Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

I know that look, and I hate it.

Mary shuts her mouth too, and freezes in place. Her apron is wrinkled around her stomach, making it look rounder than it is. She clenches her jaw tight but not because she's angry. She seems anxious. Anxious that Jean Pierre might ruin her catering business just by opening his mouth.

Silence fills the kitchen, and Cira rushes in looking tiresome. She brushes a single strand of hair out of her face, and glances around the room. She gently clasps her hands together and keeps her shoulders back, very aware of her posture.

"You served
our
pastries?" Chef Gautier asks Mary.

"Yes," Mary quickly replies.

"Do you always take what is not yours?" He crosses his arms and continues staring in her direction. Mary's forehead glistens.

"Well, no but—"

"Then why worry about what is not your business?" Jean Pierre states. I'm impressed by how clearly he is speaking English. Maybe he understands much more then he lets on? "I designed a place for every macaroon and French macaron. Every tartlet. Every choux.
No
extra."

"I'm sorry." Mary looks from side to side, hoping for the support of her staff. None of them speak up. Cira stands in the door wide-eyed. "I…uh…I didn't mean to ruin your display, Monsieur. I don't think I did."

"Marta. Poppy." Jean Pierre nods at us, and immediately we leave the kitchen to assess the damage. Wedding or wake, Chef Gautier has a reputation to uphold. He designed the desserts to compliment his cake—to look a certain way when everything is pulled together. A few extra sweets here and there aren't a big deal, but there are trays and trays of them missing from our side of the kitchen.

Mainly,
all
of my chocolate macaroons and mini lemon tarts.

A blast of thunder startles me as I enter the reception room with Marta by my side. I'm surprised to see that most of the wedding guests are eating and carrying on as if nothing happened. Mary set up a buffet table so that guests can eat at their own convenience.

What's convenient about murder?

Marta places her hands on her hips when she sees that Mary shoved a tray of petit fours in between the mashed potatoes and dinner rolls. Her cheeks turn rosy and she loudly exhales.

Our dessert table looks simple and elegant with Jean Pierre's mesmerizing fondant wedding cake decorated to match the garden with edible orchids and tasteful greenery. The accompanying mini
croquembouche
towers give it a French touch. My eyes move down the table. The base of each serving platter is crowded with more desserts. The result of Mary's impatience. Chef Gautier is right. Putting everything out at once doesn't look good.

"Should we take them back?" I whisper.

Marta takes another deep breath and watches a few guests admire Jean Pierre's cake before filling their plates with sweet treats. It's a good thing Mary's business is based in England. That means we will never have to work with her again.

"I think the damage has been done," Marta replies. "Bloody Mary."

I chuckle.

"Speaking of which," I add, "You could probably use a drink, am I right?"

"We're working, Poppy. That would be highly inappropriate."

Again, my sad attempt to lighten the mood between us fails. I am going to have to face it. I'll probably head back home never knowing why Marta dislikes me so much.

I fold my arms and proudly watch my desserts being devoured. It feels good to know that my cooking is good enough to be associated with such a famous bakery like Le Croissant. Grandma Liz would give me a kiss of approval if she were standing next to me. I haven't graduated from Calle Pastry Academy yet but right now I feel like already I have.

My thoughts are broken by a loud bang. I automatically look outside, expecting to see a fallen tree on the lawn or the remnants of a bolt of lightning striking the manor. All I see is rain. Marta grabs my shoulder for balance. She stares down at the floor. Her eyes are as wide as two powdery doughnuts.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" a woman shouts.

Detective Casey and Detective Berry come running into the room. Detective Berry quickly kneels beside a convulsing man. His back is flat on the ground and against his fallen chair. I'm frozen, not sure if I should look away or watch as the man's head bobs from side to side uncontrollably. I'm not sure if I'm witnessing a heart attack, a stroke, or an exorcism. Detective Berry firmly covers the man's ears, keeping his forearms stiff and straight against his neck. The man's head stops bobbing.

