French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier Page A

through on their way to the kitchen area, but Lucy found it difficult to ignore them. She’d hear a rustle or a footfall, and she’d have to lift her eyeshade and see who was there. After doing this several times, she gave up and got out of bed, reaching the kitchen just in time to get the last cup of coffee.
    She was still a bit groggy and out of sorts, however, as the group of friends made their way to Le Cooking School. The others were walking ahead of Lucy and Bill. Lucy was eating her croissant breakfast as she walked, and it slowed her down. Rain was forecast, so she’d brought her travel umbrella, which was also a hindrance as it dangled on a cord from her wrist. The others had disappeared inside when they reached the school, and Bill couldn’t remember the entry code.
    “Is it one-oh-four-oh-A or four-oh-one-oh-A?” he asked.
    “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, who was watching the early morning parade of pedestrians making their way to the Chemin Vert Métro station. “Try them both.”
    Bill punched in one number, and nothing happened. “I guess it’s the other one,” he said. “Which one did I use?”
    “I didn’t see,” said Lucy, who was staring across the street at a man standing in the doorway of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle shop, dragging on a cigarette. “Don’t look now, but isn’t that the guy from the market?” she asked, whispering. “Unibrow?”
    Bill immediately turned his head in the guy’s direction. “I’m not sure,” he said.
    “He’s dark and has a three-day beard, just like that guy. And he’s smoking.”
    “There are lots of dark guys with three-day beards in Paris,” said Bill, poking at the keypad. “And they all smoke. I can’t tell one from another.”
    “You have a point,” admitted Lucy as the keypad buzzed and Bill pushed the door open. “But I’m pretty sure I saw him yesterday in the same spot, when we were leaving class.”
    Upstairs, in the classroom, Chef Larry was togged out in chef’s whites, with a high toque on his head. The class was already under way. He was breaking eggs into a pot and whisking them furiously. “We’re making profiteroles,” he told Lucy and Bill, “beginning with pâte à choux .”
    “Sounds fabulous,” said Lucy, tying on her apron.
    “It’s just a fancy name for cream puffs,” said Sue scornfully. “I bet you’ve made them a million times.”
    “ Pâte à choux is not complicated,” admitted Chef Larry. “That is its beauty. But I am going to teach you my fabulous chocolate sauce—with a secret ingredient.”
    “Can’t wait,” muttered Sue, who was justifiably proud of her own chocolate sauce recipe, which had just a hint of coffee.
    “And today we will have a coffee break—very American, right?—and eat our profiteroles and tarte tatin,” said Chef Larry, spooning the pâte à choux into a pastry bag. “The bag is not necessary,” he said. “You can just spoon the pâte à choux into little balls for baking, but I like to make swans,” he said, demonstrating with a flourish.
    “Swans!” muttered Sue, rolling her eyes. “What a cliché!”
    “I think they’re cute,” said Pam.
    “And I can’t wait to have another piece of that tart,” added Bill.
    “All that pastry will spoil your lunch,” advised Lucy, who was a firm believer in three square meals a day and no snacks.
    “I’ll have salad,” promised Bill.
    But after eating generous helpings of tarte tatin, plus the profiteroles, which were absolutely delicious, containing a luscious brandy-flavored cream filling and topped with the amazing chocolate sauce Chef Larry had sprinkled with his secret ingredient, a special sea salt called fleur de sel, nobody was eager to face a large lunch.
    The friends were debating the issue, standing in the tiny vestibule and watching the heavy rain that was pouring down outside, when two young men approached, engaged in a lively conversation. They were both wearing baseball caps pulled low on their