French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (3 page)

“France is tricky,” said Bill before dozing off with a snore.

“No, no, no,” said Lucy, shaking him. “It’s noon and . . .”

“It’s actually six in the morning U.S. time,” said Bob.

“Our bodies think it’s six,” agreed Ted, “and they’re wondering why we’ve been up all night.”

“Well, whether it’s six or noon, it’s mealtime, and my body is wondering when it’s going to be fed,” said Pam.

Sue, who had been exploring the kitchen, found the refrigerator concealed behind a wooden panel. “There’s at least a case of champagne in here,” she announced. “And a huge tub of pâté de foie gras.”

“Terrific cabinetry,” said Sid, who was busy opening doors and drawers. “And lookee here. All kinds of gourmet stuff.” He was sorting through a number of cans and jars. “Olives and mustard and looks like jam.”

“My goodness,” said Pam, looking over his shoulder. “It’s like an entire grocery store. There’s coffee and tea.”

“And caviar,” said Sue, examining a tiny can.

“There’s a case of red wine, too,” said Ted, who had found it stored in a utility closet containing controls for the electricity, heat, and hot water.

“Is this all for us?” asked Rachel.

“I think Norah must have arranged it,” Sue said, speculating. “We’re going to be living high on the hog, but we can’t live on champagne and caviar alone. We’ll need to shop for meat and vegetables and bread.”

“There’s supposed to be a Monoprix grocery store on the rue Saint-Antoine,” said Lucy, who was still studying the notebook.

“I can’t wait. I’m starving,” complained Pam.

“The café on the corner?” suggested Lucy. “It says here it’s the closest restaurant.”

“The driver recommended it,” said Sid.

“D’accord,” said Sue.
“Allons-y!”

“Whatever,” grumbled Bill, hauling himself off the sofa.

The café, Chez Loulou, was hopping when they opened the door and stepped into a crowded bar. “Huit pour le déjeuner?” inquired a tall black man, speaking over the heads of the people standing at the bar.

Lucy glanced around at the crowded room, doubtful they could be accommodated.

“Is there a table?” asked Sue, also doubtful.

“No problem,” he replied, snapping his fingers. In minutes a couple of young waiters dressed in black had appeared and rearranged the tables, lining several together for the group.

“Wow. That was fast,” said Pam, slipping into a bentwood chair.

“I am Loulou,” said the host, distributing menus. “I am afraid today we are out of wine,” he said with a shrug.

“No wine?” wailed Sue. “How is that possible?”

“It is not possible. It is just a joke,” Loulou said and laughed as a waiter arrived with a couple of carafes of house red. “Today the special is
bœuf bourguignon
, Provençal-style.”

“Sounds terrific,” said Pam, and they all nodded their heads in agreement. All, that is, except Sue.

“I’ll have salad,” she announced.

 

After lunch the members of the group went their separate ways. Sue wanted to go straight to BHV, and Sid agreed somewhat halfheartedly to accompany her. “It’s a hardware store,” she told him. “Really. French hardware. You’ll love it. And it’s not far. We can walk, stretch our legs after the flight. We can also look for that Monoprix grocery store.”

Rachel and Bob wanted to visit the Mémorial de la Shoah, commemorating the French Jews killed in the Holocaust, but couldn’t interest the others.

“Pam and I have a college buddy here in Paris,” said Ted. “Richard Mason. He’s at the
International New York Times.
He told us to call him first thing, as soon as we got here.”

“And I want to see Elizabeth,” said Lucy. “She got the afternoon off to spend time with us.”

“Not us,” said Bill, covering an enormous yawn with his hand. “I’m going to take a nap.”

“You’ll be sorry,” advised Sue.

“Your metabolism will never adjust if you do that,” agreed Ted.

“I don’t care,” said Bill. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Elizabeth will be so disappointed . . . ,” protested Lucy.

“You know you’re dying to have a mother-daughter chat,” said Bill, and Lucy had to admit he was right.

After a quick phone call to make arrangements, Lucy agreed to meet Elizabeth at the Cavendish Hotel on the boulevard Haussmann. The Métro posed no threats to Lucy, who had grown up in New York City. In fact, she was quite impressed by the clean station and the trains, which arrived every five minutes. She had no trouble at all finding the hotel, but there was no sign of Elizabeth at the concierge’s station in the beautifully decorated lobby. Instead, there was a large framed photo of a bespectacled middle-aged man propped on the chair behind the ornate Louis XIV desk.

