French Pastry Murder Read online

  The medics seemed to take a long time doing whatever they were doing, and there seemed to be a good deal of discussion. Lucy felt her heart fluttering in her chest. It was time to get moving and get poor Chef Larry to the hospital.

  “What’s taking so long?” she asked, but got no reply from the medics.

  It was Sue who replied. “It’s the French way. They try to stabilize the patient before they transport him. Remember Princess Diana? They say she might have lived if they’d gotten her to the hospital sooner.”

  “Socialized medicine,” snorted Sid, who was a member of the volunteer fire department in Tinker’s Cove and had answered many an emergency call. “Back home, we’d have him at the hospital by now.”

  “And he’d get a huge bill,” snapped Rachel. “Probably end up bankrupt.”

  “But he’d be alive,” said Sid.

  “There’s really nothing for us to do here,” said Bill. “You’ve done your duty, Lucy. Let’s go. We’re just in the way.”

  “The dispatcher said to stay,” said Lucy.

  “Well, I need a drink,” said Sue, turning to leave and bumping into a short, dark man with the usual fashionable stubble of beard, wearing a scarf over his Burberry trench coat. “I think we should regroup at the café.”

  “Un peu de patience,” advised the man, shepherding the group away from the door as the medics wheeled the wounded man away on a gurney. “I am Commissaire Lapointe, with the police, and I have a few questions.”

  “We’re happy to cooperate,” said Bob, stepping forward. “I’m Bob Goodman. I’m a lawyer in the U.S., and I can assure you that none of us had anything to do with this unfortunate incident.”

  “I see,” said the commissaire, blinking slowly. His eyes protruded a bit, and he reminded Lucy of a lizard, testing the atmosphere and waiting to pounce on whatever unwitting prey might come by. He almost seemed bored as he pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Can you give me your names and your addresses in Paris?”

  When that bit of business was completed, he asked about Chef Larry. “What is your relationship to the victim?”

  “His name is Larry Bruneau, and he is the owner of this cooking school,” said Bob, representing the group. “We are all students. We had a class this morning.”

  The commissaire was no longer bored. “What was the subject of the class?” he asked.

  “Profiteroles,” said Sue.

  “Ahhh,” replied the policeman. “Délicieuses, sans doute. But hardly the sort of thing that leads to a stabbing. ”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” said Rachel. “Why would anyone want to hurt Chef Larry?”

  “There are many reasons for crime, madame,” said Lapointe. “It is unfortunate, but people do many terrible things to each other for many different reasons. Perhaps he owed money. And then there are drugs, the black market. There is much that goes on in Paris that a visitor does not see.” He paused, then shrugged. “Most likely, it is to do with a woman.”

  “I opened the door,” said Pam, eager to confess and relieve her guilty conscience. “I know you’re not supposed to, but it was raining and there were two young men getting soaked, so I opened the door for them.”

  “They did not know the code?” asked the commissaire, narrowing his eyes.

  “They were carrying lots of packages, and their hands weren’t free,” said Pam. “They certainly didn’t look like criminals.”

  “There’s no reason to believe they were the assailants,” said Ted, eager to defend his wife. “There are plenty of other people who work in this building. There are many businesses besides the cooking school.”

  “And there was that man who attacked Larry in the market,” said Lucy, immediately wishing she hadn’t spoken up.

  “Madame Stone, you are Madame Stone?” asked the commissaire. “What attack are you speaking of?”

  “We were at the marché,” began Lucy.

  “The Enfants Rouges,” added Sue.

  “This guy came up and shouted at Chef Larry and shoved him.”

  “Have you seen this man again?” asked Lapointe.

  “I think I did. I think I saw him yesterday and again today, standing across the street,” said Lucy. “But I’m not sure. He was just average. He looked like a lot of other men. Dark, very short hair, unshaven.” As she spoke, she realized she could be describing the commissaire himself.

