A Murder Most French

Book 2: American in Paris Mystery

by Colleen Cambridge

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Postwar Paris is surging back to life, and its citizens are seizing every opportunity to raise a glass or share a delicious meal. But as American ex-pat Tabitha Knight and chef-in-training Julia Child discover, celebrations can quickly go awry when someone has murder in mind . . .

The graceful domes of Sacré Coeur, the imposing cathedral of Notre Dame, the breathtaking Tour
Eiffel . . . Paris is overflowing with stunning architecture. Yet for Tabitha Knight, the humble building that houses the Cordon Bleu cooking school, where her friend Julia studies, is just as notable. Tabitha is always happy to sample Julia’s latest creation and try to recreate dishes for her Grand-père and Oncle Rafe.

The legendary school also holds open demonstrations, where the public can see its master chefs at work. It’s a treat for any aspiring cook—until one of the chefs pours himself a glass of wine from a rare vintage bottle—and promptly drops dead in front of Julia, Tabitha, and other assembled guests. It’s the first in a frightening string of poisonings that turns grimly personal when cyanide-laced wine is sent to someone very close to Tabitha. 

What kind of killer chooses such a means of murder, and why? Tabitha and Julia hope to find answers in order to save innocent lives—not to mention a few exquisite vintages—even as their investigation takes them through some of the darkest corners of France’s wartime past . . .

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

I WAS JUST ABOUT TO CRACK THE SECOND OF TWO EGGS INTO A BOWL when I hesitated.

Now, what had Julia told me about scrambling eggs?

I sighed, frowning, summoning the memory of my good friend and neighbor Julia Child and her enthusiastic description of the best way—the very best way—to make scrambled eggs, because apparently, we Americans had been doing it all wrong, and she’d learned the correct process at Le Cordon Bleu, the prestigious cooking school here in Paris.

I squinted, trying to remember. . . . Did I add butter to the pan or to the eggs? And what about the milk or cream? Did I whisk it into the eggs or into the pan? And when did I put in the tarragon?

I sipped my well-sugared black coffee and was still vacillating on the next step after the basic one of cracking an egg when someone banged the front door knocker.

I fumbled the second egg, saved it, then hurried to answer the knocking before it—or our little dog, who was a champion barker—woke my grand-père and Oncle Rafe. My messieurs, as I affectionately referred to them, along with Oscar Wilde, the dog, were still sleeping on the floor above and weren’t due to rise for at least another hour. Madame X, the cat, might awaken, but at least she wouldn’t make any noise. She’d simply sneer.

“Julia!” I cried in surprise when I opened the door to my friend. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

She was enrolled at Le Cordon Bleu and normally spent her mornings tucked away in the basement of that building with eleven former American GIs and the kind but exacting Chef Bugnard. She was the only woman in the class and, according to her, the one who took it the most seriously.

“There’s a problem with the ovens today, and monsieur le chef canceled our classes this morning,” Julia explained. She was beaming, as she usually was, a barely leashed font of energy and enthusiasm about life, new experiences and, most of all, food.

Somewhere over six feet, two inches tall—she tended to underestimate her height when asked—Julia swept into the house with her muffler and coat flowing, dragging the hat off her curling brown hair. She plopped two canvas tote bags onto a chair.

“Are you going to the market? I need to go, and I thought I would see—What are you cooking?” she asked, sniffing, as she unwound herself from the muffler and coat.

Could she actually smell the raw egg from the foyer?

“How did you know?” Instead of hanging them in the closet, I slung her coat and scarf over the banister.

“I smell tarragon . . . and, besides, you’re holding an egg.” Her eyes danced with humor.

“Oh!” I laughed. Of course she would smell the freshly chopped herb. “I was trying to make scrambled eggs, because I wanted something different than an omelette. But I couldn’t remember when to add the butter. And the cream,” I added with a weak laugh. “And . . . actually how to do it.”

Julia had taught me how to make omelettes, and I could usually muddle through the process and produce something quite delicious—to the relief of Grand-père and Oncle Rafe—but this morning I’d thought I’d try scrambled eggs. After all, you can only eat so many omelettes.

(I don’t feel that way about cheese and baguettes, however. I could eat cheese with a torn piece of crusty bread every day for the rest of my life and not mind it at all. Especially if it was accompanied by a nice red wine.)

