French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (5 page)

“There’s always a café across the street,” cracked Sue, pulling a Zagat guide out of her purse. “The question is whether it’s any good.”

“We’re in Paris. They’re all good,” said Ted.

“That’s not necessarily true,” said Sue. “There’s quite a lot of second-rate tourist food around. We shouldn’t go anywhere that has menus printed in English, German, and Chinese.”

“We don’t need to be too picky,” said Bob. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”

“That could probably be arranged,” said Sid with a wry grin.

“Let’s try Les Deux Magots. I read about it in a travel magazine,” suggested Pam. “It’s famous.”

“Nobody goes there anymore,” said Sue, brushing off Pam’s suggestion.

Pam’s face reddened at the put-down. “It was just an idea. . . .”

“The Flore will be crowded,” said Sid, who was reading over Sue’s shoulder.

Lucy didn’t like the way things were trending. As a mother of four, she’d refereed plenty of squabbles, and that wasn’t the way she wanted to spend her vacation. She tapped Bill on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I’m too tired for this. Let’s go.”

He nodded in agreement. “I think Lucy and I will head over to the Left Bank,” he said. “I read that Hemingway used to shoot pigeons for his dinner in the Luxembourg Park.”

Sue raised her eyebrows and inquired in the voice that had made her such an effective preschool teacher, “Do you mean the Jardin du Luxembourg? That’s not far from the cafés in Saint-Germain.”

But Bill didn’t answer. He and Lucy were already halfway down the block. Lucy felt her spirits lifting, almost as if school was canceled due to snow. “They’re great friends,” she began. “I love them all.”

“But it’s good to be on our own,” said Bill, taking her hand. “Now, the question is, how do we get to this jahr-dan?”

“Let’s not worry about it,” said Lucy. “Let’s just wander a bit and see where we end up.”

“But first, let’s eat,” suggested Bill, leading her into a tiny, crowded café. They squeezed themselves around a free table, lined up with other tables, all occupied. A waiter appeared, gave them menus printed only in French, a bottle of water, and a basket of bread. Lucy consulted the list of specials and quickly decided on the
croque-monsieur,
which, the menu stated, was made with famed Poilâne bread. Bill skipped the menu and pointed to the dish the neighbor at his left elbow was eating with great enjoyment, and announced he would have the same. Lucy noticed the waiter’s reaction; he seemed both surprised and impressed at this American’s choice.

The food came, and Lucy chewed her way through a lovely toasted cheese sandwich, while Bill dove into his huge plate of winter stew.

“Parsnips,” he said with approval.

“Do you know what else?” asked Lucy.

“Some sort of meat,” he said, spearing a chunky piece. “Pork?”

“No,” said Lucy, nibbling on a
frite.
“Veal. It’s actually calf’s head.”

Bill dropped his fork. “What?”

“
Tête de veau.
That’s what the menu said. It means ‘head of calf.’ ”

Bill studied his dish, slowly turning over a few vegetables and choosing a piece of carrot. “Well, I’ll be darned.” His eyes sparkled, and he grinned. “It’s awfully good. Want to try some?”

Lucy’s first inclination was to decline; then she rose to the challenge. “Okay. When in France . . .”

“Open wide,” said Bill, choosing a piece of meat for her.

Lucy obeyed, expecting something horrible, but was pleasantly surprised. “I don’t think I’d choose it,” she said, “but it’s not bad.” She chewed. “It’s actually delicious.”

After lunch they found themselves walking along the quais lining the Seine River, broad banks paved with stone and dotted here and there with trees, which were now covered with tender green leaves. They weren’t alone. The quais were popular with strollers and dog walkers; from time to time they watched a barge or tourist boat chug past. Eventually, coming to a bridge, they noticed the metal fences looked very odd, and climbed up the stone steps from the quai to investigate. Reaching the bridge, which was near Notre-Dame, they discovered the metal webbing on both sides was filled with locks, many with names and initials, sometimes even a crudely scratched heart.

“I think lovers put them here as a token of everlasting love,” said Lucy. “I bet they throw the keys into the river.”

Bill peered over the side, down into the murky water. “Down there with the rusty bikes and rotting bones . . .”

