Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (14 page)

Destin walks into the kitchen, giving everything away by the elated look on his face. I anxiously wait until he's settled to ask him if he proposed to Val last night, but I already know the answer to that. The answer has to be yes.

After Jules guided me back to Le Croissant, we went our separate ways. I didn't sleep a wink. Paranoia set in, causing me to do a sweep of my apartment every hour, which didn't take long. I peeked through my window dozens of times, bracing myself in case a creepy figure was lingering across the street. I might have been over-exaggerating, but my gut hasn't let me down lately. I should pay more attention to it.

"So," I say to Destin as he dries his hands. "Did she say yes?"

"I'm engaged," he proudly states. "I agreed to dedicate all my time off to
us
, and she promised to never pay me a visit at work again."

"Congratulations."

Before I get the chance to ask him how he did it, Michel bursts through the kitchen door panting. He takes a moment to catch his breath. My chest starts pounding when he searches the kitchen, making eye contact with me first.

"Details of Lord Dovington's case have been leaked," he informs me. "Some reporters are here asking questions about a man in the hospital and some questionable chocolate macaroons."

Destin looks at me, and all at once the anxiety I experienced in Cornwall comes rushing back. I grab the counter in front of me to steady myself. My quiet days of kneading pastry dough are over. Sam has come back to haunt me.

"You're turning scarlet," Destin mutters.

My breathing picks up as I think about the last conversation I had with Detective Casey. I hear a woman screaming in the back of my head and see flashes of Sam's body at the bottom of the cliff. If that isn't enough to send me into a full-fledged panic attack, I also can't shake the image of an elderly man lying on the floor moments after eating one of my chocolate macaroons.

"I would suggest that you all avoid the front today," Michel says. "And confine your breaks to the back garden or even my office if you like. I'm going to make sure the gates out back remain locked."

Destin says something quickly in French, and Michel gasps. He shakes his head.

"Of course it is a big deal," Michel responds in English. "This is the Dovington family we're talking about. British royalty."

I ignore them and focus on myself. I exhale and take in a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dandre walk in munching on a croissant from yesterday. He hardly notices that I'm about to keel over. I rub the small of my back. All the stress is making it ache more than usual.

"You're worried for nothing," Destin insists. Michel throws his hands up in the air. "Poppy, I'll keep an eye out. You go and do what you normally do."

"Remember," Michel says one last time. "Discretion."

I nod in agreement and tell myself nothing happened in England. My inward lying carries me through the afternoon. I look up at the time and realize I've been shaping croissants and
palmiers
all morning.

"Café au lait?" Destin offers.

"Do you even have to ask?" I reply. I wipe my hands and wait for him to return with a steaming cup of coffee. I make my way to the back garden for some fresh air and pass Jean Pierre just finishing his cup of something warm. I used to assume that it was coffee, but since I've been observing him more closely and writing everything down, I've also noticed that he makes his own hot drinks. Usually out of spare chocolate.

The breeze is light, and the sun is out. The stones leading toward the small garden of herbs and berry bushes are wet like I just missed the morning rainfall. I sit down at the tiny café table reserved for kitchen staff to unwind and gaze at the iron gates leading to the street. A patch of white and violet wildflowers have sprung up, adding to the rest of flowery landscaping.

"Here you go." Destin sets my drink down in front of me along with his latest creation. Maple bacon brioche.

"What's this?"

"Another bacon creation," he answers. "For American tourists." He raises his eyebrows, teasing me.

"Destin." I laugh. "You know as well as I do that you don't have to be American to love bacon."

"Try it."

He eagerly awaits my culinary critique. I take a large bite, letting the airy bread of the brioche melt in my mouth. The texture is perfect, and the salty and sweetness of the bacon adds that extra touch that makes you do a double-take of the morsel on your plate.

"This is seriously good," I respond. "Have you showed it to Jean Pierre?"

"
Niet
." He cringes. "It is too…casual for him."

"I'll show him if you want," I joke. "My last day here."

