French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (9 page)

Perhaps the group members were tired after their exhausting day in Versailles, or perhaps they were thinking about the violence that overtook France during the revolution, but they were quiet and subdued on the trip home. Lucy thought of the little dauphin, imprisoned in filth and neglected, only to die at the age of ten, and wished she could believe the human race had progressed from that sort of cruelty.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” said Lucy as they made their way into the courtyard. “That’s a French proverb, isn’t it?”

“Ah, there you are,” said Madame Defarge, popping out of her lodge by the courtyard entrance. She was waving a handful of papers and seemed decidedly uncomfortable. “These came for you,” she said, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “You are all required to report to the commissariat tomorrow.” She paused, then hissed, “For questioning.”

Turning on her heel, she disappeared as quickly as she had come, apparently unwilling to linger for the briefest of chats. There was no singsong “
Bonne nuit,
” no “À bientôt” with a little wave
,
no “Au revoir” with a smile, no farewell at all, only a firmly closed door.

“That was some cold shoulder,” said Sue, turning to Rachel. “And you were saying how nice she is.”

“She was,” insisted Rachel. “But I guess Lucy was right. She doesn’t want to get involved with suspected criminals.”

They were somber as they climbed the twisting, uneven stairs to the apartment, each one dealing with this setback in their own way. Lucy amused herself by imagining what her friends were thinking: Sue was thinking of pouring herself a glass of wine or three, and Sid was hoping that this interview at the commissariat wouldn’t take very long, because he wanted to visit the Eiffel Tower tomorrow. Bob was searching his mind, looking for legal loopholes, while Rachel was wondering what information she might possibly have that would help in the investigation. Pam was planning to do a calming yoga workout, and Ted was wondering if the
International New York Times
would be interested in a story about an average American’s encounters with the French justice system. Bill was thinking of ways to level the stairs, while she herself was trying to think of some way she could crack the case and discover who attacked Chef Larry so they could get their passports back and go home on time.

When her cell phone rang, she grabbed it eagerly, noting the caller was Elizabeth and hoping her daughter had some good news for them. “What’s up?’ she asked, by way of greeting.

“Well, it’s Sylvie’s birthday and she’s giving a party tonight for herself and you’re all invited.”

Lucy didn’t understand. At home, a young person wouldn’t dream of inviting members of the older generation to what would surely be a raucous, boozy celebration, one that would probably include a visit to a tattoo parlor. “Really?” she asked.

“Yeah. I know it seems weird, but she’s quite insistent. She’s been making little treats all day. She calls them petits fours, but I don’t think they’re cake. And she’s got a case of champagne.”

“Well, I like champagne,” said Lucy in a doubtful tone.

“I’m afraid she’ll take it out on me if you don’t come,” said Elizabeth. “She can be really bitchy if she doesn’t get her way.”

“Okay,” said Lucy, thinking there were worse ways of spending an evening than drinking champagne and eating petits fours, whatever they turned out to be. And it would keep her mind off the present situation. “Who else is coming?”

“Tout le monde. That means everybody she knows,” said Elizabeth.

“I know what it means,” said Lucy, thinking that maybe she’d pick up some information about Chef Larry. If everybody in Paris was going to be there, surely somebody would know him, right?

Despite Lucy’s urging, only Pam and Ted were willing to venture out to the party. Sue was cooking up French bread pizzas in the kitchen, Sid was absorbed in a soccer match on TV, Rachel was relaxing with a novel, and Bob was busy with his iPad. So the Stillingses and the Stones made their way to the Métro station, stopping first at the Monoprix to buy a box of fancy chocolates for Sylvie.

The party was in full swing when they arrived. They could hear music and voices as they climbed the stairs. Sylvie greeted them enthusiastically with double
bisous
and graciously posed for the birthday photos Ted insisted on taking with his smartphone. Elizabeth shooed some young people off the futon so they could sit down, and before they knew it, they had been given flutes of champagne and plates of assorted canapés.

Lucy was savoring a stuffed mushroom when she noticed Adil and Malik standing together in a corner, and went over to talk with them. “Lovely party, isn’t it?” she said.

“Terrific,” said Adil, looking past her and scanning the crowded room.

