Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets

by Mary McHugh

  We walked into this vast art deco palace, the dome overhead repainted recently in exuberant colors to reflect nature, celebration, and women, paintings on every wall, decorated fake marble columns, acres of tables covered in white linen, with flowers and silverware, waiting for the crowds of customers who came to this place every night to bask in the memories of Paris.

  The maître d’ ushered us to a large table on the side where we could see everything that was going on. I was so glad my friends had talked me into this. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  The waiter greeted us and asked if we would like French or English menus. Gini asked for a French one, of course, and the rest of us copped out and took English ones. Much as I wanted to learn French, my brain needed a rest this evening. I wanted everything to be easy.

  Hmmm. Let’s see. There was a three-course prix fixe. Did I want the foie gras of duck with toasted country bread for an appetizer? Or how about their famous oysters. Maybe the watercress soup with Iberico de Bellota ham—whatever that was—and whipped cream. A soup with whipped cream couldn’t be all bad. I should try their oysters. For the main course, I could have the chef’s famous Indian curry, but that seemed a bit much for a July night. There was Red Label chicken from the Landes region served with carnaroli risotto with vegetables, but the only words I understood were chicken, risotto, and vegetables. There was also charolais beef tartare with French fries and a salad. Maybe. Or Norwegian salmon a la plancha with zucchini sautéed in lemon thyme.

  “Gini,” I said, “help me out here. What does ‘a la plancha’ mean?”

  “Literally, cooked on a metal plate,” Gini said. “It just means grilled.”

  Sounded good. Salmon for me. And, finally, what did I want for dessert? Apricot coup with mascarpone ice cream didn’t appeal. Floating island and sliced almonds was okay. But grand vintage Guanaja soft-cooked chocolate cake was the winner. I’ll take chocolate over everything else every time.

  We gave the waiter our orders.

  “May I offer you some wine?” he said.

  We all looked at Gini. “Go ahead, Gini,” Tina said. “Let’s splurge and get both a white and a red.”

  Gini looked at the wine menu and chose a Riesling for the white and a cabernet for the red.

  We alternated between catching up with each other and people watching until Tina tapped on her glass to get our attention.

  “So what do we think, gang?” Tina said. “What travel tips should I give my readers when I get back?”

  “Don’t ask anybody about his missing earring,” I said. “Just ignore it.”

  Much laughter from my friends. “What else?” Tina said. “Some tips I can actually use, please.”

  “One thing you should tell them that I think is crucial,” Pat said. “Flights to Paris in the summer are very expensive because it’s tourist season. The French have all gone south and left the city to foreigners. So it’s important to book your flight in February or March to get the best buys.”

  “Good one, Pat,” Tina said. “That applies to hotels too if you want to get a room you can afford that’s fairly decent. Book early because the best ones are gone by the summer. Most people can’t afford the really expensive hotels on the Champs Élysées and the avenues around it.”

  “The best thing about coming here in July is the sales,” Mary Louise said. “Remember that day we went shopping at the Galeries Lafayette and Le Bon Marché, Tina? Some of the clothes—even the designer clothes—were eighty percent off. And they were gorgeous. I wish I’d bought more.”

  “I do too,” Tina said. “That’s a really good tip. Oh, and Mary Louise, I’ll also tell them the best time to buy is mid-July because the prices go down even more then.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mary Louise said, “and don’t forget to say not to wait until the end of July when the prices are lowest because all the really good stuff is gone.”

  The waiter appeared with our meals.

  One look at the beautifully arranged food on our plates, and all thoughts of travel tips disappeared. Even I was hungry. I can’t imagine how I could have even thought of eating after my recent harrowing experience, but I dove in to my delicious oysters, slurping them down as daintily as possible, and enjoying the nice dry Riesling that the waiter had poured into my glass.

  When we came up for air after the first course, Gini said, “Tina, I have a tip about the weather in July.”

