French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (15 page)

“
Vraiment?
” Sue, who watched calories with the concentration of a robin chasing a worm, was doubtful.

“
Oui, absolument,
” insisted Madame. “And I always beat the eggs with
une fourchette.
”

“A fork? Not a whisk?” asked Sue, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “What about the pan? Le Creuset?”

Now it was Madame’s turn to be surprised. “
Non, non, non.
Only copper. It distributes the heat evenly.”

“I guess that’s the problem,” admitted Rachel. “I’ve been using an old Teflon pan.”

“Not Teflon!” protested Pam. “You’re poisoning yourself!”

“It’s too late for me, then,” admitted Rachel. “Most of the Teflon is worn off.”

“What is this Teflon?” asked Madame, and they all laughed.

“It’s a nonstick coating on pots,” explained Lucy.

“Ah, you Americans.” Madame shook her head and clucked her tongue. “In France, but-tare is the nonstick coating.”

Lucy couldn’t remember enjoying a meal more, not even Richard’s seafood feast the night before. Then there had been more than a hint of pretension in the lavish presentation, and she’d felt guilty about the exorbitant cost. But at Madame’s table the food was not only an exhibition of their hostess’s culinary skill but also a genuine expression of her regard for them. But when it was over, after consuming two huge meals in two days, Lucy felt rather sluggish.

“Want to catch a movie?” asked Ted. “Pam and I are meeting Richard at the cinema.”

“What’s the movie?” asked Bill.

“Dunno. But Richard says it’s a must-see,” said Pam.

“Then I guess you must,” joked Lucy, who was beginning to wonder about Ted’s infatuation with his old friend and about whether Pam was growing a bit tired of it. These days it was always “Richard says this . . .” and “Richard says that . . . ,” as if Richard was the ultimate authority on everything under the sun. “I think I’d like to get some exercise, maybe walk along the quais.”

“Sounds good,” agreed Bill, turning to Sue and Sid. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks. We’re going to a concert with Bob and Rachel over at the Sainte-Chappelle.”

“How lovely. Have a good time,” said Lucy, taking Bill’s hand and strolling off with him. “Where shall we walk? The Île Saint-Louis?”

“There’s a Berthillon ice cream shop there,” he said.

“How can you even think of ice cream after that huge meal?”

“I can always find a little room for ice cream,” he said. “And portions are small here.”

“I’ll have a lick,” said Lucy. “Just a taste.”

He laughed as they joined other couples and families promenading along the river. It was a lovely spring afternoon, the trees were leafing out, and the river water lapped gently against the stone embankment. Here and there lovers were sitting on benches, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Perhaps inspired by all the public displays of
amour,
Bill chose passion fruit ice cream, and it was so delicious that Lucy had more than one taste. They were heading home beneath a ravishing pink sky when Lucy’s cell phone rang.

As soon as she heard her daughter’s voice, Lucy knew something was wrong. “Mom,” wailed Elizabeth. “I can’t believe I said all those bad things. I should have done something. . . .”

“What’s happened?” asked Lucy.

“It’s Sylvie,” sobbed Elizabeth.

“She had an accident?”

“No, she’s dead! Murdered.”

“Are you sure?”

“The cops are here.... Will you come?”

Bill took the phone. “As fast as we can, baby,” he promised. “As fast as we can.”

Chapter Thirteen

A
taxi was letting off a passenger just a short distance down the street, so they ran and were able to catch the driver’s attention before he drove off. Bill gave him Elizabeth’s address, while Lucy checked her smartphone for any information about the discovery of Sylvie’s body. At home, she knew the Twitterverse would have plenty to say, as no police activity went unobserved, especially the discovery of a body. In no time at all photos would be posted on Facebook, videos would appear on YouTube, and the mainstream media would be quick to pick up the story. Here in France, however, discretion ruled, and there was little information beyond a brief official press release from the
brigade criminelle
announcing that the body of a female had been discovered on the quai de Grenelle earlier that day and police were investigating.

