Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (16 page)

Marta taps her fingers on the kitchen counter. Detective Berry probably assumes it's because of what happened, but I think it's because we're late for work. It's breakfast time, and Le Croissant has already opened its doors for the day. After the police showed up and arrested the masked intruder, we waited for Detective Berry to arrive for a chat.

The man in Marta's apartment didn't look familiar, and he was still unconscious when help arrived. I can't stop thinking about what might have happened if things played out differently. Would Marta be the one on the floor? Would I even be standing here with pan-handle imprints in my hands?

"Alright," Detective Berry says. He takes a moment to observe Marta's apartment. "Tell me exactly what happened. Did this man say anything to you?"

"No." Marta shakes her head. "Like I've already said, Peppercorn woke me up, and I saw a shadow hovering over my bed."

"And Peppercorn is?"

"My cat," Marta answers.

"Right." Detective Berry chuckles. "Of course." He shifts his weight, taking an extra glance in Marta's direction.

"It was horrible," Marta goes on," if you must know. I don't know how I'll be able to sleep now after that nightmare. I mean, how the bloody hell did he even get in?"

"We found a copy of your house key on him."

"What?" Marta's eyes widen. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid not," he replies. "Tell me, does anyone else have a key to your flat? A neighbor? Relative?" He casually clears his throat. "Boyfriend?"

I raise my eyebrows at that last one and study Detective Berry's demeanor. He's much nicer to be around now that Marta's in the room, and the tone of his voice is quieter than usual.

"She doesn't have a boyfriend," I inform him.

"Thanks, Poppy," she mutters. "No Detective, I'm single. And no one has a key to this flat apart from me." She rolls her eyes and looks down at Peppercorn who is purring at her feet. "Wait. I suppose my landlady has a spare copy, but she lives near Versailles."

"Do you have her information?"

"Why yes." Marta holds up a finger. "In my bedroom." She begins the short journey to her room, but slows down when she comes to the doorway. She clenches her fists and nods, forcing herself to enter.

"I know the thief has been caught," I say quietly, "but you can't leave us here alone, Lewis. That guy was obviously after me."

"Detective Casey is questioning him as we speak," he answers.

"First
my
apartment and now Marta's? I can't take much more of this. Where are we supposed to stay now? Jean Pierre's?" I laugh nervously. "I'd probably be shunned from the pastry world after that one. I don't even want to think about it."

"The culprit has been caught." Detective Berry looks over his shoulder as Marta comes striding back to the kitchen. "I think the two of you can rest easy now."

"Oh no," Marta interrupts. Detective Berry stands straighter when she returns. He hesitates to look her in the eyes, whereas he has no problem making eye contact with me. "I'm not sleeping a wink until you figure out how he got in here without us knowing. All this Dovington Manor bollocks has followed us to Paris, and you need to find out why."

Detective Lewis Berry is at a loss for words. I fold my arms and smile as Marta puts her foot down. She places her hands on her hips and twists the side of her mouth the way she does when she catches Dandre sneaking
palmiers
hot off of the pan. The one time I saw him do it, he claimed it was for
Palmiers A La Dandre
—two pastries sandwiching buttercream.

"I promise you—"

"Promises aren't good enough, Detective." Marta glimpses at the time. "Poppy and I shouldn't have to sit around and wait for another madman to attack us. First Poppy, and now this? Don't you see what's going on here?"

"I think you should enlighten him." I egg her on, mostly because the look on Detective Berry's face is priceless. I can't tell if he's embarrassed or awestruck. Either way his eyes are like two round chocolate tarts.

"Oh…" Marta exhales loudly, losing some of her fire. "I will."

"Alright," Lewis quickly says. "I get it. There's something rather unusual about all of this."

"Absolutely." Marta checks the time again. Michel was informed of our situation, but that doesn't mean Chef Gautier will be forgiving of our absence. Destin and Dandre won't be able to keep up with orders alone for very long.

"What if someone else comes?" I butt in. "What then?"

"We'll just have to hide kitchen equipment throughout the entire apartment," Marta adds.

"I'll request for an officer to be stationed in the building."

"That won't do much good if guy number two
also
has a key." I shake my head. I just want to get some sleep. Some
real
sleep.

"I'll have the locks changed," Lewis continues.

"And an officer right outside the door at all times," I say.

"Yes," Detective Berry agrees.

"An experienced one," I comment. "Or the next best equivalent."

"Yes." Detective Berry jots down a few notes.

"
You
."

Detective Berry continues nodding his head. It takes him a minute to process my final request. He stops writing and looks up—staring at Marta for a tad too long before directing his attention elsewhere.

"Me?" he repeats.

