French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (13 page)

“We must cooperate with the police, of course,” said Madame, using a broom to gather up a few bits of debris that had strayed from the pile, “but I hope this investigation will not take much longer. I have consulted the owner, who told me your group has the apartment for only one more week. After that I must prepare it for a new group of tenants.”

Ah,
thought Lucy.
The new tenants, the nice tenants, the tenants who aren’t involved in a murder.
“I understand,” she said, tempted to walk right through the small pile of sweepings, scattering them, but instead walking carefully around them.

“How’d it go?” asked Bill when she entered the apartment. He was sprawled on one of the sofas, watching a soccer game.

“Well, I didn’t get to talk to Lapointe this time. Instead, they sent me to see his boss, the
proc.
She was a really scary woman. She didn’t throw me in jail, but I think she would have liked to,” said Lucy, unwilling to confess that the police knew she’d gone to the hospital to see Chef Larry. She sat down on the other sofa, slipping out of her plaid coat. “But get this. It wasn’t the police who searched the apartment.”

Bill swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. “Who was it, then?”

“I don’t know, but probably somebody involved in the murder, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Bill.

“It only came to light when the
proc
wanted to arrange a search and I said it had already been done.”

“So the police are going to search again?”

“Well, not again. This will be the first time for the cops, but another search. We can be here and observe this time. It’s set for three o’clock tomorrow.”

“This sucks,” said Bill, clicking off the TV with the remote. “And you know what? The game’s over, and the score is nil. That means nobody scored. Nobody. What kind of sport is that? I ask you. Like they never heard of sudden death overtime?”

“No more talk of death,” said Lucy. “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“My interview isn’t until five o’clock, so in the meantime, let’s forget all this,” said Bill, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s wander where we will and see where we end up.”

“We’ll be flaneurs,” she said, causing Bill to adopt his Groucho Marx impression.

“Speak for yourself,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and pretending to tap ash from a cigar.

It was corny, but Lucy found herself laughing as they left the apartment, practically skipping down the stairs.

Water presented an irresistible attraction to these homesick Mainers, and Lucy and Bill soon found themselves walking once again on the quais that bordered the Seine. It was a gray day, but not dark, and the soft light gave a monochromatic hue to the cityscape. The river streamed by, lapping at the stone quais, offering changing patterns of light and dark. It was also a surprisingly busy thoroughfare, and they watched with interest as
bateaux-mouches
and tugboats and barges all chugged by. They passed the Louvre and wandered on into the Jardin des Tuileries, buying sandwiches and drinks from a snack bar for lunch. They ate at an outside table, watching the passing parade, mostly old people, young children with caretakers, and the inevitable tourists.

“The Orangerie is just over there,” said Lucy. “It has Monet’s water lily paintings. I’ve always wanted to see them.”

“Okay,” said Bill, draining his glass of beer and getting to his feet. “I’m game.”

“Water lilies are called
nymphéas
in French. Isn’t that a beautiful word?”

“Sounds sexy,” said Bill, nuzzling her neck.

Lucy was surprised by this public show of affection. “What’s with you?” she asked as they walked along hand in hand.

“Paris, I guess.”

“I’ve read about these paintings,” Lucy told Bill. “Monet created a beautiful garden at his home in Giverny, with the intention of using it as a subject for his paintings. He dug a pond and built a Japanese bridge and planted tons of flowers, and he painted them in all seasons, at different times of day. It’s about the colors and the light.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Bill.

“I just want you to be able to appreciate them. They’re supposed to be amazing,” said Lucy defensively. “Besides,” she added with a sigh, “it will be nice to look at something beautiful. It will be a welcome distraction.”

The Orangerie itself was a rather plain stone building and had once been used to winter over the potted orange trees that were so popular with eighteenth-century aristocrats. There was the usual security system, and Lucy’s bag had to be checked and they had to go through a screening device before they were allowed to enter the two galleries containing the water lily paintings. The first gallery wasn’t crowded and there were benches to sit on, so Lucy sat down and gazed at the huge canvases, which she thought must be at least ten feet high and perhaps eighteen or twenty feet wide.

“Whoa,” said Bill, sitting beside her. “They’re big.”

“Monet built a special studio for them,” she said, consulting her guidebook. “They’re in sequence. They’re supposed to be different seasons.”

“That really green one is probably spring,” suggested Bill.

“I guess the dark one is winter, and the very green one must be summer.”

“That one with the big orange and yellow area would be fall.”

“And the one with pink is
Soleil Couchant,
which means ‘sunset.’ All those brushstrokes . . . There must be millions, and by themselves they don’t look like anything. But when you get a bit of distance, it all comes together, sort of.”