When the taxi pulled up in front of Elizabeth’s building, Lucy was out before the car had fully stopped, leaving Bill to pay the driver. He joined Lucy at the doorway, where she was frantically punching at the security keypad. Finally, the door opened, but they were confronted by a uniformed flic, who was blocking their way
.
“
Désolé,
” he said, firmly shaking his head. He went on to offer a lengthy explanation, but all Lucy understood was the word
interdit,
which meant they were not going to be allowed in.

“Nous sommes les parents de Mademoiselle Stone,” responded Lucy, and after checking via two-way radio with a supervisor, the flic stepped aside with a nod.

They hurried up the stairs, all four flights, and arrived at Elizabeth’s apartment completely out of breath, finding the door open and Elizabeth seated on the futon, looking very small and pale, between a couple of plainclothes cops.

“Mom! Dad!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sounding greatly relieved. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

The cops moved to the other side of the room, allowing Lucy and Bill to embrace their daughter and reassure themselves that she was all right. Lucy’s first reaction was that the French police were wonderfully polite. Then she realized they were watching and noting everything they did.

“Madame, monsieur,” began one of the detectives, who had a sad, sympathetic face, with bags under his eyes, which, she figured, served him well in his chosen line of work. “This is a very sad event for your daughter, and we are most sympathetic. Let me assure you we do not consider Elizabeth a suspect, but we believe she may have important information that will be most helpful in this investigation.” He spoke English with a pronounced accent, saying “ahn-for-mah-see-on” for “information,” but Lucy wasn’t about to quibble. She was deeply grateful that he spoke English at all. “My name is Guillaume Girard, Commissaire Girard.”

“We understand,” said Bill. “Elizabeth will be happy to cooperate.”

“And so will we,” said Lucy. “This is terrible. I assume Sylvie’s death was not an accident?”

“
Pas du tout,
” he said, with a doleful shake of his head.

Just then a couple of crime-scene investigators, wearing white jumpsuits and toting cases of equipment, arrived and were directed to Sylvie’s bedroom. Lucy and Bill were asked to seat themselves at the round table, which took up most of the small room, and Girard continued his interrogation of Elizabeth.

Lucy and Bill listened as Elizabeth explained Sylvie’s disappearance at the café in the flea market, becoming uneasy as Girard pressed Elizabeth for details.

“You were not concerned about your friend’s absence?” he asked, furrowing his creased forehead.

“No,” replied Elizabeth. “She had done this sort of thing before, left me when we went out together if an attractive man came along. She came and went. She didn’t share the details of her life with me. There were a lot of men. She would bring them here. It made me uncomfortable.”

“Did she seem upset, tense, in the last few days?”

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “If anything, she was nicer than usual. I was surprised when she offered to bring my mother and her friends to the flea market. It wasn’t at all typical.”

“Do you think she had some reason for going to the market, other than being a good hostess?” asked Girard. “Could the trip have been a cover for something else?”

“Like what?” asked Elizabeth. “Drugs?”

Girard was right on it. “Did she use?”

“A little pot. She said it helped her relax. That’s all.”

“Where did she get it?”

“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not interested in that stuff.”

“I see,” said Girard, sounding skeptical. He turned to Lucy and Bill. “Your daughter cannot stay here tonight. We must conduct a thorough search of the apartment, and there is also the matter of her emotional well-being. She should not be alone. Can she stay with you?”

“Of course,” said Lucy, thinking of the second sofa in the living room at the apartment. “Can she take a few things? Clothes and a toothbrush?”

“
Bien sûr,
” agreed Girard. “And before you go, you must all give me your contact information.”

Bill took care of that while Lucy helped Elizabeth gather a few necessities from the ugly 1930s sideboard trimmed with crudely carved wood, where she kept her clothes, tossing them into a duffel bag.

“How long will she need to stay away?” asked Lucy when Elizabeth went into the bathroom to get her toothbrush and other toiletries. Lucy took advantage of this opportunity to question the detective and also asked for one of his cards, for future reference.

