by Harper Lin
He hung up. Clémence walked around the hallway, thinking. Cesar Laberg committed suicide? It was plausible. She hadn’t known him too well, and she would have no idea what kind of demons he had. Maybe I should just forget about meeting Maya and go home. At least she didn’t have to mull over which one of her guests was a murderer.
As she turned to go back inside to tell Daphne that she was going to go, she heard footsteps coming from the bottom of the staircase. Clémence looked down and saw Maya’s curly dark hair. For the party, Maya had a bold Afro, but today she had it styled into a poufy bun on top of her head.
Maya was originally from Guinea. She had coffee-colored skin, full lips, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. As Maya neared the fourth floor, Clémence saw that she was wearing bold hot pink blazer and electric blue glasses. At her party, Maya had looked more like Diana Ross, in a classy silver dress, but today, she looked every bit of the hip young professional working in the publishing industry.
She looked up and noticed Clémence. “Hey, Clémence?”
“Maya, salut.” Clémence greeted her with bisous on the cheeks. “I’m here to see you.”
“I just got Sebastien’s message when I was walking back to the office. Come on in to my office.”
Before Clémence could protest, Maya ushered her in. Clémence figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Maya and possibly get more information about Cesar in case she ever needed it.
Maya’s office kept in line with the barnyard chic decor. The light green walls gave the room an air of serenity. On the wall above her desk was photography triptych of tree bark, branches, and leaves. Her desk was a huge slab of wood with metal legs. Only a silver MacBook and a minimalist silver lamp were on her desk.
“I love the decor,” Clémence said. “My mom would approve. She’s very into interior design.”
“Thank you! I’m liking it too.” Maya closed the door. “My coworkers are total minimalists, and I guess I’ve adapted to their tastes. Please sit down. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“It’s about Cesar Laberg.”
Maya nodded. She took off her glasses. It left ridges on the sides of her nose. “I kind of figured.”
“I hope you’ve recovered from that evening. I know it wasn’t exactly a conventional party.”
“It was definitely a shock.” Maya sighed. “The police grilled me for hours. Then I had a total breakdown and cried because I was so tired. I asked for a lawyer because they seemed to find it more suspect that I was crying. Sunday, I kind of just spent the day inside, trying to pull myself together for the workweek.”
“Well, the—”
“Clémence, I heard from Sebastien that you’re good at solving crimes. I figure you’re probably trying to gather information about Cesar and his death.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you suspect me? Because I don’t blame you if you do. The police does. I haven’t heard from them yet, although they’re supposed to go through my lawyer at this point. But I had nothing to do with Cesar’s death, despite what it seems. What do you want to know about us? That Cesar and I worked together, and that he fired me? Yes, we didn’t get along, but I would never kill him! Never.”
Maya’s expression contorted into one of pain. Clémence thought she was on the verge of crying. Before she could reassure her and tell her what the inspector had found out, Maya spoke up again.
“It’s true that I hated him. I’ll lay it all on the table now. I’d been working at Laberg since I was in university. I’d always wanted to be the editor of a magazine. I was lucky enough to get an internship at Bon Goût. Who doesn’t love food?”
“I remember that magazine,” Clémence said, nodding. “It was great. I think they even did a feature on my parents years ago.”
“Right. I think it was when I first started interning. That’s when I learned to write about articles about food, chefs, and restaurants, and it turned out that I was good at it. When I graduated, I got hired as an editorial assistant. I did the usual assistant tasks, and they gave me small writing jobs, like short restaurant reviews or chef profiles. Then I managed the blog portion of the website. Three years ago, I got promoted to a features writer. It was fantastic, and I was over the moon. Fast forward two years, and I’m promoted to editor. Editor at twenty-nine. Not bad, right? Well. Then Cesar Laberg took over the magazine department.” Maya rubbed her eyes underneath her glasses.
“Did you have to work with Cesar all the time?”
“I’d known him for a while, since we all work in the same building. He’d been working in another department while I was moving up the ranks through the years. Our paths did cross sometimes, like at company parties, events. Sometimes at restaurants for lunch. I never liked him. He was arrogant, kind of obnoxious, and he only got his position through nepotism, which I couldn’t stand.”
Clémence inwardly cringed. She had often been accused of nepotism, herself. Her parents were successful bakers and business owners. Damour was a huge success in France and in major cities around the world. She was an heiress who would inherit all this someday with her older brother and sister. In the meanwhile, she had one of the best jobs in the industry. She made creative decisions all day, inventing dessert flavors and helping her bakers make macarons and pastries when they needed extra help.
