French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (16 page)

Living in New England was a curse, thought Lucy, thinking that at her age she ought to be a bit more sophisticated. She was an experienced woman, a mother of four, after all, and she shouldn’t feel squeamish about the things consenting adults did. But in her world, she admitted to herself as she stuffed the sex aids back into the bag, you wore thick flannel to bed, and lots of it.

There was also a special compartment in the duffel that, Lucy knew, was designed to keep sweaty workout gear separate from the bag’s other contents. Lucy was just about to open it when her smartphone buzzed. It was Elizabeth, sounding rather frantic.

“It’s Sylvie’s parents. They’re coming from Chartres. They have to identify the body.” She paused. “They want me to meet them at the station.”

“Not a problem,” said Lucy, sensing an opportunity. “Your dad and I can meet them.”

“They’re taking the train. It arrives at Montparnasse station at nine-oh-two.”

Lucy glanced at her watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes!”

“You’ve got to hurry,” said Elizabeth. “Are you going to give them the duffel bag?”

Lucy hesitated. The bag would absolutely have to go to Sylvie’s parents eventually, but perhaps not just yet. A collection of sleazy sex toys wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you wanted to present to the grieving parents of a young woman.

“Oh, I don’t want to cart it around Paris,” said Lucy, hedging.

Elizabeth’s interest was piqued. “What’s in it?”

“Just tampons and cigarettes and gym gear.”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, sounding disappointed.

“And a few sex toys,” said Lucy.

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Elizabeth with a sigh, ending the call.

Lucy made a quick stop at the reception desk and handed over the bag, then called Bill as she hurried out of the hotel and into a cab. He agreed to meet her at Montparnasse station, and true to his word, she found him waiting for her at the main entrance. They had only minutes to spare before the train from Chartres was due to arrive.

Even though she’d never met them, Lucy had no trouble identifying Monsieur and Madame Seydoux when they debarked from the train; they wore their grief as plainly as their practical tan raincoats and sensible shoes. Monsieur Seydoux was tall, and his gray hair was cut military-style. He held himself stiffly, as if he feared he might explode if he relaxed. Madame was much shorter and rounder, her hair dyed strawberry blond, and she held on tightly to her husband’s arm. Lucy noticed she’d tucked a black and beige scarf into the neckline of her coat. It seemed that Frenchwomen had an appropriate scarf for every occasion, including a trip to the morgue.

“Nous sommes les parents d’Elizabeth Stone, la
camarade de chambre
de votre fille,” said Lucy, who had checked her dictionary for the term for
roommate
and had practiced the sentence. “Je m’appelle Lucy, et mon mari est Bill.”

Monsieur and Madame stared at them, clearly wondering what on earth they were doing here at the station, meeting them.

“Pas de police? Pas d’autorités?” Monsieur asked, puzzled.

“Non,” responded Lucy. “Nous voudrions vous aider,” she added, hoping she was saying they wished to be of service.

Monsieur responded with a barrage of French, which Lucy did not understand, and she decided to admit defeat. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

“A leetle,” said Monsieur.

The conversation continued in a mixture of French and English, with many stops and starts, as Lucy and Bill led the Seydouxes to the taxi rank, where Monsieur gave the driver the address of the morgue. The driver emitted a sympathetic sigh before shifting into drive and diving into the constant stream of traffic.

Lucy and Bill accompanied them inside, waiting on a bench in the hallway as the couple went through a heavily scarred metal door. They were gone a good three-quarters of an hour, most of which, Lucy suspected, was devoted to the endless red tape the French were so fond of, before they emerged. Both looked as if they’d been sucked dry by vampires. Their faces were white, and Monsieur had to support Madame, who seemed ready to collapse. Bill jumped up to help, taking her other arm, and between them they were able to lead her out of the building and into a nearby café, where Lucy ordered
café
for everyone and double brandies for the Seydouxes.

Lucy didn’t know what to say, even without a language barrier. They sat at the table in the nearly empty café, two sets of parents separated by a gulf deeper and wider than the Atlantic Ocean. The Stones’ daughter was alive, busy at work building her future, and the Seydouxes’ daughter was laid out in the morgue, her life over.

Madame finally spoke when she had finished her coffee and had had a sip or two of brandy. “Où est votre fille?” she asked.

“At the Cavendish. Elle travaille aujourd’hui,” replied Lucy, explaining that Elizabeth was at work. “Voulez-vous parler avec elle?”

Receiving a nod, Bill asked the counterman to call a taxi for them, and when it arrived, they all squeezed in for the trip to the hotel. When they arrived, the handsome Serge was on duty in the lobby, and he hurried over to express, in the most elegant manner conceivable, his condolences to the Seydouxes. Lucy and Bill left them to it and went to the concierge’s desk, telling Elizabeth that Madame wanted to speak to her.

