French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (4 page)

“Well, I have to go,” said Sylvie, glancing at the smartphone that was permanently fixed to her hand and stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. She rose and distributed
bisous
to Lucy and Elizabeth, then trotted off down the street, attracting admiring glances from every man she passed.

“She attracts them. I don’t know how she does it,” said Elizabeth, watching her make her way down the street. “She’s got a man in her room every night, a different man. It’s disgusting.”

“She seems nice enough,” said Lucy.

“You try living with her,” advised Elizabeth. “Sometimes I’d just like to kill her.”

“Don’t say things like that,” said Lucy, spying a florist shop across the way. “Come on,” she said, standing up. “I’ll buy you some flowers to brighten up that apartment.”

“It’ll take more than flowers,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, it’s a start,” said Lucy, determined not to let her daughter spoil her vacation. “Look! Lilies!” She pointed to the price, which was displayed on a card. “And so cheap!”

“It’s euros, Mom, not dollars,” said Elizabeth, adding, “Believe me, nothing here is what it seems.”

Chapter Three

I
never should have had that coffee with Elizabeth and Sylvie,
thought Lucy, and she was doubtful that the waiter’s promise that her after-dinner
café Américain
was decaf was actually true, because here she was, wide awake on the sofa bed in the great gray room, lying beside Bill, who was snoring steadily despite his afternoon nap. It was an odd feeling, she decided, being absolutely bone-tired and still not able to sleep.

She reached out to the Lucite coffee table and checked the time on her cell phone: 2:30 a.m. That would be something like 9:30 or 10:30 p.m. at home, which was her usual bedtime. So why wasn’t she asleep?

Pounding the pillow, she flipped over and closed her eyes tight, determined to will herself to sleep. Finding that impossible, she rolled over onto her back and decided to work out what was bothering her. She was physically tired, the bed was comfortable, and she was tucked in beside the man she loved. Check. So the problem was emotional; some unresolved issue was preventing her mind from shutting down. Everything was fine back home in Tinker’s Cove. She’d spoken to her son, Toby, earlier that evening, and he had assured her that her daughters Sara and Zoe were settling in fine with him and his wife, Molly, apparently enjoying the chance to spend time with their little nephew, Patrick.

No, she knew perfectly well it wasn’t anxiety about the situation in Tinker’s Cove that was keeping her awake. It was her worries about Elizabeth. She had hoped that when she actually saw her daughter in Paris, she would discover that her complaints were largely unfounded, that she’d been exaggerating about her unhappiness. But now that she’d seen the apartment, and the roommate, she had to admit that Elizabeth’s situation was less than ideal.

Another girl would shrug her shoulders and get on with her life, making the best of things, but that girl was not Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a perfectionist, she tended to see things as black or white, and she had a priggish streak. She rarely ate meat, she didn’t smoke or drink, she certainly didn’t indulge in drugs, and Lucy suspected she was rather prudish when it came to sex. She’d had a serious boyfriend in Florida, Chris Kennedy, but hadn’t mentioned him much lately, except to say he had achieved his lifelong dream of becoming a government agent and was involved in some sort of lengthy training program. But Lucy had no idea whether it was the FBI, CIA, or some other agency.

Lucy could see that Sylvie—who had what she assumed was a very French attitude about life—was not the roommate Elizabeth would have chosen. The smoking and the male guests were bad enough, but Lucy thought it was the secretiveness that probably bothered Elizabeth the most. She’d had roommates in college, and Lucy remembered the open doors in their dorm suites, and the constant discussions dissecting their most personal problems. For Elizabeth, that locked bedroom door was an insult, a constant reminder that Sylvie didn’t trust her.

Sighing, Lucy rolled over and reached for her phone, checking the time once again. Almost three thirty. She yawned.
A promising development,
she decided, snuggling up to Bill. Maybe now she’d sleep.

Several hours later she woke to find Bill bringing her a cup of steaming coffee. “Sue and Sid went out and bought croissants for breakfast,” he told her. “We’re supposed to be at the cooking class at eight o’clock.”

“What time is it now?” she asked, reaching for the coffee.

“Almost seven.”

“I didn’t get to sleep until after three,” she said, grumbling.

“I slept great,” said Bill, who was dressed and freshly shaved.

“I know,” grumbled Lucy.

“Up and at ’em,” said Bill in an encouraging tone. “The bathroom is all yours.”

