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

heads, and like most men in France, they had scarves wrapped around their necks and had turned up their coat collars against the rain. They were carrying briefcases and packages, as well as umbrellas, so there wasn’t a free hand between them with which to operate the security keypad. Realizing they were locked out and were getting pelted with rain while they fumbled with their stuff, Pam opened the door for them. The two ducked inside and passed the group without making eye contact and went straight for the stairs.
    “You shouldn’t have done that,” hissed Bob, watching the two bound up the stairs. “What’s the sense of a security system if you just let people in?”
    “It was the polite thing to do,” said Pam defensively.
    “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, the French aren’t really big on politeness,” huffed Bob. “They didn’t even say thank you.”
    “What’s your problem?” demanded Pam. “They were getting soaked.”
    “I’m sure Bob only wants to keep us safe,” said Rachel, attempting to smooth things over.
    “That’s right. They could be up to no good,” said Bob. “They had scarves covering their faces.”
    “I don’t know how you’ve missed it, Bob, but all the men in Paris wear scarves,” said Sue, who had pulled a small folding umbrella from her purse. “I think I’d like to do some shopping and work up an appetite,” she said. “What do you think, Sid?”
    “Sooner or later you’ll hit your credit limit and this madness will stop,” teased Sid.
    “What do you say, Lucy? Want to come with us?” asked Sue.
    “Sure,” said Lucy, checking with Bill and getting a nod. “We can buy some presents for the kids at home.”
    Sid opened the door, and Lucy reached for her umbrella, discovering she didn’t have it. “Oh, darn. I left my umbrella upstairs,” she said.
    “We’ll wait,” said Rachel in a philosophical tone. “Maybe the rain will let up a bit.”
    “That’s Rachel,” observed Pam. “Always the optimist.”
    “I’ll get it for you,” offered Bill.
    “Don’t bother. I could use the exercise,” said Lucy, guiltily aware of the profiteroles and tarte tatin she’d eaten.
    She heard their voices as she hurried up the three long flights of stairs, growing fainter as she climbed. When she reached the second floor—really, the third, because the French counted floors differently—she paused to rest and catch her breath, reading the sign on the landing that listed the various businesses on that floor: a lawyer, a dentist, a masseuse, and a podiatrist. One more floor to go. As she climbed, she wondered how many calories she was burning. Probably not all that many, she decided, recalling an article in a women’s magazine that claimed you would have to run a marathon to burn off one Big Mac.
    She hoped Chef Larry was still in the classroom. She’d be out of luck if he’d already locked up and left, though she didn’t think he had, because they were all standing in the doorway and would have seen him. Of course, she speculated, there were probably other doors to the building, surely a back door for deliveries and garbage removal, and probably even a second flight of stairs. If only they’d thought to put in an elevator, she thought, hurrying down the hall.
    She had passed the doors for Compu-Tech and Marie-Ange, Modiste, whatever that was, when she noticed the door to the cooking school was ajar. Good, she thought. Chef Larry must still be here. She called out his name and pushed the door open, but when she stepped inside, she found the classroom empty. It was a bit odd, she thought, but maybe Chef Larry was somewhere else in the building. Perhaps he was chatting up Marie-Ange, or shooting the breeze with the geeks at Compu-Tech, and hadn’t bothered to lock up. Lucky for her. She grabbed her umbrella, which was hanging on the coatrack, where she’d left it, and turned to go, catching a glimpse of a tray of spilled profiteroles on the floor in front of