Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder

by Harper Lin

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Arthur said. “But what about leaving the case to the police this time? Did that ever occur to you?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “I wish I could trust them enough to, but I feel responsible, since Cesar did die at my party. I need to get to the bottom of this.”

  “And you will. But once you do, let’s take that vacation we were talking about. Most of the Parisians have abandoned the city, and I want to join them.”

  “Maybe if I take a break from Paris, I could take a break from all these murders.”

  Arthur chuckled and held her hand on the table. “Let’s hope.”

  Chapter 7

  “Lift those legs!”

  Clémence and Berenice reluctantly obeyed their boot camp instructor. This was Clémence’s first outdoor workout class, and it felt like death.

  “Higher! Higher!”

  If I go any higher, I’m going to pull a groin muscle, Clémence thought.

  They were working out on a patch of grass outside the Louvre. Berenice had been faithful to these workout sessions, coming twice a week. At first Clémence had been concerned about working out in public in case the paparazzi got wind of her, but she figured now that her fifteen minutes of fame was up, she could go back to doing whatever embarrassing things she wanted to in public. A part of her really enjoyed being bullied by a sadist into getting into better shape.

  The pounds she’d gained since she started working at the patisseries again all went straight to her hips. She was now restricting how many sweets she was putting in her body, but it wasn’t easy, considering she was surrounded by them every day. Her mother used to have the same problem, but she developed a habit of eating rabbit food and exercising six days a week, early in the morning. Clémence wasn’t ready to make that level of commitment yet, but the masochism of boot camp workouts was a good start.

  “Push-ups! Come on. I need fifteen push-ups, now!”

  Clémence didn’t know how to do one push-up, never mind fifteen. Their instructor was a short but bulky Spanish man in his early thirties with square sideburns and amazing hair that was slick and styled into a pompadour.

  She resigned herself to doing girly push-ups, with her knees on the grass. She had to build up her upper body strength.

  “Come on, Clémence, you can do better than that! Faster. Stop scowling. Smile. Smile through the pain!”

  Smile through the pain? Clémence found the suggestion ridiculous, but she did it anyway. Soon she was laughing. Berenice couldn’t help but laugh, too. There were only three other girls in the class, two of whom were super fit and ran rings around them twice while Clémence and Berenice lagged behind, panting and complaining.

  There were fifteen minutes left in the class, as Clémence could see from her sports watch that also measured her heartbeat. She did lunges and sit-ups, jumping jacks and butt squats. When they were done, Clémence and Berenice fell on the grass in exhaustion. It was a particularly hot afternoon. Clémence squirted water all over her face and neck.

  The instructor smiled, dropping his drill sergeant act as he packed up. “Good job, girls.”

  “I can’t feel my legs,” Clémence moaned.

  “Sorry about that, girls,” he said brightly. “Take a bath. That helps the muscles. À la prochaine fois!”

  “Yeah, see you next time.” Berenice sat up and looked around. “Man, it’s so nice to be working out outside, at least. Gyms are so depressing.”

  Clémence sat up, too. A girl in a straw fedora snapped her camera phone in their direction. Clémence wondered if she was going to appear sweaty and makeup-less on some gossip site again, but the girl could’ve been a tourist. They were surrounded by beauty. Everybody was taking photos.

  Before it became one of the biggest museums in the world, the Louvre used to be the royal palace. Clémence admired the sculptural details of the Louvre palace’s façade, contrasted against the modern glass pyramid, which was designed by I.M. Pei in the eighties.

  Clémence used to visit the Louvre to draw all the time when she was younger. She’d take a stool, her sketchpad, and pencils, and find a different wing every time to work in. She drew everything from sculptures to windows to people looking at paintings. It was a quiet, reflexive experience, almost meditative, as she would be so absorbed in the act of drawing that no thought entered her head except for those related to observing and transferring what she saw onto paper.

  She loved those days at the Louvre by herself. It was a shame she hadn’t been back inside the museum since she returned to Paris from traveling the world for two years, but she’d like to. She could buy an annual membership again. Of course, there were too many tourists in August to go during the day, but perhaps Wednesday evenings were a possibility, since the museum was open until nine forty-five p.m., and the crowd was different. She didn’t know why they were different, but they were. There were fewer tourists who only wanted to document the experience with their high-tech cameras, and more who were introspective about art, looking at each piece slowly and prudently, as if everything was an experience to savor.