"Enjoy, Poppy." He nods and chuckles as he heads back into the kitchen. I take another bite and close my eyes. I let the taste in my mouth take me back home. The warm sun. The welcoming townies. Bree's strawberry lemonade on a humid afternoon.

I'm dreaming of Georgia.

"Got a minute?"

I open my eyes and see Marta join me with a glass of ice water. Her auburn hair is tied back tightly, and her freckles seem more prominent in the sun. I'm used to seeing bags under her eyes and a makeup-free complexion, but today she looks even more frazzled than Michel. England must be haunting her too.

"Sure."

"We received a special order for charlotte russe," she says. "I thought you might want to observe."

"I've never made one of those before."

Charlottes are cakes normally layered with jam. The most common one I've seen and tasted is one made with layers of ladyfingers and strawberry jam. Charlotte russe is Bavarian cream set in a pan lined with ladyfingers. And there's also a variation called charlotte royale where the filling, usually an egg custard, is in between layers of swiss rolls.

"Then you'll learn something new," Marta replies. She doesn't look at me long before she retreats to the door.

"Are you worried?" I ask quietly.

"What about?"

"You know what about."

"No." She lifts her chin. "I'm not worried at all because neither of us had anything to do with Lord Dovington's death. The police will find the culprit soon, and all this will be over."

"And if they don't figure it out?"

"It's their job to solve puzzles," she says, frustrated. "I don't want to talk about this. Let's go inside and start the Bavarian cream."

I take a few sips of my coffee before I follow Marta back into the kitchen, ignoring the dull pulsing of pain in my lower back. I do my best to forget about it and carry on with the work that needs to be done. Marta begins the Bavarian filling by creaming together eggs and sugar in a pot until they look light yellow. She then slowly mixes in softened gelatin and milk while turning up the heat.

"You want to get started on the ladyfingers?" Marta asks. "It's the recipe for the vanilla almond sponge. The cookies are piped the same way you would an éclair."

I grab a mixing bowl, glancing up when Michel rushes into the kitchen again. This time he paces himself. He clears his throat and sets his sights on me. I gulp, trying not to let my memories get the best of me.

"I haven't said anything to anybody," I blurt out. "I haven't even been out front. Honest."

"That's not why I'm here," Michel replies. He waves at me to follow him back to his office.

"Mr. Rolph, can't this wait?" Marta taps her foot.

"No." He clears his throat a second time. "Two men are here asking for Ms. Peters. Two Detectives."

My tarts.

Marta's spoon makes a loud thud as it lands on the floor in a mess of uncooked custard. Her face turns pale like she's been locked in the freezer for a while. She stares blankly ahead, probably watching that night at Dovington Manor flash before her eyes like I have.

"Hey," I mumble, touching her wrist to make sure her heart didn't stop. "They asked me, not you."

"Right." She snaps herself out of her trance. "Of course." She glimpses across the room at her boss, Jean Pierre. "I trust they just have a few follow up questions?"

Michel shrugs.

Detective Casey and his partner could have a number of things to ask about Sam's wedding day, but I know they're here about the chocolate macaroons. What else would they want? I only hope they're not here delivering more bad news, or waiting in Michel's office with the chief of police. The thought of being hauled away for murder in a foreign country makes me nauseous.

"I'll be right there," I assure him. I pass my bowl on to Marta and mentally prepare myself for more questions. As I walk through the hall toward Michel's office, I feel butterflies in my stomach. The same ones I used to get right before I went on stage. As soon as I took my position, twirling in the spotlight was an exhilarating feeling. Besides, there was never time to get a good look at the audience until the end of my performance.

These nervous butterflies won't disappear so easily this time. In fact, the closer I get to the door the worse they feel. My heart races as I enter the office and see Detective Casey and Detective Berry looking back at me. They both look calm and well-rested, unlike Marta and me. I guess they're used to this sort of thing.