"Put that spoon in his mouth," he instructs the woman next to him. She gulps and does as he says. Detective Casey pulls out his phone, pressing buttons repeatedly.

"Damn," Detective Casey mutters, gritting his teeth. "Is anyone here a doctor?" He eagerly looks around the room at vacant faces. "Okay, does anyone know where the nearest Constable lives?"

"The harbor," someone shouts.

"Right," Detective Casey responds.

The man on the floor stops convulsing long enough to take a breath.

"John!" a woman shouts from the doorway, rushing to his side. Judging by their age difference, I assume she's John's daughter. She puts both hands on his shoulders and bends forward to listen to his heart. The man's eyes open slightly, but he drifts off as if in a deep, entrancing sleep. "What's wrong with him?"

"Ma'am," Detective Berry inquires. "Do you know this man?"

"What do you mean? He's my husband!" the woman barks.

"Does he have a history of seizures…epilepsy maybe?"

"No, of course not," the woman replies. She glances around the room with ruby cheeks. "My husband may be old, but he is perfectly healthy. You have no right to ask me questions like that." She eyes the crowd, keeping her chin up.

Detective Berry looks up at his superior.

"Sir, do you want me to run down to the harbor and radio for an ambulance?"

"I think that would be best," Detective Casey answers. "But check the main lines first. I can't seem to get any reception right now, but maybe a landline is working?"

John's youthful wife begins sobbing, even though her husband is clearly breathing. Detective Berry jumps to his feet and heads toward the coat closet. He will have to trudge through the mud and rain to get down to the beach if the manor's phone lines are shot.

"And Berry," Detective Casey adds. "
Hurry
."

Detective Casey examines John as his wife attempts to wake him from a deep slumber. Up until this point, the entire room was at a standstill. Now, various guests begin to pace around the room and even whisper. I gulp down air and look at Marta. She looks down at John and then looks back at me horrified. I didn't know her fair complexion could look so pale.

Detective Casey nods as he double-checks John's pulse.

"He's alive," the Detective reassures the crowd. "Don't worry, ma'am. We will get your husband to the hospital straight away." I watch as Detective Casey studies the wooden chair underneath John. A piece of the arm is cracked. He runs his fingers over the surface of the table and finally to the plate of food John was eating before he collapsed backward. A trail of crumbs is scattered over John's suit coat. Detective Casey picks up a half-eaten chocolate macaroon. He holds it closer to his eyes until he can see the bite marks more distinctly. "Who made these?"

His attention turns to Marta and me.

I feel like I'm back in day one of pastry school all over again with the entire guest list staring at me. My throat is too tight to swallow, and my limbs feel cold like I'm standing in a giant freezer. I can't answer his question honestly. Marta glances at me. The chocolate macaroons and mini lemon tarts were my assignment.

But Marta also helped with my batters.

Is the macaroon mine or Marta's?

There's something strange going on.

I'm back in the study sitting across from Detective Casey. He looks more concerned this time. His elbows are casually on the desk, but he's studying my expressions so closely that I want to cover my face. My forehead feels hot. Hot enough to grill a chocolate chip pancake.

The rain is starting to calm down, and the sun has set. Jean Pierre is waiting impatiently in the kitchen for his ride to the train station. He is leaving for Paris whether or not Marta and I are. Having already had her turn, Marta is waiting for me outside the door while Detective Berry paces the foyer with matted hair and muddy pant legs waiting for an ambulance to show up.

"Let's continue our conversation, Ms. Peters," Detective Casey begins. "You were about to tell me something before we were interrupted, and I hope you will be more cooperative than your coworker."

I take a deep breath. It's time to get this off my chest. Marta is already pissed at me anyway for a number of things I'm sure. I hear Bree's voice in my head telling me to calm down. And I hear Cole's voice saying that Jean Pierre is just an old, bitter French guy.

I half smile.

"Yes, I was," I answer. "
I
was the one who dropped that serving tray in the garden, Detective. I saw Lord Dovington at the bottom of the cliff, but I refused to believe it. I guess I was hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me. After all, I was cooped up in the kitchen all morning. I ran upstairs to look for him, but I found Olivia instead. I was just about to tell her what I saw when someone downstairs started screaming."

