French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “But I forgot my umbrella, and when I went back to the classroom to get it, I found Chef Larry on the floor, bleeding, with a knife in his chest.”

  Carrington tented his hands and nodded. It was as if he heard stories like this every day. Perhaps he did, thought Lucy.

  “He would have died, except for my wife, here. She called for help,” said Bill.

  “And what thanks do I get?” asked Lucy. “None at all. Instead this cop took our passports and said we have to stay indefinitely, which is a real problem, because our flight is in ten days. And I have children at home, who need me.”

  “And you know what it’s like to change flights,” said Bob, rolling his eyes. “We’ll have to pay exorbitant fees.”

  “I didn’t even think about that,” said Bill.

  “Did this cop give you a card or anything? Do you know his name?”

  “Lapointe,” said Lucy, proud of herself for remembering. “Commissaire Lapointe.”

  “No card? No phone or email?” asked Carrington.

  “An unfortunate omission,” admitted Bob. “I should have thought of that.”

  “You were taken by surprise,” said Bill.

  “We were all in shock,” said Lucy.

  “Without more information, there isn’t much I can do,” said Carrington.

  “Well, they’re going to be calling us for statements. We can get more information then,” said Bob.

  “Good,” said Carrington. “You must cooperate, of course. You must cooperate with the French authorities.”

  “Does that mean we can’t leave on schedule?” asked Lucy.

  “Out of the question,” said Carrington. “The French authorities are within their rights to detain you until they are satisfied with the case.”

  “That’s outrageous,” said Bob. “We had nothing to do with this attack. We didn’t even know Chef Larry until yesterday.”

  “It’s unfortunate, but that’s how it is. When you travel outside of the States, you leave your rights as an American citizen behind and you’re subject to the laws of the land you’re visiting, which happens to be France. Believe me, it could be much worse. Take Italy, for example. Or Saudi Arabia.” He shuddered at the thought. “Of course, the less you appear to know, the sooner you will get your passports back. Once they are satisfied you are not involved, they will return them and you will be free to go.”

  “How long do you think that will take?” asked Bob. “I mean, as a general rule.”

  Carrington considered the question. “I don’t like to say. It could be wrapped up in a day or two, or it could go on for some time. We had a case, an American woman who married a French citizen and then killed him. She claimed self-defense, said he was abusive. It was a very sad thing. I think they finally did release her, but she was in prison for more than a year.”

  Lucy felt her chest tighten, picturing herself in a dark, dank prison cell. “That couldn’t happen to us, could it?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m not really in a position to say.” He clapped his hands together and rose, signaling the interview was over. “Do feel free to contact me if you need assistance.”

  “But that’s what we’re doing. We’re asking for assistance,” said Lucy.

  “Perhaps you should consult a lawyer. There are a number of American firms with offices in Paris. I have a list.” Carrington opened a drawer and produced a sheet of paper, which he gave to Bob. “And take my card, one for each of you.”

  “Well, thanks for seeing us,” said Bill.

  “No problem, anytime,” said Carrington, eyeing the clock. “And remember what I said. The more you cooperate, the better.”

  “Right,” said Bob, extending his hand.

  Carrington shook hands all around, his grasp firm and energetic. “And have a nice day,” he said.

  “I really hate that fake ‘Have a nice day’ thing,” muttered Lucy as they left the embassy. “It’s so phony. At least the French don’t pretend to care whether you have a nice day or not.”

  “That Carrington was next to useless,” said Bill as they gathered in a small knot on the sidewalk.

  “I didn’t really expect them to give us emergency passports, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask,” admitted Bob. “At least now they’ll start a file. They’ll know about us, in case, well, things go south.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Bill. “Go south?”

  “Well, in case Chef Larry dies and they decide to charge one of us.”

  “He means me,” said Lucy, swallowing hard. “I’m the one who found Chef Larry. I’m the obvious suspect.”

  “Let’s hope he recovers and identifies his assailant,” said Bill.

