Macarons Can Be Murder

Chapter One

I need to ask you something, the woman said.

After glancing around at the other customers in the bakery, the blonde focused her attention on me again, leaning closer to the counter.

Was she about to pass along top-secret information? She surely acted like that was her intent. I had no access to top-secret anything. Well, other than when my sweet Grandma Maude gave me her chocolate gravy recipe and made me swear on my life that I’d never share it with another living soul. Somehow I’d managed to keep it a secret, but it hadn’t been easy.

I had news for this customer: I was just Marci Beaucoup from Paris, Kentucky.

Marci Beaucoup? Yes, that was my real name. My mother thought it was the best play on words ever, considering where I’d been born and raised. I’d learned to love it over the years. Admittedly, I received looks when I told people my name. How could a woman with a moniker like that not love all things French, right?

What can I do for you? I asked as I wiped my hands on my pink apron.

At this point, I was almost afraid to find out what she wanted. Not that I didn’t enjoy chatting with customers, but I needed to get back to making more croissants.

The heat in this kitchen is getting to my hair, Marci, Aunt Barb yelled from the kitchen. And you know what they say—the higher the hair, the closer to God. Right now the top of my head looks like an old, deflated tractor tire.

I pictured the dark hair on top of her head slowly losing its height like a collapsing cake just taken out of the oven. Typically the raven locks piled on top of her head were swirled upward toward the sky like a giant licorice-flavored ice cream cone.

Aunt Barb’s words were my cue that she wanted me back in the kitchen to help her with the pastry. She’d insisted on assisting me with the bakery, but French cooking wasn’t her thing. Aunt Barb preferred traditional southern fare. My aunt couldn’t be left alone in the kitchen for too long because she might go rogue and start making up a batch of biscuits instead of pastries. She’d spend twenty years cooking in the mess halls at Fort Knox, which was quite different from a pâtisserie.

Um, I want a half dozen croissants, please. She glanced over her shoulder as if checking to see if anyone was listening. That’s not all, though. I need to know more … I have a question.

I packaged up her croissants but kept my eye on her as I handed them over.

Why was she acting strangely? Not that I was all that surprised by her demeanor. I’d had my share of odd customers since the first day I opened the doors of my shop.

La Belle Patisserie had been a dream come true for me. Small white iron tables and matching chairs where patrons could enjoy their confections dotted the space at the front of my shop. A beautiful crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling in the middle of the sitting area, and the sparkly glass added glitz and glam—très franҫais. Pastel shades of pink and teal mixed with soft white completed the decor. The aroma of sugar and melted butter floated through the air as if on a heavenly breeze. Hints of cinnamon and chocolate mingled in the scent, surely making everyone’s mouth water.

About my question, the woman said, snapping me back to attention.

Maybe the young woman in front of me just wanted to know about the expired coupon in today’s newspaper. I’d told the Paris Gazette not to run it again, but the editor, Mitchell Sampson, had a tendency to make mistakes. Most recently he’d accidentally printed a recipe that called for four cups of cement instead of celery. I sure hoped no one had actually tried out that salad.

Pastries filled the tall glass cases that lined the counter area, too many varieties to mention—glazed, sugared, powdered, garnished with nuts, drizzled with icing, filled with pastry cream. I also offered paper-wrapped muffins and a wide selection of cookies. Fresh-baked loaves of bread in baskets or wrapped in bags filled the area around the counter. Tarts, éclairs, and macarons added color to the display cases. Above the case I had a fun sign that read: Macarons are marvelous. My mother had gotten the sign made for me for Christmas. It added a whimsical touch, I thought. Needless to say, it was hard to resist sampling the goodies every day.

I heard you can help me. The woman’s voice barely reached above a whisper.

Help you with what? I pressed.

You know … She glanced down at the pretty pink box containing her order.

I’m not sure I follow what you mean, I added.

Well, it’s just that I’ve heard that you can create love with your food. And I’d like to try some of that magic. The love. She gestured widely with a sweep of her arm toward the glass case. So if you could just recommend which pastry would enable me to meet the man of my dreams, I’d appreciate it very much.

I chuckled. I’m sorry, but that’s just a rumor. I have no magic. There’s no magic here. It’s just delicious pastries and breads. It’s a bakery, not a magic shop.

Magic was make-believe. Part of fairy tales and promises of happily ever after. I didn’t believe in happily ever after.

With eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea, she stared at me. Then how do you explain people finding love everywhere around town after eating your baked goods?

