A Fashionably French Murder

Book 3: American in Paris Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery; Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

American expat Tabitha Knight has found a new life in postwar Paris, along with a delightful friend in aspiring chef Julia Child. Yet there are perils in peacetime too, as a killer infiltrates one of the city’s most famous fashion houses.

If there’s one art the French have mastered as well as fine cuisine, it’s haute couture. Tabitha and Julia are already accustomed to sampling the delights of the former. Now fashion is returning to the forefront in Paris, as the somber hues of wartime are replaced by vibrant colors and ultra-feminine silhouettes, influenced by Christian Dior’s “New Look.”
 
Tabitha and Julia join a friend for a private showing at an exclusive fashion atelier, Maison Lannet. The event goes well, but when Tabitha returns later that evening to search for a lost glove, she finds the lights still on—and the couturier dead, strangled by a length of lace. The shop manager suspects that a jealous rival—perhaps Dior himself—committed the crime. Tabitha dismisses that idea, but when another body is found, it’s apparent that someone is targeting employees of Maison Lannet.
 
Meanwhile, Tabitha’s Grand-père and Oncle Rafe are in the midst of their own design-related fracas, as they squabble over how to decorate their new restaurant. And there are strange break-ins at a nearby shoe store—but are the crimes related? It’s up to Tabitha to don her investigative hat and find answers before someone commits another fatal fashion faux pas.

Release date: April 29, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

“IT’S THE EASIEST THING YOU’LL EVER MAKE,” JULIA ASSURED ME gaily. “Just plop it all in a pot and let it cook.”

I eyed her suspiciously. Something that was easy for Julia Child to cook was not necessarily easy for me to cook.

“I swear it!” she said, laughing, her eyes dancing as she wiped her hands on her apron, then reached for an onion.

“So you’re telling me that to make this soup, all I have to do is boil everything?” I looked up from my second to last bite of potato leek soup, still highly suspicious. There was no way something this creamy and aromatic could be that easy to make.

Julia winced visibly. “Now, Tabitha, I didn’t say a thing about boiling. You’re going to peel and cut up the potatoes into chunks—and it doesn’t matter if they look like wrinkly old men, as they tend to do this time of year—then slice the leeks and add all of it to the pot. A little salt and pepper, too, of course. Just barely cover it all with water and then you’re just going to let it simmer. You need to be delicate but firm with those little lovelies.”

“Delicate but firm? I’m not disciplining them, Julia.”

She laughed heartily. “You just let those chunks and slices mingle nicely in a gentle, quiet bubble bath. They’ll sort of dance together—not like the bunny hop,” she added quickly with a laugh, “but more like a waltz. We want our potatoes and leeks to be genteel and proper when they’re simmering—simmering, Tabs, not boiling and hopping about—and then when they’re nice and soft, you blend them together.”

“Wait.” I held up a hand . . . and then reached for a piece of baguette to drag through the last bit of soup in my bowl. “I have to blend them? In a blender?”

“Of course, dearie. How else do you think it gets all smooth and creamy?” She patted me on the arm. “You can’t mess it up, Tabs. I promise. And it’s so versatile! Why, you can serve it cold—which of course we’re not going to do in the dead of winter—and you can add chicken to it. Or cream—which makes it even more delectable. And chives, of course. It’s really quite the simplest thing you’ll ever make.”

I rolled my eyes and stuffed the last bite of soup-drenched bread into my mouth. “If you say so.” Did my grand-père’s kitchen even have a blender?

We were sitting in the tiny kitchen at Roo de Loo—the nickname Julia and her husband Paul had given their apartment on rue de l’Université, located on the Left Bank in Paris. It was early February and the sun was shining brightly through the window, even though it was crisp and cold outside.

I was anxious for winter to end, to get back to a warmer, more pleasant season . . . although winter here had its charms too. After all, it was Paris. How could it not be charming even on cold, bitter, spitting-weather days? Even when you had to hold your breath against the fumes and smoke that seemed to linger near the walks, and when the ear-splitting honks of the heavy traffic broke into your day, it was still Paris.

“What time do we have to leave today?” I asked, wondering if there was any soup left in the pot. It was still sitting on the stove, so there was hope.

I could get up and look, but the kitchen was tiny and Julia was in a constant state of movement in the small space. If she wasn’t checking inside the oven, she was peeling or chopping or grating something, or stirring or measuring or tasting. She was like a whirling dervish, and I didn’t want to get into her path—especially when she was holding a knife.

