French Pastry Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Uh, yeah, Mom.”

  There were benches in the park in the middle of the square, and Lucy sat down on one. “Once I met your father, nothing else mattered,” she said. “He was everything to me. All I wanted was to get married and start a family.”

  “Times have changed,” said Elizabeth, sitting beside her. “I don’t want to have to depend on a man, financially or emotionally.”

  Now that she thought about it, Lucy realized that very few of her friends’ children had married. Her son, Toby, had married Molly quite young, but he was the exception. Sue’s daughter Sidra was also married, but Tim Stillings, Richie Goodman, and Eddie Culpepper were showing no signs of settling down.

  “I don’t know if I ever want to get married,” continued Elizabeth.

  Lucy thought she might be having a heart attack. “Really?”

  “Yeah, Mom. Look at you. It’s taken you years and years to get to Paris, lots longer than it took me.”

  “But you don’t even like it here,” said Lucy.

  “Yeah, but I found out early. Imagine if I’d spent my whole life dreaming of Paris, and then, when I got here, I’d be so disappointed.”

  Lucy wasn’t convinced. “I was married by the time I was your age, and was expecting a baby. Trust me, I think you might be disappointed if you get to be my age and you’re all alone, no husband, no kids, no grandkids, nothing but a cat for company.”

  “Meow!” said Elizabeth, hopping up and grasping Lucy’s hands, pulling her to her feet. “C’mon. I bet Sue’s cooked up something great for dinner, and I’m hungry.”

  “Meow, too,” said Lucy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There were no mouthwatering scents in the air when Lucy and Elizabeth got back to the apartment, and no dinner preparations were under way. Instead, everyone was clustered around Ted, who was pressing one of the expensive fillet of beef steaks intended for dinner to his eye.

  “What happened?” asked Lucy.

  By way of reply, Ted removed the steak, revealing a very black and swollen eye.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “Who did that?”

  “Some types, tough guys,” said Pam in a rather unsympathetic voice. “He was out with Richard, playing investigative reporter. They went to a banlieue where they had no business being.”

  “You mean one of the immigrant neighborhoods?” asked Elizabeth in a worried tone.

  “Slum is more like it,” said Pam. “Crowded, dirty, and filled with unemployed youth who have nothing better to do than beat up nosy Americans.”

  “Really, I don’t see any reason to leave the center of town,” said Sue. “I mean, when you visit New York, you don’t go to the Bronx, do you?”

  “I do. To see the zoo,” said Lucy, “and the botanical garden.”

  “Not me. I stay as close to Bloomingdale’s as possible,” declared Sue.

  “That’s true enough,” grumbled Sid.

  “Ith wath rethearth,” said Ted, speaking with a very swollen split lip.

  “Research?” asked Lucy. “For what? The Pennysaver? ” Lucy doubted that folks in Tinker’s Cove were interested in the plight of immigrants in France. They didn’t even seem interested in America’s immigration problem.

  “It was Richard’s idea, a way to break into the big time,” said Pam. “He was going to share the byline with him. . . .”

  “Foh ma rethumay,” said Ted.

  “I think your résumé should include a trip to the emergency room,” said Sid.

  “That would be an interesting story,” said Rachel. “Now that we have Obamacare, you could write about your experiences with the French universal health-care system.”

  “Nuh,” said Ted, shaking his head.

  “He hasn’t heard good things about French medicine,” said Pam.

  “Rithard thayth—” began Ted, only to be cut off by Pam.

  “Richard says. Richard says. I’m getting pretty sick of what Richard thinks!” she exclaimed. “If Richard’s so terrific, how come he isn’t helping us get our passports, huh?”

  “He’th tryink,” said Ted.

  “I don’t think so,” said Pam, abruptly marching off to her room and shutting the door firmly behind her.

  “Well, there is another couch, buddy,” said Bill, slapping Ted on the back.

  “But Elizabeth needs it,” protested Lucy, with a nod to her daughter, who was busy with her smartphone. “She can’t go back to the apartment.”

  “She can sleep with Pam,” said Rachel, who was always ready with Plan B. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind sharing with Elizabeth.”

