Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

"I don't really know Todd, but if the thought of him makes you want to eat your feelings…"

"Yeah." She sighs. "He's all wrong for me, but that doesn't change the way I feel. And that doesn't change the fact that you're avoiding telling me the facts."

"There aren't that many facts to give," I lie, thinking about Cira and Billie.

"Yes there are," she argues. "What flavor was the cake?"

I wake up at 4:00 a.m. to the sound of my neighbor shouting something in French as she taps her heels on the floor, which happens to double as my ceiling. After I finished the last of my éclair, all while explaining to Bree Jean Pierre's elaborate cake planning process, I fell asleep. My intention was to go out and try some of that cassoulet Destin turned his nose up at. I glance out my window at the navy blue sky. Most of it is masked by tall buildings and city lights.

The woman that lives above me shouts some more, and I hear a male voice shout back. I don't have to be at the bakery for at least another hour, but there's no harm in going early to get started on my éclairs. Besides, Destin or Dandre should be there starting the breads. I grab a change of clothes, happy to get out of my bite-size apartment while my neighbors figure things out.

The woman yells something else, and this time I hear a loud thud that sends my heart racing. Another loud thud echoes through the stairwell. I run to my door, my heart pounding. Opening my door just a sliver, I see an open suitcase flailed across the steps and clothes spilling out of the top. The man upstairs shouts something. The woman shouts back. And like clockwork, more luggage is tossed out the door. This time I see a few collared shirts and a pair of shiny men's dress shoes.

Ouch.

I grab my bag and quickly jog down the stairwell and out onto the sidewalk. My eyelids feel heavy, but as soon as I breathe in the crisp morning air I'm fully awake. I walk down the quiet Parisian street toward Le Croissant. All the shops are closed. Not one other person is outside but me. I look up and am surprised that I can see a few dim stars glittering in the sky.

As I reach the bakery, I see light pouring through the crevices of the back door. I knock lightly, expecting to be greeted by one of Destin's smirks or Dandre's jolly hellos. My eyes go wide when Chef Gautier answers. I'm not sure if the man ever sleeps. He glances at my bag and stands aside to let me in. Jean Pierre shuts the door and resumes his morning tasks. I set my things down, curious as to why he's mixing what appears to be madeleine batter this early in the day.

"Éclairs," I state. Jean Pierre nods and tilts his head toward the pantry. I get settled at my usual station before retrieving all the ingredients I'll need to make éclairs, starting with the chocolate ones I made for Marta yesterday.

As I begin preparing my batter, I notice Jean Pierre grin as he adds a sprinkle of lemon zest to his bowl. A slight smile crosses his face when he scoops the dough into his madeleine pan. He does it carefully as if the batter has feelings of its own. I place my hands on my hips, and watch him smile some more.

Well, at least part of him is human.

I open my mouth to say something but stop suddenly. I don't want to spoil the moment. I move forward with my éclairs, glancing up every now and again at Chef Gautier. I study the way he mixes more batter, stirring with great care.

In my adolescence when I started training more seriously for ballet, I remember feeling overwhelmed by the refined skills of my peers. They were more graceful, more toned, and on point with everything that was asked of them. I started my first official class with a girl named Tessa. She was smaller than me and lighter on her feet. Our instructor couldn't help but toss her compliment after compliment. Her natural ability and ideal figure made the others angry.

For a while, I jumped on that bandwagon.

My ballet suffered because of it.

It wasn't until I stopped asking myself what Tessa had that I didn't that my dancing started to improve. It wasn't so much that I stopped focusing on her and instead focused on myself. I still studied the way her hands floated gracefully to her sides and how her legs moved in sync with the rest of her body. But I started to wonder if I could learn to be more like her, and soon enough the anger and frustration turned to admirable respect for the talent she had.

My dancing improved significantly.

