Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder

by Harper Lin

  “That’s what they’re calling it. Don’t you think it’s just a will? Perhaps Cesar wrote it to be practical. He was the most practical of all my sons. Just because he was thoughtful enough to write a will, it doesn’t mean that he meant to kill himself.”

  She could see Madame Laberg’s point. The letter made no mention of hurting himself or why he would commit suicide.

  Then again, why would Cesar write it and sign it on the night of the party? He might’ve been in a rush to get things taken care of. But the suicide would then be the clear-headed calculation of someone who’d planned out the evening.

  Why would he kill himself? And why would he do it at the party, of all places? Was it really for attention? What point could he possibly have wanted to make by a public suicide? Something still didn’t add up for Clémence.

  Chapter 11

  By the next afternoon, Clémence concluded that she agreed more with Monsieur Laberg and Charles than she did Madame Laberg and Henri. It seemed like the rational choice.

  Cesar Laberg had lost a girlfriend at a very young age, and he’d been nursing a wound into his adult years. In fact, he pined for her so much that he had been relentless in pursuing Maya, who shared similar physical traits to his deceased ex. Cesar made up for it—or tried to distract himself, rather—with achievements, working hard in school and at his family’s company. But the lingering sadness must’ve been dormant until recently, when he realized he was living an empty lifestyle, with no purpose and no love. From what she’d heard from the brothers, Cesar had been partying extra hard in the recent weeks up to his death.

  Perhaps his lifestyle had been so empty and numbing that he’d felt that taking his life was the only logical thing to do. Since the love of his life had died, and he faced a lifetime of empty partying and a workaholic lifestyle, he was ready to end it. So he drew up a quick will and looked forward to a good night, where he would end up in a restroom from after overdosing from his antidepressants, pills that hadn’t helped his depression as much as he probably would’ve liked. At least he got to spend the last moments of his life in good company.

  Cased closed, right?

  It had to be. Clémence didn’t know what else she could do. It wasn’t as if any of the employees from Laberg, the colleagues who were jealous of him, had been invited to the party. And the pills had been found in Cesar’s jacket pocket.

  Clémence just had to accept that it was suicide. Perhaps she’d just been used to the murders that’d taken place in Paris for the past few months—and solving them. She just had to accept that this instance wasn’t a murder and to leave it alone.

  She sipped her espresso in Damour’s employee break room. She was the only one on break—not that she’d been working, really. She had been too busy mulling over the case to work properly in the kitchen, and she excused herself altogether after making a mediocre batch of mango macarons. Whenever she was in detective mode, she found it a challenge to get creative in the kitchen. She was a believer that your mood got transferred into whatever you were making, and her desserts could be sweeter if she baked on a day she was happy. She’d been in the break room since lunch, going over everything she knew about the case that she’d written down in her notebook.

  Even with the new conclusion that she forced herself to accept, the case didn’t feel quite closed. Was it because she, like Madame Laberg and Henri, just couldn’t accept the fact that Cesar was dead?

  Celine came in, dressed in her usual hostess uniform of black pants and a light lavender dress shirt.

  “Ça va, Clémence? You’re looking especially pensive today. Is everything okay?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just trying to digest how and why Cesar committed suicide.”

  “Oh. Right. So you confirmed it’s not a murder?”

  “Well, I don’t know if ‘confirmed’ is the right word, since nobody can confirm anything. But the facts definitely point to suicide.”

  “That’s a shame.” Celine pulled up the chair beside her. “Charles must be going through hell right now. Didn’t you say you were going to their house? Did you have dinner with them last night?”

  “Yes.” Clémence recalled how Madame Laberg had spoken about Celine. Just a hostess. Clémence wanted to change the subject.

  “So how was it?” Celine asked. “Was their house as nice as Berenice kept going on about?”

  “It was pretty cool, I mean, just as nice as the other mansions in Neuilly,” Clémence said.

  “How was Charles? Did he ask about me?”

  “Oh, are you still going out with Charles?” Clémence asked.

  She shrugged. “I have to say, I’m liking him a lot.”

  “But you always say that about every guy you go out with. You like them for a week, then you totally get over it as soon as you meet someone cuter.”

  “I know, but he’s different. What’s not to like? He’s so smart, and he makes me feel, well, sexy and beautiful, you know? And he’s sexy and beautiful, not to mention rich. I don’t know what else I would want.”