  “I’m thleeping with Pam,” insisted Ted, encountering some skepticism from his friends.

  “Maybe not, buddy,” said Bill.

  “Might be wiser to give Pam some space,” said Bob.

  “She seems pretty angry,” said Sid.

  “And jealous of all the time you’ve been spending with Richard,” said Rachel. “She feels neglected.”

  “I don’t blame her,” said Bill, giving Lucy a meaningful glance.

  She knew what he meant, thinking guiltily of her efforts to solve the murders. She knew only too well that he didn’t appreciate her tendency to investigate crimes that sometimes put her in compromising situations.

  “I don’t go looking for trouble. It seems to find me,” she said. “Take today. Elizabeth’s bag was stolen in the Métro.”

  “You don’t think it’s connected to the murders, do you?” asked Sue.

  Lucy seized on the idea. “I didn’t, but now that you mention it . . .”

  “No, Mom,” said Elizabeth. “It was just a pickpocket. Happens all the time.”

  “The Louvre is papered with notices warning about them,” said Rachel.

  “A handy cover for somebody who’s after something he thinks you’ve got,” said Lucy. “I think we should call Girard.”

  “No need.” Elizabeth was consulting her smartphone. “He just texted me. It’s okay for me to go back to my apartment. The lock’s been fixed, and they’re done checking for fingerprints.”

  “No way!” declared Lucy. “You’re staying right here with us, where it’s safe.”

  “Safe? Are you crazy? Look at him!” Elizabeth pointed to Ted. “And this place was tossed, too. It’s not safe here. It’s not safe anywhere, but in my own place. . . .” She paused, obviously rephrasing her thoughts. “I really just want to be by myself.”

  “And how are you going to get there tonight?” asked Lucy. “The Métro’s impossible due to the slowdown.”

  “I got a ride from a friend.”

  “How?” demanded Lucy. “When?”

  “Just now, on my phone,” replied Elizabeth in a “How dumb can you be?” tone of voice.

  Bill got right to the heart of the matter. “Who? Who’s giving you this ride?”

  “Really?” Elizabeth cocked her eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

  From outside, they heard a couple of quick beeps.

  “He’s here,” she said, dashing for the door. “Bye.”

  Bill was right after her, rushing out the door and following her down the stairs. When he came back, he shrugged. “It was a guy from work. Serge something. He seems nice enough. He has a motorcycle.”

  “Oh, no!” moaned Lucy. “You didn’t let her go, did you?”

  “What could I do?” He paused. “Like I said, he seems nice. He even had a helmet for her to wear.”

  “So that makes it all right?”

  “Not really,” sighed Bill. “But we can’t lock her up like Rapunzel, can we?”

  “I wish we could,” said Lucy.

  “Daughters,” muttered Sid, adding a sympathetic nod. “Well, life goes on. We’ve got to eat. . . .”

  “Eathy for you,” groused Ted.

  “We’ll pick up some soup for you,” said Sue. “I guess I’ll grab another fillet steak and some bread and salad at the Monoprix. Okay with you all?”

  “Sure. I’ll go with
you,” offered Rachel.

  Lucy was tired and wanted some time to herself, so she went into the living room and turned on the TV, watching the news report of the Métro slowdown and trying to follow the weather report. There was definitely rain in the Pyrenees, but that was all she understood, unable to translate the Celsius temperature into Fahrenheit. There was a simple formula. She’d learned it once but couldn’t remember it now, when the knowledge would actually be useful. Life was like that, she thought.

  When Sue and Rachel returned, they arranged a buffet on the kitchen island and encouraged everyone to help themselves. Lucy took a piece of steak and a bit of salad and retreated to her spot on the sofa. She wanted to be alone with her worries about Elizabeth and her irrational anger toward Bill. She knew she was being unreasonable. There wasn’t anything he could have done differently, but at least he could worry along with her. Instead, he was sitting with the others at the big table, where the wine was flowing along with the jokes, most of which were at Ted’s expense. Ted was taking it good-naturedly, however, now that Pam had returned and was sitting by his side.

  Eventually, even Lucy gave up and joined the others for coffee and dessert, little tubs of packaged chocolate mousse that was surprisingly delicious.