I grab some chocolate and cream to start my ganache and keep an eye on Jean Pierre as he cleans up his workspace. It's easy to be frustrated with a man of few words. Half the problem is he won't tell me what he's thinking, and I'm sure asking would only make it worse. He may not have the social charisma I was hoping for, but he has it with food. I want that too.

I need to learn to be more like him…as a pastry chef…not a person.

I pause and bite the side of my lip, looking at his counter versus mine. I twiddle my fingers together as an idea swirls around in my head. If Jean Pierre won't teach me, I'll make him teach me. I'll observe every little thing he does. Watch him make every recipe. Figure out his tastes. How he likes his toast even. And then every night when I go home, I'll write it all down.

I nod, pleased with my secret effort to get what I came all the way to Paris for.

A leg up on everyone else back in Georgia.

I continue on with my assignment as Chef Gautier proceeds to place his madeleines in the oven. He prepares a glaze to finish them off as Marta arrives for work. She does a double take when she sees me and forces a half grin. I pipe my first round of éclairs onto a baking sheet.

As the morning moves on, Destin and Dandre come in with smiles on their faces and Michel pops his head in to have a word with Marta about today's menu. When the madeleines are finished cooking Jean Pierre insists on retrieving them himself. He pulls his pans from the oven and studies his creations before smiling privately to himself. He preps a small to-go box, picks a few of the best mini sponges, and sets them aside. I watch him curiously as he packs the small box and places it off to the side like it's for himself to indulge in later. No one seems to notice, and no one seems to mind.

Michel pokes his head in again, and this time he scans the kitchen until he sees me. He waves to get my attention.

"Poppy, will you come here please?" he asks.

"Sure."

I wipe my hands and head for the hallway—the sound of customers waiting at the front door seeps through the walls. I meet Mr. Rolph in his office. He sits and invites me to do the same. Last time I sat in this chair, I wasn't met with good news.

Michel looks more gaunt than usual. His cheeks look as if they're slowly fading into the bones on his face. He looks like he hasn't had much sleep, and his office isn't as tidy as it normally is. There are muffin crumbs next to his coffee cup—Michel's version of messy.

"I'll start with your progress report," he begins. I take a deep breath, remembering my French macaron failure and everything that happened at Dovington Manor.

"Okay."

"Marta informs me that you are improving." He looks down at a newspaper on his desk like it's my personal baking file. "She says you are doing well."

"Oh," I blurt out. I'm a little surprised given the way I told her what I really thought of her back in England. "She said that?"

"Is there a problem?" He pauses, studying my face.

"No. No problem."

"Next, and most importantly…" He glances down at his desk again. I lean forward and catch a glimpse of the newspaper headline. Slapped across the front in bolded letters are the words Lord Samuel Dovington. The rest is all in French. I clench my hands in fists when I see his name. "We must discuss England."

"I figured as much," I mutter. "Thanks for giving me at least one day to take my mind off of it."

He looks puzzled.

"Lord Dovington was a wealthy man." He ignores my previous comment, keeping a concerned look on his face. It reminds me of the one my mom makes when she's brought a salad with dressing on top instead of on the side. I don't think I've ever
not
seen her send something back when we go out for dinner. It's kind of her thing.

"I agree," I reply, wondering where he's going with this.

"That means the press will be all over his wedding mishap." Michel pushes the newspaper aside. "I've been on the phone nonstop trying to prevent our name from popping up in the papers, but I can only do so much. I will be speaking to everyone about this at some point this week. Le Croissant has no comment on the matter, okay? If you are asked anything about the Dovington's you are
not
to give any sort of comment."

"I understand."

"We have a reputation here," he informs me. "We strive for perfection. Only the best of the best. Our bakery is not one of scandals and mischief. We hire hard workers. The brightest culinary talent that Europe has to offer."

"I get it." I move my fingers across my mouth as if I'm zipping my lips shut. "I won't say a word about it. I wish it'd never happened, anyway."