“Oh! Les oeufs brouillés with fresh tarragon! Magnifique!” Julia said, breezing toward the kitchen. “Let’s have a lesson, then, Tabitha, since I’m unwillingly playing hooky. I’ll supervise.”

Darn. I was hoping she’d just offer to make them herself.

“Chef Bugnard called me out in front of the entire class one day,” Julia said as she pulled on an apron and handed one to me. “Lordy, how I love your kitchen! Mine is so dratted tiny. Like a postage stamp! Anyway, monsieur le chef asked for volunteers to make scrambled eggs, and I figured I could do it. How can you mess up scrambled eggs? Well . . . you can!” She peered at the bowl with my single broken egg, then looked at me. “You didn’t get too far, did you?”

I giggled. “No . . . I couldn’t remember when to add the butter—to the pan or the eggs.”

“To the pan. Just slick it all over the pan—no, no, this is not the time to be reticent, Tabs, you’ve got to bathe the eggs in butter. Let it melt all over the bottom and sides of the pan, and while it’s heating, go ahead and crack the second egg in the bowl—you’re only making two? What about your messieurs?”

“They’re still sleeping,” I told her. “And Bet and Blythe will be here in an hour or so and will bring coffee and croissants up to them in the salon when they get up.”

“All right. Now—ye gods, don’t beat them to death!” she said quickly as I started to vigorously whisk the two eggs with a fork. “Nice and easy; you’re not trying to mutilate the poor darlings. Just enough to blend them, like you do for an omelette. Ah . . . good. Nice. Just—whoa, that’s enough. That’s it. Now les oeufs can slide into the buttery pan, like . . . so . . .” She watched me with an eagle eye as I poured in the eggs. “No, no . . . don’t do anything to them for a few minutes . . . just watch . . .”

I watched and watched, glanced at Julia, who was also watching the pan of creamy bright yellow goo, then watched some more. I wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

“Ah, now . . . now, see how they’re beginning to get a little custardy in the center there? Now, with the fork, you can stir them . . . Oh, turn down the heat! It should be very low . . . right. Now just keep stirring. Take it off the heat for a sec, Tabs,” she said suddenly. “Let it rest—now put it back. We are cooking these little oeufs very nice and slowly . . . like a seduction in the pan. No rush here.”

I listened and did my best, stirring with the fork—egged on (ha!) until I was doing so rather vigorously—removing the pan from the heat, then putting it back again, even as I was stirring. I had no idea scrambled eggs were so complicated!

“Now, now, take them off the heat . . . See how they’re still loose? Do you see? Oh la la! That is perfection! Now you add the milk or cream, or even butter if you like—it stops the cooking there, right where we want it! There will be no rubbery eggs in La Maison de Saint-Léger! Yes, yes, a good splash of milk for sure,” she said when I hesitated with the jar of milk.

“Mix it up, and then the tarragon. Just sprinkle it over the top, et voilà! Creaminess and lush goodness!” She smiled, as proud as if I’d built an airplane right in front of her. “Now, go ahead and eat. I’ve already had my croissant and café this morning. I got all the way to the school before I found out the classes were canceled. That’s what I get for being there so early.”

She retrieved a mug and filled it with coffee from the kettle, then sat on a chair next to the small kitchen table. I joined her with my creamy, custardy, tarragony eggs and the rest of my coffee. The toast I’d made before cooking the eggs was cold, but I was going to eat that, too.

“Oh my God,” I said as I tasted the eggs. I felt my eyes go wide. “These are so good. You don’t expect scrambled eggs to be anything that special, but these are delicious.”

“You see? You don’t know what you are missing until you have food that is cooked well.” Julia was still smiling as she sipped from her coffee. “Chef Bugnard says that even the simplest, most basic of dishes must be given the same attention and care as the most complicated ones. Every little step, every ingredient must be attended to. And you must taste, taste, taste!”

I was nodding in agreement while still working my way through the eggs. I was torn between eating them quickly while they were hot—they were so good!—or savoring them. I chose eating them quickly.

Since I’d moved to Paris last April, I’d become accustomed to French cooking—so much better than the sliced Spam, Campbell’s soups, and overdone roasts I’d grown up on. Despite being French, my mother is unequivocally not a cook.

And I’m not even going to mention the food they fed us while I was working as a riveter at the Willow Run Bomber Plant during the war. Julia would have been appalled—or, more likely, she would have sympathized.

After all, she had met her husband, Paul, while working with him at the Office of Strategic Services (which was now called the Central Intelligence Agency) during the war, and I’m not certain the fare served to them was much better than ours at the bomber plant.