“How is your friend?” asked Malik. “The one in hospital?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed to see him,” admitted Lucy as Elizabeth came by with a bottle of champagne and refilled her glass. Adil and Malik refused. They were drinking orange juice.

“Sylvie loves to entertain,” said Elizabeth with a touch of sarcasm.

“I like the Western way,” said Malik. “I like it that a woman can invite her friends for a good time.”

“But you wouldn’t want to marry such a woman as Sylvie, would you?” said Adil with a smirk.

“Not even a girl like my Elizabeth,” said Lucy. “She would be too independent for you, right?”

Malik was gazing wistfully at Elizabeth, who was busy greeting people and filling glasses. “I might like a Western wife, but my family would not approve.”

“Nor would I,” said Adil in a pompous tone. “A wife should be submissive to her husband in all things.”

“Would you let her drive a car?” asked Lucy, thinking of the women in Saudi Arabia who had been testing that country’s prohibition on women drivers.

“Of course,” said Malik, grinning easily.

“Only with my permission,” said Adil. “She would have to ask me before she could take the car.”

“Every time?” asked Lucy.

“Yes.” Adil nodded, his expression serious. “I would want to know why she needed the car, where she was going, and what she was doing.”

“I think you might have a hard time finding a wife who would agree to that,” said Lucy. “At least in France, anyway.”

“That’s true. Even the Muslim girls are adopting Western attitudes,” said Adil, who clearly disapproved. “But it is better for us to be in Paris. Things are not so good in Egypt now. There’s no stability, and the mob is in charge, overturning one government after another. They need a strong leader.”

“Is that why you’re in France?” asked Lucy, who was curious. “Because of the Arab Spring?”

“Not exactly,” said Adil. “Our families left Egypt with King Farouk in nineteen fifty-two,”

“Are you related to the king?” asked Lucy.

“No,” said Adil. “But my family has always been close to the royal family.”

“Adil’s great-grandfather was Farouk’s head of security, and my grandmother was the infant prince’s nanny,” said Malik, a note of pride in his voice. “When the royal family boarded the yacht to leave Egypt, she was ordered to walk in front of Farouk, carrying Fouad, because the baby was now the king.”

“I know about this,” said Lucy. “I read about Les Amis du Roi de l’Égypte in the paper, and I saw the preparations for the conference at the Cavendish.”

“Adil’s grandfather is the leader of Les Amis,” said Malik. “He is a true believer.”

“My grandfather is right. Only a strong leader can unite the Egyptian people and restore order.”

“And you think Fouad is that strong leader?” demanded Malik, with a laugh. “He isn’t interested in Egypt. He likes living in Switzerland with his Nelly. I heard he eats in the kitchen with the help.”

“My grandfather says Fouad may be reluctant now, but he will come to realize his duty and will reclaim his birthright.” Adil turned to Malik. “And now, excuse us, but we must go home. We have to be at work very early tomorrow. Isn’t that so, Malik?”

Malik didn’t seem as if he wanted to leave the party. He was about to take a bit of toast topped with pâté from the plate Sylvie was offering him, but he immediately dropped his hand. “
Désolé,
” he said, apologizing to Sylvie. “You know how it is. We’ve got the early shift.”

“D’accord,” Sylvie replied with a shrug. “
À demain.
” She offered the plate to Lucy, who took a toast and, nibbling it, made her way through the crowded, tiny room to the futon, where Bill and the Stillingses were still sitting. Her place had been taken, however, by a young man, and they were deep in conversation.

“I am not surprised about what happened to Larry,” he was saying. Lucy noticed his hands were rough and red, and he hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a blow. “He was asking for trouble.”

“In what way?” asked Lucy, intrigued.

“Ah, Lucy, this is Émile,” said Pam. “He worked with Chef Larry at the Cavendish Hotel.”

“Really? I didn’t know Chef Larry worked at the Cavendish.”

“Only for a short time,” said Émile with a smirk. “He didn’t play by the rules.”

“He seems very ambitious,” offered Ted. “He told us he didn’t want to spend hours and hours chopping carrots and onions. That’s why he started his bakery shop and the school.”

Émile raised one very dark eyebrow. “That’s not why he left. He was fired.”

“Why?” asked Pam.