“Oh, goodness, I’d almost lost track of time,” Julia said, pausing from the rat-a-tat-tat chopping of the onion as she stood at the counter. “We’re meeting Charmaine at Maison Lannet at four thirty.”

“It’s almost three thirty now,” I pointed out. “I should go home and change. And put my things in the icebox.” I looked at my market bag, filled with turnips, parsnips, beets, eggs. I also had a filet of sole at home, which I had no real idea what I was going to do with, but this morning when we were at the market, Julia had raved over how sweet and fresh the sole smelled, and I’d been inspired to buy it.

Julia sighed. “I wish we had an icebox. I don’t know what I’m going to do when the weather gets warm again—although I’ll certainly enjoy the options at the market better.” She gave a jaundiced glance at the sad-looking onion she was preparing. “I simply can’t wait for spring peas, and tomatoes, and strawberries, and asparagus, and, oh, everything to come back in! And lettuce! My kingdom for some fresh lettuce or a delicate raspberry!” She clutched the remaining half of the onion to her chest and looked as if she were onstage, singing for her supper.

She was, of course, exaggerating. There were places to buy some of those items even in February—such as the huge market Les Halles in Le Marais—but that required a special trip much farther than we had time for most days. Besides, although they might be available, the fresh raspberries and baby lettuce shipped in from Algeria were expensive in February.

Smiling at Julia’s antics, I rose, giving the soup pot a look of reluctant goodbye. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t eaten enough. It was just that it was so good.

Even though I was only going across the street, I pulled on a hat and buttoned my coat. Riding down in the elevator from the second floor of Julia and Paul’s flat—where her kitchen was located—I couldn’t help but remember back in December when I had ridden down in the same elevator with a woman who was later found dead in the cellar of this very building.

That incident had propelled me into a fascination with crime solving and murder investigations—to Julia’s delight, and the dismay of one Inspecteur Étienne Merveille.

It wasn’t that I was looking for opportunities to investigate murders. They just seemed to find me—rather like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple (although I was far, far too young to be compared with Jane Marple). And since my father is a police detective back home in the suburb of Detroit where I’d grown up and bugged him for stories about his work, it seemed a natural development. I’d even asked him to send me books or industry publications that would help me to learn more about the process—without actually telling him why, of course.

I might have given him the impression I was going to try writing my own murder mystery.

Not long after the first incident with the dead woman at Julia’s apartment building I’d become involved with a second set of murders . . . ones that had hit a little too close to home. I still had nightmares over how close I’d come to losing my wonderful life with Grand-père and Oncle Rafe.

I let myself into the house on rue de l’Université where I lived with them—my two messieurs, Grand-père and Oncle Rafe—and their pair of pets.

House is really a misnomer, for the edifice in which we lived was more like a mansion. It was made from the distinctive Lute-tian limestone found throughout Paris, with ornate wrought iron grilles in front of every one of the many windows and gabled dormers in the Mansard-style roof. There were three spacious floors, each with a full bathroom on its level, a large cuisine that made Julia moan with envy, and a private courtyard in the back. The ceiling of the front foyer was three stories high and its floor was white-and-black marble with rose-pink decorative touches. The rest of the house was just as fancy and well-appointed.

It was truly a grande maison, and I could hardly believe I lived there, rent-free, with two of the most interesting, loving, and mysterious men I’ve ever known.

My arrival was heralded by the ecstatic yipping and bouncing from Oncle Rafe’s little dog, Oscar Wilde, who’d raced to the top of the first-floor stairs at the sound of my entrance. I was still getting used to the fact that in Paris, as throughout Europe, what we Americans think of as the second floor is known as the first floor. I had entered on the ground floor and Monsieur Wilde was looking down at me, yapping and yipping for all he was worth.

He had no intention of running down the stairs to greet me—that would take too much energy, and he might have to make his way back up, which would require even more exertion on his part. He merely wanted to inform me that he would graciously accept a treat, and would I please give it to him as soon as possible.

As M. Wilde yipped down at me, his nemesis and partner in crime, Madame X, made her appearance. She was a sleek black cat outfitted in a collar of real diamonds. She was far too ladylike to join M. Wilde in creating a ruckus, but she certainly would deign to accept a tiny catnip biscuit as my tax for entering her domain.

I pulled off my boots, sniffing the air hopefully. No, no one had magically decided to cook something for dinner yet. Ugh.