A year or nine months ago, I wouldn’t have even noticed whether the eggs were bland and boring—but that was before the change that had happened when I moved here to Paris. Food was no longer simply a substance to fuel my body; it was an experience . . . and I was learning to appreciate it.

“Come to the market with me, Tabs!” said Julia as I finished the last of my eggs and cold, dry toast.

I sighed as I put the dishes on the counter. Bet and Blythe, our day maids, who were identical twins and impossible to tell apart, would attend to them. I had been taught back home to always clean up after myself, but when Bet (or Blythe) had found me washing my breakfast dishes one morning, she’d been horrified and chased me out of the kitchen. And so now I left everything for them.

Who was I to argue?

“I do have to find something to make for dinner tonight,” I told Julia.

“Oh, wonderful! We’ll see what they have and find something for you to make. Are your gentlemen getting tired of poulet rôti?” she said with a grin.

I laughed. Thanks to Julia’s tutelage, over the past few weeks I had mastered the simplicity and deliciousness of roasted chicken—complete with crusty brown skin and delectably moist interior. “I made it twice already this week,” I confessed. “Grand-père and Oncle Rafe ate it happily, but . . . I suppose I should try something else. I tried to make a chicken fricassee last night with the leftover chicken, and it ended up a mess. Watery and tasteless. And last week we had to resort to cold sliced sausage and cheese for dinner twice because I ruined everything. I didn’t realize you could overcook sole.”

That was the only thing about living here in Paris that wasn’t perfectly glorious: the cooking for dinner fell to me. Just after I’d arrived in April, Grand-père’s housekeeper/cook had left to stay with her ailing sister down in Provence. I had no idea when or even whether she would return.

I didn’t mind cooking for my messieurs—not in the least. It’s just that I wasn’t that good at it, and what I did know how to cook was very . . . American. Which would not suit my very Parisian gentlemen, as I learned the time I made them spaghetti with canned sauce. I winced at the memory.

“Then let’s be off,” Julia said, sweeping to her feet.

I gulped down the rest of my coffee—Parisian café was worlds better than the Maxwell House instant coffee I was used to—and began to pull on my boots and coat.

Moments later, we slipped out the front door of the large, fancy home in the seventh arrondissement where I lived with Grand-père and Oncle Rafe. Most people, including me, would call it a mansion. Some would call it luxurious. It was a miracle it had survived the German Occupation intact. The only remnant of that deplorable time was a single bullet hole in the front wall of the house.

There were marble floors and high ceilings and tall windows and spacious rooms with walls papered in silk. There were three bathrooms—one on each floor!—and a tiny greenhouse built on top of the portico in the private gated courtyard, where I parked my cherry-red Renault, which had been a recent gift from Grand-père. The ground floor contained the kitchen, or cuisine, as well as a parlor, a sitting room—I wasn’t certain of the difference—and quarters for live-in servants, which we didn’t have. The first floor (which in America would be considered the second floor) offered access to the greenhouse through the salon, where my messieurs spent most of their days, along with bedrooms and a bathroom.

I was ecstatic to have the entire second floor, which was the top floor and almost like an attic, to myself. With its rows of dormer windows and a peaked ceiling—plus my own bathroom—the space was more generous than anywhere I’d ever lived before.

I pinched myself nearly every day, for I could hardly believe I was living there, rent free, within sight of the tour Eiffel and across rue de l’Université from Julia.

I stepped outside into the cold winter’s day, but I didn’t mind the crisp fresh air brushing across my cheeks and pointy nose. After all, I was in Paris, and today the sun was out. It was glorious to see the bright light spill over the distinctly Parisian buildings of creamy Lutetian limestone like a pale honey glaze, then dance over the lightly snowed trees and bushes.

It still felt like a dream, coming to live here with my maternal grandfather in such a beautiful, fascinating city—especially after the dark days of the war. I had been at a loss back home, and coming here had given me the chance to find something unusual to do with my life.

I hadn’t yet figured out what that was, but I was enjoying trying to find out!

“I’m sorry your classes were canceled today,” I said as we started down the street toward rue de Bourgogne and its outdoor market. “But I’m not sorry you’re going to the market with me. It’s always easier to find something to make with your guidance.”

