Read Online French Pastry Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online Page B

building.”
    “I wonder,” began Bob. “Is there a surveillance camera on the premises?”
    “We will look into that,” said Lapointe. “It is what you say, early days. I can assure you there will be a thorough investigation, and in time we will, without doubt, discover the truth.”
    Bob was thoughtful, obviously considering the ramifications of Lapointe’s statement. “How long do you think this investigation will take?” he asked.
    Lapointe shrugged. “Impossible to tell. It will take as long as it takes.”
    “But we’re going to be in Paris for only eleven more days. Our flight is one week from Saturday. Will this be a problem?”
    “Not a problem,” said Lapointe. “But I will need your passports.”
    “We won’t be able to leave without our passports,” said Bob.
    “Exactly,” said Lapointe, holding out his hand.
    “So we will be able to leave on schedule?” asked Bob.
    “Perhaps, perhaps not. It depends on the investigation.”
    “So we might not be able to leave?”
    “As I said, it is impossible to know.” Lapointe’s voice became firmer. “Now I will take your passports. And you will receive notice in a day or two to come to the station to make formal statements.”
    “How much notice will we have?” asked Bob.
    Lapointe considered the question. “Twenty-four hours, maybe less.”
    “We must have at least twenty-four hours’ advance notice,” insisted Bob.
    “Ah, monsieur, you are not in America now. This is how we do things in France. When you are summoned, you must come.”
    Bob bristled. “I am familiar with the French justice system.”
    “Then you will most certainly want to cooperate. And now the passports, please. And then you will leave so the investigators can proceed to examine the scene of the crime.”
    Seeing no alternative, they drew the required passports from pockets and purses and handed them over.
    “À bientôt,” said Lapointe. “And meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy your visit. There is much to see in Paris.”
    “Is that supposed to be a joke?” asked Bill as they began making their way down the stairs.
    “If it is,” said Sue, “the joke’s on us.”

Chapter Five
    T he café on the corner was still busy with lunchtime customers, but a large booth in the back was empty and they all squeezed in, borrowing a few chairs from nearby tables. No one was in the mood for a meal, but Sue ordered a few plates of frites to accompany their drinks.
    “I plan to drink quite a bit,” announced Sue, “so I’ll need to eat something.”
    “Good idea,” chimed in Lucy, who also felt the need for something alcoholic. Her hands were still shaking, and she couldn’t erase the image of poor Chef Larry from her mind. He remained firmly in place, flat on his back, with the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest.
    “What did that cop mean?” asked Sid. “Can they really keep our passports and detain us here in Paris?”
    “Oh, yes,” answered Bob. “The French legal system is different from ours. There’s no presumption of innocence, for example, and there are severe penalties for failing to cooperate. Our system is prosecutorial. The prosecution and the defense argue the case, and the jury decides. The French system is inquisitorial. A magistrate takes charge of each case and is responsible for determining the truth of the matter.”
    “It seems rigged, if you ask me,” said Bill. “What if the magistrate is wrong?”
    “Juries make mistakes, too,” said Bob. “It’s just a different system, but the ultimate goal is the same—to find the truth.” He paused. “No system is one hundred percent perfect.”
    A waiter arrived with their orders, beer for the men and wine for the women, except for Rachel, who had a cup of tea. Sue was making fast work of the fries, a sure sign she was upset. She didn’t even take umbrage when the waiter asked if she wanted ketchup. She merely shook her head and didn’t criticize Bill when he said he sure would like