“It’s a romantic gesture,” said Lucy. “We should do it.”

“I’m surprised the city puts up with it,” said Bill, studying the thickly packed locks with a builder’s eye. “That’s quite a bit of weight. I wouldn’t be surprised if all this metal is putting stress on the bridge.”

“It seems fine,” said Lucy. “I wonder if there’s anyplace nearby that sells locks.”

“I don’t see a hardware store, but I do see Shakespeare and Company.”

Lucy followed his gaze and saw the famous English-language bookstore that had served as a temporary home to so many authors, including Hemingway and Fitzgerald. “Let’s go,” she said, forgetting about the locks.

They spent a happy hour browsing among the books, both new and used, and Bill bought himself a used copy of
A Moveable Feast,
the book Hemingway wrote describing his life in Paris as a young writer.

Lucy disapproved. “Hemingway was kind of a jerk, always punching people out,” she said as they wandered through the twisting, narrow streets. “And he kept leaving his wives for other women.”

“You don’t think he would have put a lock on the bridge?”

Lucy considered the matter. “Nah, he’d spend the money on a drink.”

“Good idea,” said Bill, spotting another corner café.

Clouds were filling the sky and the afternoon light was fading when Bill finished his beer and Lucy drank the last of her Bordeaux. They were tired of walking, so they joined the commuters descending into the Métro station. There was quite a crowd surging through the turnstiles, and the platform beyond was packed with people, as was the train when it arrived. Lucy doubted there was room on the train for them, but found they were carried along by the pressure of the crowd. The doors closed and she let out a sigh; she’d never been in a rush hour crowd like this, not even in New York. But, she decided, looking on the bright side, she didn’t have to worry about pickpockets, because they were all so tightly crammed together that there was no room for a pickpocket to operate. The train sped along the track, and Lucy checked the map on the wall above the windows and discovered they could get off at the next stop, the Gare d’Austerlitz, and switch to the line that ran near their apartment.

When the doors slid open, Lucy was able to worm her way through the packed bodies, but Bill, she realized with horror, wasn’t able to make it out of the train before the doors closed. She stood, horrified, on the platform, watching helplessly as her husband was carried away.

What to do? She knew that Bill depended on her to navigate the complicated system and wasn’t at all confident that he could manage on his own. It was like that silly song about Charlie who got lost on the MTA and had to ride forever beneath the streets of Boston. But no. Bill was smart. Bill was sensible. He’d surely manage to get off at the next stop. Hopefully, he’d remember to cross over to the other side of the tracks, and he’d show up on the next train. Hearing the announcement that the train for Saint-Ouen was approaching the station, she ran up the stairs and over to the other side, making it just as the doors closed and the train swooshed away. She glanced up and down the platform, but there was no sign of Bill in the crowd of debarking passengers.

Her chest was tightening, and her anxiety was growing. What if he got confused? Who could he ask? He didn’t speak French. She doubted he even knew the address of the apartment, so he couldn’t even take a taxi. She sat down on one of the benches and tried calling him, but her cellphone didn’t work in the underground station. Lucy tried to calm herself, watching as a train arrived on the opposite side. She checked the electronic sign on her side, learning the next train was in three minutes.

It seemed a very long three minutes, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest when the light appeared in the tunnel and the train finally pulled into the station. She crossed her fingers and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the train was leaving and Bill was making his way through the crowded platform to her. “Maybe we should have done that lock thing,” he said as she threw her arms around his neck.

Lucy was beginning to think that Elizabeth was right and Paris wasn’t the fairy-tale city she’d imagined. It seemed a hostile place, teeming with people who were not the least bit friendly, who’d knock you over for a spot on the subway. There was so much she didn’t understand—her high school French wasn’t much help—and even the food was weird!

When they arrived back at the apartment, Lucy was exhausted and wanted a bit of peace and quiet. That was impossible, however, because Ted had invited his friend from the
International New York Times,
Richard Mason, to join them for dinner. Richard was a good-looking man in early middle age. His temples were graying, but he took care of himself and was fit and trim in dark pants and a leather jacket, with a scarf looped around his neck in the French manner.