"Reporters are relentless creatures. They could be anywhere.
Anyone
."

"Then I will keep doing what I've been doing and never talk about England. Ever."

"Good." Michel manages to force an approving smile. I eye his empty coffee cup and twitching pinky finger. I stand up, spotting a few new wrinkle lines on his forehead. Managing a bakery is no easy task, especially when the main attraction doesn't communicate well with others. Or maybe it's just me.

"Want me to refill that for you?" I point at his coffee cup and half-eaten muffin from this morning's day old pile reserved for staff only. Michel raises his eyebrows.

"What?"

"Your coffee," I say. "You look like you're running on empty."

"Oh." He seems a little shocked. I guess no one has ever offered to refill his mug before. "Thank you, Poppy." I shrug like it's no big deal, because it isn't.

I grab the handle of his beige porcelain mug. The edges are crisp and thin with a vine of flowers outlined around the base. All in white, of course. Michel seems drawn to muted colors. Nothing too loud or too showy.

I take a step into the hallway and hear a loud bang followed by a scream.

The scream of a woman.

Michel jumps up behind me.

"The kitchen," I say lowly. My heart pounds as I take the lead. Racing to the kitchen with Michel at my heels, I don't know what I'll find when I push open the door. I can think of a million things, and all of them are
bad
. Dovington Manor bad.

Another bang makes me jump. My torso freezes, and I have to forces myself to take a breath before I turn blue. My fingers touch the door to the kitchen. As I cautiously push it open, I hear Michel's heavy breathing right behind me.

"No!" Destin yells.

The kitchen looks like a chef's nightmare. Pots and pans are scattered across the floor. Some were holding today's goods. Flour is still floating through the air, and some of it sneaks up my nose. I cough, stepping to the side where Dandre is watching and covering his mouth with his hand. A woman about my age flails her arms, knocking over a tray of my chocolate éclairs. I cringe when they hit the floor.

All my hard work.

Ruined.

I quickly scan the kitchen for Marta and Jean Pierre. The two of them are near the back door, which is wide open. Jean Pierre has his arms crossed, and Marta is gawking at the scene in front of her.

Destin is standing the middle of the kitchen. I deduced it was him because he is the only one left unaccounted for besides the staff that work the front counter. He's covered from head to toe in flour and raw batter. What I'm guessing is our almond raspberry cake mixture is dripping down his front and oozing off of his head, hiding his thick mane.

The woman in front of him screams something in French before she bumps a few more trays of pastries on her way out. She leaves in a whirlwind of confectioner's sugar, and all of us are left wondering what the hell just happened.

Destin exhales as he looks down at the mess on the ground. We will all have to work double time to make up for the work that was just lost. Hopefully, we have enough pastries to feed the morning rush of customers. Jean Pierre steps forward, and the kitchen remains eerily silent. I gulp, praying that Destin won't be fired before he has the chance to explain what happened.

What did just happen?

From what I could make out, the woman stormed into the kitchen unannounced and let Destin have it, along with half of today's product. Destin must have done something unforgiveable for that woman to run wild like that. Or maybe it's a French thing? The woman in the apartment above me seems to yell whenever she feels like it. Or maybe Destin is just one of those guys. The ones that draw you in for reasons you never figure out and drive you crazy for the rest of your life. A guy like my ex-boyfriend Locke. Whether we're together or not, he yanks at my last nerve every time I see him. Not in a good way.

Destin barely lifts his head. He doesn't look at his boss. Instead he wrinkles his nose and squints his eyes like he's about to be punched. Jean Pierre opens his mouth and says something quietly in French. Destin observes the mess around him and nods.

"What did he say?" I mutter to Michel.

"He told him to get cleaned up then fix this mess," he whispers.

"Will he be fired?"

"No," Michel clearly states. "Chef Gautier hand picks his team. He won't want to lose Destin over a lover's quarrel."

"Lover's quarrel?" I repeat back.