  “Go ahead, Gini,” Tina said, getting ready to make a note on her iPad.

  “When I lived here, and up until recently, the average temperature in July was in the sixties. But now they seem to have heat waves when it’s in the nineties. Must be global warming or something, but it’s definitely much hotter than I remember. So you should tell your honeymooners to bring some cool clothes.”

  “Just don’t tell them to wear tank tops and flip-flops and short shorts,” I said. “There are still a lot of Parisians around who haven’t gone on vacation, and they dress in sleeveless dresses and pretty silky tops and pants in the heat. You don’t want your readers to stand out as crass Americans.”

  “Excellent point,” Tina said, typing away rapidly. “What else you got?”

  “Don’t forget those sudden showers that appear out of nowhere,” Gini said. “Bring a really lightweight umbrella that fits into your purse.”

  “Right,” Tina said.

  “How about some suggestions for gifts to take back home,” Pat said. “I always need ideas.”

  “This is absolutely the best place to gift shop,” Gini said. “Chocolates are always good. They make fantastic chocolate here. And gourmet food. It’s everywhere. Oh, and a great place to find unusual things is a flea market. It’s too bad we didn’t get to one while we were here, but they’ve got great antique jewelry, old books, unusual scarves and belts and everything. We should have gone. And you can always find an unusual book in one of the stalls along the river.”

  “I would have preferred the flea market to being gassed in a room in a club,” I said.

  “Oh, Jan,” Mary Louise said. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be in a few years, honey,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

  My friends all made sympathetic noises, which turned into appreciative sounds when our main courses arrived.

  The salmon was incredibly good, and the Riesling was perfect with it. I almost forgot my ordeal as I munched away.

  While we waited for our dessert, Tina said, “How about a couple more tips and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Oh, I’ve got one most people don’t know about,” Gini said.

  “Great! Let’s hear it,” Tina said.

  “A lot of stores are closed in July, but many of them post signs in the window giving you alternative places to shop. And by law—this is really so French—by law bakeries must have a sign in the window listing other bakeries that are open. The French have no patience with shortages of bread and pastries.”

  “Love that,” Tina said, typing away.

  “My friend Ken told me to avoid the long lines in the summer by going very early or very late to museums and other places you want to see,” I said.

  “I have one, Tina,” Pat said. “Your honeymooners probably already know this since they’re mostly young, but just in case, remind them they don’t need to bother with a lot of maps because most phones now have a GPS that will tell them where everything is and how to get there.”

  “It’s worth including, Pat,” Tina said. “Thank you. OK, I think I’ve got enough for now. Let’s concentrate on our desserts and forget work.”

  We lingered over dessert and coffee, sad that it was our last night in this marvelous city, but ready to go back home. I was especially anxious to return to a place where there was very little chance that anyone would try to kill me. I mean I live in New Jersey, for heaven’s sake.

  “Let’s take some time off from dancing and murders when we get back home, Tina,” I said. “I want to work with Sandy on the book she’s writing abou
t the Gypsy Robe tradition on Broadway. It’s brought us much closer together.”

  “I think it’s great you’re doing that, Jan,” Tina said. “I promise I won’t sign us up for anything until you’re ready.”

  “I also want to hang out with Tom when I get back,” I said. “He told me about some plays he wants to take me to, and he found a new Brazilian restaurant he thinks we should try.”

  “Brazilian!” Tina said, leaning forward and grabbing my arm. “That reminds me. We have an offer to dance at the Copacabana hotel in Rio sometime in April. I forgot about that.”

  “You’re kidding,” Gini said. “Oh, Tina, I hope you said yes. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “I wanted to check with you guys first,” Tina said. “Weren’t you planning to go to India with Alex after we get back to find out about adopting your little girl, Gini?”

