Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2)

by A. Gardner

  Detective Casey isn't who I thought he was, but he was right about one thing.

  Things aren't always so black and white.

  "Help him up," I shout at Hugo. "Do it!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I know who the murderer is.

  He's a soft-spoken man. The good father figure. The hard-worker. The man who watches bad things happen to good people without any retribution, so he seized the opportunity to push Lord Dovington off of a cliff.

  Hugo does what I ask him to do and grabs the Detective's hands. He jerks his weight backward until Detective Casey's torso is back on the right side of the railing. My mind races as I watch him rub his cheek against the floor, grateful to be back to where his two feet can touch the ground.

  I don't know why I'm doing this.

  I don't know why I'm helping a killer, and I don't know how this will end.

  Maybe with me waking up to my alarm clock?

  "You can't change his fate," Hugo says, looking at me. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. "He may be a fair detective, but wherever he goes, I'll find him. I'll track him down just like I did Cira. Just like I'll do to you."

  I slowly walk backward. Hugo throws his hands in the air, looking from side to side with a sinister grin.

  "What now?" Hugo teases. "Are you going to run? Even if you make it outside, where are you going to go, eh? You don't even speak French." He chuckles as his right-hand man rises to his feet. He wobbles but finds his balance with the help of a neighboring chair. The Detective remains on the floor, catching his breath. Or maybe he's in shock?

  The bald-headed man shakes his head, stretching the muscles in his neck before turning to me. He takes a few heavy steps forward, and I swear I feel the ground beneath me shake with fury. I keep the gun aimed at his chest, but my hands are starting to shake.

  "You don't have it in you." Hugo laughs as his right-hand man charges at me. I have a fraction of a second to make a decision I thought I'd never have to make.

  Detective Casey makes it for me.

  He jumps up just in time to grab the bald-headed man by the ankles and send him slamming into the floor. A loud exhale escapes his mouth as his face hits the ground. The Detective sprints toward me and rips the gun from my hands.

  "Run, Poppy!" he shouts. I hesitate, looking from him to a now cowering Hugo. "I said run!"

  I turn and speed down the darkened hallway and back toward the staircase leading to the main level of the theater. I cling to the railing as my legs pump up and down as fast as they're physically able. I skip clusters of steps at a time and finally leap over the last few to get to the bottom. I stop and catch my breath, looking up from where I came. I'm relieved to see that no one followed me. But I'm terrified of what might be happening in my absence.

  I keep running until I reach the grand foyer—a long hallway with tall windows and chandeliers that look like they're made of floating candles. Every inch of the walls is covered with soft paintings and gold-plated designs. Romanesque columns run up and down them, drawing my eyes to a hand-painted ceiling just as magnificent as the one in the theater. Each body of art is separated by rectangular frames that appear as if they're made of pure gold.

  Keep moving, Poppy.

  My bare feet thud against the shiny floor as I pump my arms. I run as fast as I can—my lungs burning in the process. There's no time to search for help. The police. A phone. Something.

  My fatigue catches up with me when I'm met at the end of the hall by a group of policemen lead by a very concerned and determined redhead. Marta shouts when she sees me, pointing in my direction. My back begins to throb as I bend over to give my lungs a rest. The adrenaline in my veins finally wears off leaving me sore and winded.

  "Poppy." Marta squats down so she can see my face. "Poppy, say something. Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Her auburn hair is tied back again, and a coat is covering her springtime dress. She's back to wearing sensible sneakers instead of heels.

  "I'm fine."

  The crowd of policemen dash past us and back toward the theater. I glance over my shoulder, wondering what kind of crime scene they might be barging into. I take one last breath and grab Marta's hand.

  "Come on." I yank her arm.

  We bypass the stairs and instead run straight into the theater. I immediately look up at the balcony where I last left Hugo and the Detective. I'm too late to stop what was bound to happen. Marta lets out a squeal as the loud pop of a single bullet screeches around us. She instinctively covers her ears but stops and screams as a body falls listlessly from the top balcony. The body looks like it's flying as motionless hands and feet land firmly on the seats below.