I don’t know. I rearranged the puff pastries in the glass case. Maybe the ingredients cause a natural glow. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. I have no special magical powers.

Disappointment flashed in her eyes. I understand.

I hated seeing anyone sad. Especially in my bakery.

You know what? I do have some advice for you. I closed the glass door.

What’s that? she asked, perking up.

I think you’ll find the man of your dreams when you love yourself. I squeezed her hand. When you love yourself and you stop looking, that’s when he’ll show up out of nowhere.

She studied my face. Is that what you’ve done?

Stopped looking? I asked with a chuckle. Yes, I suppose that’s what I’ve done.

But he hasn’t shown up yet? She handed me a few crumpled dollars for the pastry.

No, he hasn’t appeared yet, but we can’t rush these things, you know? Someday Mr. Right will step right through that door. I pointed.

The words had barely slipped from my lips when a strange feeling settled in the air. Something loomed in the distance. I felt it in my bones and coursing through my veins. The bell above the front glass door jingled, capturing our attention. Wind whipped against the windows, whistling and hissing through the cracks in the jambs. A storm brewed outside even though moments earlier it had been a sunny and bright day.

Now dark clouds had formed, rolling in quickly from the south. Rain surged in through the open door, bringing with it the stranger. He closed his black umbrella and scanned his surroundings before finally turning his attention to the counter. His gaze remained intent on me as he strolled across the bakery floor. My posture stiffened immediately. The tall, dark-haired man, wearing a tailored black suit, white button-down shirt, and burgundy striped tie, walked toward us. Denying his magnetism would have been impossible.

Chapter Two

When he made eye contact with me, he flashed a dazzling bright smile. I stared at him without speaking. His deep-brown eyes matched the shade of the dark chocolate I used in the pastries.

Bonjour, he said when he stepped up to the counter.

The greeting rolled off his tongue with a thick, buttery accent. A French accent, of all things. He was what dreams were made of. Well, my dreams at least. The drawn-out flair in his tone would make any woman swoon.

Where had he come from? He’d strolled into my bakery almost as if by magic. Again, I gaped at him without uttering a single word. Not as much as a hello or even a grunt. What must he think of me? My brown eyes probably looked bigger than the ramekins used for the chocolate soufflés.

I couldn’t get over the fact that a Frenchman stood in my bakery. It was almost as if he’d gotten the two cities confused. But Paris, Kentucky, was over four thousand miles from Paris, France. He couldn’t have taken a wrong turn or gotten the two mixed up.

Given my fascination with all things French, one would have thought I’d have learned the language better by now. I supposed, with no one in town to practice with, I’d been lax in my studying. Yes, I knew some words, but not nearly enough to feel comfortable speaking with this gorgeous man in his native tongue.

A crash rang out from the kitchen. I envisioned all the pots and pans that had surely tumbled to the floor. The sound echoed and bounced off the walls. It seemed as if the whole kitchen might be under attack.

Aunt Barb screeched before yelling out, Get out of here. I thought I told you we were through.

Uncle Gene? They’d divorced years ago. Surely he wouldn’t dare show his wrinkled old face around here after what he’d done to her.

Another screech pierced the air, followed by barking. A flash of black and white streaked by, followed by poofy white fur. The tinging sound of bread pans hitting the floor reverberated off the walls.

I grimaced as I realized what was taking place in my bakery. I turned my attention to the dreamy visitor. Based on his expression, I assumed he wondered what kind of disaster he’d walked into. This was completely unprofessional. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. After all, this was my life. It was always this chaotic—drama followed me every step I took. My mama said I had an aptitude for pandemonium.

Just as another customer opened the front door, the cat zoomed out of the bakery, the dog giving chase close behind.

Aunt Barb ran up to the front of the counter. Land sakes alive, that dog will be the end of me one of these days. I told him I was done with him.

I hardly think he’s going to pay attention to you, Aunt Barb, I said with a nervous chuckle.

I avoided the gorgeous man’s stare. Fifi was my canine companion, a large white poodle who loved to chase my fluffy black cat, Pepé Le Pew. I’d thought about making sure Pepé Le Pew stayed home to avoid chaos, but she just loved the bakery so much. And Fifi adored Pepé Le Pew. Yes, I had a cat and a dog in my bakery, but this was Paris, Kentucky, so it came with the territory.

Aunt Barb paused and eyed Mr. Right up and down. Next, she attempted to spruce up her appearance by fluffing her hair.

Well, well, what have we here? He’s finer than frog’s hair split four ways. She wiggled her penciled-on eyebrows.

