The petit-four score
Next up for Lora…
A dodgy divorce case, a mysterious message, and a frolic with fate!
Newbie PI Lora Weaver is squirming in her seat trying to avoid temptation. She’s on a stakeout in front of Petit-Four, the cutest pastry shop ever, watching as pastries parade by in the window on what’s otherwise the most boring stakeout ever. She’s hungry. She’s cramped. And she can barely keep her eyes open.
She also can’t leave. C&C, the PI agency Lora works for has been hired to help in a dodgy divorce case, and it’s Lora’s job to find out what else their client’s soon-to-be ex, Sloan Potts, has been playing at hiding besides his salami.
When Lora gets a chance to slip out of the stakeout car for a break, she’s eager to get her body in motion until she bumps into a body sans motion. And she may be the only witness to its demise.
Soon Lora finds herself in the centre of a mystery with more than a soupçon of suspicious characters as she rushes to solve the case before her body becomes the next to reach its expiration date.
With her enigmatic mentor par excellence, ex-cop Laurent Caron, not letting her far out of his sights and her bff, savvy and kickass Camille Caron, adding into the mix, Lora’s tracking down clues, pushing pastries, and counting coffee cups until the dénouement brings things to a crashing close.
Also along for the ride is Lora’s live-in beau Adam, pain-in-the patootie cop Brassard, C&C receptionist Arielle, and tea-reading tante Claudette whose predictions for Lora’s fate may just open a box of mystery all their own.
Grab a sweet treat and get ready for the next fun romp in the Lora Weaver caper series with The Petit-Four Score!
Read Chapter One Excerpt:
ONE
I NEARLY JUMPED in my seat when a car door slammed across from me, the slam followed by the loudest sigh I was sure ever to be uttered by womankind.
“Voyons, Lora. You did it again,” my best friend Camille said as she settled in beside me in my MINI.
“Did not.”
“You did. You fell asleep on the job.” Camille pointed to my chin and cranked the rear-view mirror my way.
Reluctantly, I leaned over the steering wheel and looked at my reflection.
“It’s not my fault.” I swiped trickles of drool from my face. “It’s not even six a.m. and we’ve been here for hours.”
“Alors, lucky for you I got you a pick-me-up.” Camille opened a paper bag she hadn’t had when she’d left the car earlier. She held the bag aloft so I could peer inside. “Which one you want? The soy latte or the whipped cream mochaccino?”
I glanced up. “You mean I have to choose?”
Camille groaned and rocked the bag. Encouragement to hurry up and decide already.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed.
I closed my eyes and reached in to let fate make the choice for me. When I opened my eyes, my hand was wrapped around the mochaccino and I was thinking fate might know a thing or two.
“How much longer do we have to stay here anyway?” I asked Camille. The “here” being just down the street from Petit-Four—a bakery where our client Simone Duplasse’s soon to be ex-husband, Sloan Potts, was rumored to be a silent partner. The PI agency I worked for, C&C, had been hired to explore the rumors and find out if they were true. And more importantly, if so, just how much money Potts had earned from the bakery over the course of their marriage and neglected to tell Simone or her lawyer about to avoid pesky things like calculating said earnings into their divorce settlement.
“Me,” Camille said. “I have to stay until Laurent gets here. You? You have to stay until Laurent says it’s time to go.”
I slumped in my seat and sucked in a drag of mochaccino through my straw. Laurent was Camille’s brother. Technically, as the co-owners of C&C they were both my employers. And I, as a PI apprentice in training, was subject to their constant supervision on fieldwork, mostly in tag team relay. I’d talked myself into seeing the supervision similar to how I’d viewed my advisor’s role back in college—as mentorship. But even mentorship could get old when it came with a constant shadow scrutinizing my every move. Camille, also being my best friend, could be fast and loose with the scrutinizing. Laurent, on the other hand, could throw scrutinizing shadows that had me squirming in my seat. With any luck, when he got here and realized how boring this stakeout had been, he’d see fit to move on.