There was also a stack of printed brochures with the same photo, which identified the portly man in the photo as Ahmed Fouad II, king of Egypt. Intrigued, Lucy picked one up and read the text, which claimed that Fouad, his preferred name, ascended the throne in 1952, when his father, King Farouk I, abdicated in his favor, hoping to appease antiroyalist forces. It apparently didn’t work, as Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser rose to power and the royal family remained in exile in Europe.

Lucy read on, straining to recall her high school French, not to mention her world history class. She knew there had been some sort of Suez crisis a long time ago, and that tourists had been massacred in Egypt at some point, but now the country was in turmoil as popular demonstrations brought down succeeding governments. Perhaps, she thought as she replaced the brochure, this faction hoped to restore stability by reestablishing the monarchy.

“Mom!”

Lucy turned to greet her daughter, exchanging the requisite two
bisous,
or kisses, one for each cheek, which made her feel terribly sophisticated.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” apologized Elizabeth. “I have to help prepare for this conference. Les Amis du Roi de l’Égypte.” She picked up the framed photo and the stack of brochures. “I just have to take these to Monsieur Fontneau. He’s my boss. I’ll be right back.”

Lucy watched as Elizabeth hurried off down a long hallway leading to various function rooms, then strolled around the luxuriously appointed lobby, pausing to examine an enormous arrangement of fresh flowers set on a marble table. Crystal chandeliers glittered above, a plush patterned carpet was underfoot, and conversational groups of furniture were scattered about.

One such grouping, she noticed, was occupied by a group of men deeply engaged in a discussion. Lucy couldn’t understand whatever language they were speaking—it certainly wasn’t French—but it was clear that there was a difference of opinion. She observed a lot of head shaking and waving of hands, until two of the participants stood up, facing off angrily. One, a distinguished-looking man in his midsixties with gray hair, dressed in a beautifully tailored but somewhat out-of-date suit, was attempting to lay down the law to a younger man, who suddenly turned on his heel and marched off in a huff. She watched as he crossed the lobby, guessing that he’d picked up his ill-fitting sport coat in a flea market, and thinking that he looked as if he was going to cry. “Malik!” called the older man, but he didn’t stop.

A slice of life,
thought Lucy, who was about to sit down when Elizabeth returned, beaming. Her smile reminded Lucy of the times she had taken her out of school early for one reason or another. Back then, even a dentist appointment was preferable to spending another hour in school. She found Elizabeth’s cheerful attitude reassuring and was relieved to see she hadn’t spent all her time in Paris crying on the phone. She had had her hair styled in a chic new cut and had clearly done some shopping. She was wearing a new chunky scarf slung around her neck, topping an adorable black coat and a pair of high-heeled ankle boots.

“Love your coat,” said Lucy, studying the flattering coat as they went down the stairs to the Grands Boulevards station. It was tightly fitted across the shoulders and bust but fell into loose gathers around the hips.

“Wish I could say the same about yours,” replied Elizabeth, commenting on Lucy’s orange and brown plaid jacket. “You’re not in Tinker’s Cove now, you know.”

“I see you’ve lost none of your, um, spark,” said Lucy as they boarded the train. “I can’t wait to see your apartment.”

“It’s a dump,” grumbled Elizabeth, grabbing the pole as the train started with a jerk.

Lucy glanced around the train, which was filled with people, mostly reading newspapers or consulting their smartphones. They looked quite a lot like New Yorkers, she thought, mostly dressed in black, with well-worn walking shoes. “I have a theory that the people in big cities are all alike,” she said. “They’re citizens of the world. It’s only the country folk who are true to what we think of as French or American.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” said Elizabeth. “Believe me, Parisians are not at all like Bostonians or New Yorkers. You’ll see what I mean when you meet Sylvie.”