  “That would be the best-case scenario,” agreed Bob. “So what do you want to do now? Reconnoiter with the others?”

  “It’s not even four,” said Bill, checking his watch and opening his map. “This is a pretty central location. I bet there’s something nearby.”

  “You could say that,” offered Lucy, pointing at the horizon. “The Eiffel Tower is just over there.”

  “How about Les Invalides?” suggested Bill, pointing to a spot on the map. “Napoleon’s tomb.”

  “And the Army Museum,” said Bob. “I think they have Napoleon’s hat there and a lot of other cool stuff.”

  Bill was definitely interested. “Sounds great.”

  “Ick,” said Lucy. “I don’t like Napoleon.”

  “We could do the Eiffel Tower,” offered Bob.

  But Lucy was already developing plans of her own. “No, you guys go and see the guns and stuff. I think I’ll pay a visit to Elizabeth.”

  Bill furrowed his brow. “Are you still worried about her?” he asked.

  “A bit,” admitted Lucy. “I just want to touch bases with her, make sure she’s okay. And it’s not far from here.” She was already on her way, giving them a little wave and heading off in the direction of the Palais Garnier, but she wasn’t really thinking about Elizabeth’s problems. She was thinking about the hotel, the Cavendish chain, which was an economic powerhouse with branches all over the world. Perhaps someone in management, if Elizabeth asked politely, might be able to give her a lead to someone who could intervene on their behalf. Or even drop a word to someone influential. That was how things worked in Maine. Lucy had seen it plenty of times as a reporter for the Tinker’s Cove weekly newspaper, the Pennysaver. And if networking was the key to getting things done in Maine, she suspected it was even more important in France.

  The walk to the boulevard Haussmann was longer than she had thought, but Lucy didn’t mind. She was enjoying walking along the streets of Paris, pausing here and there to examine a shop window or to witness a charming incident, like the bride in an enormous full-skirted wedding dress she saw stuffing herself into a tiny Renault.

  Elizabeth was on duty at the concierge’s desk when Lucy finally reached the hotel, but she was due for a break. She took her mother into the staff room, where there were coffee and snack machines, and bought two bottles of water.

  “Are you having a good time in Paris?” asked Elizabeth, seating herself in an armchair with a cracked leatherette seat and unscrewing the cap on her bottle of Vichy water.

  “We were until today,” said Lucy, taking the adjacent seat, a similar chair covered in ugly tweed. “Our teacher at Le Cooking School, Chef Larry, was attacked. Stabbed. And now the police have taken our passports.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth was full of water, and she swallowed hard. “What?”

  “I found him and called for help. They took him to the hospital. I don’t know if he’s alive.”

  “So you might actually be involved in a murder?” asked Elizabeth. “That’s bad.”

  “I know. That’s why I came. There was a cop. He took our passports.”

  “Are you suspects? That’s really bad, Mom. The French have this thing, garde à vue. It means they can lock you up for pretty much as long as they want, if they suspect you of committing a crime.”

&n
bsp; This was news to Lucy, but it confirmed her worst fears about the French system, so she forged ahead with her plan. “I thought . . . I’m actually hoping that maybe you could ask one of your supervisors for some advice. Maybe your boss, Monsieur Fontneau, could help us? Concierges have all sorts of connections, right?”

  Elizabeth was quiet. Her index finger was running in circles, stroking the lip of the bottle. “He’s my immediate supervisor, Mom, and I’m trying to impress him. I don’t want him to know my family is involved in a crime.”

  “Well, what about the hotel manager?”

  “Are you crazy? That would be worse. Monsieur Bertrand is terribly proper. Besides, I’m pretty low on the totem pole. I don’t really get to talk to top management.”

  “Don’t they have some sort of service for resolving employees’ problems?” asked Lucy, who was growing rather cranky. She wasn’t at all pleased with her daughter’s attitude.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Elizabeth in a rather doubtful tone, which convinced Lucy that no help was to be found in this quarter. She was about to say something she would probably have regretted when two young men in Cavendish blazers entered the break room.