“He would hit on me, too,” Maya continued. “At first, he’d just flirt, but after a while, he started asking me out all the time. I just wasn’t interested. He had a reputation. He dated quite a lot of girls at the company and left them heartbroken. I didn’t want to go through that. Besides. I didn’t find him attractive. He was too self-righteous and self-entitled. I even told him that when he kept persisting on taking me out for drinks. I prefer someone more quiet and sweet, like Sebastien. Anyway, Cesar took over the magazine department and said he was shutting down Bon Goût. Many of us got laid off. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. I tried to apply for other jobs at the magazine, even lower positions, but I found that I was kind of blacklisted. Or at least that’s how it felt like.”
“You think Cesar blacklisted you at the company?” Clémence asked.
“Maybe. Maybe it was revenge for rejecting him all these years and bruising his ego. He could get any girl he wanted and probably wasn’t used to rejection. I tried applying for editorial jobs at other magazines, but the only good offer I got was at a tabloid. I turned them down, and luckily, I found a good job here. I still miss writing for a magazine, but I love helping authors, and nurturing their careers. Sometimes I do freelance on the side at magazines, so I’m getting the best of both worlds, really.” Maya took off her glasses and looked Clémence in the eyes. “I’m telling you all this because I want to lay it all on the table. Yes, my relations with Cesar hasn’t been all that great, but I certainly didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
Clémence nodded, taking it all in. “How did he react to seeing you at the party?”
Maya shook her head at the memory. “At first, he was pleasant. He shook Sebastien’s hand and made chitchat with us. Then he got drunker throughout the evening and a bit nastier. He made a snide remark about Sebastien when we were alone. Then he launched into this whole tirade of how I had bad taste in men, and that I was probably just a lesbian using Sebastien for social leverage because I was a nobody. I was so angry. I was fuming. I tried to calm down. Sebastien was engaged in another conversation, and I just downed a glass of champagne and tried to let the anger go. But I couldn’t. I needed to give that Cesar a piece of my mind, especially after the fiasco with the job. I wanted to tell him that he was a vengeful, talentless jerk. I looked around and tried to find him, but he wasn’t around, so I figured he was in the men’s room, and I went to look for him. The men’s room was, curiously, not locked. The door was slightly ajar. That’s what I told the police, and it’s the truth.”
“Well, you did tell me that you were going in there to use the restroom,” Clémence said.
“It’s true.
I did lie about the fact that I went into the men’s room by accident. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police, and I panicked. So I made up that lie. Because I really didn’t have anything to do with Cesar’s death. All I wanted to do was confront him. I never imagined he’d be dead. I checked his pulse, so my fingerprints would probably be found on him, and I told the police that. Otherwise, I didn’t lay a finger on him. All I wanted was to give him a piece of my mind, but someone beat me to that and more.” Maya began to get teary and she buried her face in her hands.
Clémence had heard enough. “The inspector said Cesar might’ve killed himself. He said they found a suicide note, but he didn’t exactly tell me what it said. He mentioned it was more like a will.”
Maya looked up at her through her parted, tear-stained fingers. “Suicide?”
“Yeah. He overdosed on antidepressants, and it turns out that he had depression.”
“Wow.” Maya sat back.
“Did Cesar seem like the kind of person who was depressed?”
Maya slowly shook her head. “No. I don’t know. He was always doing things for attention. Partying like crazy and coming in on Mondays hung over. He had girls coming and going through a rotating door. It could explain some things. Depressed people sometimes do look for instant gratification to fill a void, right?”
“Right,” Clémence said. “He sounds like a rock star.”
“I guess I never thought he had anything to be depressed about,” Maya said. “He could do anything he wanted. He could buy anything he wanted and have anybody he wanted, almost.”
“I’m not sure if I completely buy the fact that he committed suicide,” Clémence said. “I mean, it sounds like there are people out there who might hate him and resent him. But what if it wasn’t a suicide? What if someone made it look like one? And what if the letter wasn’t a suicide letter, but just a will? I’m just trying to look at this from all angles here.”
“Yes. I don’t know. It doesn’t look good, either way.”
“What would make more sense to you though, Maya?” Clémence asked. “Cesar killing himself because of depression, or somebody murdering him?”
Maya looked down at her desk, at the paperweight in the shape of a golden egg. When she looked up at Clémence, there seemed to be a glimmer of certainty in her eyes.
“Somebody murdering him,” she replied.
Chapter 6
Arthur worked near Métro Miromesnil, and since his consulting company was on the way back to the patisserie, she made plans to meet with him for lunch. She waited for him in the lobby of the building.