Lucy shrugged and continued studying the ads plastered on the walls of the Métro car, which were mostly for English lessons.
Same as in New York,
she thought, following Elizabeth out of the train at the next stop and up the stairs. Then she was hurrying along, panting to keep up with Elizabeth’s city strides. How did she manage in those heels? Lucy wondered when they finally stopped in front of another set of graffiti-covered doors and Elizabeth punched in her security code. This time the courtyard wasn’t very pretty at all. It was filled with motorcycles and trash cans and kids’ toys, and laundry was hanging from lines strung from window to window. The paint on Elizabeth’s door was peeling, and the spiral stairs inside were even ricketier than the ones in Lucy’s place.

“We’re on the top floor,” said Elizabeth, charging up the first flight. Lucy followed, pacing herself on the climb, pausing now and then to catch her breath.

“I bet you’ve got a nice view,” said Lucy, panting as she finally reached the top-floor landing.

“You’d bet wrong,” snapped Elizabeth, unlocking the door.

Stepping inside, Lucy saw that Elizabeth hadn’t exaggerated. The apartment was every bit as grim as she’d claimed: the walls were covered with hideous dark green wallpaper, and the windows opened onto the courtyard, with its array of laundry.

“I’ll give you a tour,” said Elizabeth, taking Lucy’s coat and tossing it on the futon. “My bedroom.” She added her own coat, then pointed to the round table with four chairs, which filled most of the room. “The dining room. Also the living room. It’s multipurpose.”

“Open space,” said Lucy.

“And not much of it,” said Elizabeth, opening a door. “The kitchen.” Lucy peered into a tiny, dark room that was mostly filled with an ancient prefab unit combining sink and cooktop. Elizabeth opened another door inside the kitchen, announcing, “
La toilette
.”

Indeed, inside the small space, which would be a closet back home, she found a toilet, sink, and rusty metal shower. “It’s got everything you need,” said Lucy, determined to look on the bright side.

“Except space to towel off,” said Elizabeth. “I have to do that in the kitchen.”

“How European,” said Lucy, grinning.

“It’s not funny,” grumbled Elizabeth. “I’d show you Sylvie’s room—she’s got the only bedroom—but she keeps it locked.”

“Locks are a big deal here,” ventured Lucy. “Our concierge, Madame Defarge, gave us a very stern lecture about how important it is to lock the doors. I mean, really, what’s the big deal? What do we have that anyone would want?”

“You’d be surprised,” muttered Elizabeth, cocking her head to the sound of keys rattling outside the apartment door. A moment later the door opened, and her roommate stepped in.

“Elizabeth,” she cooed in a deeply accented voice. “Is this your
maman?
”

“I’m Lucy Stone,” said Lucy, noticing that Sylvie was a very attractive, petite blonde with flawless skin, delicately arched brows, and a self-satisfied smile. Like Elizabeth, she was wearing a black coat, black tights, little boots with heels, and a chunky scarf.

“And I’m Sylvie, Sylvie Seydoux.” She extended her chin, and Lucy realized it was the
bisous
thing, requiring two kisses, and cooperated in the exchange.

“Shall we go for
café?
” suggested Sylvie. “It’s not so nice here.”

Lucy would have been perfectly happy to remain sitting on the saggy, musty futon, but it seemed there was to be no rest for her. She put on her coat and followed the girls down the four flights of stairs and through the courtyard and down the street to the corner café. Cafés, it seemed, were everywhere.

“Inside or out?” asked Sylvie, and they decided to sit outside, in the weak Parisian sunshine.

Coffee wasn’t served in the big cardboard container Lucy was used to getting at the Quik-Stop. It was a tiny china cup of black sludge, which Sylvie and Elizabeth tossed back in one gulp. Lucy sipped hers, grateful for the caffeine jolt, even though she suspected it would keep her up half the night.

“So what are your plans while you are in Paris?” asked Sylvie, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m here with friends, so I guess I’ll go along with whatever they want to do. And we’re all signed up for cooking classes.”

“That should be interesting,” said Sylvie, blowing smoke. “But what do you like to do?
Les musées? Les jardins?
Shopping at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette?”

“I’m on a bit of a budget,” admitted Lucy, finishing her coffee. “No, you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to go to the flea market. I’ve always heard about how wonderful it is.”

“Les Puces!” exclaimed Sylvie. “Of course! We must all go next weekend. I will show you, okay?”

“That would be great. Thanks,” said Lucy.

“Great,” grumbled Elizabeth.