“Oh, me too, Tabs. I really hope the ovens are fixed by tomorrow!” Julia said. “I’d hate to miss another day. You’re still coming to the demonstration at school this afternoon, aren’t you? The chef is a wine aficionado, too, so he’s going to be talking a lot about the proper way to serve and cook with wine.”

“Sure . . . but how can there be a demonstration if the oven isn’t working?” I didn’t really expect to learn that much from watching someone cook, but it was always fun going to things with Julia. I was curious about her school, too. Besides, from what she’d told me, everyone who came to the demonstration got to taste the food that was cooked, so I was enthusiastic about that.

“The ovens in the classroom dungeon aren’t working, but the one in the demonstration hall is,” Julia told me patiently as we waited to cross the rue. “So you can come over to the school with me after lunch—do you have a tutoring appointment this morning? What time are you done?—and then we can make sure to get seats. There are only thirty spots, so we don’t want to be late. It’s three hundred francs for the class—is that okay?”

Three hundred francs was just over a dollar, so that was no problem for my pocketbook. “I should be finished with my tutoring by noon,” I told her.

Thanks to Paul Child, who worked for the United States Information Service out of the American embassy, I’d taken on a number of expat students—most of them the children or wives of his coworkers—to help them with their French. Having been raised in America by my maternal grandmother and mother, both of whom were Parisian, I was fluent in the language. Back home, I had gone to school to be a teacher, because that was what women did—became teachers, nurses, secretaries, or wives—and so that credential made my services even more valuable.

I hadn’t really wanted to be a mathematics and science teacher, but doing private tutoring in Paris was a dream come true—and the perfect way to use my degree.

“Wonderful. I’ll pick you up at one thirty. You can ride over with me in the Flash,” Julia said, linking her hand through the crook of my arm and bumping gently against me with affection. The Flash was the Childs’ beat-up blue station wagon, and I was mostly not terrorized when I rode with my boisterous friend through the narrow, dogleg streets of the Left Bank.

By now, we’d reached the market. It was early enough in the day that it was busy but not too crowded. Many of the students and bohemian residents were still sleeping off the previous night’s debauchery, and the serious shoppers, like Julia and me, were free to go about our business.

This block of the rue—dedicated to the market—was filled with vendor carts and stands, pedestrians, leashed dogs, and bicyclists. Only a very narrow pathway down the center of the cobblestone street would allow a motorized vehicle to pass—and they rarely did, except early in the morning and late in the day to bring and remove stock and supplies. Some of the vendors had stalls or tents that spilled from the sidewalk onto the cobblestone street. Others, like the crémerie and the poissonnier, offered their wares from inside storefronts.

“Bonjour, madame!” boomed Julia as we approached one of the most popular merchants.

“And bonjour to my favorite mesdames!” Marie des Quatre Saisons beamed at us as we approached. Famous in the market at rue de Bourgogne for her produce, she was known as Marie of the Four Seasons because she always had the best produce offerings for each season. She was also a font of gossip and information.

A tiny, plump woman with an extensive network of wrinkles—and who seemed to have been around since the beginning of time—she usually had a cigarette in her hand or mouth. Madame Marie had baskets of the best potatoes, shallots, turnips, radishes, and apples at this time of year. We all bemoaned the lack of the more varied and delicate offerings that would be plentifully available in the spring—bright green fava beans, perky lettuces, strawberries, tomatoes, plump spring peas, asparagus wrapped in bright red paper—but for now, we would scrounge among Madame Marie’s stock for the best unrooted potatoes, the firmest and reddest radishes, and any unwrinkled beets we could find.

“Bonjour, madame,” I said with a smile. “And what do you recommend for me today?”

To my mild embarrassment, I had become well known in the neighborhood market for two reasons: First, because I was a young, unwed American woman who was half Parisian, which meant that everyone on the block was determined to find me a French husband . . . or at least a lover. And second, because I was the granddaughter of Maurice Saint-Léger, who seemed to be an object of fascination all on his own.

“Ah, but, Mademoiselle Tabitha . . . that will depend upon what you mean to cook tonight for your messieurs. A stew? A roast? Or will it be a savory pie? But first, tell me, how is it for you today, eh?” Madame asked, her gleaming brown eyes watching me as her gnarled hands moved over the baskets of produce, hovering over a stash of carrots, then moving on. She selected a bald white turnip with its pink-lavender cap and hefted it in her palm as if to assess its weight, then tsked and dropped it back into its basket.