“It’s not that bad,” Camille said. “At least we’re watching a bakery this time.”
“That would be more of a perk if we got to go inside. All we get to do is sit here. No wait, I forgot. We also get to stare endlessly through the window and watch as that woman inside keeps filling the display window with croissants and turnovers and whatever that thing is with chocolate oozing out.”
Camille grinned. “I see you’ve been making use of your new binoculars.”
“Who needs binoculars? The food is on pedestal plates. It’s hard to miss. Plus, with that soft light on in the bakery and the sun barely out yet, the stuff’s practically backlit. It’s like those glowing dessert trolleys at restaurants in the movies. I have dreams about those trolleys.”
She eyed me.
I sighed. “Okay, maybe I haven’t had dreams about them but I will now. And my original point still stands. We’re never going to catch Simone’s ex coming out of that place. If he is an investor, he doesn’t seem to hang out here.”
Camille shrugged out of her sweater and slipped it on the backseat. “Mais, we see. He hides the investment well on paper, but sooner or later he’ll trip himself up. Guys like him always do. Not all silent partners put their agreements in writing.”
I sucked in more coffee and glanced into Petit-Four where the woman inside was placing some new concoction in the window. Something with delicate cream frosting that had me seriously considering running over to answer the Employé Demandé aka Help Wanted sign on the Petit-Four door just to sample the goods.
“Are you suggesting Simone’s ex has a verbal agreement with the Petit-Four lady?”
Camille pulled a face. “The lady’s name is Marianne. And I’m saying there’s all sorts of partner agreements.”
Right. I was getting Camille’s drift now. Possibly Potts and Marianne had more than turnovers baking. “Even so, I can’t see how sitting here will help. If Potts was smart enough to keep any profits he earned off the books, he’s smart enough to steer clear of the place.”
“You’d be surprised. Once, we had a case once where an old man was running a cut-rate pharmacy out of his garage. He used the side door to conduct business so nobody passing by would see what was happening inside. The fool never considered that the endless line outside of seniors during business hours might clue in the authorities.”
I laughed. “You’d think the guy would at least have thrown some furniture on his lawn and tacked up a fake garage sale sign or something.”
“Mais oui. That would have been good. Remind me to have you consult if I ever set up a fake business in my garage.”
“You live in a triplex. You don’t have a garage.”
She nodded. “Oui, oui, it’s out back in the alley. I just don’t use it. I lent it to a cousin for storage of his things while he’s on sabbatical in France.”
I sighed, partly because a sabbatical in France sounded fab and partly because I knew the story about the old man meant my chances of clearing out of this stakeout anytime soon were next to nil. Camille was not known for her patience but her tenacity was near legend. Cases like the old guy’s would have her thinking Potts could blow his cover, too, which would only fuel her commitment to keeping our sorry butts in place. Which didn’t bode well for me because my sorry butt ached. Also, my eyelids felt scratchy and my mochaccino was going straight to my bladder.
My stomach let out a yowl befitting an offspring of Tony the Tiger. Right, and then there was that hunger thing kicking in.
Camille’s head snapped my way.
“Sorry.” I held up the mochaccino. “It’s the coffee. It woke up my appetite.” Well, the coffee and all the goodies in the bakery window. And probably the boredom. So far, the most interesting thing to happen was when a family of squirrels made their way up the street and took turns furiously digging at sections of dirt that anchored thin tree trunks to the sidewalk every few yards as though the trees were sprouting from cement. That, several rounds of twenty questions with Camille, and the aforementioned appearance of baked goods in windows were the only diversions I’d had in hours. I could get peckish when I wasn’t otherwise occupied. If I were at home, I’d be hacking away at ice cream or breaking into chip bags by now.
“Hey,” I said, catching sight of a coming distraction, dipping down in my seat. “Don’t look now, but there’s a guy coming down the street at nine o’clock.”
Camille slid down to my level. “Nine o’clock?”