“Tabi! Is that you?” called Grand-père.

“I certainly hope so,” I called back, tossing my coat and hat on a chair in the foyer. There was no need to hang them, as I’d be leaving soon enough. “Who else has a key? I’ll be right there after I put away the things from the market.”

When I dashed up the stairs a few minutes later, M. Wilde greeted me with the same alacrity as before. I reached down to pat his little head, crooning at him as he sproinged up and down on two back feet to make sure I noticed him. He had the softest, silkiest fur and ears that were far too big for his little noggin. They were broad and perked up, with long hair that flowed almost to the floor. Oncle Rafe combed him thoroughly each day to keep the mats at bay.

“All right you little beastie,” I said, plucking a biscuit the size of my pinkie nail from the jar next to Oncle Rafe’s chair. Oscar Wilde took it eagerly, nearly nipping off the tip of my fingers with his teeny teeth. He bolted off to eat it in peace.

“Well, and how is Madame Child today?” asked Grand-père as I bent to kiss Oncle Rafe on his warm cheek, just above the beard.

I rolled my eyes affectionately and navigated over to my grandfather’s armchair to kiss him as well. He smelled of some sort of spicy male aftershave mingled with tobacco smoke.

My messieurs had been the recipients of delicious meals from Julia many times, especially over the last few months when I’d been embroiled in those murder investigations, and I knew Grand-père was angling to see whether Julia had sent anything home for them today.

I didn’t really blame him. I was not very good in the kitchen, and Grand-père and Oncle Rafe (and I) had suffered through too many meals that I’d prepared since their housekeeper and cook had left to take care of her ailing mother several months ago.

“Julia is just fine. She’s going to show me how to make potato leek soup,” I said. “I had hers today and it was delicious.”

“Ah,” said Oncle Rafe, visibly disappointed that I hadn’t schlepped some of the soup home for them. Then, always the gentleman, he rallied. “I’m certain it will be very delicious, ma petite.”

“What’s all this?” I asked, just noticing papers—which looked like blueprints—and other drawings all over the table.

The first floor salon was where Grand-père and Oncle Rafe spent most of their days. I wasn’t certain of their exact ages, but they had to be somewhere around eighty, give or take, and in the winter they preferred to sit wrapped up in blankets between the fireplace and a radiator. They each had a cozy armchair with a table next to it, and a large table in between the pair and a small sofa.

The salon was comfortable and had everything they needed: a full stock of wine and spirits at the bar cabinet, treats for their respective pets, comfortable chairs, large windows, and a doorway that led into Grand-père’s greenhouse, which was built on top of the portico in the courtyard. There were also a bathroom and bedrooms just down the hall, so neither of them had to use the stairs unless they wanted to. I preferred that they didn’t, especially my grand-père, who sometimes appeared more frail than I liked.

Even so, he still had a full head of thick, white hair, which he combed neatly every day after adding the slightest bit of vetiver-scented oil. His face was very handsome and always clean-shaven, with smooth, taut, fair skin that gave me hope for a family tendency to age well. He was tall and slender and, I imagined, had been very rakish in his younger years.

Oncle Rafe, who was not any sort of blood relation to me at all, was a study in contrasts to my grandfather. He was either naturally bald or kept his head shaved to appear that way, but he grew a full, neat mustache and beard. They were still surprisingly dark but grizzled, with the white beginning to take over near the corners of his mouth. More solid than Grand-père but shorter, Rafe had olive skin, thick, slashing brows, and deep brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

“But these are the plans for Maison de Verre, of course,” said Grand-père.

“You’re really doing it?” I asked, feeling a spark of excitement. “Reopening the restaurant?”

Maison de Verre had been a favorite eatery of theirs until the German Occupation when the Nazis came in and took over the establishment. The place eventually closed during the war. I’d learned about—and, let’s be honest, broken into—the restaurant during the incidents of the poisoned wine last month. I’d heard my messieurs talk about buying the building and reopening it, but I hadn’t realized it was actually going to happen.

“Oui.” Oncle Rafe smiled as he lit a cigarette. It was the small brown variety that he preferred, with a spicy scent that lingered in the smoke. “We are meeting with the interior designer tomorrow—Monsieur Grandpierre, who has done so much of the work for Monsieur Dior at his atelier, you see, that we must have him and his people. And so of course your grand-père and I must debate over the decor. Of course he would like all of the soft paisleys and the pastel silks—”

“And he would like the dark and gloomy,” retorted Grand-père, stabbing into the air with his own cigarette, his eyes flashing.