"Yeah." I look at Marta and smile. "You should hang here where the action is. In fact, you can swing by tonight for dinner. I'd love to hear more about the case."

"Well…maybe I could…" He pauses for Marta's response.

"What do you think, Marta?"

She doesn't seem fazed by my suggestion the way Lewis is.

"We eat at seven," Marta responds.

*   *   *

"I don't have an extra chair, Poppy." Marta kneads leftover pasta dough while I chop asparagus. Marta is making a variation of her usual pasta dish—pasta with lemon cream sauce and vegetables.

"I'll sit on the sofa, and you two can take the table," I suggest. When we got home from our half-day at the bakery, I brought her tiny café table inside for our dinner date with the Detective.

"Or…" She begins running the dough through her pasta machine. "I can sit on the sofa, and you and Detective Berry can have the table."

"I'm sure he won't mind if you call him Lewis."

Marta stops and glares at me.

"I know what you're doing here," she says. "Tell me, do I have an advert on my head that reads
desperate spinster seeks amateur matchmaker
?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Why do people always feel the need to set me up?" Marta whines. "Do I come across that pathetic or something?" She cranks her pasta machine more forcibly and collects enough noodles for three servings. "I like living on my own. I like being able to come home and do as I please."

"Sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it as an insult. Lewis seems to have a thing for you."

"Whatever, Poppy." She chuckles.

"He does," I insist. "Didn't you see the way he looked at you this morning? Or how he
didn't
look at you?"

"Now you're just making things up." She gets started on the sauce by pulling out a fresh carton of crème fraiche.

"Not at all." I grate a pile of Parmesan cheese and watch her heat the crème fraîche with lemon juice. "He was trying not to stare."

"Maybe it was the bags under my eyes or the frizz around my head?"

"I don't think so," I respond. "If the circumstances where different, he would've definitely flirted with you."

"I wouldn't even know what that looks like," Marta admits. She stops and shuts her mouth. "I mean…I'm horrible with relationships."

"You can't be worse than me." I grin, remembering my conquest from last year who turned out to be involved in the academy's secret smuggling ring. Of course, Jeff was blackmailed into it but still. Not the best guy to bring home. "When was your last boyfriend?"

"I'd rather not say," Marta answers.

"So it's been a while?"

She stays silent, focusing on her cream sauce.

"Well then, don't think of it as a set up." I glance at her bookshelf. "Think of it as the chance to live out one of your love stories. Handsome cop rescues damsel. You can't honestly tell me that the thought of that makes your—"

"Poppy!" she shouts. "I don't want to talk about this." She reaches past me for the grated cheese and finishes her sauce without another word. I ready our wine glasses and prepare our plates for her finished dish. When the table and coffee table is set Marta pours herself a generous glass of wine and gulps it down.

"I'll sit at the table with him." I break the silence with a peace offering. "And I wasn't trying to set you up or play matchmaker or anything like that. I thought messing with Lewis would be fun considering the day we've had."

Marta sets her glass down and sighs.

"I did have a boyfriend not so long ago," she admits. "It didn't end well."

"I know the feeling."

"In fact," Marta goes on, "he almost cost me my job."

"Valentine has a crazier cousin?"

"I wish that's what happened," Marta says. "But no." She lightly touches the rim of her wine glass. "I let myself fancy the wrong man, and he left me in shambles."

"Do I dare ask his name?"

Marta pours herself a second glass and takes a sip before answering.

"It was the last American intern."

Now
, Michel's special rule—no partying with workmates—makes sense.

I start off my third week in Paris with Sunday brunch at Marta's favorite bistro. It's our day off, and after a night of uninterrupted and much needed sleep, we decided to spend our afternoon window-shopping. Marta takes a small bite of her crepe, careful not to look like a ravenous cow when Detective Berry looks at her.

"He's quite a funny man," Marta comments. Detective Berry is sitting two tables down. He insisted that we go about our day as normal while he and his surveillance team observes.

"He's weird," I say. I ordered crepes as well. A savory buckwheat crepe with ham, eggs, and mozzarella. "I don't know why he won't just sit with us."

"I'm telling you. He's dangling us around like fish bait."

"Going out was your idea," I add.

"I never thought he would agree." She takes a sip of her coffee.

"He agrees with everything you say." I laugh, looking out onto the street. Our patio table is facing a small square seasoned with rows of colorful shops. Marta promised to take me to see her favorite chocolatier, and I've been saving my palate for sweetness ever since. The chocolate shop is down the street.

"No he doesn't," she argues. She looks away when her cheeks go rosy. "He's doing his job."

Marta dressed up this morning. I've never seen her in heels and an elegant springtime dress. It makes me feel like a pauper in my black skinnies. Marta's auburn locks hang past her shoulders in voluptuous waves. No wonder Detective Berry hasn't taken his eyes off of us.