  “I wish I had to time to go to the Louvre this week to start drawing again,” she said with a sigh as she slowly sat up, too.

  “Why don’t you?” Berenice turned to her. “You used to go all the time, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. It was nice to do something for myself. Especially now that Arthur’s living with me, and I’m constantly busy with the patisserie, and all this murder stuff, it would be great to start it up again.”

  “I thought you said there’s a good chance that Cesar committed suicide.” Berenice shook her head. “I can’t imagine someone wanting to do that. Especially in a dramatic way. He must’ve wanted attention, even for his death, as though being one of the most eligible bachelors in France wasn’t enough.”

  “That’s what I want to confirm tonight. I’m going to the Laberg family house in Neuilly to talk to everyone. Madeleine got me an invite to dinner.”

  “Dinner? Oh, fancy. I heard they have an amazing mansion. I saw it once in Elle Decor. If I were you, I’d be ecstatic.”

  Clémence stretched, trying to reach her toes with her fingers. “I’m not sure if ‘fun’ would be the word I’d use to describe how I think this evening will go. After all, I’m going to be broaching some serious subjects. I’m going to have to find some palatable ways to ask, ‘What kind of depression did your son have?’ and ‘What did he write in his suicide letter?’”

  “Hmm, yeah, true. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The girls carefully stood up. Clémence felt her sore muscles pulsating and she couldn’t wait to go home and take that bath already. They took a walk through the Tuileries first, where people were eating lunch, chatting, or napping in the green chairs. Little kids poked wooden boats with sticks in the fountains.

  There were all kinds of flowers and lush trees on either side of them as they walked toward the Luxor Obelisk. Clémence appreciated the simple beauty and joy of the garden, knowing that as soon as she exited, there would be cars and traffic and people to face again.

  Chapter 8

  Since Arthur hadn’t been invited to dinner at the Labergs’ with her, Clémence got ready alone. She wore an emerald green wrap dress, courtesy of her designer friend Marcus Savin. It was simply the most comfortable dress she’d ever worn, with the silk-and-cotton blend soft to the touch. With a black Chanel clutch and basic black Louboutin heels, she was ready to mingle with the bourgeois.

  “Don’t burn the place down,” Clémence told Arthur.

  “I won’t.” He kissed her good-bye. “Bonne chance.”

  She playfully ruffled his hair and then left. Whenever she went to somebody’s home, she made sure to bring something from Damour. But since Cesar died after eating crème brûlée from her salon de thé, she wasn’t sure it would be sensitive to bring one of their desserts.

  At a flower shop, she
bought a lovely bouquet of pink roses. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time. It wouldn’t be difficult to find a taxi as she walked closer to Place du Trocadéro.

  “Where to, mademoiselle?” the cab driver asked.

  “Neuilly-sur-Seine, s’il vous plait.” She gave him the exact address after retrieving it from her smartphone.

  Neuilly was just on the outskirts of Paris, an area composed of rich residential neighborhoods. It was above the Bois de Boulogne, and was close to the 16th, so Clémence arrived in no time at all.

  “Merci, monsieur.” Clémence slammed the door shut after paying him. The taxi drove away, leaving her alone before a three-story mansion with a vast garden. It was gated, and Clémence had to buzz for them to let her in.

  The mansion was estimated to be sixty million euros, according to Berenice. It had twenty rooms, and the floors were served by two lifts. The ground floor had high, modern windows that probably gave a great view of the gardens, which was supposed to have been inspired by the work of André Le Nôtre, the landscape architect behind the gardens of Palais Versailles and the Tuileries.

  Clémence heard there was a pool, too, which was probably in the back. No wonder the Laberg brothers still lived at home, even though they each had their own apartments in central Paris. The family mansion had live-in help, and the boys must’ve been waited on hand and foot. The Labergs made Arthur’s family seem middle class in comparison.

  The front door opened, and the head of an older gentleman poked out first, followed by his lanky, uniformed body.

  “Bonsoir,” Clémence greeted him with a polite smile.

  “Mademoiselle Damour?” he asked in a grave tone.

  “Oui.”

  “Come in.”

  He made no introductions, but Clémence could tell that he was one of the many help in the house.

  “May I take your purse?” He gestured to her quilted leather clutch.

  “Um, sure.” She took out her smartphone and slipped it into one of the pockets of her dress. It bulged from her upper thigh beneath the fabric, but she liked to have her phone close to her in case she needed to take photos of anything.