“I don’t know for sure,” replied Émile. “But after he was gone, people were saying that a lot of stuff was missing. Expensive things, like caviar and truffles.”

“They thought he was stealing?” asked Lucy.

“I don’t know for sure,” said Émile. “But that’s what I heard.”

Just then the lights were flicked off, and Elizabeth appeared in the kitchen doorway carrying a birthday cake, complete with candles in the American style, and everybody was singing the birthday song.
Definitely the birthday song,
thought Lucy, recognizing the tune but not quite making out the words.

Chapter Seven

B
ob greeted them eagerly when they got back to the apartment. “I heard from Norah,” he said, looking more cheerful than he had in days. “She referred me to a top-notch firm of international lawyers. I’m going to put a call in first thing tomorrow, before the interviews. If these guys are as good as I think they are, they’ll want to represent us at the police interviews.”

“That’s great, Bob,” said Lucy, her spirits lifting. She hadn’t realized how depressed this whole thing was making her, but now she suddenly felt a lot more optimistic.

“If we hadn’t drunk so much at the party, I’d suggest a champagne toast,” said Pam.

“That’s okay,” said Rachel. “Bob’s already celebrated.. . .”

“It was only a beer,” said Bob.

“Well, you deserve a big thank-you,” said Bill, clapping him on the back.

“Hear! Hear!” added Ted.

 

But when she woke the next morning, Lucy found the atmosphere had changed.

“I don’t understand it. They’re not answering my calls,” said Bob when she went into the kitchen in search of coffee.

“It’s early yet,” she said, checking her watch and trying not to notice the fluttery feeling in her stomach. “It’s barely seven o’clock. Their office probably isn’t open yet.”

“They start later here,” said Rachel in a reassuring tone.

“If they’re international, they have to deal with different time zones,” said Bob.

“In France there’s only one time zone,” said Sue. “Theirs.”

“They do seem to think they’re the center of the universe,” admitted Ted. “At least that’s what Richard says.”

“I’ve got the first interview, at nine,” said Lucy, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug and realizing it was extremely unlikely that Bob could arrange for her to be accompanied by a lawyer so early in the day. “They’re just looking for information, right? They don’t consider me a suspect, do they?”

“Of course not,” said Sue, patting her hand.

“No one could suspect you,” said Rachel with an affirmative nod.

“Only if they’re nuts,” said Bill.

“I think you should be prepared for anything,” said Bob, looking grim. “I wish they’d answer their g-d phone.”

Lucy went pale, and Rachel hurried to give her a hug. “Don’t mind him. Bob’s always anticipating the worst.”

“I hope he’s wrong,” said Lucy in a nervous whisper. Just the name of the place is scary somehow. Thirty-six, quai des Orfèvres.”

“There’s a movie with that title,” said Sid. “It’s one of those subliminal things. You’ve heard it, and it has negative overtones, but it’s really just an address.”

“It’s in the Maigret books,” offered Pam. “And he’s such a nice man.”

“I wonder what
orfèvres
means,” mused Sue, reaching for her dictionary.

“Probably something like the Traitors’ Gate at the Tower of London,” suggested Pam.

“No! Not at all,” crowed Sue. “It means goldsmiths! The quai of goldsmiths!”

“That makes me feel the teeniest bit better,” admitted Lucy. “What do you think I should wear?”

“Avoid stripes,” said Sue, attempting a joke but getting only dirty looks.

“Not funny,” said Lucy, leaving the kitchen to sort through her suitcase. In the end, she chose a black sweater and pants, and Sue lent her a colorful Hermès scarf picturing hot-air balloons by way of apology for her bad joke.

 

When Lucy and Bill got out of the taxi at 36 quai des Orfèvres, they discovered it was just another gray Paris building, perhaps a bit plainer than most, with its orderly rows of windows. She thought fleetingly of the architecture back in Maine, which had a lot more variation: some buildings were brick and square, and others were rambling, had cedar shingles or clapboard siding, and often had a window stuck in an odd place or a roof that sagged. In Paris there was a strange uniformity. The buildings were all similar, they were even the same height, and you couldn’t tell what was behind those neat facades. Apartments? Offices? Schools? They all looked alike, but sometimes you got a glimpse through one of those courtyard doors and were surprised to see a garden or a pile of junk or kids playing in a school yard.

