Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder

by Harper Lin

  “We have way bigger things to worry about than whether some guy was flirting with me or not.” Clémence leaned on his shoulder in the backseat to show that she wasn’t mad. “And it’s not to our disadvantage. He’s helping us.”

  “Your company’s paying him to work for you. He has to help you either way.”

  Clémence shot him a look.

  He kissed her forehead. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry you didn’t have a better birthday.”

  Clémence laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m used to this type of thing by now.”

  ***

  “Geez, maybe it’s a bad idea to be open this morning,” Clémence muttered to herself. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on the door of les toilettes. It was almost opening hour. The hired catering crew had helped clean up the night before, and her staff had done the rest.

  Since there was no evidence of foul play, the police didn’t think Damour was a crime scene. Clémence’s parents, who were still in Singapore, had agreed with Caroline, the head manager, that the store should stay open. Clémence didn’t think so, but she understood their reasoning. If Damour closed, it would’ve meant something was wrong. They were lucky enough as it was that no paparazzi had been around in the middle of the night. At one a.m., the tourists had also gone, and there were few witnesses to the police cars except the neighboring staff of other cafés and restaurants.

  News might break sooner or later that Cesar Laberg had died in Damour’s men’s room, but business was business. It wasn’t as if anybody at Damour was responsible for Cesar’s death…wasn’t it?

  However, Clémence did feel guilty about the whole thing. A murder wasn’t a fun way to end a party. And it didn’t feel right to let customers use the men’s room when it had recently hosted a fresh corpse. She made the executive decision to put an “out of order” sign, and she made the women’s toilet unisex.

  Clémence told Caroline what she’d done before heading back to the kitchen, where Sebastien and Berenice were working at one table. The brother and sister were both making éclairs, piping the cream filling into the choux pastry.

  “How’s Maya?” Clémence asked Sebastien. “She seemed a bit traumatized last night.”

  Sebastien shook his head. “She’s probably sleeping in right now, because she couldn’t really fall asleep after all the madness yesterday evening.”

  “Poor girl,” Berenice said. “She comes out to meet your friends for the first time and finds a stranger’s dead body near a toilet bowl.”

  “Maya knew Cesar, actually,” Sebastien said.

  Clémence’s ears perked up. “How?”

  “They used to work together. He was her boss.”

  “At Editions Laberg?”

  “Yes. She was working at a magazine there,” Sebastien said. “She was the editor of a new cooking magazine, and it folded.”

  “Oh. Where’s she working now?”

  “She’s a book publicist now,” Berenice said.

  “Berenice would know,” Sebastien said. “She spoke to Maya every chance she got—interrogating her throughout the evening, practically.”

  “I wasn’t interrogating.” Berenice pointed a wooden spoon at him. “I’m just trying to get to know my future sister-in-law.”

  “Oh, come on,” Sebastien said. “Sometimes you act more like my grandmother than my sister. Why would you assume that we’re getting married?”

  “You’re in your thirties,” Berenice said. “Despite your youthful appearance.”

  “Hey, I just turned thirty.”

  “Please. You’re about to turn thirty-one in September.”

  “That’s not old,” Sebastien said. “People aren’t marrying until much later now.”

  “Except I think you’re the kind of guy who needs to get married,” Berenice insisted. “You live alone, and God knows what you do puttering around on your days off. Maya seems really grounded. She’ll help you get out of your shell. We worry about you, you know. I’m glad you finally found someone.”

  “I was doing well on my own,” Sebastien said defensively. “I’m head baker at the top patisserie in Paris, aren’t I?” He must’ve thought about Maya again, because a small smile broke out on his face. “Maya is pretty great, isn’t she?”

  “Look at you.” Berenice laughed. “You’re so in love. I’ve never seen you this way, this…euphoric.”

  “It’s a disease, isn’t it?” he said. “I can’t believe I’m acting like one of those saps.”

  “I can’t believe you made me think you were gay all this time,” Berenice exclaimed.

  “You just came to that assumption yourself.” Sebastien grinned mischievously. “But thanks for the support. It means a lot.”

  “I didn’t know your girlfriend worked in publishing,” Clémence said, who wanted to steer the conversation back to the subject.

  “Yeah.” He smiled dreamily. “She has a passion for anything to do with the written word. She’s quite driven.”