Arthur came out of the elevator and smiled. His chestnut hair was growing out, and it was parted and neatly gelled with an adorable wave at the front. After they kissed and stepped out onto the street, his brown eyes shone with a golden tinge under the sunlight. They went to a nearby crêperie, where Clémence ordered a spinach and goat cheese galette and Arthur a seafood bisque galette.
“How’s it going at your new job?” Clémence asked. “Are you feeling withdrawal from university life?”
Arthur shook his head and laughed. “Not at all. Aside from seeing my prof, it could get pretty solitary working at the library. Hey, why didn’t you ever visit me there?”
Clémence reached across the table to pinch his cheeks. “You’re such a whiner. I would’ve if your snotty school would let me in without a student ID.”
“I was so lonely,” Arthur joked.
“Didn’t you have any friends at school?” Clémence teased.
“Sort of. But I was an older student, and the other PhD students were kind of aloof and not interested in making friends. Not that I was, either. I am glad I’m working now, since it can more be more of a social environment.”
“I feel the same about working at the patisserie. I don’t think I can be a painter full time. I need to interact with people.”
“Which is why I’m liking the job,” Arthur said. “I look up to my boss. He’s not as pompous as other successful men, and he’s quite flexible, letting us take breaks and extended lunches when we want as long as we get the work done. Right now, we’re working on rebranding the XY clothing store.”
XY was a clothing chain, a French version of The Gap. It had been popular when Clémence was a teen, but in the last decade they had trouble staying relevant.
“You’re involved in fashion?” Clémence was amused.
“I’ll have you know I’m quite fashionable.”
She had to admit, he did know how to dress reasonably well, although it was in the most classical, preppy sense. All the bourgeois men dressed more or less the same; style was like a uniform with men and women alike in Paris. “But this is a women’s store.”
“I think you forget that I have two sisters, and one of them is in fashion school in Italy to become a designer.”
“Right,” Clémence said. “That’s true. We’ll see how it goes. Make me proud.”
“I’ll be sure to consult you on the latest trends.”
“I’ll try,” Clémence said. “I’ll wear what I have to look good, and I am known to shop on occasion, but I don’t really keep up with the latest collections.”
“Not even now that you’re back on the socialite scene and you have friends in fashion?”
“I’m not back on the socialite scene,” Clémence protested. “I’m just happy the gossip blogs are leaving me alone. Now I can wear the same pair of pants three days in a row without feeling like a criminal.”
Their food came. Clémence dug right in; she was starved. All she had for breakfast was a pain au chocolat from Damour, and while it was full of butter, chocolate, and greasy goodness, it was low on nutrients.
Arthur chuckled at the thought of something. “You know, there’s one thing I really don’t miss about school—the unisex restrooms. I had to listen to the girls talk about the most inane things. Hair and boys and lip gloss. Ugh.”
Clémence chuckled. “You should hang out in the back kitchen at Damour. It’s pretty much what Berenice, Celine, and I talk about.”
“Do you talk about me?”
“Always. You and murder cases.”
“Right, the murders. So what exactly is going on with the Cesar Laberg case? Have you heard anything from the police?”
She sighed and explained what the inspector had said, and her visit with Maya. Arthur took it in as he finished his galette.
“What do you think?” Clémence asked. “Murder or suicide?”
“I’m not surprised by anything these days,” Arthur said. “But I don’t know. I had maybe a half-hour conversation with Cesar about the World Cup. He seemed like a pretty fun guy. Why would he kill himself?”
“Was he drunk when you guys talked? I only chatted with him a bit when we were introduced. I didn’t pay much attention to him throughout the evening.”
“Not drunk drunk. He seemed really easygoing, the kind who enjoyed life. I don’t know if it makes sense he’d commit suicide.”
Clémence shrugged. “I knew a girl who committed suicide when I was studying in America. She lived on my floor in the dorms. I didn’t know her well, but I think she was bipolar. Sometimes, I’d see her at parties, extremely happy and dancing like everyone else, always either high or drunk. Other times I’d see her looking glum and bored, listening to music with headphones on at the library. Once I even caught her crying to herself at a table where she was studying. I’d thought it was the pressure of winter exams. Then during the spring semester, she slashed her wrists, and her roommate found her.”
“Maybe you should talk to the people who did know Caesar well.”
“One step ahead of you,” she said. “I’ve left a message on Madeleine’s phone. I want to see if she can get me invited over to her boyfriend’s house. That way, I can talk to everyone in the family at once—the parents, both brothers, and maybe even the servants. I’ll be able to find out what this letter said. I think if I just keep asking questions, even about things that seem i
nsignificant, I might get something out of it.”