  The interior of the house, as expected, was grand in every sense of the word. High ceilings, Louis IX furniture, chandeliers, gilded mirrors. It was like a modernized version of a small palace.

  Clémence was shown into the salon, where Madeleine, Henri, and Charles were already sitting with drinks in hand.

  They all rose to greet her with bisous.

  “I just heard that you were joining us,” Charles said.

  “Yes,” Clémence said. “I hope it’s all right. After what happened at my own birthday party, I wanted to pay you a visit.”

  “Of course it’s all right. Glad to have you.” A drink table with crystal decanters and countless bottles of expensive alcohol was by Charles’s side. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure,” Clémence said. “Maybe a scotch on the rocks.”

  “Is that your drink of choice?” Henri smiled at her.

  “Whenever I’m with boys, I drink like the boys,” Clémence said.

  “And here I am with my girly rosé,” Madeleine said.

  Henri and Charles had the same nose as Cesar, strong and slightly hooked. Henri was the skinniest but the tallest. Charles had a little more meat on him, with blue-green eyes that contrasted better with his olive skin than Henri’s gray eyes did with him. While the clothes and watches they wore with casual indifference probably cost more than the typical Parisian’s monthly salary, Clémence would probably not have guessed they were heirs to a multimillion dollar publishing empire had she seen them walking down the street.

  Henri, she’d already met before her party, as he’d been dating Madeleine for some time, and Madeleine had told her plenty about him, since she was expecting an engagement ring any day now. Henri was a bit lazier than his alpha brothers, and he dragged his feet in terms of his career, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d take forever to propose, as well.

  Charles, like Cesar, was a shameless flirt. He complimented Clémence as they drank and chatted, with such casual smoothness that she didn’t feel awkward or put on the spot. He was simply appreciative of the feminine form, but with a twinkle in his eyes. He’d probably been flirting with Madeleine, too, and received humorous interference from Henri, which was what Clémence had witnessed from her birthday party.

  Clémence heard from Celine that she and Charles had hit it off. The day after, they’d gone out for a drinks in the evening, where Charles commiserated to her about Cesar’s death. It made sense that they would get along. Celine was boy crazy, and Charles seemed like a playboy. Both were flirts, and neither seemed to be looking for anything serious at the moment.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to Cesar,” Clémence said, taking a sip of her scotch.

  “Well.” Charles looked down at his glass. “Cesar made his decision. I’m disappointed in his actions, but what can you do? It was his choice.”

  Henri slowly shook his head. “I’m still having a hard time accepting it. Was it really a suicide? I looked up to Cesar.” He looked to Charles. “We both did. He was always so full of life, so happy to be alive. He was the one who was always asking me to hang out and do fun things with me. Go on vacation at the last minute. Go to football games, clubs, skiing. He was up for anything.”

  Charles shrugged. “Maybe he had those moments. The truth is, he kept a good front. I wasn’t going to get into this, but maybe this will help you understand, Henri.” He took another sip of his drink before proceeding. “When Cesar was sixteen, he had a girlfriend. He was crazy in love with her and they went out for about eight months before she died in a freak car accident. You were probably too young to remember, since you were only ten, but did you notice anything off about Cesar at the time?”

  “Well.” Henri thought about it. “I did remember that Cesar was a bit gloomy sometimes. Now that you mention it, I did ask him once why he was so sad, and he told me he had a friend who died, but he didn’t elaborate.”

  “Diane was her name,” Charles said. “I was fourteen, and I’d met her a few times. She was nice. She was from Guinea, and Cesar wasn’t sure how our parents would have reacted if they had found out that he was dating a black girl. Not that they’re racist.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But they’re…conservative.” He took a sip of his drink. “It ate him up inside, Diane’s death. He went to the funeral, but only I knew about it, and some of his friends from school.”

  “How exactly did Diane die?” Clémence asked.

  “She was in the passenger seat of a car on the highway. A truck stopped short in front of them, and they crashed. Both of them died instantly.”

  “Wow. Cesar must’ve been upset. You think that caused his depression?”

  “Sure,” Charles said. “He changed after that. He partied harder and became more of a womanizer. I don’t think he ever had a relationship that lasted more than three months again.”

  Madeleine put a hand over her heart. “I didn’t know that about Cesar. That he was broken. Poor guy. At least now he’s with Diane in heaven.”

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Clémence took a long sip of her scotch. The boys refilled their own drinks.

  “So did Cesar see a psychiatrist about his depression?” Clémence asked.