by Harper Lin
Clémence was stunned. If Sarah had the baby a year ago, then that meant the father was…
“Is she Mathieu’s?” Madeleine asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God. How is it being a single mother?”
“It’s okay. I’m working at Galeries Lafayette because I want to. I know it doesn’t sound glamorous, but I like it. At least I get to talk to people. It keeps me sane. I’d rather move back to Ireland, but Mathieu needs to be here, and I want my daughter to know her father. He’s had some setbacks, but he says he’s going to get a big break soon so he can take care of us better.”
“Right. His career hasn’t done as well as we all predicted.”
“He’s certain something big is going to happen soon, though. He says in the next few months, he’ll be wealthy enough to hire a nanny and help me rent a bigger apartment, since Joy lives with me. He really wants us to stay in Paris. I was seriously considering moving back to Ireland before he convinced me. That’s where my family is, and I’d get more help, but I trust Mathieu.”
“What does his big break entail?”
“Another show, I suppose. He said his roommate Gilles is helping him with something. He has connections in the art world or something.”
Clémence still couldn’t believe it. Mathieu was a father? Why hadn’t he told her?
Chapter 12
Clémence was still in shock when Arthur finally called her back.
“Hey, Clémence. Are you okay? What exactly is going on?”
Sarah had returned to work at the perfume counter at Galeries Lafayette. After checking in with Clémence, Madeleine had a rendezvous to get to and she’d left as well.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m walking on Boulevard Haussman.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call back until now. I was too mad at you to listen to your voicemail. I didn’t know that Mathieu’s girlfriend was killed.”
“When are you going home? Let’s talk in person.”
“I’m at the library, but I don’t think I can do any more work today. I’ll meet you at the apartment, then. What were you up to today?”
“Checking up on a lead. She wasn’t the killer, but I found out something interesting. Tell you about it later.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you back at home in twenty minutes.”
As Clémence passed the serial shoppers on the Boulevard Haussman holding shopping bags from high end retailers, she tried to figure out why Mathieu hadn’t told her he had a daughter. Why was it a secret? Was it because he didn’t want to hurt her further? Maybe he knew she’d once had the desire to marry him and start a family together—back when she was young and naïve, and still loved Mathieu.
She wanted answers from him. But first she had to be with Arthur. He was the man she loved and she wanted him back on her side again.
Clémence took the Métro back to Trocadéro Station. The paparazzi weren’t in front of 4 Place du Trocadéro this time. They probably got tired of waiting around for her and gave up. Maybe the best thing she could do was not show up for work. They’d get bored by the waiting and hopefully they’d just stop coming altogether.
As she turned onto Avenue Kléber, she spotted Arthur walking just twenty feet ahead. She instantly recognized the back of his head, the swirl of his hair.
She resisted the temptation to run up and announce her presence, and maintained her pace to continue watching him from afar. But as he punched in the code to unlock the iron door to the building, she couldn’t help but run up and hug him from behind.
“Clémence,” he exclaimed in surprise. He slowly turned around in her arms.
“Hey you.” She gave him a sheepish smile. They’d been together only the day before, when they’d had that awkward fight, but it felt like forever since she’d seen him. She wasn’t used to sleeping in an empty bed anymore.
He let go of the door and faced her. The sun was setting, and the Eiffel Tower was a dusty rose in the distance. He cupped her face and kissed her passionately. Pedestrians passed by, but they didn’t care. They didn’t even care if they were being photographed.
Clémence melted in his arm. This was why she loved him. His unfailing support and his warmth. His trust in her. Not to mention that he smelled good and was sexy as hell.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
In the tiny elevator, which was barely big enough for two people, they entangled themselves, furiously making out. No words were needed. By the time the doors opened, they were out of breath and at a loss for words anyway.
Their relationship was new, but it felt like they’d known each other forever. They fought before their romance had even begun, so it was only natural to make up just as easily. It was also natural to get jealous once in a while. The complications came as part of a committed relationship. They’d make it work as long they both made the other feel special and loved on a regular basis.
“I’m sorry about everything,” Clémence said. “I got caught up in my own curiosity, as usual, and consideration of how you were feeling was left in the back burner.”
“It’s okay, Clémence. I think I might have overreacted.”
Clémence was surprised by the softness of his tone. “Really?”