Did she have to say that so loud? As a matter of fact, did she have to say that at all? I moved so that I’d potentially block Aunt Barb’s view of the handsome customer. Or maybe I was just trying to block him from hearing something else decidedly southern. Like that would really work. Her booming voice would just float right over my short frame.

Finally, I managed to ask, May I help you?

This was probably the most southern accent he’d ever heard. It was far from French, but nonetheless, a hint of a grin tipped the corner of his mouth. I peered upward at him. At five feet tall myself, I guessed he had at least a foot on me. A tall, strapping man was how my mother would have described him. Blatantly sexy, his bedroom eyes and roguish smile lured me in. He wore a black fedora hat, and I must say he looked dashingly handsome in it.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t stop in your fine café while in town, he said.

He’d basically left the window wide open for me to have a tête-à-tête with him.

Oh, you’re new in town. Are you staying here long? I asked.

As long as they need me. A single dimple appeared in his right cheek when he smiled.

I exchanged a look with the blonde. I knew she’d been enthralled by my interaction with this stranger.

She grabbed her box of pastries and said, I think your advice was good, Ms. Beaucoup. I just have to wait, and he’ll walk right in the door for me too.

After turning her attention to the handsome stranger one more time, she winked and then strolled out of the shop with a spring in her step, glancing up at the sky. The rain had stopped.

She is happy, no? You give advice too? he asked while gazing into my eyes.

I felt the heat in my cheeks. "I wouldn’t say advice per se."

What kind of advice did you give her? he continued.

No way would I tell him what I’d said moments earlier.

I gave her a tip on a recipe, I said. So what brings you to town?

Changing the subject was for the best.

I work for Flaget Manufacturing. Paper products. Anything paper that you can think of, we make it. You’ve heard of it?

I nodded. Yes, I’ve seen the building. I drive by it on my way to work.

We have an office in France too. They asked that I come here for continuing executive education. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Antoine Dubois. He offered his hand, and I wasn’t sure what to do.

Shake his hand or kiss it? No, that was in England. Or was it Spain? Or wait, the man kissed the woman’s hand, not the other way around.

Where had I heard that name before? It seemed so familiar, but I knew I’d never met this man. I would have remembered someone as handsome as him. Nonetheless, I couldn’t place the name or his face.

"Enchanté. I cringed at my failed attempt at French and quickly switched to English, It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dubois." My words lacked confidence at the moment, and I hated that.

Normally I had no problem making eye contact with customers, but this man made me nervous. In a good way, though.

Please call me Antoine. He watched me intently.

Oh, where are my manners? I’m Marci … Beaucoup.

Now that I said my name out loud, I once again thought about how comical he’d find it. What had possessed my mother to name me Marci? Yes, it was clever but, in this situation, extremely awkward.

Sure enough, he chuckled. I figured I should just go with the awkwardness. On the other hand, I tried to own it these days. My name was my name. There was nothing to do to change that right now.

Marci Beaucoup? he asked with a raised eyebrow.

It’s a perfectly good name. I think it’s clever. Change the subject, Marci. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I mean, thank you for stopping by La Belle Patisserie. What can I get for you?

Even though my French was abysmal, I just had to roll with my lack of ability. Keep your chin up and shoulders back, I reminded myself. You are a confident woman, Marci Beaucoup. At least I gave things my best shot, and that had to count for something.

No doubt Antoine had eaten some of the crème de la crème of pastry in the world. Now I had to compete with real French bakeries. Antoine studied my face for several moments before shifting his gaze to the chalkboard menu above my head. What was going through his mind? Too much chocolate on the menu? Not enough cream?

He shifted his focus toward the glass display case to his left. This was like the county fair all over again. I’d entered the pie contest, and my crush Eric Reinhart had been a judge. This was even worse than that. At least I’d won the pie contest.

Do you have any madeleines? he asked.

I glanced over to the corner of the room, where Mrs. Dobson was lifting the last madeleine I’d sold her to her lips. I’m sorry, but we’re all out this morning.

Oh, what a pity. My grandmother used to make them for me. I miss her.

Why hadn’t I made another batch of those this morning? Ugh. I’m sorry about that. We will have more tomorrow. With any luck, he’d come back.

"In that case, I will take two choux au chocolat." He held up two fingers.

His mouth tilted up on the right side as he offered another grin with a wink. Maybe it was my imagination, but was he interested in me romantically? He was smiling a lot and being kind of flirtatious. That could only mean one thing.