  “The guy in the market had a unibrow,” said Sue.

  “What is that?” demanded the commissaire. “Unibrow?”

  “Very dark eyebrows that connected over his nose, with no space in between,” said Sue.

  “Mrs. Stone, did the man you observed also have this unibrow?”

  “I didn’t see. But he was wearing a leather jacket.”

  “Like these guys today,” said Pam.

  “It is the style,” admitted Lapointe.

  “I feel so guilty,” said Rachel. “If I hadn’t let them in . . .”

  “Do not disturb yourself, madame. If they are in fact the assailants, they would have found another way. They could have simply waited for their victim to leave the building.”

  “I wonder,” began Bob. “Is there a surveillance camera on the premises?”

  “We will look into that,” said Lapointe. “It is what you say, early days. I can assure you there will be a thorough investigation, and in time we will, without doubt, discover the truth.”

  Bob was thoughtful, obviously considering the ramifications of Lapointe’s statement. “How long do you think this investigation will take?” he asked.

  Lapointe shrugged. “Impossible to tell. It will take as long as it takes.”

  “But we’re going to be in Paris for only eleven more days. Our flight is one week from Saturday. Will this be a problem?”

  “Not a problem,” said Lapointe. “But I will need your passports.”

  “We won’t be able to leave without our passports,” said Bob.

  “Exactly,” said Lapointe, holding out his hand.

  “So we will be able to leave on schedule?” asked Bob.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. It depends on the investigation.”

  “So we might not be able to leave?”

  “As I said, it is impossible to know.” Lapointe’s voice became firmer. “Now I will take your passports. And you will receive notice in a day or two to come to the station to make formal statements.”

  “How much notice will we have?” asked Bob.

  Lapointe considered the question. “Twenty-four hours, maybe less.”

  “We must have at least twenty-four hours’ advance notice,” insisted Bob.

  “Ah, monsieur, you are not in America now. This is how we do things in France. When you are summoned, you must come.”

  Bob bristled. “I am familiar with the French justice system.”

  “Then you will most certainly want to cooperate. And now the passports, please. And then you will leave so the investigators can proceed to examine the scene of the crime.”

  Seeing no alternative, they drew the required passports from pockets and purses and handed them over.

  “À bientôt,” said Lapointe. “And meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy your visit. There is much to see in Paris.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” asked Bill as they began making their way down the stairs.

  “If it is,” said Sue, “the joke’s on us.”

  Chapter Five

  The café on the corner was still busy with lunchtime customers, but a large booth in the back was empty and they all squeezed in, borrowing a few chairs from nearby tables. No one was in the mood for a meal, but Sue ordered a few plates of frites to accompany their drinks.

  “I plan to drink quite a bit,” announced Sue, “so I’ll need to eat something.”

  “Good idea,” chimed in Lucy, who also felt the need for something alcoholic. Her hands were still shaking, and she couldn’t erase the image of poor Chef Larry from her mind. He remained firmly in place, flat on his b
ack, with the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest.

  “What did that cop mean?” asked Sid. “Can they really keep our passports and detain us here in Paris?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Bob. “The French legal system is different from ours. There’s no presumption of innocence, for example, and there are severe penalties for failing to cooperate. Our system is prosecutorial. The prosecution and the defense argue the case, and the jury decides. The French system is inquisitorial. A magistrate takes charge of each case and is responsible for determining the truth of the matter.”

  “It seems rigged, if you ask me,” said Bill. “What if the magistrate is wrong?”

  “Juries make mistakes, too,” said Bob. “It’s just a different system, but the ultimate goal is the same—to find the truth.” He paused. “No system is one hundred percent perfect.”

  A waiter arrived with their orders, beer for the men and wine for the women, except for Rachel, who had a cup of tea. Sue was making fast work of the fries, a sure sign she was upset. She didn’t even take umbrage when the waiter asked if she wanted ketchup. She merely shook her head and didn’t criticize Bill when he said he sure would like some.