I toggled my head at the car door, my left ear grazing the door handle. “He’s coming out at the cross street from the side.”
Camille rose up to peek out, then straightened higher in her seat. “Not him.”
I surfaced slowly just in time to see the guy turn and stroll up the road. “Maybe he’s just doing a detour to throw us off.”
“The guy has no reason to throw us off. He doesn’t even know we’re here. En plus, he doesn’t match the description.”
I squinted at the man as he made quick time with long strides. “How can you tell? We’ve got nothing but a rear view, and he’s wearing a jacket and a baseball cap. We can’t even make out the color of his hair.”
“Too tall,” Camille said. “Sloan Potts is more jockey height. Like you.”
Hmm. I’d never thought of myself as “jockey” size, but I guess referring to himself as “petite” probably isn’t how Sloan Potts would describe himself, either.
“He’s more the size of that guy,” she continued, flicking her thumb over her shoulder.
I slid my gaze to the rearview mirror in time to see another man jogging up the street with a German shepherd. The jogger was indeed closer to my height but darker in complexion and hair than the photos we’d seen of Sloan Potts. Not to mention probably at least twenty years younger. Potts was listed in the case file as fifty-two.
Another five minutes went by with no other promising prospects. I felt my eyes drift closed, thankful we were doing the stakeout in my car because usually stakeouts called for the C&C “incognito” aka junker car that blended in well but lacked the comfort of my MINI. Lucky for me the company incognito car was in the shop.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” Camille said, poking me out of my near nap.
“What?” I straightened, my stomach releasing another roar with the movement.
Camille slipped sunglasses on, leaned the crown of her short blonde hair on the headrest, and yawned. “Allez. Before you put me to sleep. On the next street there’s a strip of cafés. Something should be open soon. Get yourself something to eat. Pis, more coffee.” She tapped her empty cup. “Pour moi aussi.”
“Deal,” I said, grabbing my purse and scrambling to leave before she changed her mind. “Where’d you get the first coffee?”
“Not on that strip. Everything there was closed. But that was ages ago. Something will be open now.”
Camille had been back less than half an hour. I’m not sure that qualified as “ages ago,” but who was I to quibble? I’d been cooped up so long I was nearly giddy at the chance to get out of the car and stretch my legs. Not to mention, the potential for a potty break and the opportunity of getting in a little unsupervised time before Laurent showed up and decided to keep the stakeout going into infinity.
IT WAS MONDAY the first week of May and Montréal was just waking up to another spring day—warm enough for winter duds to be locked away for the year but not so warm the short-shorts were out in full force. I had on jeans with a light sweater covered by a thin, short trench coat I told myself I bought in case of spring rain. In actuality, I’d added it to my wardrobe for the PI cachet. The coat was steel gray and had two big pockets in the front and two tiny secret pockets in the lining, upping its PI factor. I figured a new career warranted at least a few new additions to my wardrobe. It had been more than two years since I’d said goodbye to my old social work job and my apartment in New York, and I’d said hello to a new career in my boyfriend Adam’s home city where we’d also joined households, aka shacked up, in his childhood house complete with front porch and backyard. Fortunately, the place also had way more closet space than my tiny studio in Soho, making it easy to house my expanding wardrobe.
I’d decided the Petit-Four stakeout was the perfect time to debut my new coat, loving how it swayed above my knees as I walked up from the bakery and turned a corner onto a commercial block. Petit-Four was on the east side of Westmount, an upscale, mostly residential area with a large demographic of Anglophone inhabitants and home to many ex-pats from the U.S. like me seeking a neighborhood with Montréal charm and English-friendly amenities.
I squinted in the early dawn light as I walked along, passing quaint shops offering everything from flowers to electronics to antiques, trying to suss out somewhere open that served food. Two blocks later, a sign in a café flipped from Fermer to Ouvert when I walked by, and I did an abrupt about-face, clambered up the cement step to the door, and ventured in.