  "Oh…oh…oh…" Marta fans her face, at a loss for the right words.

  The group of policemen scatter—half sprint for the stairs and half rush to the body.

  "He's dead," I mutter. "He's got to be."

  "Oh," Marta hops on the balls of her feet like she's seen a rat, "What was that? What the bloody hell was that?"

  "A man." I sigh.

  "Are you sure?" she questions me. She rubs her eyes to keep herself from panicking. "It could have been a chair, right?"

  "No." I shake my head.

  "Two chairs?"

  Marta is in denial.

  "Sorry," I respond lowly.

  "No." She calms herself down and forces out a half smile. "No. There has to be another explanation—"

  "Marta," I interrupt her. "Take deep breaths."

  Shouting blasts through the auditorium from upstairs. An officer in the distance shakes his head—a hand gently on the victim's neck. My nightmare is finally over.

  "I am," she replies. "See, I'm calm."

  "It's over. It's all over now."

  "Who was that?" Marta quietly asks, trying to swallow the heinous sight the two of us just witnessed.

  "A man with a shiny head," I answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Detective Berry takes another bite of his croissant. He looks at it like a slice of birthday cake—excited to take his next bite. I hardly touch my café au lait that Marta so graciously made for me without asking. She's sitting next to me on the sofa with Peppercorn at her feet.

  "These are lovely," Detective Berry comments, glancing at Marta.

  "Thanks," she quietly responds.

  "Well ladies, it looks like you're all clear," he states. He takes another bite of his pastry. "I just heard back from the team analyzing those chocolate macaroons from the wedding. They were not tampered with. It appears that our old chap John, the one who was taken to hospital, mixed some medications and ultimately overdosed on sildenafil." He chuckles, expecting the two of us to catch on. I stare at him blankly. "Probably gearing up for a special night with the Mrs."

  Marta and I look at each other.

  "What on earth are you on about, Lewis?" Marta tilts her head, and Detective Berry automatically stands up straight, resting his hands at his sides.

  "Sorry," he apologizes. "It's a medication commonly used for erectile dysfunction. Seizing is an unfortunate side effect." He pauses and lowers his voice. "You know. Viagra?"

  "Ah," Marta answers. "Why didn't you just say so?"

  Detective Berry shrugs.

  "You two have had a rough one." He nods and moves toward the door. "How about we do our formal wrap with the police in the morning."

  "Cheers," Marta agrees.

  "Hang on." I stand up and follow him to the door of Marta's apartment. "One question, Lewis. Did you know Detective Casey was involved?" Saying his name out loud now that he's been taken into custody for the murder of Lord Dovington feels weird. My memories race back to all the times I saw him hard at work. Faking it but doing what he was good at all the same.

  "I had my suspicions," he admits. The expression on his face softens as if he's also choosing to remember his former partner as a good man who made bad choices, rather than a killer. "But I overlooked them. I suppose in some strange way, I hoped that he would come forward on his ow
n."

  "And Hugo Biven?"

  "Will also be locked away for a long time," he assures me. "I just wish we could find Cira, so we can build more of a solid case. She's run off."

  "Figures." I hang my head, thinking back to the pain in her eyes when she admitted to me that she was a killer at heart. Of course, it isn't true but she sincerely believed her agreement to killing Sam made her one anyway. "She has a heavy conscience on her shoulders."

  "Any charges against her will be cleared if she cooperates," Lewis informs me. "Please, let her know that if she ever contacts you."

  "I will."

  Detective Berry grins at Marta before strolling down the hall. I shut the door and begin retrieving my things to go back to my studio apartment closer to the bakery. I gently touch the purse I dropped near the chocolate shop—the only remnant left of me after I was kidnapped. It's back to work in the morning. Back to rolling dough and whisking batters like nothing ever happened.

  "I know where she is," Marta whispers.

  My heart jumps.

  "What?"

  "I know where Cira is," Marta says again. Her eyes dart toward her bedroom. "How do you think I knew where you were, Poppy?"