  “Chef Larry wasn’t teaching me anything I didn’t know already,” she said, “but I had hopes, you know? I was hoping to learn the secret of pâte feuilletée. Mine never comes out quite right.”

  “Why make it from scratch?” inquired Lucy. “You can buy ready-made puff pastry. It’s in the freezer section. That’s what I do.”

  Sue gave her a pained look. “Not the same thing at all.”

  “Well, maybe there’ll be a substitute teacher,” said Pam, who actually was an occasional substitute teacher back home in Tinker’s Cove.

  “I don’t think so,” said Bill. “Le Cooking School looks like a one-man show to me.”

  “What about the bakery?” wondered Pam. “Do you think it will close?”

  “I bet Chef Larry has hirelings who do the baking,” said Sue, signaling the waiter for another glass of wine. “And he has that wholesale grocery business, too. Remember? He said he could get us all the wine and caviar we wanted.”

  “At a very good price,” added Sid. “That’s what he said.”

  Lucy was thoughtful, but it was Ted who said what she was thinking. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he dabbles in black market goods,” he said. “Lapointe mentioned that as a possible motive.”

  “You think that wine and stuff we found in the apartment fell off a truck?” asked Sid.

  “Something like that,” said Ted.

  “And I was going to ask him to get us another case of wine,” said Sue. “I never thought it was stolen. I just figured he had connections in the industry and was getting it wholesale.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Lucy. “People don’t get themselves stabbed for no reason.”

  “And there was that attack in the market,” said Bob.

  “I wonder if that guy was operating on his own,” said Lucy, “or if he was part of some criminal organization.”

  “Like the Mafia?” Rachel’s huge eyes were bigger than ever. “You think he was delivering a warning?”

  “It could have been something like that, or even some terrorist group,” said Ted. “Richard told me that’s how a lot of them make money for their operations.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as a man with a cause,” said Sue. “I think Chef Larry is just out for Chef Larry.”

  “Well, I like him,” said Pam. “And I hope he pulls through.”

  “We all do,” said Rachel.

  “You bet,” agreed Bob. “The sooner he recovers and tells the police who attacked him, the sooner we get our passports back.”

  “Well, in the meantime, it looks like we’ve got plenty of time to fill,” said Bill. “Any ideas?”

  “We’re in France,” said Sue. “Like Lapointe said, there’s plenty to see and do.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Versailles,” said Pam.

  “Me too,” added Rachel. “That’s where they filmed that movie about Marie Antoinette. There were just glimpses, but it was gorgeous.”

  “It’s only a short train ride away,” offered Sue. “Let’s go. Tomorrow. It will take our minds off the current unpleasantness.”

  Everybody seemed to think a trip to Versailles was a good idea, except Bob. “Hold your horses,” he advised. “Chances are we’ll all be called in for questioning tomorrow.”

  “That soon?” asked Sid.

  “I’d bet money on it,” answered Bob, looking glum as he drained his glass and set it on the table.

  Pam was having none of it. “This is crazy. We’re Americans. We’re the can-do people. We’re not helpless here. We’ve got an embassy.”

  “You’re right,” said Bob, perking up. “I’ll go this afternoon and see if they can’t help us get our passports back, or issue temporary passports.”

  “Shall we all go?” asked Lucy.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Bob.

  “Good,” said Sue. “I have no desire to sit around in some waiting room all afternoon, not when I could be shopping.”

  “And I’m going to want to keep an eye on you,” said Sid with a resigned sigh.

  In the end it was decided that Lucy should go to the embassy with Bob, because she discovered the body, and Bill would also go, to support Lucy, but the rest of the group would spend the afternoon pursuing their various interests. They agreed to meet for dinner, at which time, it was hoped, Bob would have good news for them.