  Clémence smiled politely. Charles hadn’t mentioned Celine at all—but then again, he wouldn’t, in the presence of his disapproving mother. “I didn’t talk to Charles that much. My objective was to get more information on Cesar. If you had asked me, I would’ve grilled Charles about you.”

  “Oh, no!” Celine exclaimed in horror. “Don’t do that. I want to play it cool. He hasn’t called or texted recently, but I want to be patient and not mess this up. He’s probably going through a lot right now, helping out with funeral arrangements, so it makes sense that he’d be too busy to do something again so soon.”

  “Yes, it’s been messed up for the Labergs, and I think Charles is dropping out of law school so he could start working at Editions Laberg with his father.”

  “Right, and that’s eating up his time.”

  Clémence wanted to warn Celine that Charles was a bit of a flirt, but she bit her tongue. What if he agreed with his mother that Celine was simply someone to fool around with, but not to be with long term? She didn’t want to see her friend get hurt.

  Clémence’s cell phone rang. It was from an unknown number. She thought about not answering it. Not long ago, she’d been harassed by reporters grilling her about her kidnapping incident, so much that she almost changed her number, but they’d cooled off lately.

  Her curiosity got the better of her, and she answered it. “Allô?”

  “Clémence Damour?” A male voice, low and muffled came from the other line.

  “Oui. Who is this?”

  “I have information on Cesar Laberg’s murder.”

  “What? Really, who is this?” Clémence demanded.

  “Meet me at Chez Georgina in fifteen minutes, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Click.

  Chapter 12

  She hadn’t recognized the voice at all. While it was distinctly male, she got the impression that it had been distorted to be indistinguishable.

  Whoever it was claimed that Cesar was indeed murdered. Clémence couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet this person and find out what kind of info he had. How did he know she was looking?

  At first she thought about calling the police, but she quickly reconsidered. She didn’t have time for that, and it might even be a hindrance to have them there. It would be safe to go on her own, since Chez Georgina was a wine bar in the 6th arrondissement and there would be other patrons around.

  After she retrieved her purse, she went and flagged down a taxi. She was dying of curiosity. Was it somebody from the party? One of Cesar’s coworkers? And how did this person know she was investigating?

  Since many Parisians were away on vacation during this month, the streets were calm, without any heavy traffic. The taxi was able to pull up to Chez Georgina in ten minutes. The place was on a small side street, near Jardin du Luxembourg. It was a place that could’ve been easily missed, given the inconspicuous nature of the signage, or lack thereof. It was a hidden gem
for locals, however, given their quality wine selection and lack of tourists.

  Clémence had been at Chez Georgina a few times before. The place could get especially rowdy on Friday and Saturday nights, where the bar would be crowded with red-faced Parisians and the tables were cramped with wine lovers who could barely hold conversations over the noise.

  Clémence entered through the maroon door. A doughy, balding bartender in his sixties greeted her as he polished wineglasses with a towel. She smiled and looked around to see if she recognized anyone. A couple chatting at the bar was so enraptured in their own conversation that they didn’t even notice when she stared at their profiles. There was a young man with glasses, a scholar or writer type, sitting at a small table by the window, scribbling away in his notebook. He didn’t glance up at her either. There were quite a few other people there, too, eating a late lunch, and nobody seemed to pay her any mind.

  Her man wasn’t there yet, it seemed. Clémence was a few minutes early, after all. She sat down at the only free table in the corner in the back of the place and waited while keeping an eye on the door. She was near the unisex toilet, and as she mulled over the menu, it was quite unpleasant to hear the toilet flush and the customers going in and out through the beads hanging over the wall opening that led to the restroom.

  Another five minutes passed. The waiter came by and asked her what she wanted. He was tall and stiff, looking vaguely familiar, but it was probably because Clémence had been served by him before. Clémence was torn between two types of red wines.

  “They’re both excellent,” the tall waiter said. “But if you want, I’ll make the choice for you.”

  “Okay. That way it’s your fault if I don’t like it,” Clémence joked.

  He came back a minute later and put the wineglass on the table, telling her that he went with the glass of Côtes-du-Rhône. Clémence smiled up at him. Sometimes, the waiters in Paris could be friendly.

  She took a sip and waited. The wine was a bit bitter for her taste, but she didn’t want to hurt the waiter’s feelings by sending it back. She checked her phone. There was a text message from Arthur saying he missed her, to which she texted back her own sweet nothings.

