy restaurants.

  We were seated at a cozy table by the windows, where we could watch the sun set over the mountains. It was beautiful, and the food was delicious. By the time we wandered out after three courses and almost two hours, all I wanted to do was go up to our room and curl up in that luxurious-looking bed with Matt. And that’s where we were headed when Matt reminded me of the unpleasant events of the afternoon.

  “Did you hear the waiter tell one of the other tables that they closed the spa down to investigate that girl’s death? Hopefully they get everything figured out and open it back up before our massage.”

  I realized I’d forgotten to tell Matt about my conversation with Mike. A
nd that I was supposed to help him out by investigating the murder. In fact, I’d been so distracted by the macarons that I’d forgotten to tell him I’d seen Mike at all. It seemed like a weird moment to bring it up now, but it would just get weirder if I waited longer.

  “That probably sounded pretty shallow, huh? Sorry.”

  I looked up at Matt, a little confused.

  “You weren’t saying anything, so I thought—”

  “Oh! No, I was just thinking about something.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like trouble.” He knew me too well.

  “I wouldn’t say trouble.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  I stopped by one of the chairs scattered in the long hallway to the elevator. “Remember how I thought I saw Mike and Sandra?”

  He rubbed a hand across his face and through his hair. “Are we on that again? I thought we weren’t going to think about Cape Bay this weekend.”

  I ignored him. “I ran into Mike in the lobby lounge this afternoon while you were sleeping.”

  Matt blinked at me for a second with his eyebrows raised, then he smiled. “You’re messing with me.”

  “Nope. Dead serious.” His eyebrows went up again, and I cringed. “Sorry, bad word choice.”

  “And here I was apologizing for being insensitive.” He sighed. “So you saw Mike, huh?”

  “Yup. He and Sandra are here trying to patch things up.”

  “Well, that’s good. Hope they can work it out.” He turned to start heading for the elevator, realized I wasn’t following him, and turned back around. “What?” I don’t think he even made an effort to put dread in his voice.

  “Well…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Mike asked me to try to help solve the girl’s murder.”

  Matt stared at me blankly. “Are you serious?” he asked finally.

  I nodded.

  “Mike? Our Mike? Mike Stanton? The one who’s always telling you to stay out of police business. He asked you to investigate a murder?”

  “Yup, that’s the one.”

  “Are you sure?”