Detective Casey greets me with a friendly smile. He sits in Michel's office chair, gently adjusting his suit jacket and tie. His younger partner, Detective Berry, tugs at his suit like it's a prison. I place a hand on my queasy stomach as I sit down.

"This is about my chocolate macaroons, isn't it?" I throw the thought out there, not wanting to dance around the real reason I'm being pulled away from my work.

"I told you I would let you know the results," Detective Casey says. "And I will when they are confirmed."

"So, there was nothing in those tarts?" I ask hopefully. "The man who went to the hospital is still alive, right?" I twiddle my thumbs together, my palms growing clammy.

"He's recovering," the Detective responds. "We're still waiting for his GP to confirm his diagnosis."

I take a deep breath, relieved.

"Then what is this about? Are you even allowed to be investigating here in Paris?"

"Oh yes," Detective Casey answers, "we've been hired privately by the Dovingtons to speed along the process. We're also working in cooperation with the Criminal Investigation Department thanks to my personal contacts from when I was an Inspector. Today's errand requires that we be physically present to collect evidence."

"I told you everything I know."

"Not
everything
, Ms. Peters." Detective Casey raises his eyebrows. The butterflies in my stomach flap uncontrollably. "You see, we've acquired a list from Mr. Jesper Iversson of all the diamond pendants purchased by Lord Dovington. We've accounted for all of them but two."

"One of them was delivered here over a week ago," Detective Berry cuts in, "and within the same timeframe that Lord Dovington came here to finalize his special requests for the wedding cake."

The butterflies in my stomach flap so vigorously I might actually hurl them up on Michel's desk. My lungs burn for a few seconds until I remember to breathe. I gulp down air, feeling my cheeks go warm. Detective Casey studies my closely. I must be blushing. Or worse.

"That diamond pendant was sent to you," he says firmly.

"Yes," I admit. "I ran into Sam…Lord Dovington…on my first day here. I didn't know who he was. He never really said. He spilled coffee on my top and sent the necklace later as an apology."

"Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

"Well, first I was busy telling you about the tray," I reply. "And second, I guess I didn't think it really mattered. I went up to my room that same day, and the necklace he gave me was right where I left it. The one shoved in Sam's mouth wasn't
mine
."

"For what it's worth, Poppy. I believe you." Detective Casey's expression remains calm and at ease. He carries a soft tone when he speaks. I imagine he's able to get people to confide in him their darkest secrets. "Unfortunately though, I need to see the necklace. I need to confirm that the diamond found with the deceased is not yours."

"It's at my apartment down the street."

"Then by all means," Detective Casey says. "Lead the way."

"You want to see it
now
?"

"Sometimes
now
is all you've got, Ms. Peters."

When my great-grandpa told jokes, I never thought they were funny. He picked the most inappropriate times to tell them, like in front of the new neighbors or while a waitress was trying to take our order. Now that he's gone, I miss the uncomfortable chuckles at the dinner table.
And
I find that I'm turning out to be more like him than I thought.

"There's one thing I don't get, Detective." Detective Casey follows me around the back of Le Croissant and onto the street.

"What's that, Poppy?"

"It took you so long to get back in touch with me I was beginning to think the case had been solved."

"It's only been a few days," Detective Berry mutters behind us.

"That list of Sam's lovers must have been pretty long," I joke.

"A list that
you
are on, and it's
Lord Dovington
," Detective Berry mutters again.

"Lewis," his superior addresses him. "Go around front, and make sure we're not followed."

"Yes, Sir." Detective Berry obeys and jogs ahead of us.

"You'll have to excuse him," Detective Casey says quietly. "He's always cranky before his afternoon tea."

I continue walking down the street toward my apartment. I clutch the key tight in my hand as the two of us begin climbing the flights of stairs ahead of us. When we reach my door, he pauses and waits for Detective Berry to catch up.

"I found one of them waiting just outside the bakery," he says, out of breath. "A reporter pretending to be a tourist. He had a map in his hands, a fanny pack, and everything."

"Be wary, Ms. Peters." Detective Casey shakes his head. "No press is better than bad press when murder is involved."

