French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I said Adil and Malik seemed like such nice boys, so well mannered,” said Lucy.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think breaking and entering and tossing somebody else’s place is exactly good manners,” said Bill. “The cops left the apartment just as they found it.”

  “Rachel said they didn’t seem to find whatever they were looking for,” said Lucy as they turned the corner and encountered an amazing display of fish and shellfish, arranged on a mountain of ice contained in a metal counter, right on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, complete with a waterfall, which provided a cooling backdrop for the fresh seafood.

  “It smells like home,” said Lucy, momentarily transported to the fish pier in Tinker’s Cove.

  “They’ve got every sort of fish you could imagine,” said Ted. “Look at that red one. I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”

  “Orange roughy?” said Lucy, taking a guess. “Red snapper?”

  Pam, however, wasn’t quite as taken with the display as the others. “Are we supposed to eat seafood that’s been sitting out here on the street all day?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem very sanitary to me.”

  “After eating tête de veau, I think my system can handle just about anything,” said Bill, causing them to laugh.

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” asked Richard, joining the group. “I reserved a table, so let’s go on in. It’s my treat,” he announced. “Order whatever you want.”

  Richard was known at the restaurant, where he dined often, and was warmly welcomed. The group was immediately seated at a big table by the window and provided with an enormous platter containing all sorts of shellfish: several kinds of oysters, pink crayfish, blue crabs, and enormous shrimp, all artistically arranged and punctuated with lemon slices and bowls of vinaigrette.

  “No cocktail sauce?” asked Bill.

  “You mean that red stuff? What is it? Horseradish, lemon juice, and ketchup?” asked Richard. “They don’t do that here. They think it interferes with the natural flavor of the shellfish.”

  “I think they’re right,” said Lucy, raising her chin and tipping a firm and juicy oyster into her mouth. “Delicious!”

  “That’s a Cancale, from Brittany,” said Richard.

  “I can see why you like living in France,” said Pam, biting into a large and plump shrimp.

  “Oh, come on, Richard,” said Ted. “Aren’t you tempted to come back to the good old USA? Don’t you get tired of the French attitude? Don’t you miss steak and cheeseburgers and . . .”

  Pam finished for him. “Chocolate milk shakes!”

  Richard laughed. “Sometimes I do miss home, like when I have to pay five euros for a very small Coke. And there is an American grocery store. It’s actually not too far from your apartment, over on the rue Saint-Paul. I could get peanut butter and Duncan Hines brownie mix, if I wanted.” He chose an oyster, holding it in his hand. “I’ve gone by it often enough, but I’ve never been tempted to go in. Not when there are beauties like this to savor,” he said, slurping the oyster out of its shell.

  “But as a journalist, isn’t it hard operating in another culture?” asked Lucy. “Our friend Bob, he’s a lawyer. He’s really struggling with the French justice system.”

  “It wasn’t easy at first. I’m not pretending it was. But I’ve been here for more than twenty years, and I’ve got the hang of things.” He paused to crack open a crab claw and extracted a chunk of meat, which he popped into his mouth. “I was quite the ambitious young man, and I didn’t have a job waiting for me, like you, Ted, at a family-owned newspaper. And the community news thing, it wasn’t for me. I’ve always been interested in the big picture, not whether the board of selectmen is going to support the new school.”

  “Hey,” protested Ted, “that’s important stuff. Schools, taxes, police and fire, all the stuff that makes a town work.”

  “I’m not saying it’s not important. I’m just saying it’s not important to me. I’m more interested in what the IMF is going to do about the Greek debt, and whether the French are going to step up and play a role in Africa, or if they’re going to let the Chinese take over.”

  “The Chinese are in Africa?” asked Lucy.

  Richard laughed. “Big-time. I did a three-part story for the Times, front-page stuff, but Americans don’t really care what goes on in the rest of the world. You’re all focused on the price of dump stickers. . . .”

  “Going up,” said Ted.

  “They are?” asked Bill. “I suppose that means contractors’ waste fees are going up, too.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Ted. “Double.”