Once inside the big square building, they had to pass through a thorough security check and then were directed upstairs, to the offices of the
brigade criminelle.
Bill was given a seat in a poorly lit hallway, and Lucy was taken inside a rather cluttered office crowded with desks, where Lapointe was waiting for her.

“Madame Stone, take a seat,” he said, indicating a chair next to his desk. Unlike the other desks in the shared office, which were covered with stacks of papers, Lapointe’s was bare, except for a phone and a computer. He didn’t raise his eyes from the screen as she sat down, and his hands were busy on the keyboard. Noticing a card holder on one corner, Lucy took a card and tucked it in her pocket.

“I see from my notes that you were a student at the cooking school of Laurence Bruneau. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, thinking this was an odd line of questioning.

“You came to France to study
la cuisine?
”

“Not exactly,” said Lucy. “The trip was a sort of prize, an award. There is this TV show in America,
Norah !
, and the star, Norah Hemmings, rewards people who do good in their communities. My friends and I created the Hat and Mitten Fund in our town, which gives warm winter clothing and school supplies to kids who don’t have them.”

“In America children don’t have hats and school supplies?” asked Lapointe, seeming puzzled.

“It’s the sad truth,” said Lucy. “Winter clothing is expensive, and kids grow fast. It’s a problem for some families with limited incomes. It’s the same with school supplies. Paper and pencils get used up.”

Lapointe was clicking away on his computer, and his eyes never met hers. “And this Norah Hemmings, she gives you and your friends a trip to France? Wouldn’t it have been better to donate that money to your Hat and Mitten Fund?”

Lucy had actually had the same thought but felt duty bound to defend Norah. “She made substantial donations to the fund in the past.”

“This trip cost a lot of money. The cooking school alone is very expensive, thousands of euros,” said Lapointe. “This seems very odd to me, all this money for you and your friends to come to Paris. Is there something you are supposed to do while you are here?”

“Only to take the cooking class,” said Lucy. “The rest of our time is free, for us to do what we want. Yesterday we went to Versailles.”

“Perhaps this trip was a way to hide a money transfer. Do you think this is possible?”

“Money laundering? You tell me,” said Lucy, who found the idea ridiculous. “I don’t know how these things work, but I don’t think Norah would be involved in anything like that.” She bit her lip. “Look, all I know is I was on the TV show, they gave us this prize, and I packed my bags and got on a plane. That’s it.”

“You’d be surprised what you might know,” said Lapointe, peering around the side of the computer screen and resting his bulging reptilian eyes on her. “I will find the truth bit by bit,” he said, quickly licking his lips. “It will emerge, and the guilty will be punished.”

Lucy thought of Elizabeth’s warning about
garde à vue
and had a brief image of a dark, dank cell. “I am only too happy to tell you what I know. You haven’t asked me anything about the crime or the man at the market who attacked Chef Larry. And I think someone has been following us—a sinister-looking man in a leather jacket.”

“If you are as innocent as you claim, why would anyone be following you?” he asked. “I think you must be mistaken.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Lucy, who didn’t think any such thing. Her thoughts turned to the rumors she’d heard the night before, at Sylvie’s birthday party. “Do you think Chef Larry was involved in the black market? Perhaps he angered someone? In fact—” she began, about to mention Chef Larry’s offer to get cut-rate delicacies for them when Lapointe cut her off.

“Madame, I am the one who is supposed to be asking the questions.” Lapointe blinked slowly. “But for the time being, I am satisfied. You may go, but I may need to talk to you again.”

“How long do you think this investigation will take?” asked Lucy. “We have a flight home on the seventeenth.”

“That is not my concern,” said Lapointe. “You may send in Monsieur Stone,
s’il vous plaît.
”

Lucy went out to the hall, where Bill was leafing through his guidebook. “He wants to see you.”

“How’d it go?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have no idea where this is heading.”

“Damn,” he said, giving her the book. “Something to read while you wait.”

But when Lucy sat down, she didn’t open the book. Her mind was busy going over the interview. Money laundering? Could it be possible? All indications were that Chef Larry was involved in the black market. Could he also be operating a money-laundering scheme? And had they, and perhaps even Norah, been drawn in? The more she thought about it, the more anxious she got, and when Bill emerged, much sooner than she had expected, she jumped on him.

