The Clock Struck Murder by Betty Webb

Author:Betty Webb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks

Before she’d left the house that morning, Madeline had been putting the finishing touches on a big pot of coq au vin. Her housekeeper’s niece was due to go into labor any day now, and she didn’t want Zoe to starve while she was attending the delivery.

Thinking that a pastry would make a nice complement to the chicken’s wine-fueled tartness, Zoe stopped off at LeBron’s Patisserie, since that last pistachio cream puff had been so heavenly. Today, she might try one of those fruit tartes.

As she raised her hand to push open the bakery’s door, it swung toward her, and Isabeau Joubert rushed out, crashing into her. The impact made the fresh baguette tucked under the girl’s arm fall to the ground, along with Zoe’s library book and expensive stationery. They all landed in a dirt-colored rain puddle.

“So sorry!” Isabeau cried. Her eyes were no longer red, and with her creamy complexion and black hair, she no longer looked pretty; she looked beautiful. As the two scrambled to retrieve their soggy treasures, Isabeau kept repeating, “My fault! All my fault!”

“No, it wasn’t,” Zoe responded. “I should have paid more attention and seen you coming out. Here, let me buy you another loaf.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. This one’s still edible.”

“Nonsense,” Zoe said, tossing the ruined baguette into a nearby waste receptacle. “We don’t know what else was in that puddle. People walk their dogs along this street.” With her free hand, she took Isabeau by the arm and led her back into the bakery, where she ordered a replacement baguette for her and a fresh fruit tarte for herself.

Once outside again, Zoe used the chance encounter to find out what she could. Life in Paris could be difficult for a woman alone, especially if that woman was given to apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault. Smiling, she said, “I think I’ve seen you here before. Do you live in the neighborhood?”

Isabeau motioned toward the tall apartment building down the street.

“Then we’re almost neighbors!” Zoe exulted. “Now that the rain’s stopped, let’s walk home together.”

Paris was especially lovely after a rain. The clearing sky reflected onto the wet streets, turning them blue. The gray buildings’ reflections rippled in the puddles, almost as if they were waving at them. The air was a warm bouquet of cement and greenery, redolent with the yeasty smells of baking bread. To hurry along during such a sensory feast would be a crime, so the two ambled slowly, sharing stories about their lives in La Cité.

Zoe gave Isabeau a heavily edited version of her life, that she’d come to Paris to study art, which was only partially true. She left out the part where she’d been banished from her Alabama home for loving the “wrong” man and having his baby. Instead, she talked about the art school she’d attended, her first gallery showing, the painting she was working on now, and how much she enjoyed the pastries at LeBron’s Patisserie.

By the time they reached Isabeau’s building,

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