  “I’m really going to miss the Monoprix when I get back home,” declared Sue. “Everything’s so good . . . the bread, the cheese. Even the butter is more buttery somehow.”

  “That’s if we ever get home,” said Bob. “I’ll call Air France tomorrow and see what we have to do to change our flight.”

  “And I’ll check in with Sidra,” offered Sue, “and see what Norah wants to do about our accommodations.”

  “Try for the Cavendish,” said Pam.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Lucy, licking the last bits of chocolate off her spoon. “I’m beginning to think the Cavendish is a cover for crime.”

  “Like Bertram’s Hotel in the Agatha Christie book?” asked Rachel.

  “Exactly,” said Lucy.

  “But even Miss Marple appreciated the service at Bertram’s,” said Rachel.

  “I could use some five-star pampering,” said Pam.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” promised Sue.

  After dinner, when the dishes were finally all washed and put away, Lucy retreated to the old-fashioned bathroom for a long restorative soak in the huge tub. Her feet and legs were tired from so much walking, and she was emotionally drained. It had been a very long day, beginning with the trip to Chartres and the meeting with Madame Seydoux. Lucy tried to put herself in Madame’s shoes, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not understand Madame’s strange reaction to her daughter’s death. It was all too easy for Lucy to imagine the horror of losing one of her children. She lived with that fear constantly. Whenever she read of a young person killed in a car accident or a missing college coed, she knew in her heart that there was no immunity from tragedy, which could strike unexpectedly at any time. She and Bill had done their best to raise sensible, careful kids who didn’t engage in risky behaviors, but as Elizabeth had demonstrated that very evening, much of their advice had gone in one ear and out the other.

  Madame Seydoux clearly mourned her daughter: she’d been quite tearful when Lucy and Elizabeth expressed their condolences. But when they told her about the money Sylvie had hidden, her attitude had changed. That bothered Lucy, who found it unseemly. Kids benefitted financially, sometimes, when their parents died, but it was unusual for a parent to inherit money from a child. Maybe that was it. Maybe there had been a communication gap. Maybe what she was taking for greed was something else. Incredulity. Surprise. Shock. Maybe even the suspicion that Sylvie had been involved in something illegal and that was why she was killed. Now, that was something Lucy could understand, she decided, reluctantly pulling herself out of the steamy bathwater and reaching for a towel.

  The apartment was quiet when she made her way down the long hall to the living room, where Bill had pulled out the sleeper sofa and was already sound asleep. She pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him, nestling her back against his chest. He stirred and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer.

  It was cozy in bed, and Lucy was tired. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble falling asleep, but she did. The problem, she decided, was her aching legs, a reaction to all that walking. So she got up and tiptoed down the long hall to the bathroom, where she took a couple of ibuprofen.

  That should do it, she thought, slipping back between the sheets. This time, when she nestled against Bill, he groaned and flipped over, turning his back to her. Unfazed, she nuzzled against him, slipping her arm around his waist, and closed her eyes. When she had trouble sleeping, she had a trick of picturing the waves rolling in over the rocky shore at Tinker’s Cove. With each breath she took, she imagined the foamy water spreading over the speckled pebbles, and as she exhaled, she pictured the seawater withdrawing in the timeless rhythm of the sea. Tonight, however, other images kept intruding on her visual mantra: the blood that pooled on the floor beneath Chef Larry, the euros pouring out of the envelope onto Sylvie’s bedding, the tidal wave of commuters in the Métro station, and the roar of the motorcycle that carried Elizabeth off into the night.

  Checking the time on her phone, she saw it wasn’t all that late, not even eleven. Elizabeth was probably still awake. It wasn’t too late to call and make sure she was okay. Lucy slipped out of bed once again, taking the phone with her into the kitchen, where she made the call.

  Perhaps she was wrong, she decided, as the call went straight to voice mail. Elizabeth had turned her phone off, as she was probably having an early night. It was completely understandable, thought Lucy. Her daughter was probably tired after all that walking, too. Or maybe she’d just forgotten to charge it. Kids were like that.