  "Cira?" I guess.

  "She called your phone hoping the police would answer." Marta raises her eyebrows. "I grabbed your purse after you were taken. I answered the phone. She waited for us in front of the opera house and blurted out as much as she could before she took off." Her eyes stop near the bathroom where a shadow is lingering in the hallway. Marta grins. "She needed a place to stay."

  Cira steps into the living room.

  Even in death, Sam destroyed the lives of everyone around him.

  All but one.

  Cira's face is gaunt and pale like she's been hiding in a cave for the past few months. She looks like a human toothpick in serious need of a pot of Marta's famous homemade noodles. I hug her, careful not to squeeze too tight.

  "Poppy," she responds, "you're alright."

  "Me? Look at you." I bite my tongue, holding back the comments about her weight that are itching to come flooding out. I don't want to sound like my mother.

  "Thank you for what you did," Cira says. She looks to Marta. "And thanks for trusting me with your key, Marta."

  "I went with my gut," Marta answers.

  "She's very protective of that thing, you know," I joke.

  "I already gave it back." Cira smiles, and it makes even larger indents in her cheeks. I stare at her puny forearms, able to see more veins and ligaments than I care to. "No copies were made, I promise."

  "Yeah, well…" Marta laughs and rolls her eyes. "I was planning on changing the locks anyway." Peppercorn sniffs Cira's toes before brushing up against her legs. "If Peppercorn like you…you must be alright."

  "She doesn't take kindly to strangers?" Cira comments.

  "Or liars," Marta adds. "She's a better judge of character than I am."

  "I take it you heard what Detective Berry said," I say. "Are you going to call him?"

  Cira takes a deep breath as she gazes out the living room window.

  "I'm not proud of what I did," she responds, nervously twiddling her fingers. "With Hugo locked up, I can start fresh again somewhere else. I was thinking of heading back to Spain…maybe I'll enroll in pastry school."

  "Sounds vaguely familiar." I laugh. "Make sure you know how to make pie before you go." Cira wrinkles her nose, confused. "Long story."

  "Sí." She runs her fingers through her long, black hair. "I'm looking forward to going back to my natural hair color."

  "Blonde? Please, don't say blonde."

  "No." She shakes her head. "It's more like a light caramel."

  "If you're ever in the states, look me up."

  Cira stays long enough to slurp down a helping of leftover noodles. Marta and I gather the cash we have on hand and give it to her, along with a bag of day-old sweets from Le Croissant. Cira smiles as she leaves, and Peppercorn kindly escorts her down the hall and to the elevator. The look on her face is nothing like the Cira I met in the storage closet back at the theater. All hope was lost for that Cira. A few little mistakes mixed with a spurt of bad luck were almost the end of her. But that seems like it was years ago. The Cira boarding the elevator has a confident look on her face. She nods one last time as the doors close, leaving the past behind.

  * * *

  My tiny studio apartment is exactly as I left it, and it seems less threatening now that Hugo has been caught, and the details of Sam's murder have finally surfaced. The familiar sound of my upstairs neighbor pacing her apartment in heels puts a smile on my face. Right now, I'm grateful for the little things. A semi-comfy bed, even though it folds into the wall. A beating heart. And an internship everyone at the academy dreams of getting.

  I unpack my things, glancing at the time. My day off is almost over, and then I'll be up before the sun, ready to start week three in the Le Croissant kitchen. I open my purse, taking out my phone. I have a missed call, and the light is blinking saying that I have a message. My eyes widen as I listen to it. A comforting voice I thought I'd never hear until the coming semester fills my ears.

  I quickly return his call.

  My heart drums as it rings. And rings. And rings. Pick up. Pick up.

  "Poppy," Cole answers. "The pastry queen."

  "I was wondering if you would call at all," I admit. I lie on my bed—Cole's blue green eyes in my mind looking back at me.

  "How's Paris?" I hear a loud crash on his end. "Y'all better take that outside."