“How are they doing?” asked Elizabeth.

“About like you’d expect,” said Lucy.

“Sylvie complained about them all the time,” said Elizabeth. “They were so proper, so conservative, and cheap, too. I don’t remember her saying a single nice thing about them.”

“Don’t tell them that,” said Lucy.

“Of course not,” said Elizabeth. “I was just thinking how ironic it is, that’s all. I was wondering, what if it was the other way round? What if it was one of the parents who died? Would Sylvie be as upset as they are about losing her?”

“Probably,” said Bill. “You know what they say: You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.”

“Maybe you’ll appreciate us now,” said Lucy, partly serious and partly attempting to lighten the moment. “Go on. Tell them how much you liked Sylvie and how much you’ll miss her.”

Much to Lucy’s surprise, Elizabeth grabbed her hands tightly and squeezed. “I do, Mom. I really do appreciate you and Dad. You’re the best.”

Lucy and Bill watched as their daughter joined the group and exchanged
bisous
with Monsieur and Madame Seydoux, then walked to the side of the lobby, where they sat down on a sofa. “So much for my plan to question Sylvie’s parents,” said Lucy. “Even if I could speak French well, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. They seem so shattered and vulnerable.”

“I doubt they’d have much to say,” said Bill. “They probably don’t have any idea what their daughter was up to here in Paris.”

Lucy thought of Sylvie’s black bag and nodded. “I bet you’re right.”

Then the group broke up. Serge strode across the lobby in the direction of the elevators, and Elizabeth approached with the Seydouxes.

“They want me to thank you for your help today,” said Elizabeth. “Now they’re going back to Chartres. They have a little shop there by the train station, and they can’t leave it unattended. They also have to plan for the funeral, and they’ll let us know when it will be.”

Lucy and Bill exchanged hugs and
bisous
with the Seydouxes and waved them off to the train station in their taxi. When it was gone, Lucy fell into Bill’s arms.

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Imagine how they must feel.”

“I hope I never have to find out,” said Bill.

Chapter Fourteen

L
eaving Elizabeth at the hotel, Lucy and Bill decided to grab a quick lunch at a café, where they discussed their plans for the afternoon. Bill was tired and wanted to go back to the apartment, where he hoped to enjoy a little downtime and finish reading Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast.
That left Lucy with time to kill until it was time to accompany Elizabeth back to the group’s apartment for the night. She wanted to stay close to the Cavendish, in case Elizabeth needed her, so she decided to do some shopping in the nearby
grands magasins
Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.

Lucy enjoyed browsing through the huge department stores, but prices were high and her only purchase was a striped Breton-style shirt for her grandson, Patrick. Throughout the afternoon she contacted Elizabeth regularly and got prompt replies.
Okay?
she’d text, waiting anxiously until she received Elizabeth’s response, a smiley face. At a quarter to six she was back in the Cavendish lobby, waiting for Elizabeth to get off work. Seeing her enter, Elizabeth beckoned her over to the reception desk.

“The police called, Mom, and said they’re through with the apartment and I can go back.”

Lucy didn’t think this was a good idea. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“I think I do. Commissaire Girard is going to meet me there, just to make sure everything’s all right. I have to do a walk-through with him and sign some papers because the police took some things from the apartment.” She paused. “I think he must be satisfied that it’s safe.”

Lucy didn’t like this one bit. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come? Someone should stay with you.”

“I’m sure. I’m a big girl now, and when Girard leaves, I’ll put the chain across the door and I won’t open it for anybody. Okay?”

“What if you have to go out? Do you have food?”

“Yes, Mom. There’s soup in the fridge.”

“Soup for supper?”

“I had a big lunch. I often have soup at night.”

Lucy couldn’t let go. “Listen, if you feel the least bit nervous or anything at any time, give us a call. Your dad and I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Will do,” promised Elizabeth. “Now relax. Everything will be fine.”

Lucy knew she had no choice but to let her daughter go home, but she couldn’t help worrying about her safety. She was reminded of those nights when Elizabeth was in high school and was going out with friends. The danger then in Tinker’s Cove was underage drinking and driving, and Lucy always used to tell Elizabeth she could call for a ride home, at any hour of the night, if she found herself in a risky situation. Back then Elizabeth had to deal only with peer pressure from kids, not quite the same as the threat posed by the professional criminals who, the police believed, had tortured and killed Sylvie.

It was rush hour in the Métro, and Lucy’s attention was focused on getting safely through the stampeding crowds of commuters without being trampled underfoot or losing her bag to a pickpocket. She was tired and was looking forward to relaxing with a glass of wine and some lively conversation when she got home, but her friends were not in a convivial mood.

“We’re just back from the lawyers,” said Rachel. “I’m afraid they weren’t much help.”

“Useless, utterly useless,” fumed Bob. “They said we should be patient and have faith in the French justice system. That’s it.”