  Lucy opened the fridge, intending to have a glass of milk, but the container was almost empty, with only enough for Bill and the others who took milk with their morning coffee. She personally didn’t see the point of diluting coffee with milk, but she wasn’t about to deprive anyone of their favorite morning beverage. She shut the refrigerator door, wishing there was some way she could reassure herself that Elizabeth was safe, but the Métro slowdown meant she’d have to walk. On the other hand, she realized, she wasn’t going to get to sleep anytime soon. A stroll in the night air might be just what she needed, and if it took her clear across town to Elizabeth’s apartment, so much the better.

  Since they didn’t have a room of their own with an armoire, Lucy and Bill had stashed their suitcases in their bathroom, which made it easy for Lucy to throw on some clothes without disturbing anyone. Before she knew it, she was down the stairs and in the moonlit courtyard, where she spied several bicycles neatly stored in a rack.

  Considering the French fondness for locks of all kinds, she expected the bikes to be secured, but when she took a closer look, she found no restraints of any kind. Weird, but lucky for her, she decided, rolling one of the bikes across the cobblestoned courtyard and out to the street. She was just borrowing it. She’d put it back exactly where she found it.

  It was great fun riding through the empty streets of Paris—well, not exactly empty, but the traffic was much lighter than during the day. The sidewalks were broad, and she tried to stay on them as much as possible, carefully avoiding the few pedestrians she encountered. The Métro slowdown had done her a favor, she decided, guessing that most people were staying home.

  As she zipped through the dark streets, feeling free and rather giddy, she almost forgot the purpose of her midnight excursion. A speeding police car with flashing blue lights was a stark reminder, and she bent lower over the handlebars and pedaled harder, with new determination.

  Finally arriving at Elizabeth’s street, she looked up at the dormer windows of her daughter’s apartment and found them glowing with light. Good. Elizabeth was awake. She rang the buzzer but, receiving no reply, grew anxious. She rang again. This time Elizabeth’s voice came over the interco
m.

  “Oui?”

  “It’s Mom,” said Lucy. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  There was a long pause. “I am. I’m fine.”

  Lucy didn’t think Elizabeth sounded fine. She imagined a guy with a two-day beard and a shaved head holding a knife to her daughter’s throat. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, Mom. Everything’s fine. Go home.”

  “I’m not going until I see you,” said Lucy. “Buzz me in.”

  “No, Mom. That’s crazy.”

  “Let me in, or I’ll call the cops,” said Lucy.

  “You are stark, raving mad,” said Elizabeth.

  “After all that’s happened, I don’t think I’m crazy to worry about you. I’m not kidding. I’ve got Girard’s number right here.”

  There was a long sound of static, which Lucy thought was a sigh, and then the buzzer sounded. She yanked the bike through the door and stowed it on a rack with others, then started the climb up to Elizabeth’s attic apartment. When she reached the top floor, she found Elizabeth’s door open. Elizabeth was leaning against the jamb, her hair mussed and she was wearing a silky kimono. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were very plump and red.

  “You’ve seen me,” said Elizabeth. “Now please go home.”

  “You’re with a man!” exclaimed Lucy, genuinely shocked.

  “And what if I am?” demanded Elizabeth. “I’m a big girl now.”

  “Who is it?” demanded Lucy.

  “It’s none of your business, Mom. Now, go on home.”

  Lucy’s mind was reeling. She was embarrassed, horrified, appalled. She felt the floor tilting this way and that beneath her. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” she said, speaking in a very small voice.

  Elizabeth was laughing. “Never better, Mom. Trust me.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, heading down the stairs. Halfway down the first flight she turned. “Is it that Serge?” she asked, but Elizabeth was gone and the door was closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Lucy got back to the apartment, Bill was still sound asleep. She snuggled in beside him, but even though her body was tired, her mind was racing. She knew the usual advice for insomnia was to get out of bed and do something until you felt tired, but perhaps riding a bicycle through nighttime Paris wasn’t quite what the advice columnists meant, especially if it meant finding yourself in an excruciatingly embarrassing situation. She tried to tell herself that Elizabeth was a grown woman, capable of managing her own love affairs, but she didn’t quite believe it.