Or rather
Marta
.

"Okay." I give in. I can't make Marta see what's right in front of her —a sensible man who isn't homebound in a month like the last intern who turned her heart into rock solid sorbet.

"I don't think I'm ready," Marta says quietly.

"To leave?" I hurriedly take another bite of my brunch. "Me neither."

"No, for another relationship," she clarifies. "Plus, I just don't have time for one."

"None of us do." I take a bite of crispy ham mixed with the gooey smoked mozzarella. My taste buds enjoy the saltiness of it, but they're craving sweets. Particularly chocolate sweets.

"Cheers." Marta leans back and inhales the rising steam from her mug. "I don't know how we keep getting on the topic of my love life. What about yours?"

"I date," I confess. "But that's about it."

"No special man back in America?"

I shake my head.

"Not even a prospect?" she continues.

"Not today," I answer, thinking back to my last moments with Locke in my bedroom. I still stand by my decision to lay that relationship to rest, though my mom would have loved it if she could've announced
two
engagements at her holiday party. My brother Mark seems to be doing something right. Maybe I should start calling him once in a while? Some of that good luck might rub off on me.

"Okay, now I'm finished." She takes her last bite and runs her fingers through her hair. I devour the rest of my food and stand up, grabbing my purse. I can't wait a moment longer for the next stop on our Sunday morning excursion.

"Let's go."

I follow Marta back onto the street. It's easy to keep pace with her while she's wearing heels. She doesn't walk as fast. I actually have her beat—strolling with ease in my favorite pair of nude pumps. Marta pretends to adjust her scarf as she glances behind us at Detective Berry.

"Right over here," Marta instructs. She points to a storefront with two glass windows and a sign that says
Chocolaterie
written in a milk chocolaty color. Sculptures made of chocolate and spun sugar welcome visitors. I see golden boxes of assorted truffles and even a chocolate fountain showing off the smoothness of their gourmet product. I feel like I'm watching the intro to
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. I used to rewind the beginning over and over again just for another glimpse of a candy factory at work.

We walk inside, and the smell of caramel wafts through the air. Detective Berry stays outside, pretending to read the menu of the restaurant next door. There are counters of truffles, chocolate tarts, flavored caramels, and fruit jellies all around me. I don't know where to start.

"Their
mendiants
are my favorite," Marta says. She studies an entire row of chocolate discs topped with candied nuts and fruit—both milk chocolate and dark chocolate. She hones in on a group with pistachios and dried cherry pieces.

"What's that one?" I point to the cluster of sweets next to it. "Are those topped with pineapple and coconut?"

"You can top a
mendiant
with just about anything you want," Marta replies. "I've made them before, but they temper their chocolate to perfection here." She licks her lips, waiting for someone to assist us.

"Do women marry chocolatiers for their chocolate?"

Marta chuckles.

"I would," she confesses. She orders a box of assorted
mendiants
for us to try.

My gaze falls on their collection of beautifully crafted caramels. Raspberry caramels were the very first confections I ever received from a boy. His name was Swinton, and he gave me a box of the cheap drugstore kind on Valentine's Day in second grade. I remember that caramel being the best thing I'd ever tasted at the time. I'm sure that was just the sugar rush of eating the whole box talking.

"Throw in a few caramels," I add.

"Anything else?" Marta asks.

"I'll try anything." I smile as I peruse the rest of the shop. It feels very different from Le Croissant. It's simple and modern. No chandeliers. No crown molding. Just white counters and industrial lighting. It's a pleasant change from the antique feel.

I take a deep breath and step back outside. Detective Berry is across the street on his phone, and Marta is paying at the register. The city bustles around me, and it leaves me wondering if Sam's killer is lurking around the corner. Was his killer the figure watching me at the Eifel Tower? Was it the same man who broke into Marta's apartment?

They've got my necklace. What more do they want?

I don't know who's after me or why they care so much about a measly little intern from a pastry school in Georgia. I barely knew Sam, and the fact that I found his body first isn't enough to name the murderer to the public like Billie claims she's going to. Maybe Billie said something she shouldn't have that night in the pub?

Okay, she probably says a lot of things she shouldn't.

I replay that night in the pub in my head. Billie was drunk the whole time, and I still never figured out what kind of scam she had planned for the wedding. Maybe it
really
was murder?

And then there's Cira.

Sam's fragile lover whose life was shattered when he decided to move on to bigger and bustier things. I should have paid more attention to her. Maybe she wouldn't be missing in action if I had been her shoulder to lean on? There's also the possibility that the killer escaped from a nearby asylum, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I might leave for home never knowing the answers.