  “Oh, nuts,” said Bill.

  “See what I mean?” demanded Richard with a self-satisfied smirk.

  After they demolished the mountain of shellfish, which was merely a first course, they proceeded to their second courses of various savory fish dishes, followed by green salads, desserts, and, finally, cheese. It wasn’t until they were sipping their coffee that Richard asked if there was any progress toward regaining their passports.

  “Now that Chef Larry’s dead, the investigation is heating up,” said Ted. “I’m hoping they will wrap it up soon and let us go.”

  “The oddest thing happened,” said Lucy. “Ted told you how the apartment was searched, absolutely destroyed, and we thought it was the police. Well, it wasn’t the police at all. The police finally came today. The concierge apologized and showed us video. They have a security camera, and it turns out the searchers look an awful lot like two guys who work with my daughter at the Cavendish Hotel.”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Bill. “The images are fuzzy, but we thought we recognized them from a party at Elizabeth’s place. Adil and Malik, that’s their names.” He took a sip of coffee. “If it really is them.”

  “There’s a lot of unrest in the Arab community right now, overflow from the Arab Spring,” said Richard. “Are they Syrian?”

  “Egyptian,” said Lucy. “But they’re not first generation. Their parents emigrated when King Farouk was thrown out.”

  “Everybody seems to be getting a turn in Egypt,” said Richard, leaning back in his chair. “First it was the army, then Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood, but the mob got rid of them. Believe it or not, there’s even a royalist group that wants to put Farouk’s son—his name’s Fouad—back on the throne. They hate Morsi, they hate the Muslim Brotherhood, and they want to bring back the monarchy. I wrote a story about it.”

  “We read your story,” said Lucy. “And these boys are in that group. They told me all about it. But in your story you said that Fouad himself isn’t too interested in claiming the throne.”

  Richard chuckled. “That’s right, and who can blame him? Right now the Egyptians are more interested in demonstrating and overthrowing governments than in keeping them. Fouad leads a quiet life in Switzerland. And he’s getting on in years. He’s not a young man.”

  “And I imagine he must have bad memories of his family’s expulsion and exile,” said Pam.

  “I don’t know about that. He was just a baby at the time. The prime mover behind the group is Khalid Sadek. His father was Farouk’s closest advisor. He’s trying to pressure Fouad emotionally . . . you know, ‘Restore your family’s honor,’ that sort of thing. But he’s also raising money, hoping to tempt Fouad with a big pile of cash,” said Richard.

  “Well, this is all very interesting,” said Bill, “but it doesn’t explain why two young men, certainly French now but of Egyptian heritage, would ransack our apartment, does it?”

  “No,” agreed Richard. “It’s usually drugs. They steal stuff to sell to get money for drugs.” He paused. “Maybe they were acting on orders from Sadek, stealing stuff that he could sell for cash to finance the movement.”

  “You interviewed this Sadek fellow, right?” asked Ted. “Do you think he’d do something like that? Encourage two young men to steal for him?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Richard. “I did get the impression that he runs a
tight ship. He’s very authoritarian,” said Richard.

  “It’s a moot point, anyway,” said Lucy. “Nothing’s missing. They didn’t steal anything.”

  “Well, that is odd,” said Richard, signaling for the check. “I suppose you could chalk it up to youthful high jinks.”

  Bill and Ted both reached for their wallets, but Richard insisted on paying the entire bill, saying he’d invited them and it was his treat. “My pleasure,” he said as they thanked him effusively for what they all knew was a very expensive dinner.

  When they got back to the apartment, Bill announced that a big meal always made him sleepy, and got busy shooing the others off to their rooms and unfolding the sofa bed, wasting no time climbing in and settling down for the night. Soon he was snoring away. Lucy, however, felt far too full to attempt sleep and headed down the long hall to the bathroom, planning to have a nice long soak.

