Page 35 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

C arole dressed carefully for Angelique Poole’s pastry class on Saturday morning.

Angelique had seen her in her cleaning lady disguise, and she wanted to make sure there was nothing in her appearance to suggest that earlier incarnation.

The horrible housedress had been a flowery orange print, so Carole decided to stay as far away from that end of the spectrum as possible and chose a blue cashmere turtleneck, skinny gray jeans, tall, black leather boots with pointed toes, and four-inch heels.

It was a bit of a squeeze getting into those new jeans—had she gained a pound or two?

—but she was dying to wear them. They were the very same ones that Meghan Markle had been pictured wearing in People magazine.

She also took special care with her makeup, going a little heavy on the eyes and choosing a bright, cherry-red lipstick.

She had used a shampoo that was supposed to enhance blond hair, whether natural or dyed, and she was pleased with the results because her highlights were brighter than ever.

All in all, she decided, taking one last look in the floor-length mirror, Angelique would have to be clairvoyant to identify her as the cleaning lady.

Polly was sticking with what had become her uniform since taking up residence in Paris, a knee-length skirt and low heels, except she’d switched her usual suit jacket for a tailored shirt and scarf.

“I didn’t want to risk getting flour on the jacket,” she told Carole.

“Do you think they supply aprons, or should we bring them?”

Carole had a few aprons, and they were nice and clean because she hardly ever cooked and rarely wore them, so she tucked them in a vintage Marc Jacobs tote bag, and off they went to the class.

Polly was actually hoping to improve her baking skills, but Carole couldn’t care less; there were at least a dozen terrific bakeries in Providence.

She was interested in questioning Angelique about her husband’s work and what Hosea thought about it.

When they arrived in the kitchen classroom at Johnson and Wales, she was surprised to see Connie among the dozen women assembled for the class. “Connie!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around her in a big hug. “What a wonderful surprise!”

“ Grandmere insisted,” said Connie, giving Polly a big smile.

“I thought it would be a nice break for her,” explained Polly. “She works so hard.”

“ Faites attention, mesdames ,” trilled Angelique, clapping her hands briskly, ending their conversation. “Take your places, s’il vous plait .”

Carole stood at the work station between Polly and Connie and looked around, taking in the gleaming white kitchen and her classmates, most of whom were clad in designer clothes and had expensive coiffures and plenty of bling on their ears and manicured fingers.

No wonder, she knew the class didn’t come cheap.

These well-heeled students were a colorful contrast to Angelique, who was togged out in crisply starched whites and a traditional chef’s toque, with the nails on her working hands clipped short and free of rings and polish.

“ Bonjour, mesdames ,” began Angelique, silencing the chattering women.

“This morning, we are going to make two traditional French desserts: tarte tatin and profiteroles. I have chosen these two classic dishes because they use different pastry techniques: pate brisée for the tarte tatin and pate à choux for the profiteroles.” She raised a finger to emphasize a point: “Although they are seemingly quite different, I assure you that, for both, our goal is the same—to produce a pastry that is light, crisp, tender, and buttery.”

“Sounds divine,” whispered Connie, watching intently as Angelique proceeded to demonstrate the technique for pate brisée . In a matter of moments, she had mixed flour, butter, salt, water, and a pinch of sugar into a compact ball.

“You must work quickly with light movements,” she said, demonstrating. “And now, this is the most important step— fraisage , in which we push the dough firmly with the heel of our hands to work the butter evenly through the dough.”

After the demonstration, the students set to work mixing their pastry, while Angelique went from one to the other, offering advice. When she reached Polly, she gave a little squeal of excitement. “ Absolument parfait ,” she declared, admiring Polly’s work.

“ Merci, madame ,” chirped Polly.

Angelique’s eyebrows shot up. “ êtes-vous francaise ?” she asked.

“ Americain, mais j’habite à Paris ,” explained Polly. Carole knew her mother was trying to help here, but she still found it irritating when she spoke French. Almost as irritating as when she scarfed down all those croissants and pastries without gaining an ounce.

“ Paris me manque ,” sighed Angelique. “We must meet after class, no?”