He nodded. “Mathieu’s girlfriend was killed. That changes things. Of course you’d want to get involved and help.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear, I don’t have feelings for Mathieu. Of course, I care about him as a friend, and I want to help him figure out who could do this to Charlotte.”
He looked into her eyes, still cupping her face. “I believe you.” He kissed the top of her forehead.
She slid the key into her apartment door and punched in the code to turn off the alarm. Miffy greeted them and she gave her a bit of attention before settling in.
In the living room, Arthur poured himself a glass of whiskey. Clémence nursed a cup of water. They sank into the red couches. A chandelier hung over them. There was a nonworking fireplace and a modern painting of Katherine Hepburn above it. Clémence and her mother both loved the legendary actress.
She filled Arthur in on everything: the inspector’s visit, Madeleine’s interrogation, and how Sarah and Mathieu had a baby daughter that she didn’t know about.
“Sarah’s not the killer,” Clémence said. “There’s a possibility but I very much doubt it.
“Why didn’t Mathieu tell you he had a baby?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe he would’ve told me before Charlotte barged in on us.”
“Or maybe he purposely kept this from you,” Arthur suggested. “I had the suspicion that he was trying to win you back. Didn’t you think so?”
She thought about how Mathieu had looked at her that day in his room, questioning her about whether Arthur was right for her. When Charlotte showed up, she realized he’d only meant he was happy that his girlfriend understood his passion and wanted her to have the same.
She shook her head. “He has a girlfriend. Or had one. Why would he?”
“Because you’re amazing. And you’ve been in the news lately. Maybe he wants your fame to rub off.”
“No way.” Although Mathieu had gotten a name for himself due to her status as an heiress and a socialite.
“And what was with the whole ghost thing?” Arthur said. “A baby handprint? It must’ve been his baby’s handprint.”
Clémence’s eyes widened. Of course. The ghost incident had been pushed to the side with all the murder stuff. “That’s true. You’re a genius. It was a very small handprint. It would make sense that it was his own baby’s doing. The baby must’ve been over at his house.”
“That’s what’s so strange. If Mathieu had a baby, wouldn’t he come to the conclusion that it’s his own baby’s handprint? When you saw the handprint and noted how small it was, the topic of babies would’ve at least come up. He should’ve told you.”
“Unless he doesn’t know that he has a baby.” She thought about what Sarah had s
aid earlier. “But he’s paying child support according to Sarah, and he’s promising her a bigger apartment and a nanny and all that. He must’ve known. Unless Sarah is crazy and delusional.”
“One of them is lying.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you think it’s Sarah?”
Clémence thought about it. Sarah had no reason to lie—unless she was trying to elicit the sympathy of a well-connected socialite. But Sarah didn’t seem interested in the scene. She didn’t like modeling and being in the spotlight, and seemed more keen on a normal life in Ireland. If she’d wanted to use Madeleine for her connections, she would’ve done so by now instead of happily resigning to working at a perfume counter.
“No,” she answered. “But why would Mathieu lie to me about the ghost?”
“He wants to get your attention. Maybe it was an excuse to get you to his place. He knows we’re living together. Everybody knows that. I saw the way he was trying to worm his way into your apartment that night, trying to impress you with his interest in your painting.”
Clémence shook her head. “Okay. Let’s not talk about that. Let’s focus on the case. Let’s say Sarah’s innocent. Who would want to kill Charlotte? Who has the most to gain from her death?”
“I don’t know. This girl has connections to the art world. What exactly has she been doing for Mathieu? You know, if Mathieu didn’t have an alibi, I would think he was responsible.”
“That’s what the inspector thought,” Clémence said. “But like I said, he had an airtight alibi. Besides, what would he have to gain by killing his own girlfriend?”
“Mathieu sounds more secretive than he lets on. Suppose Charlotte threatened to reveal something big? After all, he was keeping the baby a secret from you. Maybe she was going to tell you about the baby when he wanted to win you back. You did say that Sarah was angry when you saw her. And she gets murdered on the same night?”
“I can’t imagine what else Mathieu has to hide from me besides the whole baby thing.”
“Clémence, you’ve said it yourself a million times: you never know who you can trust. You put Mathieu on a pedestal. He might not be the guy you think he is.”