“I do not know, madame,” said Girard, stepping close and presenting her with his card. “You must keep an eye on your daughter, take special care of her. What happened to Sylvie was not pretty.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She was tortured. . . .”

Lucy gasped.

“And then she was killed execution-style. A very professional job.”

“Ohmigod.” Lucy felt the floor shifting beneath her feet. “What was that girl involved in?”

“That, madame, is what we must discover.”

All three were silent in the taxi they took to the apartment, each thinking their separate thoughts. Lucy kept remembering Sylvie as she last saw her, with her blond hair cut in a chic bob, her porcelain skin, those delicately arched eyebrows, and that bemused smile, and struggled to understand why anyone would want to hurt, much less kill, such a beautiful young woman. She held her daughter’s hand tightly, troubled by Girard’s warning, but Elizabeth pulled it away in a gesture of stubborn independence. Lucy knew she had to tell her the truth about Sylvie’s death, but decided to wait until morning, until after she’d had a good night’s sleep. If her daughter could sleep, which Lucy doubted. She knew that Elizabeth took after her and was a light sleeper, unlike Bill, who could sleep through a tornado.

When they arrived at the apartment, the friends were gathered around the kitchen island, sipping herbal tea and recounting their evening activities.

“Chamomile tea?” offered Pam. “I also have Sleepytime, which I brought from home.”

“Sleepytime would be great,” said Lucy. “Elizabeth’s staying with us for a few nights. Her roommate . . .”

“Sylvie?” prompted Sue. “What’s she getting up to?”

“Sylvie had an accident,” began Bill, intending to break the news as gently as possible.

“She was murdered,” Elizabeth announced abruptly. “The police said I can’t stay in my apartment.”

There was a long silence, finally broken by Ted. “Another homicide?”

“So it seems,” said Lucy.

“That does it. We’re never going home,” said Bob, shaking his head. “Being involved in one murder is bad enough, but two . . . ? This is a legal nightmare.”

“Is that all you can say?” demanded Rachel. “This isn’t about us. Two people are dead, two people we knew and liked. Two friends. Two young friends. It’s tragic.”

“I can’t believe it’s happening,” said Sue.

“That’s a normal reaction,” said Rachel. “It’s going to take time to process. It takes time for the reality of death to really sink in.”

“And they say America is violent,” offered Sid.

“Isn’t France supposed to have a much lower murder rate than the U.S.?” demanded Ted.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” said Pam.

“Something’s going on,” said Sue, “and somehow we’re involved.”

If you only knew the half of it
, thought Lucy, cradling the cup of hot tea in both hands and inhaling the grassy, herbal scent. She was convinced they had stumbled into something very big and very bad, and she was afraid they weren’t going to escape unscathed.

Maybe it was the tea, or maybe it was some sort of subconscious effort by her brain to delay processing Sylvie’s death, but Lucy slept soundly right through the night and woke in the morning, surprised to find she felt refreshed and optimistic. She had known Chef Larry only in a casual way, she realized, which made it almost impossible to investigate his murder. But Sylvie, on the other hand, was her daughter’s roommate, and Lucy had much better access to information about her. Elizabeth maintained that Sylvie had been very private, but Lucy suspected her daughter knew more about her roommate than she realized. This time she had a real opportunity to get to the bottom of things, and she was determined to take advantage of it. Her primary motive was to protect her daughter. She knew she wouldn’t feel that Elizabeth was safe until whoever had killed Sylvie was caught and jailed, but she was also convinced that the only way she would ever see Tinker’s Cove again was if she solved both murders. She had a hunch the two deaths were connected, perhaps even committed by the same killer. The police didn’t seem to be making much headway, and they wouldn’t get their passports back until the matter was resolved.

Now all that remained was deciding on a plan of action. She yawned and stretched and got out of bed and, tiptoeing past her sleeping husband and daughter, went into the kitchen to start the coffeepot. She had just come back from the bathroom and was pouring herself a cup when Elizabeth joined her.

“You’re up early,” said Lucy.