  The front door opened, and Clémence looked up. It was a friend she recognized from university.

  “Sylvie?” Clémence stood up.

  The woman was a redhead—artificially so, as she’d always been. At the sound of her name, Sylvie jerked her head to Clémence. Surprise contorted her mouth into an O. “Clémence? Clémence Damour?”

  Sylvie rushed over to Clémence to hug her. She was dressed head to toe in pink. Since they’d met in art school, Sylvie had never been shy to stand out from the crowd. Lime bangles clacked on her wrists, and silver eye shadow was blended up to her eyebrows. Her big plastic neon orange purse knocked Clémence’s wineglass from her table as the girls pulled apart.

  “Oh là là!” Sylvie exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”

  The wine had splashed all over the wooden table. Their waiter had been busy attending to someone else, but the bartender came over with a rag.

  “It’s okay,” the bartender said. He put the rag over the table, letting the wine soak it up. “Let me get you a new glass.”

  “Really?” Clémence said. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur. C’est gentil.” When he left, she turned back to Sylvie. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work right around the corner, so I’m a regular here,” Sylvie said. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I’m waiting for someone. Wait—it wasn’t you, was it?”

  “What do you mean?” Sylvie asked.

  “Did you call me asking me to meet you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen you for years, and I don’t even think I have your number.”

  “Oh.” Clémence looked around again. Her caller hadn’t shown up.

  “You mean you don’t know who you’re meeting?” Sylvie asked.

  “No. It’s a bit of a long story.”

  Before Clémence could elaborate, she felt her throat closing up. She coughed, putting both hands around her neck. It felt as if her throat was being sealed, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Wa-ter,” she gasped.

  “Water,” Sylvie repeated. She tried to hold Clémence steady. “She said she wants water! Somebody!”

  But before she could drink anything, Clémence was falling to the ground and then she saw pitch black.

  Chapter 13

  She had a rancid taste in her mouth when she came to. Which was odd, because she’d dreamt of eating mango and raspberry macarons, the new recipes she’d been working on. But even in her dreams she couldn’t taste them. They were simply devoid of taste when she bit into them.

  When she woke up, she found herself staring at a peeling cream ceiling. Her stomach felt as if somebody had stabbed her with a rack and left it there. Her head hurt, and her tongue felt fuzzy with that horrid taste. Was there a trace of her own vomit?

  “Where am I?” Clémence asked no one in particular. Why was her voice so groggy?

  She craned her head up and saw Arthur jumping out of his chair. Next thing she knew, he was by her side.

  “Clémence? Are you okay?”

  Berenice and Sebastien were there, as well, concern written on their faces—and so was Sylvie, her friend from university. What was she doing here?

  “I don’t know,” Clémence asked “What happened?”

  “You’re at the hospital,” Berenice said.

  “Oh my gosh, it was so scary,” Sylvie exclaimed. “One minute we were chatting, and the next you were falling to the ground. I thought you were dead!”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Clémence said wearily. “I just feel like hell. What did the doctor say?”

  “I’ll go get him now.” Sebastien went out.

  “They ran some tests,” Arthur said, “when you were unconscious. He’ll tell you soon.”

  “What were you doing today?” Berenice said. “Sylvie told us you were at Chez Georgina to meet someone? Who?”

  Clémence closed her eyes. The events of the day came back to her slowly.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” Clémence said. “Somebody called me on my cell earlier today. It was an unknown number. A man told me to meet him at the wine bar because he had information on Cesar’s murder. Yes, he actually said murder. Naturally I was intrigued. His voice was distorted, and I didn’t know who he was, but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to find out.”

  “Oh, Clémence,” Arthur groaned. “You can’t just go off meeting strangers without telling anybody.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought it would be safe since we were meeting in a public place. But I still don’t know why I fainted like that. The guy never came, did he?” Clémence looked at Sylvie.

  “I don’t know which guy you mean,” Sylvie said. “There was such a big commotion when you fell, and then the ambulance came, so I don’t know if this guy showed up or not.”

  Someone knocked on the door, then proceeded to enter. Sebastien came back in, followed by the doctor, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair dressed in a white cloak.

  “Mademoiselle Damour, how are you doing?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m pretty perplexed, Doctor,” she said. “What happened to me?”

  He looked at his clipboard. “It seems you had an allergic reaction. I saw on your file that you have a severe allergy to peanuts, and peanuts were found in your bloodstream.”