Read Online French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online
Authors: Leslie Meier
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the counter Chef Larry used for his cooking demonstrations.
Taking a closer look, she noticed a trail of red splotches leading behind the counter. A trail, she realized, horrified, that must be blood. Okay, blood. The morning class was a pastry course, but maybe the afternoon class involved some sort of meat recipe, something like bœuf bourguignon. But even a very juicy package of beef wouldn’t produce this much blood, would it? She was already crossing the classroom, thinking she’d better investigate, just in case Chef Larry had accidentally cut himself while chopping up some meat or something. If he’d severed an artery, for instance, he would need immediate medical care.
But when she rounded the corner of the counter, she found Chef Larry was indeed bleeding, lying flat on his back in a growing pool of blood and smashed profiteroles, but he hadn’t accidentally cut himself. Not unless he’d plunged a knife into his own chest.
Lucy immediately began yelling for help, unsure what to do, but nobody seemed to be coming. She started one way and then another, shocked and panicked. At home she would call 9-1-1, but this wasn’t Maine. It was France. This was an emergency, she was yelling her head off, but where were all the other people in the building? She feared he was already dead, but then he groaned, and she realized she had to get help, fast. Looking frantically around the classroom, she noticed a phone on the wall. Beside it was a neat list of numbers: sapeurs-pompiers, médecin. . . . What to dial? The number twenty-five was large and printed in red, so she punched it in the keypad.
A bored voice answered, saying something she didn’t quite catch. “Un homme b-blessé,” she stammered, her voice quavering as she struggled to remember her high school French. “Vite! Vite! Beaucoup de sang!”
“Calmez-vous, madame,” replied the voice. “L’adresse?”
Lucy couldn’t remember the French words for numbers, so she gave the address in English, which didn’t seem to faze the dispatcher at all. “Please hurry! Dépêchez-vous! ” she pleaded. “I’m afraid he’ll die. He was stabbed with a knife.”
“Help is on the way, madame,” said the voice. “Stabbed, you say? Is this a matter criminelle? ”
“I don’t think he stabbed himself in the chest,” said Lucy.
“Do not leave,” advised the voice. “That would be a matter sérieuse. ”
“I’m staying,” replied Lucy, hearing the varying woo-wah tones, which indicated an ambulance was on the way.
Hands shaking, she replaced the phone handset on its hook, noticing that Bill was in the doorway, wondering what was keeping her. “Don’t come in,” she warned as he was pushed aside by the arriving medics. Then the rest of the group of friends arrived, curious to see what all the fuss was about, and they were herded in a tight little bunch into one of the student cooking areas.
The medics seemed to take a long time doing whatever they were doing, and there seemed to be a good deal of discussion. Lucy felt her heart fluttering in her chest. It was time to get moving and get poor Chef Larry to the hospital.
“What’s taking so long?” she asked, but got no reply from the medics.
It was Sue who replied. “It’s the French way. They try to stabilize the patient before they transport him. Remember Princess Diana? They say she might have lived if they’d gotten her to the hospital sooner.”
“Socialized medicine,” snorted Sid, who was a member of the volunteer fire department in Tinker’s Cove and had answered many an emergency call. “Back home, we’d have him at the hospital by now.”
“And he’d get a huge bill,” snapped Rachel. “Probably end up bankrupt.”
“But he’d be alive,” said Sid.
“There’s really nothing for us to do here,” said Bill. “You’ve done your duty, Lucy. Let’s go. We’re just in the way.”
“The dispatcher said to stay,” said Lucy.
“Well, I need a drink,” said Sue,
Taking a closer look, she noticed a trail of red splotches leading behind the counter. A trail, she realized, horrified, that must be blood. Okay, blood. The morning class was a pastry course, but maybe the afternoon class involved some sort of meat recipe, something like bœuf bourguignon. But even a very juicy package of beef wouldn’t produce this much blood, would it? She was already crossing the classroom, thinking she’d better investigate, just in case Chef Larry had accidentally cut himself while chopping up some meat or something. If he’d severed an artery, for instance, he would need immediate medical care.
But when she rounded the corner of the counter, she found Chef Larry was indeed bleeding, lying flat on his back in a growing pool of blood and smashed profiteroles, but he hadn’t accidentally cut himself. Not unless he’d plunged a knife into his own chest.
Lucy immediately began yelling for help, unsure what to do, but nobody seemed to be coming. She started one way and then another, shocked and panicked. At home she would call 9-1-1, but this wasn’t Maine. It was France. This was an emergency, she was yelling her head off, but where were all the other people in the building? She feared he was already dead, but then he groaned, and she realized she had to get help, fast. Looking frantically around the classroom, she noticed a phone on the wall. Beside it was a neat list of numbers: sapeurs-pompiers, médecin. . . . What to dial? The number twenty-five was large and printed in red, so she punched it in the keypad.
A bored voice answered, saying something she didn’t quite catch. “Un homme b-blessé,” she stammered, her voice quavering as she struggled to remember her high school French. “Vite! Vite! Beaucoup de sang!”
“Calmez-vous, madame,” replied the voice. “L’adresse?”
Lucy couldn’t remember the French words for numbers, so she gave the address in English, which didn’t seem to faze the dispatcher at all. “Please hurry! Dépêchez-vous! ” she pleaded. “I’m afraid he’ll die. He was stabbed with a knife.”
“Help is on the way, madame,” said the voice. “Stabbed, you say? Is this a matter criminelle? ”
“I don’t think he stabbed himself in the chest,” said Lucy.
“Do not leave,” advised the voice. “That would be a matter sérieuse. ”
“I’m staying,” replied Lucy, hearing the varying woo-wah tones, which indicated an ambulance was on the way.
Hands shaking, she replaced the phone handset on its hook, noticing that Bill was in the doorway, wondering what was keeping her. “Don’t come in,” she warned as he was pushed aside by the arriving medics. Then the rest of the group of friends arrived, curious to see what all the fuss was about, and they were herded in a tight little bunch into one of the student cooking areas.
The medics seemed to take a long time doing whatever they were doing, and there seemed to be a good deal of discussion. Lucy felt her heart fluttering in her chest. It was time to get moving and get poor Chef Larry to the hospital.
“What’s taking so long?” she asked, but got no reply from the medics.
It was Sue who replied. “It’s the French way. They try to stabilize the patient before they transport him. Remember Princess Diana? They say she might have lived if they’d gotten her to the hospital sooner.”
“Socialized medicine,” snorted Sid, who was a member of the volunteer fire department in Tinker’s Cove and had answered many an emergency call. “Back home, we’d have him at the hospital by now.”
“And he’d get a huge bill,” snapped Rachel. “Probably end up bankrupt.”
“But he’d be alive,” said Sid.
“There’s really nothing for us to do here,” said Bill. “You’ve done your duty, Lucy. Let’s go. We’re just in the way.”
“The dispatcher said to stay,” said Lucy.
“Well, I need a drink,” said Sue,
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