  Clémence’s head was already turning. She planned on meeting Madeleine Seydoux later that day, because she figured Madeleine would probably know more about Cesar’s background. It wasn’t an opportune time to talk to the grieving family members, so she had to go to the next best thing; she wanted to wait a day to speak to the Labergs out of respect.

  Now that Clémence knew Maya used to work for Cesar, Maya would be a good person to interrogate.

  “How well did Maya know Cesar?” she asked Sebastien. “How close were they?”

  “I don’t think they were friends or anything. They had a professional relationship. They hadn’t been working together all that long. He was only her boss for a few months, I think. Maya said it was fortunate the magazine folded, because she wanted to be a publicist anyway.”

  “I wonder if she’d be interested in being Ben’s publicist one day,” Berenice said. “You know, after he finishes his novel. Is she good?”

  “Her clientele is building every day,” Sebastien said.

  “Did she change jobs recently?” Clémence asked.

  “In February,” he replied.

  “You think I can meet up with her?” Clémence asked. “I don’t know what happened to Cesar, but if it was murder, maybe she’d know something.”

  “Clémence, you think everything’s a murder these days,” Berenice said. “I don’t blame you. But what if it wasn’t?”

  “I hope that’s the case. But past experiences have taught me to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. I want to gather information in case it is a murder. I mean, there’s a pretty good chance it is, as much as I hate to admit it. A young man like him, rich, powerful, good-looking—he was probably the envy of many people. It wouldn’t hurt to gather information. I feel responsible, since it happened at my party. Maybe Maya could tell me if he had any enemies.”

  “Maya can certainly help,” Sebastien said.

  What if the killer was Maya?

  Clémence berated herself for turning into Inspector Cyril St. Clair, but she couldn’t help it.

  Chapter 5

  As much as Clémence hated to admit it, the inspector was right to have his suspicions. Maya did find Cesar’s body.

  Although there hadn’t been a scratch on him. No wounds, no blood, just a limp body. A clever murderer wouldn’t put herself at the scene of the crime like that. Or had Maya just been pretending to be distraught?

  Clémence sighed. She was thinking the way Cyril did when he accused Clémence of killing her building’s caretaker when Clémence discovered the old woman’s body. Just because Maya found Cesar didn’t mean she did it. But why had she been in the men’s room? Could it be explained by simple intoxication? Or did something else happen in there?

  Sebastien had given Maya a call, but it went to voicemail, so he left a message saying that Clémence was interested in coming by and asking her some questions.

  Clémence took down her information from Sebastien, and after wolfing down a tuna baguette sandwich for lunch, she left for her ne
w mission.

  The paparazzi had been scarce lately, and she hardly encountered them anymore. In August, many Parisians were on vacation. It left the city quieter, and it was also a month when films were made here. A big blockbuster sequel was currently being shot in central Paris. She knew Hollywood A-listers were in town to make the action film, and no doubt the paparazzi were much more interested in them than her, a dessert heiress who already had her fifteen minutes of fame in a kidnapping attempt.

  Thank goodness her time in the limelight, or whatever it was, was over. She could go back to her daily routine, running errands—or solving murders—around the city without worrying about the tabloids and blogs scrutinizing whether she looked good without makeup or where she got her shoes. Clémence wasn’t cut out to be a celebrity, however minor.

  She took the Métro to the 10th arrondissement. Maya’s office was north of Gare du Nord.

  Sebastien guessed that Maya was out for a business lunch, probably with an author, which was what she did often. After Sebastien gave her the contacts for Maya’s company, she’d tried calling the office, but she got the voicemail, probably because it was lunchtime. Clémence didn’t mind going to Maya’s office to wait for her. If Maya turned out to be out for the entire day, Clémence would just hop over to Madeleine’s workplace to speak to her instead.

  She followed the map on her phone to a run-down Haussmanian building. The office was on the fourth floor, and Clémence walked up the creaky old stairs. There were two doors, and she pushed open the one on the right to see a receptionist.

  The young woman had fire engine red hair that came from a bottle and wore vintage cat-eye glasses. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Maya.”

  “She’s actually lunching with a client right now.” She typed into her computer. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but we’re friends. It’s a personal meeting about something important. Do you know when Maya will be back?”