  "Ummm…"

  "Sorry," he explains. "I'm at my Aunt's house. Hey, man!" He pauses, and I hear muffled voices. "Sorry, again. My nephews think the kitchen sink is a b-ball net."

  "Toss them outside," I joke.

  "I would, but there's a heat wave passing through. You lucked out, Lil' Mama."

  "Yeah, well…" I causally run my fingers over my bedsheets. "That's me. The lucky one."

  "I bet you're learning all the secrets of the trade," he comments. "I hope you plan on sharing."

  My stomach churns as I imagine myself back in Georgia. My instructors will have higher expectations for me when classes resume. Poppy, the cultured pâtissier. Trained in all things sweet and Parisian. Just thinking about it makes my palms sweaty.

  "I would…if I had anything to share," I say.

  "So humble." He chuckles. "Is that your thing now?"

  His sense of humor never ceases to put a smile on my face. Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it until my cheeks start hurting.

  "I'm serious, Cole. As far as pastry is concerned, I feel like I'm not progressing as much as I should."

  "That's because you're too hard on yourself," he points out. "Sometimes it pushes you, but sometimes it weighs you down. You need to relax, Poppy. Come down to Georgia, and I'll grill you up one of my famous steaks with creamed collards."

  "If only it were that easy." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, envisioning myself walking back to work tomorrow morning. My relationship with Marta might have changed for the better, but my interactions with Jean Pierre are about the same. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. I'm just another intern. An American intern which, according to my predecessor, equals trouble.

  "What's bothering you?" The tone of his voice changes. It's deeper yet gentler. It makes me want to blurt out everything from start to finish. He'll flip if you do that.

  "Jean Pierre Gautier," I begin, only scratching the surface of my European experience. "He's…not what I thought he'd be."

  "Explain it to me."

  "I thought he'd be teaching me one-on-one how to make everything on the menu," I admit. "Was I stupid to assume that?"

  "No," he calmly replies. "I mean, maybe not every item on the menu."

  "Try zero." I sigh, glaring up at the ceiling and pretending that I'm back in the South sitting on a porch swing next to Cole sipping sweet tea. "He's barely said a word to me. And remember my peach pie disaster on day one?"<
br />
  "Oh, shoot."

  "Imagine that, but Paris-style. He asked me to make him French macarons in front of everyone. I went with pistachio, and they weren't horrible. He put me on croissant duty after that. Nothing but rolling croissant dough all day long." I pause to clear my throat. I wish I could go back in time and tell myself millions of things like stay away from Sam and use buttercream in those macarons instead of blackberry jam.

  "Poppy—"

  "Before you say it," I butt in. "I'm not exaggerating. That's how it happened. Chef Gautier doesn't think much of me. I feel like…like…maybe I'm not as good of a pastry chef as I thought I was."

  "Poppy," Cole responds. "You deserve to be in Paris. Just like you deserve your spot at the academy. And you're moving up to the advanced class when you get back."

  "Yeah." I breathe into the phone. "I know. I know."

  "My dad was tough on me growing up," Cole says. "The way my older brother turned out, I guess he felt like he had to be. He yelled at me for things like leaving my homework on the kitchen table and forgetting to call him sir."

  "How about leaving your ballet shoes at the neighbor's house?" I add. "That usually brought on a lecture for me."

  "There are times when I find myself putting my foot down," he continues. "You know what I mean? Reminding him that I'm not a child anymore."

  "You think I should stand up to him?"

  "I think you should show that French weasel you're a chef, not a dishwasher." He waits for my response.

  "I'm sure I can gather the courage to do that on my last day."

  "Tomorrow morning," he insists.

  "Cole, that's insane."

  "What's he going to do?" Cole chuckles.

  "Uh, how about send me home early," I chime in. "President Dixon would love that."

  "Okay," Cole responds, "I'll make you a deal. You stand up to Jean Pierre, and I'll…"

  "You can't do my assignments for me." I shake my head. "And Bree won't let you past the living room, so you can forget about breakfast in bed or anything like that." I throw the thought out there, and the two of us sit in silence. Is he imagining us in bed? My cheeks feel warm.