“I wonder how much they’re charging Norah,” said Sue.

“Oh, plenty, you can be sure of that,” said Bob.

“Better Norah than us,” said Sid. “She can afford it.”

“The office was very luxurious,” said Rachel, “and in a very nice neighborhood. Gucci, Hermès, that sort of thing.”

“Absolutely rotten with little dogs,” added Bob, practically snarling.

“Bob stepped in some pooh,” said Rachel.

“In the lawyer’s office?” Lucy couldn’t believe it.

“No. In the street,” said Rachel.

“Dog doo, red tape, it’s all the same merde,” said Bill.

“I think there’s nothing for it but to drown our troubles,” said Lucy.

Sue was never one to refuse a tipple. “Open a bottle, Sid, will you?”

He was just pouring when Pam and Ted arrived, along with Richard. “I must have heard that cork pop,” said Ted, making a joke.

Nobody laughed, but Sid offered to open another bottle. “We’ve got plenty, and there’s more at the Monoprix.”

“Do I sense a mood of gloom?” asked Pam. “What’s going on?”

“The lawyers weren’t very helpful, and Bob stepped in dog doo,” said Sue.

“
Quelle catastrophe,
” said Pam. “I heard a woman say that into her cell phone.”

“Sounds about right,” said Bob, drinking deeply from his glass of
vin rouge
.

“Ted told me about your daughter’s roommate,” said Richard, speaking to Lucy. “I’m very sorry.”

“It’s very upsetting. I’m so worried about her,” replied Lucy, touched by his concern. “I’m afraid she’s in danger. Two deaths, and the police don’t seem to be making any progress.”

“Do you think they’re connected?” asked Richard.

“They must be, don’t you think? It can’t be a coincidence that two people we know were murdered, but I can’t figure out what any of it has to do with us. We’re innocent, but I think we must have unwittingly stumbled onto something.”

“Lucy’s right,” said Bob. “The authorities seem to think we’re involved, that, at the very least, we know something. That’s why they’re detaining us. It’s so frustrating.”

“My fear is that the bad guys also think we know something,” said Bill.

“We know nothing,” said Sid in a fake German accent.

“I think you’re right to worry,” said Richard as Sid refilled his glass. “There’s a lot more going on underground in Paris, and I’m not talking about the sewers and the catacombs. It’s easy to make a wrong step. . . .”

“You can say that again,” said Bob. The wine seemed to be taking effect, brightening his spirits.

“I’m serious,” said Richard. “The French are in a very uncomfortable situation right now because the Arab or Muslim population, whatever you want to call them, is booming. France has always been popular with émigrés—think of all the Russians and Poles who’ve come here through the years—but the Arabs are different. They want to preserve their culture, and they’re not interested in assimilating. They’re mostly interested in getting back to where they came from.

“There are all these factions, all these groups of disaffected people, who are here because they had to flee their homelands. They don’t love France. They hate the West. The irony is that they enjoy freedom and safety here, but they don’t approve of a culture that celebrates pleasure, especially sex. They see one of those sexy billboards advertising bras in the Métro—well, they don’t even let their women out of the house unless they’re covered head to toe—and they conclude France is deeply corrupt.”

“And then there’s the wine, which is a big part of French culture,” said Sid, uncorking another bottle.

“Right,” agreed Richard. “They don’t drink alcohol.”

“Now, that’s what I call a sin, refusing to drink wine in France,” said Sue.

“So true,” agreed Richard, smiling. “But what I’m trying to get to is the fact that terrorists are a dime a dozen here. There’s more plots afoot than you can imagine. Every week it seems the antiterrorism brigade uncovers another scheme to blow up the Eiffel Tower or to assassinate some government official. They even have plots against other terrorist groups. It’s crazy.”

“It sounds like the Wild West,” said Rachel.

“It is,” said Richard, “and if you’re smart, you’ll keep your heads down.” There were a few chuckles, and Richard continued, “Be careful, watch your step, and don’t go looking for trouble. That’s my advice.”

“Good advice, anytime,” said Bill, giving Lucy a look.

After they had consumed several bottles of wine, it was generally agreed that it was too much trouble to cook dinner, so they decided to go to Loulou’s bistro on the corner. They enjoyed a leisurely meal—service was never fast there—and it was after eleven when they finally left. They were walking down the narrow cobbled street, lit by lanterns that hung from the buildings, when Lucy got a call from Elizabeth.

“What’s up?” asked Lucy, falling a step or two behind the group.

“I’m so scared.”

Lucy could hear the fear in her daughter’s voice, and her stomach did a somersault. “What’s wrong?”

Bill heard her anxious tone and left the group, joining her on the sidewalk to listen to the call.

“Adil and Malik tried to break in.”

“Are you okay?” Bill demanded after seizing the smartphone and holding it so they could both listen.