“I see,” I said.

“But it must be the colors of night, Maurice, don’t you see? It is Maison de Verre. The glass is everything! And so it is like the night sky with the glittering stars and the chandeliers lit up—”

“But then one cannot see one’s food,” Grand-père argued. “Ah—or le vin, if it is dark like the night sky. And how will you see the color of the Bordeaux or that the pink of the steak is perfect if it is like night?”

“I am not suggesting it would be dark,” Oncle Rafe said. “Only that it not be like the fuss and frill of a woman’s boudoir!”

I struggled not to giggle. They both appeared so intensely self-righteous about their divergent ideas. Even their respective pets were taking notice, watching them carefully as if prepared to jump out of the way should a more physical altercation occur. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out with the help of the decorators and find a happy medium.”

“Oui, oui, of course,” said Grand-père, but he continued to give his companion a dark look, and Oncle Rafe sneered right back at him.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your . . . er . . . discussions,” I said. “I’ve got to change into something a little more respectable.”

“And where is it you are off to now, ma mie?” asked Grand-père, eyeing my long skirt and the ugly, heavy woolen stockings I’d worn under it.

Since I wasn’t riding my bicycle through the snow and slush now that I had a snappy little Renault, I didn’t dare don the trousers I’d become used to wearing back home during my work at the bomber plant. For, as I’d discovered, trousers were technically only legal for women to wear in Paris if they were riding a bike or a horse.

Thus, for my trip to the market with Julia, I’d bundled up in thick, ungainly stockings, a too-long skirt, and heavy boots—which clearly offended my very Parisian grandfather. However, a woman in trousers tended to offend him even more, which I found amusing since he and Oncle Rafe—by their own admissions—had skirted the law more than once during their lives. And it wasn’t as if a police agent was going to arrest me for wearing pants!

“An American friend of Julia and Paul’s was looking for a translator for a visit to a fashion atelier. Her daughter is getting married in Paris this summer and she wants to wear haute couture for the wedding, but her French isn’t very good. And so I am going as a translator to make certain there aren’t any misunderstandings.”

Although I’d been born and raised in Michigan, my Parisian mother and grandmother had made certain I was fluent in their native language. Thus, I’d started up a small service since coming here, teaching French to wives and children of some of the expats who worked with Paul Child at the embassy. I’d once almost been hired to tutor a French woman in English, but my services had ultimately been declined because my accent was “too American.”

“Ah, yes, that is an excellent idea,” said Oncle Rafe as his attention skimmed over my attire. “But you will be there only to translate, non?”

I gave him a narrow look. “Are you suggesting I don’t have very good fashion sense?”

“Ah, well, Tabi, of course I am not saying such a thing,” Oncle Rafe replied, looking a little as if I’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.

I continued to look at him severely, even though my lips twitched. “Maybe the restaurant would be better off with paisleys and pastels.”

My grandfather guffawed and waved his cigarette. “You see, there, Rafe? The girl knows.”

“Are you going to Maison Dior, then?” asked Oncle Rafe, likely to distract from the direction the conversation had taken.

“No. I don’t think she was able to get an appointment there. But I don’t think this will be the only atelier we visit,” I said. “There maybe other appointments in the future.”

“But Monsieur Dior . . . he has completely revitalized the haute couture!” Grand-père spoke with such energy that Oscar Wilde was jolted awake from where he’d settled in Oncle Rafe’s lap for a snooze once the argument had waned. “He is brilliant! He has been the revolutionary, for the entire world of haute couture—something Paris has sadly needed since the war.”

“I think Madame Lannet was a protégé of Christian Dior,” I said. “She has only just opened her own atelier a year ago.”

“Hmph.” Grand-père didn’t seem the least bit satisfied by this information, and I exchanged glances with Oncle Rafe. “But I suppose if her atelier has been accepted by the Chambre Syndicale. . .” His voice trailed off as if to suggest that such an approval might not be enough, in his mind anyway.

I could only shrug. Grand-père scoffed under his breath, exchanging glances with Rafe.

“Well, I must get changed so I don’t embarrass my messieurs by entering a fancy atelier in outmoded clothing,” I said, giving them both a level look.

“But what is it you’ll be making for dinner?” asked Grand-père as I started up the stairs to the second floor.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” I called back as I bounded up the steps. “I’ll ask Julia for some ideas.”