I nod and unlock the door to my apartment. My eyes scan the entire room, making sure I didn't leave a bra hanging on the bathroom door or a box of tampons on my unmade bed. Everything is just how I left it. Messy and crowded with the contents of my suitcase.

I invite the Detectives inside, wondering if either of them will comment on its miniscule size. Detective Berry shrugs, glancing at my kitchenette, which is a basically a counter with a small sink, and the indent in the wall where my bed folds up. He places his hands in his coat pockets.

"This looks pretty decent for a studio flat," Detective Berry says.

"I'm still getting used to it," I respond. "Parisians do most of their living out in the city. Would you care for the tour?"

"No thanks," Detective Berry answers. "I've already given myself one. Self-guided."

Detective Casey chuckles.

"I would offer you some tea, but I'm afraid I'm all out." I force a fake smile, and Detective Casey chuckles even louder.

"Sir," Detective Berry almost whines. "I do
not
get cranky at tea time. You've got to stop telling people that."

"Ms. Peters, if you would be so kind as to show us the diamond pendant Lord Dovington sent you." He ignores his partner's concern and watches me retreat to my suitcase.

The necklace is still in its original box, and at this point the Dovington's can have it back. I'll never feel right keeping it or wearing it now. Not after what happened—what I saw on the bottom of the cliff. My mind races through the moment I came home from England to the last place I remember putting it. I search through my things until I find the royal blue box.

"Here it is," I say out loud. I stand in front of them and hand it over. Detective Berry reaches for it, quickly opening the lid. A puzzled look crosses his face. He shows it to Detective Casey. "What?"

Detective Berry tips the box, revealing an imprint where the diamond used to lay. It's empty. I swallow hard, feeling that panicky nausea start to come back. I immediately check my suitcase again and resort to throwing everything I own onto the bed. In a frenzy, I swipe everything off of my bed and check under the sheets. I search every crevice I can think of. Under the bed. Near the wall. The cushions of the loveseat in the corner. The necklace is gone.

"Calm down," Detective Casey says in a quieter tone than the voice shouting in my head. "When did you see it last?"

"A few days ago," I answer. "When I got back from England."

"Have you noticed anything strange since then?" Detective Casey asks. "Anything unusual?"

"No…" My heart jumps. "Yes. I don't know if this has anything to do with it, but last night something weird did happen. I swear there was someone following me."

"Did you see who?" Detective Berry jumps in.

"No."

"I suppose someone could have stolen it," Detective Casey suggests. "But unless that can be proven, this doesn't look good for you." He clasps his hands together and exhales.

My blood soars through my veins as does my last memories of Cornwall. Such a picturesque little town hiding so many secrets. I think back to my run-in with Billie at the pub and the last time I saw Cira. Surely, there is enough evidence elsewhere to rule me out. Lord Dovington had more than a few angry ex-lovers. We didn't even sleep together, much less go out on a date. Though it would have been more of a hushed get together considering that he was engaged.

"But—"

"We'll be in touch," he goes on. "Don't leave the city."

"What about the others?" I blurt out. "All the other women Sam scammed and stomped on? They all have motives. I don't."

"Are you referring to Lord Dovington's exes who showed up early to the wedding?" Detective Casey questions.

"Yes." I nod, my chest thudding like chocolate cake tumbling in a dryer. "And Cira."

As soon as I say her name, the two of them fall silent. Detective Casey steps forward. His calm expression changes to one of grave concern. Much like the look of a father calling out his son on a lie he just told. I cover my mouth.

"What do you know about Cira?" he asks firmly. The tone of his voice flip-flops so quickly that it gives me shivers.

"Nothing really."

"Who told you she was one of Lord Dovington's ladies?" He crosses his arms, and his partner does the same.

"I overheard it," I answer. "At the village pub."

"And who, may I ask, gave you that information?" Detective Casey waits.

"Her name is Billie," I confess. "She was at the wedding. She and the other exes who showed up early were planning something, but she never said what it was. She had a little too much to drink."