Okay, maybe there were other explanations for his behavior. He might be that way with everyone. After all, he hadn’t offered to kiss my hand. He seemed like the type of smooth, debonair man who would make an advance like that. Surely if he’d wanted to woo me, he would have tried that move. Any girl would swoon over such a romantic gesture.

More than anything, I was nervous knowing that he was from France and would be eating my pastry.

Is this your bakery? he asked.

Yes, it is, I said, feeling a little self-conscious and proud at the same time.

Well, it’s nice meeting you. Maybe we could talk more sometime? Here’s my card. He pulled out a card from inside his coat pocket and handed it to me.

Yeah, I’d like that, I said, stumbling over the words.

Couldn’t I have come up with something more clever than that? Perhaps I could have tried to sound more eloquent?

As I placed the pastry in a pink box with red velvet ribbon secured around it, a woman’s voice caught my attention. The shrieking sound cut through the quiet like a sharp knife.

I found you, Antoine. What are you doing here? The woman placed her hands on her hips.

I glanced up to see the woman standing next to Antoine. With a flick of her wrist, she pushed the platinum-blonde locks from her shoulder. It was a small, flippant movement, but it spoke volumes on her current state of mind. A hint of black mascara had run from her eyelashes and now rimmed the bottoms of her bright-blue eyes. Had she been crying? Had Antoine made her cry? Maybe he was nothing more than a heartbreaker.

With her Cupid’s bow lips covered in red lipstick and her rosy cheeks, she looked like a doll. Although an angry one. It was like the artist had mistakenly painted her brows into a permanent scowl. My gaze moved to the delicate butterfly necklace around her neck. I touched the chain at my own throat. We had the same necklace. Apparently, we had something in common.

The woman must have felt me staring, because she looked my way, eyeing me up and down as if I were somehow guilty of something. Was this his wife? I saw no wedding band on his finger, but maybe she was just a girlfriend. Yes, I’d surreptitiously checked for the gold ring. Who could blame me for my curiosity?

What do you want, Kellie? Antoine asked around a sigh.

You know what I want. Her tone was so harsh that surely Antoine physically felt the sting.

If they were going to argue, I’d have to ask them to leave my shop. Other than the cat and dog, I’d never had anyone fight in here before. Not even cranky Mrs. Shirley when she came in for the leftovers that she fed to the ducks. If I didn’t get them to her fast enough, she complained and wanted to speak with the manager. I always told her I was the owner, but she never believed me.

Antoine handed me cash for his pastry and then took the box from the counter. Thank you, Ms. Marci.

At least he’d thanked me in English and hadn’t said merci beaucoup, Marci Beaucoup. I’d heard that lame attempt at humor too many times to count. When Kellie heard my name ooze from Antoine’s lips like decadently gooey chocolate, she glared at me.

A pinkish hue colored Antoine’s cheeks. Clearly, he was embarrassed by the incident. What could I say to make this better for him? Nothing. It wasn’t my job to help, and it was doubtful there was anything I could say that would ease the tension.

You’re welcome, Antoine, I said, feeling completely awkward.

Without saying another word, Antoine walked toward the exit. Kellie lingered by the counter for a moment to glower at me before turning on her heel and stomping across the room after Antoine. He stopped at the door and held it open for Kellie. Still a gentleman, even after the scene she’d made. She stood there for a few seconds, giving him an angry glare before she hurried out onto the sidewalk.

Bon appétit, I called out in their wake.

The couple stopped in front of my shop, and of course, I watched out the front windows as they argued. Well, mainly it was just her waving her arms while Antoine listened. The other customers watched too, enthralled by the soap opera playing out on the sidewalk in front of my shop.

I wonder what that’s all about, Aunt Barb said. She’s madder than a wet hen.

Guess it’s a lovers’ spat, I said.

After a few minutes, Kellie turned and stormed away. Antoine walked in the opposite direction, never looking over at my shop again. Would he ever return?

Chapter Three

Y’all know who that is, right? Gordon Dumensil asked as he wiped icing from his mouth with a napkin.

With his salt-and-pepper hair and short, trimmed beard, Gordon reminded me of Ernest Hemingway. Minus the fisherman’s turtleneck, though. Gordon wore a plaid button-down shirt and khakis. His eyes radiated warmth despite their icy-blue color. Even with his graying hair, Gordon had a youthful quality about him. Maybe it was his round, rosy cheeks.

Gordon came in every morning at the stroke of eight and stayed until ten forty-five. No one knew why he kept this schedule. No one had directly asked him either—it seemed rude to pry into his business. The better way to find out