"I see," he responds, nodding. "Well, thank you for telling me. Is that all you wanted to say?"

"No." I raise my eyebrows. "I don't know what happened in the reception room, but I made those macaroons in accordance with the recipe and some extra chocolate. I added
nothing
more. I'm not a killer, Detective Casey. I'm just an ex-ballerina from Oregon trying to survive pastry school."

"I do believe you, Poppy. But if I test those macaroons and find a deadly surprise, that won't look good for you."

"Then figure out what's going on here," I blurt out.

"I could benefit from your help," he says. "Can you think of anyone else who was in the kitchen today besides the normal staff?"

I shrug.

"Me, Marta, Chef Gautier, and then there's Mary and her staff…oh, and Greg."

"Anything unusual that you noticed?" the Detective asks.

I think back through my day, unable to come up with something. The only time I left my cookie batter was when I went outside to look for Sam…and then after his body was found.

"Not that I can think of," I answer honestly. "Maybe the macaroons are fine, and that guy just has health issues?"

"Possibly," the Detective replies. "I won't know until I send those desserts to be tested properly."

There is a light knock on the door, and Marta steps inside.

"The ambulance is here," she says.

"Thank you, Marta." He stands up. "We're done for now, Poppy."

Detective Casey promptly jogs down the hall to join his partner. My head starts splitting when I stand up. It's getting late, and all I want to do is sleep and put this crazy day behind me.

"You Americans always bring drama with you," Marta says quietly. I follow her back down the hall—the sound of sirens growing louder as I do.

"Not on purpose," I argue. We pass a team of medics carrying John outside on a stretcher. An oxygen mask is placed over his mouth and nose as he's wheeled out. His wife trails along behind them, breathing heavily and gathering sympathy from any bystander willing to offer it. Marta speed walks back to home base—the kitchen. It seems to be the place where she feels most comfortable.

I get it.

We aren't guests, but we aren't exactly staff.

We have no place in this household.

"Oh," Cira says as we enter. She's drying pots and pans. An apron is tied neatly around her waist. "You just missed him."

"Huh?" I respond.

"Jean Pierre," she replies. "He just left to catch the next train. I thought you knew that?"

"This day couldn't get any worse," Marta says through her teeth. "Come on, Poppy. Let's go. I'll see if I can phone for another taxi."

Marta pulls her cell phone from her pocket, and I eye my suitcase in the corner. I take a seat at the table near the window and stare outside at a swaying apple tree. Cira takes the seat next to me while Marta talks loudly on the phone.

"Coffee?" Cira asks.

"Nah."
I can't believe I'm turning down fresh brew.

"Things will go back to normal when you get back to Paris," she says. "For all of us." She sits up straight in her chair—her shoulders back and feet planted firmly on the ground. She has a dainty way about her. Her movements are usually soft or swift. Never choppy like Mary and Marta.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sí." She grins and smoothes a strand on her midnight black hair.

"What are you doing here? I mean, you don't seem like the type to be hanging around Mary and her crew. I've actually seen you work."

"Greg is Mary's nephew." Cira laughs. "And I don't normally serve food and wash dishes."

"What was your last job?"

"Uh." She hesitates. "I was…a dancer."

"That's it," I blurt out. "I thought I saw you standing in first position while you washed potatoes."

"Yes, I probably was."

"So, why quit?"

"Long story," Cira says quietly.

Marta huffs when she hangs up the phone, unable to get a hold of a car service.

"Still no reception," Marta states. "We'll have to walk. I'm going to go grab my things. Wait here." She leaves without waiting for a reply.

"I've got some time," I say to Cira.

She stands up and retreats to the coffee pot on the counter. Cira takes it black with no cream or sugar. I can do without the sugar sometimes, but I've got to have my cream. It's the one thing I hated cutting come performance time, but those days are over. Though I'm sure my mother would still insist that I cut the cream.