“Yeah, see, that must be the bridge.” Bill pointed to a green arc in the middle of one of the paintings.

“And those drapey things are willows, I think. I like the paintings with willows best. It gives a sense of perspective.”

“Are you disappointed?” asked Bill.

“Well, it’s a lot of swirly colors. Maybe too chaotic for me right now,” admitted Lucy. “Though you have to admit the man was a genius.”

“Absolutely,” said Bill, standing up and taking her by the hand. “But I think I know a better way of taking our minds off our troubles.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy.

“Well, my interview isn’t until five. I think we should spend the rest of the afternoon like Parisians. You know, the apartment might be empty.” He leaned close, his beard tickling her neck, as he whispered, “I’m thinking of a romantic matinee.”

“We can’t,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “What if they come home? That sleep sofa is the first thing they’d see.”

“I was thinking of the
salle de bain,
” said Bill. “The door has a lock. I checked.”

“The bathtub? That would be kind of cramped. And cold.”

“No. The floor.”

“The floor!”

“It’s been done before, you know. We could bring in some pillows and blankets and make a little love nest.”

Lucy gave him a little sideways glance. “The bathroom floor . . .”

He was nibbling on her ear. “What do you say?”

She giggled. “I guess the Métro would be the quickest way home.”

Chapter Eleven

S
ue had good news to announce at breakfast on Saturday morning. “I got a call from Sidra last night,” she began, “and you won’t believe this, but Norah actually called the president and told him about our situation! She’s a big supporter. Remember, she not only gave tons of money to his PAC, but she also interviewed him on her show, showered him with praise. Sidra said the president promised to instruct the ambassador himself to look into the matter and see what he can do.” She paused to refill her coffee cup. “So I think we can expect this whole mess to go away. There’s nothing like knowing somebody who can make things happen.”

“That’s super!” exclaimed Pam. “Now we can stop worrying and can actually enjoy our vacation.”

“That’s if the ambassador can actually fix things,” grumbled Bob. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Oh, Bob, give it up,” snapped Sue. “He’s the ambassador. He can fix it.”

“I hope you’re right, Sue,” said Rachel. “It’s definitely a positive sign that the ambassador is looking out for us.”

“But his influence is limited,” said Bob. “This is France, and they do things differently, and they’re not all that happy with the U.S. right now.”

“Or ever,” added Bill, who had minored in modern European history.

“We’ve got Norah and the president and the ambassador on our side,” said Sue. “Between the three of them they ought to be able to come up with something.”

“It’s a very encouraging development—thanks to you and Sidra,” said Lucy, who was only too aware that she wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. For one thing, she was the only one of the eight who had been subjected to an in-depth interview by the
proc.
All the others, including Bill, had merely been asked to confirm their identities and contact information. She was afraid that she was the prime suspect in Chef Larry’s murder, and remembering Elizabeth’s assertion that you weren’t suffering from paranoia if they really were out to get you, she was pretty sure she wasn’t being paranoid.

But while she still had her freedom, she was determined to enjoy it. “I, for one, am going to forget our troubles . . . for the day, anyway. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Paris flea market, and now I’m actually going,” she said, thinking it would be a day to remember when she was confined to a dark and dank French prison cell.

“I know,” said Sue, grinning broadly. “I can’t wait for someone visiting my house to notice some adorable little treasure, maybe a watercolor or a Quimper plate, and being able to say, ‘Oh, I picked that up in Paris, at Les Puces.’ ”

“You’ve got the tone right,” said Pam approvingly. “It has to be offhand, like you spend every weekend combing the Paris flea markets.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Lucy. “Like, oh, it was nothing. It just caught my eye at Clignancourt.”

“What do you suppose they’ll have?” Rachel wondered aloud. “I hope I can find something small and packable.”

“If I could find one of those gorgeous aged-wood wine-bottle racks, I’d gladly pay to have it shipped,” said Sue, earning a groan from Sid.

“Shipping something like that would cost a small fortune,” he protested. “I thought you were going to look for a ‘little treasure.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

Sue ignored him, lost in an interior design fantasy. “And I bet I could carry a grape-picker’s basket on the airplane. I could even hold it in my lap, if I had to. I can just picture it on the wall in my dining room, filled with sunflowers or dried hydrangeas.”

“Okay, ladies,” said Lucy, checking her watch, “we’ve got to get moving, or we’ll be late for meeting Elizabeth and Sylvie. Sylvie said we should get there early if we want the best pickings.”