“I don’t put him on a pedestal. I just think he’s a talented artist, not some criminal or murderer.”
“Well, Hitler was a talented artist too. Food for thought.”
“But we’re wasting our time talking about Mathieu. Like I said, he has an alibi.”
“Fine, but I still think there’s something suspicious about him. He’s probably hiding more than you think.”
“I’ve known him for years, way longer than I’ve known you.” She regretted it as soon as she said it, but it was too late to take it back now. “I just don’t think he’s involved in this. He’s a nice guy.”
“Nice?” he scoffed. “He cheated on you and kicked you out of your shared apartment.”
“I chose to leave. Look, let’s not do this. You’re accusing someone based on your…personal conflicts.”
You’re jealous, she almost said, but she bit her tongue. He wasn’t being a lot of help.
Except he was right about one thing: Charlotte’s death could be connected to someone in the art world. Tomorrow, she’d have to continue with the investigation at the Madison gallery.
Chapter 13
The Madison Gallery was a modern art gallery located in the sixth arrondissement. While the neighboring galleries were full of tasteful black and white photography and scenic landscape paintings, the art at Madison was more experimental. It had an edge, while still remaining palatable for French buyers.
With exposed plumbing and white walls, the gallery space took up the street level floor of a Haussman building. Across the street was a Monoprix and the gallery was sandwiched between an ice cream shop and an upscale toy store.
Clémence let herself in. There was no one else in sight. She was alone with the art. The oil paintings on the walls were by a Chinese artist named Liu Weng, who painted himself grinning and doing the thumbs up in catastrophic world situations. Tiananmen Square. Hitler’s inauguration speech. Third world starvation. His pieces were irreverent and controversial. A black blob-shaped statue sat in the middle of the gallery. It was simply titled “Disease.”
Clémence could see Mathieu’s new work fitting in at a gallery like this.
The place was pin-drop silent. Clémence had wanted to speak to the owner. According to her research, his name was Chris Kassabian. Charlotte had been his right-hand woman. Perhaps things were quiet because Charlotte wasn’t in.
She waited, walking around, looking at the paintings, at Liu Weng’s ridiculous grin.
“Exuberant, isn’t it?” A male voice made her turn. He came out of a back room and approached her, his shoes clacking on the linoleum floor.
In a crisp white shirt and gray dress pants, Chris Kassabian was someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance. In his early sixties, he was almost as short as Clémence’s 5’4” frame. The most striking thing about the man was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve seen so far,” Clémence said.
“Weng really pushes the envelope. He criticizes his own government, but he’s extremely respected in China, to the goverment’s chagrin. We’re lucky to show him here. This series is the first that features him in the paintings.”
“I suppose they can be self-portraits,” Clémence said. “They’re great. Funny social commentary.”
“Have you heard of Weng?”
“No, I haven’t. My parents are art collectors though. They’d be interested if the paintings weren’t so big.”
Each painting was six feet tall. It would take up an entire wall of their apartment if she brought one home.
He chuckled. “You would definitely need to commit to his paintings. I’m Chris Kassabian, the owner.”
“Je suis Clémence. Enchantée. I actually stopped by because a friend told me she worked here. Charlotte Lagrange? I thought I’d drop in and say hi.”
His face fell at the mention of her. “Oh. Dear. Well—you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” She blinked innocently.
“Charlotte is…she passed away.”
Clémence gasped. She wouldn’t be winning a César Award for Best Actress anytime soon, but Chris seemed to be buying it. “What? But how?”
“Well…were you a close friend?”
“I met her at a party just last week. We’re more like acquaintances, but this is a complete shock!”
“All I know is that Charlotte was shot in her own apartment a couple of nights ago.”
“Mon dieu! Mais pourquoi?” Why?
“I have no idea. She came from a respectable family, she was at the top of her class, and she was great as an employee.”
“It’s so bizarre. There are no leads?”
“Not as far as I know. I spoke to her parents and they’re in shock too. Charlotte was a bright girl. She knew so much about art. All our clients loved her. I’ve been scrambling to find a replacement, but the girl was really something. She knew her stuff and she could probably sell a framed napkin.”
“So you don’t know whether she had any enemies?” Clémence asked. “Maybe someone who was jealous of her?”