“Yeah. Just scared. It was weird. I was in my pajamas and I had a mask on my face and there was a knock on the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Adil and Malik in the hallway, and because of what you told me, I decided I’d better ignore them. Besides, I didn’t want them to see me like that, and I, well, I just didn’t want to deal with anyone, so I pretended I wasn’t home. Like you do when the Mormons ring the doorbell.”

“You did the right thing,” said Lucy.

“But they weren’t Mormons. They picked the lock! I heard these scratches, and I’m standing there, wondering what’s going on, and the door opened. I couldn’t believe it. They must have picked the lock.”

“Did they get in?” demanded Bill.

“No. I’d put the chain across, so it only opened a few inches. I heard them swearing, and then they left. I heard them going down the stairs.”

“You didn’t believe me, but I was right about them,” said Lucy in an “I told you so” voice. “They did search our apartment, here, pretending to be police. The concierge showed us a security video. I was sure it was them.”

“If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.” Elizabeth paused. “Do you think they killed Sylvie?”

“I guess it’s possible. I don’t know. They seemed like such nice guys,” said Lucy.

“That’s what they always say about these nuts,” added Bill.

“What if I hadn’t put the chain across, Mom? What do you think they would have done?”

Lucy didn’t want to think about it. “You can’t stay there alone,” said Lucy.

“I’m on my way,” said Bill.

 

They spent the rest of the night in Elizabeth’s apartment, where Bill and Lucy shared the opened futon in the salon. Elizabeth took the bed in Sylvie’s room, fastidiously wrapping herself in an extra blanket and sleeping atop the covers. Nobody slept very well.

 

In the morning, after drinking a couple of cups of strong coffee, Lucy came to a decision. “You have to call Girard and tell him what happened, and I think we have to tell Lapointe what’s been going on, too,” she said.

Bill nodded in agreement. “I’ll call and make an appointment,” he said.

“I have to go to work,” said Elizabeth, prompting the same reaction from both parents.

“Call in sick,” they said in unison.

“I can’t,” she protested.

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Lucy.

“You’re not going anywhere alone until this is cleared up,” said Bill. “And that’s final.”

In the past, such an ultimatum would have been like a red flag to a bull, but this time Elizabeth didn’t put up any protest at all. In fact, thought Lucy, she seemed relieved to have the matter taken out of her hands. She dutifully called Girard, but her call went to phone mail, so she left a message describing the attempted break-in. Bill had more luck with Lapointe, who agreed to see them at ten o’clock at the quai des Orfèvres.

 

Lapointe wasn’t the least bit surprised to see them; he seemed to regard their decision to meet with him as inevitable, part of the immutable course of events in any investigation. “You have something to tell me?” he said with a mournful sigh.

“Last night two men tried to break into my daughter’s apartment,” said Bill. “She was able to identify them as colleagues from the Cavendish Hotel.”

“Their names?” inquired Lapointe with a raised eyebrow.

“Adil Sadek and Malik Mehanna,” said Elizabeth. “They work at the Cavendish Hotel, where I work.”

“You say they tried to break in? They were not successful?”

Lucy jumped right in. “Fortunately, she had fastened the security chain.”

“But the locks?” asked Lapointe.

“They were locked, but they opened them somehow. I heard scratching sounds.”

“And why did you not open the door when they knocked? They did knock?”

“They knocked,” said Elizabeth. “But I was not presentable.”

“Ah,” he sighed, giving Elizabeth an appreciative once-over. “
Déshabillée.
”

Lucy didn’t think Lapointe was taking the attempted break-in very seriously. “You know what happened to my daughter’s roommate? Sylvie Seydoux? She was murdered. Her body was found in the Seine.”

“Ah,” said Lapointe. “I did not make the connection.” He paused. “Your daughter made a wise decision, I think.”

“No thanks to you or your department,” snapped Bill. “Do you guys talk to each other? Do you share information? Look for connections?”

Lucy thought it was time to intervene, before Bill completely lost his temper. “And those two men also broke into our apartment, where we’re staying with our friends. It was all caught on a security camera. They told the concierge they were police, and she let them in. She was in a hurry to get to the market.” Lucy paused. “We think it’s all connected to the Cavendish in some way. Chef Larry and Sylvie both had ties to the hotel.”

“What is this break-in? Why was I not informed?”

Lucy was quick with an answer. “I told the
proc,
Madame Hadamard,” she said, thinking that Bill was on to something. The
proc
was supposed to be supervising the investigation into Chef Larry’s death, but she wasn’t sharing information with Lapointe, the chief investigator in the case. Meanwhile, Lapointe wasn’t communicating with Girard, who was investigating Sylvie’s death. The situation was all too familiar to her from home, where public safety officials seemed more interested in defending their turf and only grudgingly cooperated with each other.