A breeze rushes across my face, and I look up and down the street.

I freeze when I notice the tall body standing stiff right next to me. Too close to be coincidental. A hand covers my mouth, and I drop my purse to yank the foreign glove from my face. There's no time to scream for help or even bite the leather glove shoved in between my teeth.

I'm snatched off the ground like a morning croissant from a breadbasket. The storefront moves farther and farther away along with the figure of Detective Berry on his cell phone. My eyes are wide. I fixate on him, hoping that our thoughts can somehow connect on some sort of telekinetic plane. Maybe. If I try hard enough.

My vision starts to blur.

My arms are constrained by a giant arm, but my legs kick violently, desperate to touch the sidewalk. If I can gain traction somehow maybe I can run back to safety? The man holding me is too strong. I'm no more than a box of French macarons to him.

This is bad. This is really bad.

My heart races, but I force myself to concentrate. I have to do something. Kick something. Bite the hand in my mouth.

Detective Berry finally looks up and sees me.

A glimmer of hope.

He shouts something and bolts in my direction.

He's a second too late.

I'm pulled into a humming car. It starts to move before the door is even closed. The chocolate shop along with Lewis zooms out of sight in an instant. I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. I feel like crying. Screaming. My hands are already shaking, and I'm deathly afraid of turning to face my attacker.

I don't get the chance.

Once the door is closed and the car is secure, everything goes black.

*   *   *

My headache wakes me up. I'm lying on the floor in a dark room. As my vision slowly returns, I see chairs and a long counter extending the entire length of the room. Mirrors are spaced along it with individual light fixtures. I glance down at the spotless wood floors. I know this place. Not this particular one, but I know where I am.

I'm in a dressing room.

I go with my gut instinct and jump to my feet. My hands are tied behind my back, but that doesn't stop me from scanning the room for the nearest exit. I find it when the door opens, and a burly man with a shaved head enters the room. He flips on the light, smirking. I don't know if he's the same man who snatched me in front of the chocolaterie, but he seems pleased with himself nonetheless. I'm surprised to see that he's wearing a suit. A rather expensive looking one with bronze cuff links that gleam in the light.

"Sit down," he says, his voice booming through my ears like Dandre when he bangs baking sheets against the counter. I settle for the nearest chair. "You are Poppy Peters, correct?"

"Maybe," I answer.
You should know, beefcake
. I bite my tongue, holding my comments in until I'm sure I won't be beaten for sarcasm.

"Either you are or you aren't, love."
Another Brit
.

I stay silent, staring at the floor.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," he continues. He clenches his fist and holds it close to his chest. "And you are going to answer those questions, understand?" He pauses and waits for me to reply. He takes a heavy step forward and hovers over me. He isn't a patient man.

"Yes," I quietly respond.

"How well did you know the late Lord Dovington?"

"Not well," I answer.

He folds his arms and exhales so I can feel his breath sweep over my head.

"Are you sure about that?"

"We weren't romantically involved, if that's what you're asking," I respond.

"Did he tell you much about his personal life?" the man continues.

"No."

"Nothing about past relationships? His
current
relationship?"

This feels a little too much like an interview for the tabloids, only I'm not getting paid.

"He spilled coffee on me once." I scoot my chair back. "That's it."

"What about the rest of the staff?" The man takes another step forward. He's trying too hard to intimidate me. I get the guts to scoot back even more and stand up. I still have to look up when I face him.

"Please don't tell me you're a reporter," I answer, "because you didn't have to kidnap me to get all this information. I would've just told you."

"I'm not affiliated with the press, love."

"Then do me a favor, and take these things off my wrists. They're giving me bruises."

The man's chest bounces up and down as he laughs. It starts out as a light chuckle and grows to a loud cackle.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," he answers. "Now, the night Lord Dovington was killed you went to the local pub."

I gulp.

"How do
you
know that?"

"Just listen." He cracks his knuckles before proceeding. "You spoke to a women there named Billie Anderson. Tell me everything she told you." He glares at me as if my reaction gives everything away.

"She didn't say much," I begin. "She was already drunk when she got there, and I was at the pub waiting for the next train to London."

"Come on," the man urges me. "Out with it."

"She asked me if I was at the wedding, and I told her I was working in the kitchen, and…" The only thing left to add was her slip up—her intention of doing something to cause trouble.

"And?" The bald-headed man sticks out his jaw when he looks at me. His fists are firmly in between us. I wonder if he plans on using them or if they're only for show?
Please, be for show.

"Then her date finished his cigarette, and they left."

"Did she say anything about her friends?" he asks. I shake my head. "Sarah? Maya?" His eyes are frozen on my face. "Cira?"