 

When the Americans arrived at Le Cooking School, which was located only a few blocks away from their apartment, they found their teacher waiting for them outside, standing on the sidewalk in front of his pastry shop. Chef Larry Bruneau was easily identifiable. With his curly red hair and flamboyant mustache, he looked exactly like the cartoon-style portrait on the Le Cooking School sign that hung above the door. Lucy guessed he was about thirty, and noticed he was wearing expensive-looking sports clothes rather than chef’s whites.

Le Cooking School was upstairs, he explained, above the patisserie that bore his name in swirling gold letters. The window was filled with a luscious display of baked goods: glossy fruit
tartes,
tempting éclairs, and pastel-colored
macarons,
as well as simpler offerings, like madeleines,
palmiers,
and the delicious butter cookies called cat’s tongues, or
langues de chat
.

“They’re absolutely gorgeous!” exclaimed Sue. “Look at those gorgeous Napoleons
.
I’ve always wanted to learn how to make puff pastry. When do we start?”

Chef Larry gave her an indulgent smile. “We’re going to begin at the beginning,” he told them, speaking unaccented American English. “We’re going straight to the Marché des Enfants Rouges.”

“Did you say red children?” asked Lucy, puzzled.

“Commies?” joked Ted.

“There used to be an orphanage in the area,” explained Chef Larry, “and the children wore red uniforms.”

“Oh,” said Rachel. “And what are we looking for at the market?”

“
Les pommes,
apples, in particular, and the general experience, to get a flavor of the French approach to food and cooking,” replied Chef Larry, leading the way through the narrow, twisting streets, past trendy boutiques and tired-looking cafés.

“This reminds me of SoHo,” said Sue, who paid frequent visits to her daughter Sidra in New York City. “And not in a good way. It’s very touristy.”

“Not the
marché.
It’s the real thing,” announced Chef Larry, leading them past some tacky sidewalk stalls featuring watches and jewelry and into a covered area where fruit and vegetable vendors had set up lavish displays of fresh produce.

“My goodness,” sighed Lucy, taking in the huge, colorful arrangements boasting varieties she’d never seen except in garden catalogs. “White eggplant. And look at all that gorgeous asparagus, green and white, too. And the pears and apples . . .”

“Today,” announced Chef Larry, holding up his hand, “we’re going to make a traditional French apple tart. . . .”

“Tarte tatin,” said Sue, letting the teacher know she was no novice when it came to French cooking.

“Just so,” agreed Chef Larry, looking bemused. “And what varieties of apple would you suggest?”

“At home I always use Northern Spies,” said Sue.

“Here we look for a sweet apple, an Auslese or a Tokay. And, of course, this time of year, they are imported.”

“I thought those were grapes,” muttered Ted as Chef Larry led them down the concrete-floored aisle to a stand featuring nothing but apples. All sorts of apples: red and green, yellow and striped.

“Ah, madame,” cooed Chef Larry, approaching the proprietor, a plump woman wearing a flowery, ruffled apron over her gray sweater.
“
Qu’est-ce que vous avez pour moi aujourd’hui?”

She replied in rapid-fire French, and the two engaged in a lively discussion, punctuated with much gesturing and pointing to the various kinds of apples. In the end, she filled a large bag for him, he handed over an astonishing number of euros, and they all headed out of the market.

Lucy paused, her eye caught by a particularly beautiful display of lettuces, and found she had to hurry to catch up to the others, who were now gathering on the sidewalk outside the market. She was intent on the group and didn’t notice a man who was also approaching the narrow opening between the stalls that served as an exit, and bumped into his shoulders. She glanced at him, expecting him to yield, perhaps with a charming French version of “Ladies first.” Instead, he glared angrily at her, giving her a fleeting impression of dark eyes beneath a flourishing unibrow and a three-day beard, then rudely brushed past without an apology. She watched, stunned, as he charged ahead and went straight for Chef Larry, yelling something at him and giving him a shove. Chef Larry staggered but managed not to fall, the apples spilled, and she heard Bill shouting, “Hey, there!” Then the guy was gone, running down the sidewalk, and they all scrambled to gather up the apples, which were rolling every which way.

“What was that about?” she asked, handing Chef Larry an apple that had rolled in front of her feet.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “I guess he was in a hurry.”

Lucy wasn’t convinced the assailant was merely in a hurry. She thought he’d attacked Chef Larry on purpose. “Do you know him?” she asked.