“Today? Why, it is very much the same as yesterday, madame,” I replied with a smile. “I come to the market, I buy food that I try to cook for my messieurs, I muddle about in the kitchen, and then I have a large glass of wine, and I take myself off to bed.” I’d learned that when Madame—or nearly anyone at the market—asked how things were for me that day, it was a coded way of asking whether I’d met any interesting men.

“Taking to bed alone every night is not the way for a pretty young woman like you,” tsked Madame as she offered me a different turnip, this one with a darker purple cap.

“I keep telling her that,” Julia said, examining potatoes, then dropping her selections, one by one, into a small basket in front of Madame. “And I keep trying to introduce her to some of the nice men Paul works with or the brothers of our friends, but she doesn’t listen.” She, too, tsked pityingly at me, even as a grin twitched the corners of her mouth and her eyes danced.

“She’s always too tired or wants to stay in with her grand-père and uncle, and so on. Why, I’ve been insisting she come to a special tasting event and lecture with Paul’s wine club tomorrow night, and it’s as if I’d asked her to cut off an arm! And there are sure to be some eligible men there,” Julia went on.

Laughing, I shook my head and set the turnip in a basket that would contain the selections I would pay for. This exchange was the routine, and I’d become accustomed to it. It was part of going to the market in Paris, which was so very different than rushing into a grocery store back home, grabbing the items I needed, paying for them, and then zipping out to the car—having spoken to no one except an impersonal “thank you” to the checkout girl.

Here in Paris there was a process, an expectation—even a sort of artistry—around a visit to the market. It was never merely a transaction, but a kind of fellowship, a participation in a community. Going to the market and partaking of its ensuing gossip would not be rushed, nor would it be stifled. And everyone was unfailingly polite. No matter who you met or how often you’d spoken to them, everyone was monsieur or madame. The number of bonjours and handshakes you’d experience with everyone you encountered during a day in Paris was astonishing. It was a completely different, vibrant, and eclectic experience from my life in a suburb of Detroit.

And so I went along with the gossip and interference regarding my love life because I found it amusing and charming—if not mortifying at times.

What made it more amusing than annoying, however, was that Julia truly understood my desire not to settle down and simply be a “good little wife.” She was so happy and so in love with Paul—and he with her—that she wanted me to find that same fulfilling experience. But even so, she and I both knew we each wanted something more from life than being a wife.

Julia had found her calling—cooking!—along with a husband who supported her in that endeavor (mostly by eating her creations and writing home about her triumphs in the kitchen), but I was still looking for mine.

“What shall I make with the turnip, Madame?” I asked, ready to move on from the discussion of my nonexistent love life. It was nonexistent mostly by my choice. I was certain if I wanted to, I could meet a man who interested me. But it wasn’t a priority.

“I think Tabitha might be holding out for that Inspecteur Merveille with the ocean-gray eyes,” Julia added conspiratorially, winking at Madame Marie as she dropped several carrots into her basket.

I felt the heat of shock and embarrassment rush from beneath my muffler and up over my face. “Inspecteur Merveille? Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“And who is this monsieur l’inspecteur? Ah, I see . . . It is the policeman who helped to catch the murderer those few weeks ago!” Madame Marie leaned forward, her eyes wide with excitement. Everyone in the market knew that Julia and I had been involved in a murder investigation over Thérèse Lognon, a woman who’d been found dead in Julia’s apartment building. “Oh, now, that is a new development, non?” She gave Julia a sly, knowing look.

“Julia, I have no interest in Inspecteur Merveille,” I said firmly, knowing I had better nip this “new development” in the bud before the entire market climbed on board that train. I noticed that Mademoiselle Yvette, the flower seller (whose wares were obviously limited this time of year, but who still offered pretty fir and holly branches), was looking over from her stall with great interest. I could almost see her ears perking up beneath the stretchy red hat she’d pulled down over them. “And even if I did, he’s got a picture of a woman on his desk, so he’s obviously not available.”

I had encountered Inspecteur Étienne Merveille more than once during his investigation of the dead woman found with Julia’s chef’s knife next to her—an investigation in which I had also become involved, thanks to Julia’s encouragement and my own adventurous internal sprite, which had always gotten me into trouble.

Regardless, I certainly had no interest in seeing Merveille again.

“And the fact that she noticed the picture of the woman on the inspecteur’s desk . . .” Julia gave a little shrug as she smiled at Madame Marie and Mademoiselle Yvette.

“There’s no reason I’ll ever see l’in. . .