  The tatty old bathroom was her favorite room in the apartment, and not only because of the previous day’s romantic interlude. She loved the big old-fashioned tub and the cracked tiles and the colorful glass panels in the door. In her opinion, the heated towel bar was an invention second only to bagged salad in improving the quality of life. But even the relaxing bath wasn’t enough to make her sleepy, so she decided to call Elizabeth. It was only a little after ten, and she was sure Elizabeth would be awake. It was Saturday night, after all. She hoped Sylvie had turned up and Elizabeth wasn’t worrying about her.

  “No, she hasn’t come home, but I’m not worried,” Elizabeth insisted in reply to her mother’s concerned inquiry. “She’s done this before. She isn’t scheduled to work this weekend, so she’s probably out on the town. I’m not her mother, and she doesn’t tell me where she goes or who she goes with.”

  “But don’t you think it’s funny she didn’t say good-bye to us?” asked Lucy. “It was kind of rude, and she seems so polite.”

  “I’ve told you, Mom. Sylvie is very self-centered. She doesn’t think about other people. Like whether or not I enjoy sleeping on a futon and being wakened by some stranger tramping through at five a.m. Frankly, I’m glad she’s not home. I hope she stays out, because maybe then I’ll get a good night’s sleep before I have to go to work tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, if you’re not worried . . .”

  “I’m not, and you don’t need to worry, either.”

  “I won’t,” promised Lucy. “Listen, have you seen Adil and Malik lately?”

  “No. We’ve been working different shifts, I guess. Why do you ask?”

  Lucy yawned. She was growing tired. “Well, you know how we thought the police had searched our apartment? It wasn’t the police. It was Adil and Malik. They were caught on video.”

  “That’s crazy. It couldn’t be them,” said Elizabeth.

  “It really did look like them.”

  “Well, appearances can be deceiving,” insisted Elizabeth. “I know them, and I’m sure they would never do anything like that. Why would they?”

  “You’re probably right,” said Lucy, too tired to argue. She yawned again. “I’m going to head to bed.”

  “Bonne nuit. Dors bien,” said Elizabeth.

  “You, too, sweetie. Good night and sleep well.”

  Next morning they all slept later than usual, and at breakfast Sue advised them to eat lightly because Madame Defarge had invited them to Sunday lunch, her way of apologizing for letting the intruders search the apartment and to thank Bill and Sid for building the closet. “And dress nicely,” advised Sue. “Sunday lunch is a formal affair in France.”

  At one o’clock they gathered in the courtyard and knocked on the concierge’s door. She welcomed them warmly and promptly served aperitifs, whiskey for the men and champagne cocktails for the ladies, along with delicious homemade cheese treats. Once everyone was supplied with a drink, she disappeared into her tiny kitchen. Gounod, her little dog, absented himself after the introductions and curled up in his basket, aware, no doubt, that he would be rewarded with the leftovers.

  “These are delicious,” enthused Lucy. “What are they?”

  “Galettes au fromage,” replied Sue. “And I bet we’ll have some sort of soup for starters, then a roast chicken with vegetables, salad, strawberry tart for dessert, cheese, and coffee. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Not terribly,” admitted Lucy.

  “And it will all be served on her best china and crystal,” added Sue.

  “That’s a lot of dishes to wash,” said Rachel. “We ought to offer to clean up for her.”

  “Don’t you dare,” hissed Sue. “It would be considered an insult, and she would be offended.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said Pam, sipping her cocktail. “I’d probably break the Limoges, anyway.”

  The luncheon was almost exactly as Sue had predicted, and it was a leisurely affair, but Lucy found it surprisingly enjoyable. It was pleasant to take time over a meal and to savor each course. Somewhat surprisingly, Madame encouraged them to discuss each dish, and the conversation became quite lively as they shared favorite recipes and family traditions.

  “What’s the best way to make an omelet?” asked Rachel, confessing that hers always stuck to the pan.

  “You must use . . . I don’t know the English . . . la beurre,” advised Madame.

  “Butter,” said Sue.

  “But-tare,” she repeated, trying out the word. “Not only in the pan, but you put some in with the eggs, too.”