“Why would I know him?” he countered. “He probably saw his girlfriend with another man or something. He’s just some thug, a
sale mec.
This sort of thing happens all the time.” He was taking his time, concentrating on inspecting the apples as he replaced them in the bag. Finally, when the last one had been retrieved and stowed in the bag, he declared, “No damage done.
Allons-y.
”

The group trailed along, exchanging glances but avoiding discussing the incident, following Chef Larry back to the cooking school. They clustered together outside a door squeezed between the patisserie and the neighboring beauty salon while Chef Larry dealt with the security keypad, then continued on up three long flights of dusty stairs to the school. Lucy shrugged out of her jacket and tied on a starched white apron, which boasted an embroidered version of the same Le Cooking School logo that was on the sign. As she tied the tapes around her waist, Lucy decided that the classroom resembled the home ec classrooms of her youth, with a modern upgrade: the instructor’s demonstration area boasted a huge video screen. The rest of the room was divided into six separate mini-kitchens for the students, each equipped with a generous counter, a sink, a stove, and a tiny refrigerator. The couples distributed themselves around the classroom and waited while Chef Larry got the video system running.

Lucy was tired and found her mind wandering, reviewing the incident at the market, while Chef Larry demonstrated the correct way to cut the apples. He began by peeling and coring them, then divided them into perfectly smooth hemispheres. When the demonstration was complete, he distributed the apples and set the students to work. Lucy yielded the knife to Bill and let him handle the slicing. Chef Larry circled the room, checking on the students’ progress. He corrected Bill’s technique and then went on to observe Sue and Sid.

“
Très bien, madame,
” he told Sue, giving her neat paring job an approving nod.

“Thanks.” Sue put down her knife. “I make a similar tart at home, you know. I hope we’ll be trying some more advanced recipes.”

“Absolutely. Tomorrow we will advance to
pâte à choux,
and on Wednesday I will teach my foolproof method for classic pastry dough,
pâte brisée.
”

“But don’t we need
pâte brisée
for the tarte tatin?” asked Sue as Chef Larry pulled his cell phone from his pocket and gave it a glance. “And I’m really eager to learn your method for puff pastry.”

Chef Larry furrowed his brow and replaced his phone in his pocket. “Not today, madame. I have adapted the classic tarte tatin for my students. We will see how far we get, but
pâte feuilletée
may be a bit ambitious for this group.”

“But you will teach us
pâte brisée?
” persisted Sue.

Chef Larry reached for his phone once again, giving it only a quick glance before slipping it once again in his pocket. “As I already mentioned, madame,
pâte brisée
will be taught on Wednesday.”

“Terrific,” said Sue. “And maybe you could demonstrate
pâte feuilletée?
”

“You are perhaps ahead of the other students,” said Chef Larry, with a nod at Pam, whose attempt to core an apple had resulted in shattering it. “I will be with you in a minute, madame.”

“How come you’re teaching?” asked Sue as he started toward Pam. “I’d expect a young chef like yourself to be working at a top restaurant, apprenticing with a master chef.”

“I like to be my own boss,” replied Chef Larry, reaching into his pocket for the phone, which he glanced at and then turned off. “I don’t want to chop carrots and onions for fourteen hours a day, getting yelled at by some petty tyrant and getting paid only peanuts for doing it.” He stowed the phone in a drawer. “Besides, pastry is my true love.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Sid. “I wouldn’t work for anyone but myself.” He paused. “I’ve heard the taxes are real high here. Is that true?”

“True enough,” said Chef Larry, taking the knife from Pam and demonstrating the correct way to core an apple. “You want to caress the apple,” he said in a velvety tone, “coax it to give up its core, like so. And then we will cook it ever so gently, bathing it in butter and sugar and a touch of vanilla, allowing the true essence of the apple to be revealed in the most delicious way.”

Pam’s chin dropped, and she seemed to loose her footing, almost swooning until Ted grabbed her by the waist. “That sounds wonderful,” she said with a sigh.

“It’s just an apple tart,” snapped Ted.

“Not
just
an apple tart,” said Chef Larry. “Believe me, your palate will be amazed!”

It was well after one o’clock when the tarts finished baking and were turned out to cool. The aroma was heavenly, and the tarts themselves were beautiful, topped with glistening caramelized globes of apple.

“Tomorrow we will eat!” declared Chef Larry, dismissing the rather disappointed students.

“What now?” asked Lucy as they all made their way down the stairs.

“I vote for lunch at a café,” suggested Rachel. “There’s one across the street.”

Lucy followed her pointing finger and noticed a man lurking in a doorway opposite the patisserie. He was wearing a leather jacket, and she thought he looked a lot like the guy with the unibrow who had attacked Chef Larry in the market, but she couldn’t be sure, because of the distance.