The four women wasted no time, leaving the men to clear up the breakfast things, and headed out to the Métro. They had agreed to meet Elizabeth and Sylvie at the Strasbourg–Saint-Denis station, where they would change to the number 4 line, which ended at Porte de Clignancourt.

Their spirits were high when they met the girls on the platform, but Sylvie cautioned them. “It’s a—what you say?—rough sort of neighborhood. You’ll need to watch out for pickpockets and, even worse, bag snatchers.”

When they exited the station, they saw she hadn’t exaggerated the case. This neighborhood was far from the heart of Paris. It reminded Lucy of the Bronx and Brooklyn neighborhoods she’d been warned to avoid as a girl growing up on the East Side of Manhattan, the neighborhoods where her father made sure the car doors were locked when he had to drive through them to get to the zoo or the beach.

“Sylvie wasn’t kidding,” Sue murmured in Lucy’s ear, with a nod at the tough guys, who seemed to be everywhere. “I’ve never seen so many shaved heads and leather jackets in my life.”

“Keep your bag close,” whispered Lucy, thinking that if they were still being followed by that guy she’d seen tracking them at Versailles, it would be very easy for him to blend into the crowd.

“It’s this way,” said Sylvie, leading them down a street lined with stores offering low-priced, low-quality goods and with street vendors, who urged them to buy illegal, fake designer scarves and “Rolex” watches for twenty euros.

“Keep moving,” urged Elizabeth. “Don’t make eye contact.”

Reaching an intersection, they had to wait for the traffic light to change, and Lucy made sure to glance around, keeping a wary eye on her surroundings. It was then that she saw the three black men, their arms loaded with counterfeit purses, dashing through traffic, with a couple of flics in hot pursuit. “Watch out!” she warned as one of the vendors crashed through the crowd of pedestrians waiting to cross the street. While Lucy and her friends were shocked and alarmed, nobody else seemed at all disturbed by the scene, so she guessed it was a frequent occurrence.

Making a left turn, they followed Sylvie down a grimy side street that ran along a highway exit ramp and that was lined with stall after stall of junky knockoffs, fake Levis, and cheap T-shirts and shoes.

“This is not at all what I expected,” declared Sue. “Where are the antiques? The
brocante?
”

“Just up here,” said Sylvie, leading them into a covered arcade with a sign identifying it as the Marché Dauphine.

It was chilly in the market, which had a cement floor and metal stairs that reminded Lucy of the stairs leading to the elevated train lines in New York.

“The best antique shops are mostly down here, on the
rez-de-chaussée,
” explained Sylvie. “Upstairs, on the mezzanine, that’s where you find old posters, books, costume jewelry, the less expensive
brocante.
”

They soon discovered the shops on the main floor were far beyond their budgets, featuring shabby Louis XV armchairs, fragile sets of Sevres china, gleaming gold vermeil flatware, and shimmering crystal chandeliers.

“I love those,” said Sue, pointing out a pair of bird sconces, “but not for four thousand euros.”

“And not a wine-bottle rack in sight,” said Pam.

“Let’s try upstairs,” urged Rachel. “I have a thing for Bakelite bangles.”

Even the Bakelite bangles were too expensive for Rachel, who declared she could get the same at home for less, but Lucy fell hard for a pair of 1950s educational posters picturing the city and the country in bright primary colors. “I could have the country in my kitchen and give you the city for your apartment,” she told Elizabeth. “How much?” she asked the vendor. “Combien pour les deux?”

“Deux cent cinquante,” replied the seller, a well-padded woman who was the exception proving the rule that Frenchwomen don’t get fat, and who was dressed against the chill in several sweaters and a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Two fifty? Too much,” said Lucy as Sylvie stepped up. “Cent cinquante, c’est juste,” she said in an authoritative voice.

“Non, c’est trop peu,” said the vendor with a dismissive shrug. “Deux cents.”

Then Lucy lost track of the negotiation until Sylvie seemed satisfied. “One seventy-five. Is that okay?”

Lucy thought it was too much, well over two hundred dollars, but then again, she might never get back to Paris. “Okay,” she agreed, emptying her wallet and producing a handful of bills.

The vendor carefully counted them, coming up ten euros short.

“Oh, gee, that’s all I’ve got,” said Lucy. “Will you take a credit card?
Carte de crédit?
”

The woman recoiled, looking as if Lucy was proposing to pay with a handful of wriggling pythons.

“Oh, let me,” said Elizabeth, digging into her pocket and producing a fistful of change. “I’d like to get rid of these, anyway, since they’re so heavy,” she said, counting out five golden coins.

The woman examined them closely and returned one to her, shaking her head.