  “Vraiment?” Sue, who watched calories with the concentration of a robin chasing a worm, was doubtful.

  “Oui, absolument,” insisted Madame. “And I always beat the eggs with une fourchette.”

  “A fork? Not a whisk?” asked Sue, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “What about the pan? Le Creuset?”

  Now it was Madame’s turn to be surprised. “Non, non, non. Only copper. It distributes the heat evenly.”

  “I guess that’s the problem,” admitted Rachel. “I’ve been using an old Teflon pan.”

  “Not Teflon!” protested Pam. “You’re poisoning yourself!”

  “It’s too late for me, then,” admitted Rachel. “Most of the Teflon is worn off.”

  “What is this Teflon?” asked Madame, and they all laughed.

  “It’s a nonstick coating on pots,” explained Lucy.

  “Ah, you Americans.” Madame shook her head and clucked her tongue. “In France, but-tare is the nonstick coating.”

  Lucy couldn’t remember enjoying a meal more, not even Richard’s seafood feast the night before. Then there had been more than a hint of pretension in the lavish presentation, and she’d felt guilty about the exorbitant cost. But at Madame’s table the food was not only an exhibition of their hostess’s culinary skill but also a genuine expression of her regard for them. But when it was over, after consuming two huge meals in two days, Lucy felt rather sluggish.

  “Want to catch a movie?” asked Ted. “Pam and I are meeting Richard at the cinema.”

  “What’s the movie?” asked Bill.

  “Dunno. But Richard says it’s a must-see,” said Pam.

  “Then I guess you must,” joked Lucy, who was beginning to wonder about Ted’s infatuation with his old friend and about whether Pam was growing a bit tired of it. These days it was always “Richard says this . . .” and “Richard says that . . . ,” as if Richard was the ultimate authority on everything under the sun. “I think I’d like to get some exercise, maybe walk along the quais.”

  “Sounds good,” agreed Bill, turning to Sue and Sid. “Want to come?”

  “No, thanks. We’re going to a concert with Bob and Rachel over at the Sainte-Chappelle.”

  “How lovely. Have a good time,” said Lucy, taking Bill’s hand and strolling off with him. “Where shall we walk? The Île Saint-Louis?”

  “There’s a Berthillon ice cream shop there,” he said.

  “How can you even think of ice cream after that huge meal?”

  “I can always find a little room
for ice cream,” he said. “And portions are small here.”

  “I’ll have a lick,” said Lucy. “Just a taste.”

  He laughed as they joined other couples and families promenading along the river. It was a lovely spring afternoon, the trees were leafing out, and the river water lapped gently against the stone embankment. Here and there lovers were sitting on benches, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Perhaps inspired by all the public displays of amour, Bill chose passion fruit ice cream, and it was so delicious that Lucy had more than one taste. They were heading home beneath a ravishing pink sky when Lucy’s cell phone rang.

  As soon as she heard her daughter’s voice, Lucy knew something was wrong. “Mom,” wailed Elizabeth. “I can’t believe I said all those bad things. I should have done something. . . .”

  “What’s happened?” asked Lucy.

  “It’s Sylvie,” sobbed Elizabeth.

  “She had an accident?”

  “No, she’s dead! Murdered.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The cops are here.... Will you come?”

  Bill took the phone. “As fast as we can, baby,” he promised. “As fast as we can.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A taxi was letting off a passenger just a short distance down the street, so they ran and were able to catch the driver’s attention before he drove off. Bill gave him Elizabeth’s address, while Lucy checked her smartphone for any information about the discovery of Sylvie’s body. At home, she knew the Twitterverse would have plenty to say, as no police activity went unobserved, especially the discovery of a body. In no time at all photos would be posted on Facebook, videos would appear on YouTube, and the mainstream media would be quick to pick up the story. Here in France, however, discretion ruled, and there was little information beyond a brief official press release from the brigade criminelle announcing that the body of a female had been discovered on the quai de Grenelle earlier that day and police were investigating.