Sue and Sid had gone shopping at the nearby Monoprix supermarket and had whipped up a mushroom risotto, so they all gathered at the sleek white Parsons table to eat.

“To Paris and good friends,” said Ted.

“And old friends,” added Richard.

“Old friends are the best friends,” said Pam.

They all joined in the toast and then settled down to fill their plates. The risotto was delicious, the salad crisp and fresh, and the bread was light on the inside and crusty on the outside. There was also plenty of wine, drawn from the stockpile in the apartment.

“We have dessert,” announced Sue as Sid began collecting the dinner plates. “I stopped at the school and snagged a couple of
tartes.
”

“How’d you manage that?” asked Pam.

“You know Sue. She usually manages to get her way,” said Sid with a nod.

Sue was quick to defend herself. “I happened to bump into Chef Larry on the street outside his patisserie and asked. There was no arm-twisting involved. He also said not to worry about drinking all the wine or eating up the gourmet groceries, because he can get us more at very good prices.”

“So he supplied all the stuff that’s here?” asked Ted.

“Yeah. He said he always makes sure Norah’s cupboard is well stocked,” replied Sue, lifting a slice of tarte tatin onto a plate and passing it to Richard.

“It must be nice, living the good life at cut-rate prices,” said Richard, accepting the plate.

The tarte tatin was a revelation. They all agreed they’d never tasted anything so delicious.

“Who knew apples could taste like this,” mused Bill.

“The trouble is, you get used to it,” said Richard with a wry grin. “Now when I go back to the States, I really miss French cooking.”

“No McDonald’s for you?” asked Pam.

“No trips to the American grocery for peanut butter and brownie mix?” asked Sue, referring to a Paris institution.

“Nope. I shop like the rest of Paris, at the market on Saturday morning.”

“We went to the market today as part of our cooking class,” said Ted. “As a matter of fact, some guy roughed up our teacher.”

“Really?” Richard’s tone was sharp, but he quickly added, “That’s not at all typical. They must have a history.”

“Apparently not,” said Sue.

“I think he was an Arab,” said Bob. “He was dark, swarthy. He had that look.”

“Could be,” offered Richard. “There is a lot of tension in the Arab community. It’s spilling over from the Arab Spring. The old dictators, like Gaddafi and Mubarak, are gone, leaving a power vacuum. There’s a lot of rivalry between different factions, even here in France.”

“I don’t think you should jump to conclusions,” said Pam, sipping her decaf. “We don’t know if he’s Arab or Italian or Romany, or anything at all about him, except that he seemed to have some sort of issue with Chef Larry.”

“Larry said not. He insisted he didn’t know him,” said Lucy.

“Maybe he was a pickpocket,” suggested Rachel.

“Well, I have an issue with Chef Larry,” said Sue, narrowing her eyes. “He’s a nice guy, but I can’t say I’m terribly impressed so far.”

Lucy started to mention her suspicions about the guy she’d seen lurking in the doorway, but was cut off by Bob.

“Why are you defending that thug?” he demanded, challenging Pam. “He attacked Larry. It’s a good thing we were all there. If Larry had been alone, I don’t like to think what might have happened. These Arabs are out of control. They hate America, and they want to destroy Israel.”

“We don’t know what was behind the attack,” said Ted. “It could be a woman, a debt, a grudge.”

“And it was just a shoving match,” said Bill. “High school stuff.”

“Bob has a different perspective, that’s all,” said Rachel, eager to smooth things over. “When you visit the Mémorial de la Shoah, well, you see how intolerance and prejudice can have catastrophic results.”

“That’s right,” said Pam. “But it’s a two-way street. Isn’t Bob being intolerant in this case?”

“Is that what you think?” demanded Bob. “Six million Jews died in the Holocaust, and these Islamic radicals want to finish off the rest of us! Remember nine-eleven? They call it jihad and think they’ll go to heaven if they kill infidels.”

There was a long silence until Sid spoke up. “This infidel found a rather nice bottle of brandy at the Monoprix. Who’d like a taste?”

“I’ll bite,” said Bill. “You wouldn’t believe what I had for lunch. . . .”