  “Yes,” Gini said, her face lighting up. “Alex has it all arranged. I was just talking to him about it on the phone before we came here tonight. He’s been in touch with several government officials over there who might be able to help me adopt her. He wasn’t too thrilled to hear about our getting mixed up in more killings, though. He said he was going to take me to India to get me far away from my friends who attract murderers like other people attract houseflies. He was really worried about you, Jan. He wanted to be sure you were all right.”

  “He’s the neatest guy, Gini,” I said. “Why don’t you hurry up and marry him?”

  “I just might do that,” she said, smiling at me. “Wouldn’t it be great to start off our marriage with a new little daughter?”

  “We could take her with us to Brazil,” Tina said. “Alex could come too.”

  “Whoa, Tina,” Gini said. “We’re a long way from making that come true. I told you how hard it is to adopt a child in India.”

  “If anyone can do it, Alex can,” Tina said. “He’s got The New York Times to help him.”

  “Cross your fingers, Tina,” Gini said. “In any case, I’d love to go to Brazil, whether I get to adopt Amalia or not.”

  “I might have to take Peter along,” Tina said. “You should have heard him when I told him about the two murders here. He said he was going to handcuff me to his wrist so I couldn’t go anywhere without him and get killed.”

  “Sounds kinky,” Gini said, dodging Tina’s punch. “You’ve been talking about marrying him for a long time, Tina,” Gini said. “Why don’t you go ahead and do it?”

  “There’s no rush, Gini,” she said. “I do love him, but every time I get ready to plan a wedding, we go off some place to dance and there just isn’t time.”

  “He’ll wait for you forever,” Mary Louise said. “He loves you so much.” She paused, a wistful expression on her face. “Sometimes I wish . . .” She stopped.

  “Sometimes you wish what, Weezie,” Gini said. “That you weren’t married to boring old George?” She laughed. “We could all understand that.”

  Tina saw the hurt expression on Mary Louise’s face.

  “Knock it off, Gini,” she said. “George works hard, and he loves Mary Louise. He’s not always the perfect husband, but who is? Even my Bill could be a little annoying sometimes.”

  “What about that guy Mike you met on the train in Spain?” Gini asked Mary Louise, not getting Tina’s message to shut up. “Have you seen him since you got home?”

  Mary Louise’s face reddened. She’s the only person I know who isn’t a teenager who still blushes.

  “We’ve . . . uh . . . We’ve had lunch a couple of times in the city. It’s nice to talk to someone who actually listens to what I say and who cares about what I’m doing. But we haven’t . . .”

  Pat, our voice of good sense, chimed in. “Mary Louise, you don’t have to tell this nosy person about your lunches with Mike, or anything else for that matter.”

  “You did tell Denise about your French police captain, Pat,” Gini said. “Wasn’t she even a little jealous?”

  Pat took a deep breath and held it. She looked like I look when I’m counting to ten and trying not to say anything brash.

  “Of course I did, Gini,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “In fact, I’ve invited Geneviève to come and visit us so I can introduce her to Denise. Now, drink your coffee and stop making trouble.”

  Gini laughed. “Sorry, guys. I don’t want to leave Paris, and I’m being obnoxious. Forgive me.”

  “Don’t we always, you rotten Hoofer,” Tina said, smiling at her and offering her a bite of her chocolate torte.

  I looked around the table at these good friends, each one so different from the others, each one of us willing to die for the others. We had survived another murder—well, two murders, actually—and another attempt to kill one of us. Surely, we would have better luck the next time.

  Want to come along and find out?

  ADAPTED FROM THE CHEF’S RECIPE FOR LAMB CURRY

  4 lbs. boneless leg of lamb cut into bite-size

  pieces

  4 oz. olive oil

  3 diced Golden Delicious apples

  1 sliced banana

  2 tsps. curry powder

  1 tsp. paprika

  ¼ cup shredded coconut

  3 cloves minced garlic

  1 cup chopped onions

  ½ tbsp. salt

  ¼ cup flour

  16 oz. lamb or beef stock or water

  8 oz. crushed tomatoes

  Parsley for garnish

  Bouquet garni

  Mango chutney, chili, and achars as side dishes

  Bouquet Garni

  2 sprigs fresh thyme

  2 dried bay leaves

  Greens from 2 celery stalks

  6 sprigs parsley

  Place the herbs in a piece of cheesecloth and tie it into a bag with string.