That at least should comfort them.

I grew up in a small suburb of Detroit in the Midwest United States, in a household that, while we were never hand-to-mouth, didn’t have a lot of extra money. Even though my mother and grandmother had come to America from Paris after the Great War when my parents got married, they didn’t have the time or resources—perhaps not even the interest—to expend on high fashion.

Detroit was a big city, but it wasn’t New York or London or Paris, and so exclusive and bespoke fashion was something that was a distant concept for me and everyone I knew. We saw pictures in magazines like Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue, of course, and appreciated them, but most of those frocks and gowns and coats were much more exclusive and certainly far more expensive than anything I or any of my friends could afford.

I bought most of my clothes at Crowley’s or Hudson’s in Detroit, and they were what the French called prêt-à-porter: ready to wear. During the war, no one bought clothes. There were hardly any options because of shortages of fabric and also rationing.

I loved gorgeous gowns and pretty frocks as much as any female, but it wasn’t until I arrived in Paris and I was exposed to haute couture that I begin to understand what it actually was: an utterly French entity—not unlike champagne or Roquefort—that was closely regulated by an entity of the government called the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture Parisienne.

An atelier, or workshop, that wanted to be considered haute couture had to meet certain, specific requirements identified by the Chambre Syndicale, including how many employees and workers the designer had. The atelier also had to be located in Paris, and was required to have at least two collections per year with a minimum of pieces in each collection.

I had known Paris was the fashion center of the world—a distinction which Christian Dior had helped to wrest back to the City of Light after the Occupation, during which London and New York had tried to seize the title. I certainly had seen pictures of fancy dresses in magazines and on signs around the city, but never even considered that I would see one in real life, let alone own or even wear one.

Everything I knew about the haute couture houses—or maisons—suggested they were exclusive and highbrow. I was glad I was only going along as a translator, not as a potential client.

“Charmaine!” Julia called, waving at a woman walking toward us along the sidewalk of avenue Montaigne.

Charmaine Bauer was an attractive and elegant woman with a beautiful smile. She was tall and slender—not quite as tall as Julia’s six feet two or three, but certainly taller than my five feet five. Even beneath her bulky winter coat—fur; possibly mink, trimmed with something else at the collar—I could see that she had a willowy physique and knew any style of gown would look flattering on her. She wore a fantastic matching fur hat that framed a perfectly made-up face with patrician features. Since she had a grown daughter who was getting married, she had to be older than both Julia and me; probably in her fifties, but she appeared much younger.

“Bonjour!” said Charmaine as she approached us. She enfolded Julia in a boisterous hug complete with kisses on each cheek, then turned to me with a smile. The tip of her rounded nose was pink from the chill. “And you are Tabitha. Thank you very much for coming with me today. I just don’t want to make a mistake and get the wrong dress! The French speak so fast I can’t keep up. And I certainly don’t know all their words for clothing and trims and details.”

“I’m more than happy to help, Mrs. Bauer,” I told her with a smile. “It will be a pleasure.”

“Please call me Charmaine,” she replied, patting me on the arm. “Mrs. Bauer is what I call my husband’s mother and I don’t really care to be reminded of her. But I suppose she’ll somehow make her way over here for the wedding. That was one of the reasons I encouraged Louise to get married over here, in the hopes that my mother-in-law wouldn’t be able to make it.” Her genteel laugh created a little puff of mist in the cold air. Then she gave a little shiver and said, “I’m nervous. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous about buying a dress!” There was a lot of Southern in her voice, and I remembered Julia telling me she and her husband were from Richmond, Virginia.

“Oh, it’ll be just fine,” Julia said, linking arms with Charmaine and then with me. “I went to a fashion show once at one of these places. It was quite a thing. All these people crowded into a room, some of them were sitting but some weren’t . . . and then a model just walks in and around and sort of through everyone. You could reach out and touch her frock—if you wanted to. There were plenty of people who did, but I didn’t dare!” She laughed.

“She was a mannequin, not a model,” I corrected her with a smile. “Here in Paris, the women who walk around displaying the clothing are called mannequins. And they wear the model of the design. Like a sample.”

“Why, that’s completely opposite of back home,” Charmaine said, her eyes wide.

“Right. And if you use the term modèle to refer to an actual person, not the sample of the design . . . well, that actually refers to a someone who poses naked for an artist li. . .