  The young woman regarded her with interest. She had a wide mouth, with coral lipstick that clashed with her hair applied to her thin lips. “You can wait for her. Maya should be back soon. She doesn’t have a meeting until three p.m., so she should be free when she comes back.”

  “Great. Merci.” Clémence sat down on one of the chairs.

  “I’m Daphne, by the way.”

  “Clémence. Enchantée.”

  The office was decorated in a modern barnyard chic style, with its glass tables with tree trunk legs, fluffy white carpeting, and pale blue wooden chairs with purposely chipped paint. A nature motif ran throughout the décor and wall art.

  Daphne tilted her head and examined her. “You look familiar.”

  Clémence tried to brush it off. “People are always saying I look like somebody. I must have one of those faces.”

  Daphne seemed like the type to read gossip blogs and tabloids. Clémence hoped she didn’t recognize her. Luckily, she didn’t seem to.

  “How long have you been friends with Maya?” Daphne asked.

  Clémence surmised that she was probably bored stiff at her office job most of the time, and wanted to chat—gossip. She figured she could use this to her advantage. “I met her only recently,” Clémence replied. “She’s dating a friend of mine.”

  “Ah, the guy who comes around, who’s always smiling?” she asked.

  Sebastien now had a reputation for constantly smiling? Clémence chuckled at the thought of the new Seb and how much he’d changed recently. How love could transform a person.

  “Yes,” Clémence said. “He’s a good friend of mine. I don’t know Maya too well, but she seems really nice. It’s impressive what she’s accomplished. Do you know she used to work at a culinary magazine?”

  “Right, before she came to work here.” Daphne nodded, pity blatant in her expression. “Poor thing, getting fired before she could really make a name for herself.”

  “Fired?” Clémence frowned. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yeah. She’d worked her way up at this magazine, ever since she interned while she was still in university. Last year she finally got a shot at her dream job of being the editor. Can you imagine? Being an editor of a nationwide magazine at thirty? Anyway, the magazine folds as soon as the boss’s son takes over. She wanted to work at another magazine, but that Laberg guy just wouldn’t give her a break.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. But he sounds pretty awful. She says he’s an arrogant asshole, so I guess they didn’t get along. Then she started working here. She seems pretty content at this job.”

  “Wow. That sucks.” Clémence took it all in. Sebastien had said that Maya changed careers because she wanted to, not because she was fired. Maya must’ve lied. What else did she lie about?

  If Maya hated Cesar, she didn’t act like it at the party. She was smiling the entire time, even when she was talking to him.

  Just then Clémence’s phone rang. It was Inspector Cyril St. Clair.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Daphne, and she went outside to take the call. “Cyril?”

  “Damour,” he replied. “I’ve got news.”

  “What is it?” Clémence asked breathily.

  “Your friend, Cesar Laberg? Well, he committed suicide.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. We got the blood test back, and he’d taken antidepressant. His psychiatrist confirmed that he’d prescribed them. Cesar had overdosed, taking the toxic dose.”

  “So he was depressed? Really?”

  “Yes. Not only that, this morning, his mother found a suicide letter in his study.”

  “Did Cesar live alone?”

  “His family owns a mansion in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Cesar still lived at the family home, and he had half a floor to himself.”

  “What did the suicide letter say?” Clémence asked.

  “It’s quite a logical letter. Not very emotional at all, but practical. It was more of a will, listing what he wanted to give away to people.”

  “Can I see the letter?”

  Inspector Cyril St. Clair sputtered. “Do you think I’m working for you? No, you can’t see this letter. The only reason I’m even calling you is to tell you that it was a suicide so you could stop whatever snooping you’re doing at the moment.”

  “Do you even know if the letter’s real?” Clémence said.

  “His family recognized his writing,” he shot back defensively.

  “Yes, but handwriting can be faked. Have you taken it in for a graphology test?”

  “It’s real,” he protested. Clémence heard him take a deep breath. “But yes, I did plan on submitting it for a test.”

  “Sure you did,” Clémence muttered under her breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where did you find the letter?”

  “Enough, Damour. This case is closed. Caesar Laberg had a case of depression nobody knew about. He was prescribed pills, and he took one too many at your birthday party. Maybe because he was drunk. Who knows what this guy was thinking? The rich are always messed up. I really suspected he had a coke problem at first. But we figured it out, and that’s that. He committed suicide, and that’s the bottom line.”