  “Mom, these are my colleagues, Adil Sadek and Malik Mehanna. They work on the front desk.”

  “Enchanté,” said Adil, giving her a little bow. He was extremely good-looking, tall, and slim, with caramel skin, jet-black hair, and amazingly long eyelashes.

  “Your mother? I thought you were sisters,” said Malik, who was shorter and heavier, but whose cheeks dimpled when he smiled. Lucy had the feeling she’d seen him before, his name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

  “Don’t mind him,” advised Elizabeth. “Malik can’t help being charming. He does it to get tips.”

  “No, no,” insisted Malik. “I was telling the truth. You could be sisters.”

  Lucy was blushing and shaking her head. “Does this sort of flattery really work?”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Adil, extracting a tiny paper cup filled with tarry liquid from the coffee machine. He sat at one of the tables and ripped open a packet of sugar, adding it to his coffee.

  Malik joined him at the table, unwrapping a chocolate bar and breaking off a piece. “Would you like some?” he asked, offering it to Lucy and Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth shook her head, indicating she didn’t want any chocolate.

  “No, thanks,” said Lucy, sipping at her water. “I’m in a bit of trouble, and I wonder if you could help me,” she began, getting a sharp look from Elizabeth.

  “Bien sûr,” said Malik. “What do you need?”

  “Just a bit of information,” said Lucy, glaring at Elizabeth. “As it happened, I witnessed an, um, accident and I called for help. They took the victim away in an ambulance, and I want to know how he’s doing. Do you know where they take people who’ve had accidents?”

  “L’Hôtel-Dieu,” said Malik.

  “Where’s that?” asked Lucy.

  “Near Notre-Dame.”

  “The cathedral?”

  “That’s right,” replied Malik, rising to his feet. “Back to work.”

  “Gee, I’ve got to go,” said Elizabeth, realizing she’d overstayed her break and hopping up.

  “I shouldn’t have kept you,” said Lucy, automatically accepting some of the blame.

  “Let me know what happens,” said Elizabeth, surprising Lucy with a quick peck on the cheek.

  “I will,” promised Lucy, replacing the cap on her water bottle as she followed Elizabeth and the two boys down the hall to the lobby. There she tucked her bottle into her purse and made her way to the exit, where a liveried doorman asked if she’d like a taxi. “I would,” she said. “Merci.”

  Moments later, rather expensive moments but worth every euro to Lucy, she was debarking in front of the hospital, which, she was puzzled to learn, was also a hotel. Handy, she decided, in case you wanted to be near a sick loved one, but rather weird if you were vacationing. Who would want to spend their vacation near a bunch of sick people? There was so much about France that she didn’t understand. For instance, why did they have an enormous tomb for Napoleon, who had really brought an awful lot of grief to the French people?

  Once inside, she followed the arrows on the accueil signs that indicated the reception desk and found herself in a hospital lobby that looked a lot like hospital lobbies in the United States, busy, with people coming and going. Some were obviously visitors, carrying flowers and gifts, others were uniformed health-care workers, and there were even a few departing patients being pushed to waiting taxis in wheelchairs. The reception desk was front and center, so Lucy approached, trying to dredge up the appropriate French words, which had long been buried in her mind.

  “Bonjour, madame,” she began, aware that failing to offer a greeting was considered rude in France. “Je cherche l’information d’un patient, nom de Laurence Bruneau,” she said, feeling rather proud of her linguistic accomplishment.

  The woman behind the counter replied with a string of rapid-fire sounds, which Lucy could not begin to comprehend.

  “Parlez lentement, s’il vous plaît,” Lucy said, getting a repetition of the same speech.

  “She said that information is not available, because of patient confidentiality,” offered a woman in line behind her. She was obviously wealthy, dressed in a suit that even Lucy recognized as a genuine Chanel, and carrying a large alligator handbag, which contained a ridiculously small dog sporting a pink bow in her topknot.