  Lucy was much happier when she could take action, rather than sit and fret, so she was feeling quite chipper as she and Bill set out with Bob for the embassy. A quick check on Bob’s smartphone revealed that the embassy was located on the avenue Gabriel, off the place de la Concorde, which was only a short ride away on the Métro.

  The place de la Concorde was buzzing with traffic, which whizzed around the Egyptian obelisk in the center, making a sharp contrast to the fountains and classical buildings. When they walked past the Hôtel de Crillon, Bill remarked that Hemingway liked to drink there.

  “I thought the Ritz was his favorite,” said Bob. “They even named the bar after him.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure it was the Crillon,” maintained Bill.

  “I don’t think there was a bar he didn’t like,” said Lucy, and they all laughed.

  They were still enjoying the quip when they approached the embassy, which was next to the Crillon and surrounded by a sturdy iron and stone fence. At the gate they were confronted by a very serious U.S. Marine, dressed in camouflage and holding a scary-looking gun.

  “What is your business?” he asked.

  “We need emergency passports,” said Bob.

  “You know you can apply online,” said the marine.

  “It’s a rather special case,” said Bob. “We need to see a consular officer.”

  The marine looked them over, then advised them to proceed to the security checkpoint. There Lucy opened her purse for examination and they passed through a metal detector before they were allowed to enter the building. Once inside they were sent to a crowded waiting room and were given numbers.

  “Maybe this is a mistake,” said Lucy. “Our number is forty-seven, and they’re only up to twenty-two.”

  “It will probably go quickly,” said Bob.

  “I doubt it,” said Bill, opening a copy of the International New York Times that somebody had discarded. “Hey, look!” he exclaimed. “Your buddy Richard has a front-page story.”

  Lucy and Ted looked over his shoulders as he read the story, which was an account of the activities of Les Amis du Roi de l’Égypte to restore the monarchy. “ ‘Egypt is in crisis,’ stated the group’s leader, Khalid Sadek. ‘Only the rightful king, Fouad II, can unite the various factions and prevent civil war.’ ”

  The story went on to point out that Fouad II lived a quiet life in Switzerland and seemed to have little interest in reassuming the throne, wh
ich he had held briefly when he was less than a year old.

  “That group was holding a conference at the Cavendish Hotel,” said Lucy. “Elizabeth was helping to set it up.” She pointed to the head shot of Khalid Sadek, whom she recognized as the gray-haired man in the old-fashioned suit. “I actually saw him. He was there.”

  “I wonder where they’re getting their money,” said Bob. “That place isn’t cheap.”

  “Maybe they’re selling their jewels, like the Russian émigrés,” Lucy said, speculating. “Maybe this Fouad is like Anastasia, a fake, and that’s why he doesn’t want to claim the throne.”

  “More likely, he doesn’t want to face an angry mob in Tahrir Square,” said Bill, turning to the sports. After learning the Bruins had lost to the Canadiens, they went on to finish the crossword. They were playing a half-hearted game of hangman when number forty-seven was called. Their hopes were high, however, when they were finally allowed to see a foreign service officer.

  “I’m Fox Carrington,” he said, rising from his desk and leaning across it to shake hands. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Bob Goodman. I’m an attorney representing a group of eight Americans. We all need emergency passports.”

  “All your passports were stolen?” asked Carrington, who looked as if he’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. He was clean-cut and smooth shaven and had a slight Southern accent. Lucy thought he was perhaps old enough to be in high school.

  “Not exactly,” explained Bob. “We were enrolled in a cooking school, and the teacher—the chef, actually—was assaulted. The investigating police officer confiscated our passports.”

  Carrington put down his pen. “Did I hear you right? You’re involved in a crime?”

  “Definitely not involved,” said Bob. “We had nothing to do with it.”

  “But this French cop took our passports, which I don’t think he is allowed to do,” added Lucy.

  “Did this assault take place while class was in session?” asked Carrington. “Were you all witnesses?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Bill. “Class was over. We were leaving, waiting for the rain to stop.”