I came out with a box of coffees in one hand and a bag of muffins in the other. Less than half a block back to the car, out of nowhere, rain gushed down, pouring onto me like bursting water balloons. I darted for cover at the nearest storefront and peered out at the sky. Clustered dark clouds shuddered and weaved through the heavens like bumper cars. I scowled at them, then at the purse hanging from my shoulder. Camille had talked me into bringing my stealth bag, the discrete black one with no room for a portable umbrella. I peeked out at the sky again, still gushing rain like a sprinkler gone rogue. I groaned. It’s not so bad, I told myself. You’ve got the fab new trench coat to keep most of you dry. Yes, I answered myself, but it’s my cool PI coat. And it’s pristine and new. I like it pristine. It’s never had to fend off rain before. Rain will turn its shiny sheen dark and dull until it dries again.
The downpour slowed to a drizzle. A drizzle that could go on for hours for all I knew. I was no fortuneteller. Or meteorologist. I sighed, lowered my chin, and dashed out, taking advantage of the lull. I scooted ahead and ducked into an alley that connected this street to the one where I’d parked my MINI. If ever there was a time for a shortcut, this was it. Rain dripped off strands of honey-toned hair coiling in my eyes, the remainder of my pony tail bouncing behind me, as it kept pace with the speed-walk I had going in an effort not to slosh the coffee.
I slowed at intervals, checking between buildings for signs of my MINI street-side. As I progressed, my lungs gulped in air tinged with damp greenery and flower buds courtesy of the ruelle verte, the green pathway that had transformed the original barren back route into a nature trail of sorts. A common Montréal trend towards eco-friendly beautification, planted and cared for by locals. Though just the start of the season, this ruelle was already taking shape. Amidst the perennial foliage, large planters held new shrubs, and smaller flowering containers dangled near back doors and from detached garages and outbuildings on the opposite side of the alley.
The drizzle picked up and so did my pace. I stopped at a slew of cars parked behind an old yellow brick building. Up the backside of the building were small balconies with iron railings. A dead giveaway that I’d reached the residential section of the bakery’s street. Ugh, I’d gone too far.
I turned and retraced my steps, head down under the new barrage of rain as a giant wet blob got me in the eye, clinging to my lashes and blurring my vision. I groped my way to a shed, seeking coverage, and edged myself in backwards under its short outcrop, vying for space between evergreen shrubs. I tucked my muffin bag in with the coffee box and swiped the blob from my eye. My foot tottered over a rock, I shuffled sideways to even ground, and something scratched at my neck, freezing me in my tracks, hoping some bee hadn’t buzzed out of the shrubs and lodged itself in my ponytail.
Slowly I eased away, darting a look behind me, making out not a bee but a man. A man cocooned in branches, hair matted to his forehead, arms hanging uneven, one shoulder higher than the other. Like a scarecrow breaking loose in a stiff wind. A scarecrow about my size, early fifties, with a doughnut hanging out of his mouth and a cord synched around his neck tighter than corset ribbon.
TWO
THROUGH BLURRED VISION I could see clouds. And a man’s face with unblinking eyes, dark, nearly black, hooded in darker lashes. A drop of water slipped off the end of the man’s nose and dripped onto my cheek.
“Attends. Don’t move.” He pressed fingertips to my arm.
A ringing echoed in my ears. Was I moving?
The ringing cut out, and I heard a woman’s voice. French, speaking very fast. Camille. Her words coming from somewhere to my side.
Right, now I remembered. We were on the Potts stakeout. I’d gone on the coffee run, it started to rain, I took a shortcut, and— “I think I found Potts,” I sputtered to the face above mine. The face lined in scruff, hair skirting the jaw, and coming into sharp focus. Laurent.
He gave me a slight nod, and then my attention veered to footsteps stopping beside me and Doc Martens coming into view.
“Good, you’re awake.” Jean-clad knees drew close and Camille smiled down at me from crouch position.
“I wasn’t asleep,” I said.
“Mais alors, you were out like a light. You fainted.”
“Did not.”