"Time enough to hear about a backstabbing friend?"

"We've all had those," I comment.

My dancing days seem like a distant dream now. Some far-off fantasy that happened ages ago. Since passing my first semester at Calle Pastry Academy, and meeting my two partners in crime Bree and Cole, I haven't missed that part of my life much. I do miss dancing, but the connection I feel with food is just as strong. Maybe even stronger. It makes me feel like Grandma Liz is standing right beside me.

I've had several backstabbing-type friends.
Acquaintances
is a better word. One in particular who started rumors about my so-called alter ego as a stripper named Divinity. She even went as far as planting sparkly pink pasties in my ballet bag. Our choreographer and a few senior principal dancers saw them.

She stopped after snagging the female lead in Romeo and Juliet that year. I was favored to take that role, but I had trouble concentrating during rehearsals—no thanks to the janitorial staff who began showing up early to ask if my candy was for sale. I found out about her evil scheme after she joined the Bolshoi Ballet and moved to Moscow. Apparently, she bragged about her craftiness one drunken night at the bar down the street. Whether it's money, fame, or a stupid part in a ballet, some people will do
anything
to get what they want.

Anything.

Plus, I think she was bipolar.

"I don't like talking about it, but basically this girl had me fired for…well, something she was guilty of herself," Cira says, barely making eye contact.

"Say no more," I respond. "I get it."

"The worst part is I can't stop thinking about it. My life is so different now, and I'm not sure what to do next. Have you ever felt like that?"

The moment I injured my back.

"Yes," I answer. "And it took me a while to come up with a new life plan. It's weird how things work out and then suddenly fall apart."

"So I guess pastry is your new life plan?" Cira grins.

"It's a forgotten love." My mind jumps back to visits with Grandma Liz. The chocolate
brigadiero
at Christmastime. The long talks over her favorite hot fruit drink—Fruitalia, she called it. I wish she were still here.

Cira looks down at her coffee. She takes a deep breath and looks at me with glassy eyes. I'm surprised, not expecting our casual conversation to spark tears. She firmly presses her lips together as if forcing herself to stay composed, but it's difficult for her. Her hands shake slightly, and she tries to hide it by shifting her feet and casually turning to her side.

I've shed those same tears before. The ones of inadequacy.

I'm sure I seemed shaky like her the night of my first day at Calle Pastry Academy and the night that Cole and I found Professor Sellers' body last year. In that moment, I felt like my world was falling apart so much that I fainted. But despite it all I fought my way through a killer's grasp and one mean dessert competition that brought me here.

"Cira, is everything okay?" I ask.

She sniffles.

"Oh, yeah," she immediately answers. "I just have horrible allergies."

"We're inside."

"It comes and goes," she improvises. Clearly, she isn't ready to talk about whatever is bugging her. "Um…are you sure you don't want any?" She quickly picks up the coffee pot and holds it up. "Or I think there's a French press somewhere around here."

"No," I insist. "I'm ready to sleep off this whole weekend as soon as we get on our train. Besides, I don't think I can stomach anything more than what I saw today."

"Of course." She nods in agreement. "Will you tell your friends about today when you go back home?"

"A couple," I admit, thinking of Bree on the edge her seat. She'll most likely try to guess who the murderer is before I even tell her and be upset with herself if she doesn't get it right. Cole will be disappointed that no one ended up cutting the cake.

"That should make for an interesting conversation," she comments, dabbing at her allergies.

"I'll let you know how it goes." I pull up out my cell phone. No reception. Full battery. "I'll give you my number, and if I happen to hear of a ballet job in the states…"

"Once a dancer, always a dancer," Cira softly responds. "Okay." The two of us quickly exchange phone numbers.

Footsteps echo down the hall, and Marta returns with her suitcase. She runs into the kitchen like it's already Monday, and we're late for work. She waves at me to get up and follow her.

"Come on," Marta urges me. "The cab should be here any minute. Let's not waste any more time."

"You're the boss," I mutter quietly.

"Bye." Cira waves at us.

"Good luck, Cira."