“What did he ask you?” she demanded.

“Nothing much. Just name and address, occupation, that sort of thing.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised, as they stepped out of the notorious building and into the weak Paris sunshine.

“Yeah,” said Bill, exhaling a big sigh. “But even so, it was pretty stressful. Let’s find a café. I’m wicked thirsty.”

“I feel like we’re being set up,” muttered Lucy as they headed for the café on the corner. “Lapointe was asking me about money laundering. I think he’s on the wrong track. Norah would never be involved in something like that.”

“Beer, see voo play,” he said to the waiter, who was hovering inside the door.

“Deux bières, s’il vous plaît,” said Lucy, holding up two fingers as they settled themselves at a window table. At home she’d never think of drinking beer in the middle of the morning, but in Paris . . . Well, she noticed, there was plenty of company in the café, and they certainly weren’t all drinking coffee.

Lucy was still working on her beer when Sid and Sue joined them, having seen them through the window.

“Has Lapointe questioned you?” asked Bill. “Are you done already?”

“Yeah. He only asked a couple of questions,” said Sue. “He asked about the trip and the cooking school. I told him Chef Larry wasn’t much of a teacher.”

“Didn’t you tell Lapointe about the wine and gourmet goods?” asked Lucy.

“No, I didn’t,” said Sue. “As far as I know, that was all on the up-and-up.”

Lucy shook her head. “You should have told him.”

“Why didn’t
you
tell him?” asked Sue, challenging Lucy.

“I should have,” admitted Lucy. “The truth is, he didn’t give me a chance.”

“Lapointe gave Lucy a hard time,” said Bill. “She was in there for quite a while.”

“He just asked me about our address, confirmed the information on my passport,” said Sid. “That was it.”

“You do have an honest face,” said Sue, reaching across the table and stroking his cheek.

Sue had just finished her coffee when Ted and Pam arrived and joined the group.

“How did it go?” asked Lucy.

“Much better than I expected,” said Ted. “Richard warned me that the French police can be pretty hard-nosed, but all Lapointe wanted was basic stuff, name and address, stuff like that.”

“He didn’t ask about the cooking school?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, sure,” said Pam. “But just basic stuff, again. How did we learn about it? That sort of thing.”

“So do you think we’re off the hook?” asked Sid.

“I asked if we’d be able to leave on the seventeenth,” said Lucy. “He said that was not his concern, whatever that means.”

A glum silence fell on the group, but it was broken when Rachel arrived. Her jacket was unbuttoned, with the ends of the unfastened belt flapping loosely, and her long, dark hair was coming loose from its clip.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sue, who was always quick to pick up on clues from a person’s appearance.

“Lapointe’s been talking to Bob for a long time,” she said, slipping into a chair and squeezing her big purse against her chest. “I’m afraid Bob started mouthing off or something. He was spoiling for a fight when he went in. He doesn’t like the French justice system, he hates feeling powerless, and he can’t believe that all his law school training and experience don’t count here.”

“Well, that’s not illegal,” said Pam. “They can’t charge him with disliking the system.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” said Ted. “They put a big premium on cooperation, and if he seems to be obstructing their investigation, they could hold him.”

“Oh, no!” wailed Rachel. “Can they put him in jail?”

“I don’t know,” said Ted. “I guess it depends on whether or not they think he’s got important information. I could call Richard and ask.”

“What about those international lawyers Norah recommended?” asked Lucy, picturing Bob confined in that dark, dank cell, kept in
garde à vue.

“I have their number,” said Rachel, rummaging in her big brown leather bag. “Somewhere.”

“And the embassy guy,” offered Bill, reaching for his wallet. “I’ve got his card.”

Lucy dialed the embassy at the same time Rachel called the lawyers, but neither got much help. Fox Carrington at the embassy said he was sorry, but Americans didn’t have the same rights in France as they did in America, and were expected to abide by French law. If they broke a French law, they could certainly be prosecuted and punished.

“We’re not trying to break the law,” said Lucy. “We just need some help dealing with the system. Don’t you offer some sort of legal aid to distressed American travelers?”