“ Bien sur ,” agreed Polly, winking at Carole when Angelique moved on to Carole’s work station. “ Non, non ,” she said, shaking her head and beginning to gather the crumbled pastry together. “ Comme ca !” she announced, giving the neat ball of dough a final pat.

Connie looked a bit nervous as Angelique studied her pastry; Carole knew she was a super-achiever who’d never gotten a grade below A and would be devastated if the professor did not approve of her work.

“ Tres bien ,” Angelique finally announced, even adding a little smile of approval, and Connie’s shoulders dropped in relief.

Crazy, thought Carole. It wasn’t like this was the bar exam; it was just a ball of dough.

The class was a lot more fun than Carole expected, and she enjoyed seeing Connie finally relax as she concentrated on the challenging task of combining flour and butter to create perfect pastry instead of struggling to decipher the implications of the federal tax code in relation to estate planning.

When they all gathered at a long table to taste their creations, Connie didn’t just sample her tarte tatin and profiteroles; she scarfed them down like a woman who’d been deprived of sugar and chocolate for far too long.

Carole watched with delight as her daughter licked her fork, then felt her spirits plummet as Connie picked up her tote bag and announced she had to get back to the office.

She gave her mother and grandmother pecks on the cheek, thanked Angelique for the lesson, and vanished out the door.

Carole’s jeans were tighter than ever when she and Polly joined Angelique in the bright coffee bar at the college.

Tarte tatin had turned out to be a tremendously rich upside-down cake made with apples and more butter than she normally consumed in a year, and profiteroles weren’t so fancy after all; they were nothing more than cream puffs, but they’d filled them with crème au beurre —more butter!

—and smothered them with an absolutely amazing sauce au chocolat .

In total, she figured she’d consumed more calories in one morning than she had eaten in the past week, rationalizing that it was stress eating and discovering that she really needed to loosen her waistband.

“Black coffee for me,” said Angelique, signaling the waiter. “These weekend classes are fun, but exhausting.” She had changed out of her whites and was now dressed in a skirt and blouse similar to Polly’s outfit, apparently the French uniform for les femmes d’un certain age .

“You prefer the professional students?” asked Polly.

“It’s easier because I know what they know; we are all on the same page.

But this morning, I had you, Polly, and you know what you’re doing, and I also had that little Chinese lady who was treating pate brisée like wonton dough!

” Angelique, Carole noticed, was much too polite to include her rather subpar effort in her critique.

The student waiter arrived, and Polly and Angelique ordered coffee, while Carole requested mint tea.

They didn’t have it, so she had to settle for Earl Grey.

Carole didn’t say much; she was too busy sipping her tea and concentrating on trying not to feel nauseous from the rich food and her uncomfortably tight jeans, but Polly and Angelique were getting on great.

They’d established that their favorite park in Paris was the Luxembourg Garden and the best museum was the Tuileries and the best shopping was at the Clingancourt flea market.

Carole was beginning to feel as if her chance to question Angelique was slipping away.

What she really needed, she decided, was a change of venue.

The bright lights and minimalist design of the coffee bar simply did not encourage intimacy.

“Isn’t that new bar, Bar Bleu, near here?” she asked, rather abruptly. “I’ve heard so much about it, and I’ve been dying to try it. Why don’t we continue our conversation there and try one of their signature cocktails?”

“Fine with me,” agreed Polly, who had never turned down a drink in her life.

There was a moment when Angelique seemed to hesitate, and Carole thought she might have miscalculated, but then she smiled and agreed to the change.

After a short, two-block walk, they were all settled in comfortable armchairs in the cozy bar; each had a blue martini to sip, and the confidences were flowing.

Angelique asked Polly how she happened to decide to live in Paris, and Polly told her all about her marriage to Jock Prendergast and how she needed a change after the emotionally devastating but financially rewarding breakup. “Where better than Paris?” she declared. “And why did you ever leave?”

Angelique shrugged. “I met my husband when I was vacationing on Saint Martin; it was very fast, very intense. At first, I thought of it as a fling, a vacation romance, fun, not serious, but he asked me to marry him, and”—she smiled—“I said yes.”

“But you left Paris for Providence,” said Carole, amazed.

“Providence is very nice. I like it here.”