Elizabeth took it back and tucked it in her jeans pocket. “Oh, sorry. That’s my good luck piece,” she said, producing another two-euro coin, which the woman accepted.

Then she rolled up the posters, wrapped them carefully in brown paper, and handed them to Lucy with a flourish, as if they were da Vinci originals.

“That could have been a tragedy if she’d taken my good luck piece,” said Elizabeth as Lucy presented her with the city poster. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” said Lucy.

“I know it’s silly, but I found it in the apartment when a loose tile fell in the bathroom, and since then my luck really has changed. Now, how about some lunch?”

“Somebody has to pay for me,” said Lucy hungrily. “I don’t have a sou.”

“Not to worry,” said Rachel. “We’ve got you covered.”

Following Sylvie’s lead, they all trooped through a maze of narrow side streets to a corner café with a cute little car parked outside. “A Deux Chevaux,” said Sylvie as they admired the antique auto. “It’s in excellent condition, the sort of car you would see in a Jean-Paul Belmondo film.”

“Remember Jean Seberg hawking newspapers?” asked Pam, reminiscing. “What was the name of that film?”

“I don’t remember the name of the film, but I do remember Jean-Paul Belmondo with that cigarette and those bedroom eyes,” said Sue.

“
Breathless,
” said Lucy as they entered a tiny restaurant with only ten or twelve tables, all crowded together. Up a step, some very small booths were arranged along the mirrored walls, giving the restaurant the air of a theater. They were filled with singles, who nursed coffees or brandies and read the newspaper.

“Do you need to sit down?” Rachel asked Lucy, looking concerned.

“No, it’s the name of the movie.
Breathless.
Belmondo plays a thief.”

“That’s right,” said Sylvie, who had gotten the nod from the bartender and was pushing two tables together, pausing a moment to let a tall, gray-haired man squeeze by on his way to the door. Lucy saw him only from behind, taking in his silver hair and pin-striped suit, but she noticed the obvious way he gave Sylvie the once-over. These Frenchmen, she thought, didn’t they ever get too old to cherchez les femmes?

Sylvie, she noticed, didn’t seem to relish the attention. Her usual smug expression changed briefly, and she seemed troubled or perhaps anxious. But almost before Lucy could register the change, the clouds cleared and the sun was shining once again.

“We could use some menus,” said Sue when they were seated, but Sylvie shook her head.

“This sort of place doesn’t have menus. You get whatever they’ve prepared, the
plat du jour.
Today it’s
lentilles avec saucisses et jambon.
” Sylvie seemed the slightest bit distracted, plucking at her napkin and glancing past Sue’s head at the windows. Lucy followed her gaze but saw only a couple of heavyset guys, probably deliverymen who worked for the antique dealers in the area.

“How did you figure that out?” asked Pam, puzzled.

“My nose,” said Sylvie, laughing. “I can smell it. Like my mother makes.
Délicieux.
”

“Okay,” said Lucy, noting that the diners at the tables around them seemed to have no complaints and were happily tucking into lunch, all the while keeping up lively conversations.

The barman soon delivered baskets of bread and bottles of water and inquired if they wanted wine. They did, and a big carafe of red appeared, along with big plates of lentil stew with sausage and ham.

“I never much liked lentils, not until now,” confessed Rachel.

“It’s a classic dish, and they do it very well here,” said Sylvie with an approving nod. She had a few mouthfuls and then rose. “Excuse me, please. I will be back in a moment.” Then, moving quickly, she disappeared behind the bar, in the direction of the kitchen, following the arrow on the TOILETTE sign.

Lucy cast an inquiring glance at Elizabeth, who responded with a whisper, “The toilet. She must really need to go, as it’s considered rude to absent yourself from the table while people are eating.”

“Bulimia?” asked Rachel, also whispering. “She’s very thin.”

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It’s the smoking that keeps her thin. Believe me, if they didn’t smoke, a lot of skinny Frenchwomen would be a lot fatter.”

“Maybe she’s smoking in there, like we used to do in high school,” said Pam.

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t think so.” But as time passed and Sylvie failed to return, they began to grow concerned.

“Do you think she’s sick?” asked Rachel.

“Maybe she’s pregnant,” said Pam, speculating.

“Or shooting up,” offered Sue, getting disapproving looks from the group. “Just a thought,” she added, defending herself.

“I’ll go check on her,” offered Elizabeth, taking the same circuitous route behind the bar, where the barman was busy slicing up a couple of baguettes and filling the bread baskets.

When she returned a few moments later, her expression was puzzled. “The toilet is empty. She’s gone.”

“Gone?” asked Lucy. “Are you sure?”