Detective Casey turns his head, trying to hide his lips.

"This is not good, Berry. If this is common knowledge, who knows what might have happened."

"Excuse me," I cut in. "What's going on?"

"Oh, I'm sorry but we can't—" I interrupt Detective Berry. I don't care if he's had his afternoon tea or not.

"Detective Berry, Lewis, there's a killer out there, and someone stole a diamond necklace from my apartment. I'm sure you would be freaking out right now if you were me."

"I understand," he replies.

"I mean, I was having trouble sleeping before but now… How can someone break into my apartment without actually
breaking
anything? Do you think they'll come back?"

"I will speak to your supervisor and see if we can arrange something until all this is sorted out." Detective Casey steps in, adopting a calm and soothing tone once again.

"Okay," I agree. Detective Casey nods and promptly leaves the apartment. His partner, Detective Berry, stays behind. He scratches the side of his head, casually glancing down at his shoes.

"I apologize for my…"

"Rudeness?" I guess.

"I was a bit touchy, but I wasn't rude."

"You were rude.
So
rude." This is my first personal conversation with Detective Berry. Back at Dovington Manor he was constantly running errands for his boss. His nose is round and it appears to be a little small compared to the rest of the face.

"You're ruining a perfectly good apology."

"Are you allowed to speak to me like this?" I joke. "Aren't I at the top of your suspect list?"

"Maybe." He relaxes the muscles on his face, reminding me that he's not as experienced as his partner. I forget that we are probably similar in age, and Lewis is just doing his job.
Frustratingly
doing his job.

"Come on." I peer out the front door and see the back of Detective Casey's suit jacket disappear in the stairwell. "You've got to tell me. Why did your boss turn to ice when I mentioned Cira?"

"I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Won't it all come out eventually?" I ask.

"Bollocks," he murmurs. "Fine. Your suspicions about Cira are correct, only we found out about her relationship with Lord Dovington too late." He pauses. "The night of the murder, after you left for the train, I went looking for Cira, but there was no trace of her. She's disappeared."

*   *   *

I wait nervously as Detective Casey explains my dilemma to Michel, insisting that I stay somewhere else in case the thief turns out to be a repeat offender. I'm grateful that Detective Casey seems to believe my story, and since I only just arrived in Paris he
should
believe me. Who decides to kill someone within a week of meeting them?

Don't answer that.

"I see what you mean," Michel agrees, "but a hotel is much more costly than the intern apartment. I will have to ask for favors."

"If anything should happen, Mr. Rolph, you don't want the bakery to be criticized for not taking the proper precautions." Detective Casey figured out Michel's weakness—protecting the bakery's reputation.

"You needn't worry about that, Detective." A smile shines through underneath puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. "I know just the person who can help."

"Good." Detective Casey turns to me. "Be cautious, Poppy. Call us if anything happens, and we'll be in touch very soon."

I take slow and steady breaths to keep myself from feeling lightheaded. It's still unbelievable to me that someone broke into my place, took something, and left without a peep. I cringe, wondering if I was sleeping while it happened or even in the bathroom. Maybe it happened while I was at the bakery? Whoever did it knows my schedule—when I work and when I'm home.

The pounding in my chest feels irregular. It's like I'm back to that moment last Christmas at my parent's house when Dirk, the Shurbin Farms rancher and devil in disguise, revealed his plot to wipe out my entire family for ruining his profitable smuggling operation. He poisoned the entire spread at my parents' annual holiday party. Of course, no one would listen when I warned them not to eat anything. My sanity was already questionable among circles of my relatives, so I guess raving about tainted veggie trays only proved my mother's point. With no time to wait for police or keep on pleading my case, I did the only thing I could think of. I destroyed all the food.

If you can get through that, you can get through this.

"I have the perfect solution," Michel declares.

"A new apartment?"
No way that's happening.

"
Non
. You will stay with Marta."

Maybe it would be better if I took my chances with the stalker.