  “Merci,” said Lucy, wishing she had enough facility in French to convince the receptionist to change her tune. But as it was, she didn’t want to monopolize the receptionist’s attention when others also wanted information. She stepped aside, yielding her place to the helpful woman, who gave her a smile and a nod at the same time that the little dog leaped out of the bag and onto the reception counter, going straight for a vase of flowers and knocking it over.

  The receptionist jumped up to snatch the vase, the dog jumped to the floor and ran for the door, and the helpful woman dashed after her little pet. Everyone was reaching to help, picking up flowers and snatching papers from the expanding pool of water on the reception desk. Lucy also decided to help, picking up a clipboard that, she happened to notice, held a list of patients’ names with their room numbers. Bruneau, L. was at the top, assigned to room number 710. She carefully placed the clipboard on the counter, which was high and dry, unlike the desk behind it, and headed for the elevators.

  Room 710 was easy to find. When the elevator doors slid open on the seventh floor, Lucy had an unobstructed view of the closed door, with the number clearly visible on a plastic square. She also had a clear view of the uniformed police officer seated on a chair beside the door, guarding it. Unwilling to draw attention to herself, she remained in place, and the doors slid closed and the elevator descended.

  It was while she was on the elevator that something clicked and she suddenly remembered where she’d seen Malik. He was the young man she’d seen arguing in the Cavendish lobby with the older, gray-haired man and then angrily stalking off. And his companion Adil’s last name was Sadek, the same as the leader of Les Amis du Roi de l’Égypte, whom Richard had quoted in his news story. Could they be related?

  Chapter Six

  Leaving the hospital, Lucy found herself walking by Notre-Dame and, acting on an impulse, decided to go in. Her first impression was of the darkness inside and the scent of old dust and burning candles. The medieval cathedral was a sharp contrast to the Community Church in Tinker’s Cove, with its white walls and large clear-glass windows, which allowed worshippers to see the green leaves and blue sky outside. Notre-Dame was dingy and crowded with sightseers, who followed a U-shaped circuit through the huge stone edifice. There were devout worshippers, too, kneeling in the various side chapels.

  It seemed very strange to Lucy, who wondered at the immense effort involved in building the cathedral. How did the builders manage it, working in the t
hirteenth century, before cranes and power tools? she wondered. She thought of the incredibly strong hold faith must have had on medieval minds, faith that required people to create this tribute to Mary when they had so little and their lives were so miserable.

  Of course, she thought, pausing before the crowned statue of Mary floating above a sea of flickering candles, they didn’t know how awful their lives were, having nothing to compare them to. They didn’t know about hot showers and Social Security and antibiotics; they knew filth and poverty and early death. The church, with its promise of eternal life, was their only hope.

  Watching as a beautiful young woman lit a candle and knelt before it, crossing herself and murmuring a prayer, she thought of the millions of people who, even today, were believers. Maybe there was something in it, she decided, pulling a five-euro note from her purse and shoving it through the slot in the cash box. Feeling rather ridiculous, she pulled a thin taper from its holder and lit it from one of the burning candles. Then, making a wish, not anything she would dare call a prayer, but merely a simple plea that everything would be all right for herself and those she loved, she lit a candle. She had never done such a thing before and didn’t know what to expect, but she was a bit disappointed when she didn’t feel any sort of spiritual connection or transformation. It was just like taking her first communion at the Presbyterian church she attended as a child, which served cubic centimeters of white bread and tiny shot glasses of grape juice. But it couldn’t hurt, she told herself as she left the church. It was a sort of insurance.

  The gang was gathered in the living room when she returned to the apartment, where they were drinking wine and eating baguette slices spread with olive tapenade.

  “I ate way too much, waiting for you,” said Sue in an accusing tone. “It’s all your fault.”

  “Don’t believe her,” said Rachel, filling a wineglass for Lucy. “She had two pieces, while the rest of us . . .”

  “Who’s counting?” said Pam, passing Lucy a slice of bread loaded with the savory mixture. “This stuff is delicious.”

  “Did you make it?” asked Lucy, savoring a bite.