  1. Brown the pieces of lamb, one sliced apple, and the banana in the olive oil for five minutes.

  2. Stir in the curry powder, paprika, and coconut.

  3. Sprinkle with flour.

  4. Add enough stock or water to cover the meat and spices.

  5. Add the bouquet garni, season with salt, cover, and cook over low heat for one and a half hours.

  6. Remove the meat and bouquet garni from the sauce.

  7. Stir the sauce until it’s smooth.

  8. Put the meat back and simmer the sauce for thirty minutes.

  9. Sweat the remaining two apples in butter.

  10. Add the remaining two diced apples, the tomatoes, and the parsley.

  11.Serve with rice, mango chutney, chili, and achars.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge the superb editing of Michaela Hamilton, executive editor of Kensington Books, who helped me make Paris come alive for the readers of this book. I would also like to thank Riva Nelson, who introduced me to some of the most fascinating people in Paris on my last visit there. A big thank-you to Robin Cook, the Kensington production editor who keeps making my books look irresistible. I am grateful to everyone at Kensington Publishing Corp. for their support in making my books so readable and attractive.

  Don’t miss the next delightful Happy Hoofers

  mystery by Mary McHugh

  Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends

  Coming from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  in 2016

  Keep reading to enjoy a teaser excerpt . . .

  Chapter 1

  Welcome to Rio—Or Not!

  When I told my friends in New Jersey that the Happy Hoofers had been hired to dance at the Copacabana Palace, in Rio de Janeiro, they said, “It’s a beautiful city.” Then they would add, “But be careful. Hold on to your purse.”

  I was a little worried when we got on the plane in Newark, but I figured I was used to New York, where I hang on to my handbag without even thinking about it, so I quashed my anxiety. I tend to worry too much about things anyway. I try to imagine all the bad things that can happen before I do anything and try to prevent them ahead of time.
Of course, there’s always something I couldn’t have possibly foreseen.

  I’m Pat Keeler, a family therapist, and I’m going to tell you the story of my adventure in Rio with my four best friends. We’re a bunch of crazy, fiftyish in age, thirtyish in attitude tap dancers, known as the Happy Hoofers, and we were hired to perform at the luxurious Copacabana Palace. But our visit to Brazil turned out to be way different than any of us had expected. In fact, it was downright terrifying. We had been through some scary times in some of the other places where we’ve danced, but this one beat them all.

  Gini is always trying to get me to relax. “You just can’t predict everything, Pat,” she says in her usual exasperated way. Gini is great. She’s my favorite of all my friends in this dancing troupe, I think, because she says what she thinks, and is always honest with me. As a therapist, I’m used to people fooling themselves, trying to make me believe the illusions they foster about their relationships, so I cherish people who see life as it really is.

  After we landed in Rio, on a bright April afternoon, we loaded our bags and ourselves into a black limo provided by the hotel. The driver, whose bright smile more than made up for his fractured English, pointed out local attractions as he took us past a beautiful beach that stretched for twenty miles along the coast of the city.

  We were staying at the Copacabana Palace Hotel on Copacabana Beach. It really is a palace. Built in the 1920s, it was the place for movie stars and other celebrities to stay when they came to town. The hotel is pure white and seems to go on for acres.

  The manager, Miguel Ortega, greeted us at the front entrance. He was good-looking, with black hair, dark, wicked-looking eyes, and a black beard and mustache surrounding a sensual mouth. He exuded a sexiness that was overpowering. He wore a charcoal-gray, expensive suit, and shoes that were definitely Pradas.