“I’ve got to be at work by eight,” said Elizabeth.

“Oh, no,” said Lucy. “No work for you today.”

“Don’t be silly, Mom,” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ve got to go. I think that whatever happened to Sylvie—”

“What happened to Sylvie was dreadful,” said Lucy. “You need to know what Girard told me. She wasn’t attacked by some random rapist or something. She was grabbed and tortured and killed execution-style. They think she was involved in something that got her in trouble, probably drugs.”

“Duh,” replied Elizabeth sarcastically. “And I’m pretty sure that it’s happening at the hotel.”

Lucy thought her daughter was on to something. The Cavendish had gold-plated faucets in the marble bathrooms and Yves Delorme linens on the beds. The upper crust gathered in the tastefully decorated dining rooms to enjoy delicious food, excellent service, and distinguished company. But the hotel also employed a small army of workers who didn’t earn very much and were expected to serve people who had more money than they knew what to do with. No wonder there was a thriving black market operation, and now, she suspected, a drug operation. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that a hotel like the Cavendish, with staff and guests coming and going, not to mention a constant stream of deliveries, would be an excellent cover for illegal activities.

“I don’t want you—” began Lucy.

Elizabeth cut her off. “And I’m not going to be able to figure out what’s going on unless I’m there.”

Lucy didn’t like the idea, but she knew that Elizabeth was right.

“I don’t want you to put yourself in danger,” she said, this time finishing her sentence. “You’re going to have to be very careful,” warned Lucy. “And you better watch out for Adil and Malik. I’m pretty sure they’re involved somehow.”

“I’m not going to trust anybody,” said Elizabeth, surprising her mother by actually agreeing with her. “Getting Sylvie’s killer behind bars is the only way I’ll ever feel safe.”

If only there was some way she could be there, helping Elizabeth, thought Lucy, and then she realized that there was. “Okay, but you have to stay in constant contact with me. You can text, okay?”

“Yeah,” agreed Elizabeth, with a relieved sigh. “I’ll feel better if I know you’re keeping tabs on me.”

“That’s a first,” said Lucy, causing Elizabeth to grin.

“I’d like to get into her locker,” continued Lucy. “But I have a feeling the cops have already sealed it.”

“Probably,” agreed Elizabeth, “but she used to keep a black duffel bag of stuff under the reception counter, way in the back. I don’t think anybody knows about that but me.”

“We have to find out what’s in that bag,” said Lucy, and Elizabeth nodded.

It took some convincing, but in the end Bill finally agreed to let Elizabeth go to work, as long as either he or Lucy accompanied her to and from, and she promised to text them regularly throughout the day. Lucy took the morning shift, leaving with Elizabeth and taking the Métro to the hotel. Finding the lobby sparsely populated at this early hour, Lucy decided to stick around for a while, hoping she’d have an opportunity to check out that black bag belonging to Sylvie that Elizabeth had mentioned.

Elizabeth had to change into her Cavendish uniform in the locker room, and Lucy waited anxiously, sitting on one of the luxurious velvet sofas, for her to reappear and take her usual place at the concierge’s desk. Moments later, after taking a phone call, Elizabeth moved over to the reception desk, apparently filling in for the deceased Sylvie and joining a similarly young and attractive colleague. When the other worker took a break, she signaled her mother and reached under the reception desk, passing her the duffel bag that had belonged to Sylvie.

Lucy tucked it under her arm and made her way to the delicately perfumed ladies’ room, where she installed herself in one of the roomy cubicles, each one of which was equipped not only with a toilet but also with a private sink and a makeup table with a stool and large mirror. She sat right down, eagerly unzipped the bag, and pulled out the contents. These were the sorts of things any working girl might keep on hand at her job, including a couple of packs of panty hose, a cosmetic bag, tampons, and cigarettes. There was also, more surprisingly, a French sex manual and some items that Lucy suspected—but she wasn’t absolutely sure—were sex toys. One clue was the fact that they were wrapped in a very skimpy black lace teddy.