by Harper Lin
“So the killer might’ve found a way to open the door. If you didn’t lock the door with a key from the outside or the inside, it’s possible to break in by taking, say, a thin sheet of plastic and sliding it between the door and the wall to unlock it.”
“How do you know so much about breaking in?” Berenice asked.
“I was locked out of my old apartment once,” said Clémence. “Back when I lived with Mathieu in the Marais. He was in class for three hours and wouldn’t answer the phone so I had to ask my neighbor for help. She gave me an old x-ray sheet from her health file and it actually worked.”
“That’s pretty brilliant,” said Berenice.
“Yes, so unfortunately it’s not too hard to break into a house. It’s just strange because this killer didn’t steal anything. I think the main motive must’ve been to get Pierre. Now the question is why?”
“And who?” said Rose.
“You know, someone could’ve had a key,” said Berenice.
“True,” said Clémence. “Who else would have an extra key to the apartment, Rose?”
“Just me and Pierre. It’s my father’s apartment, so he has a key as well.” Rose jerked her head up at Clémence with a startled expression. “But there’s no way my father had anything to do with this. He lives in Berlin anyway.”
Clémence nodded. “Of course he wouldn’t.” Although the idea did cross Clémence’s mind. Anything was possible.
“Besides, my father likes Pierre. He even wants him to propose. Both my parents do.”
“We just need to focus on the people who don’t like Pierre,” said Clémence. “And find out why. We ought to start with this Paolo guy. What exactly did Pierre used to say about him?”
Rose refilled her wine glass and took another long sip. “Just a bunch of insults. He’d say that Paolo was an arrogant imbecile who didn’t know his ass from his elbow. Paolo is probably just a really smart guy. You have to be to work at F.R.Fraser. The company only hires the best. Paolo probably also rubs him the wrong way because he’s friendly. In fact, Pierre often complains about how much he smiles at work, and how talkative and upbeat his is.”
“Leave it to a Frenchman to find smiles irritating,” said Berenice.
“Paolo is Italian,” said Rose. “So he probably doesn’t fully understand how serious the work atmosphere is here. I haven’t met him though, because Pierre doesn’t like going to company holiday parties and he never socializes with his coworkers outside of work. I doubt he even has lunch with anyone. Actually, I doubt he eats lunch outside. He probably just eats at his desk.”
“Wow,” said Berenice. “He was that anti-social, huh?”
“He’s that, and his job is also incredibly demanding. Even on holidays, he’s always catching up on emails. There never seems to be a moment’s rest with him.” Rose sighed. “Seemed, I mean. I haven to get used to speaking about him in the past tense, don’t I? The thing about Pierre was that he was brilliant and a hard worker. He was the first person in the office and the last to leave. That’s why he kept getting promoted over the others. Paolo was his main competitor at the position he was in.
“Maybe Paolo is also competitive,” said Clémence.
“Yeah,” said Berenice. “Maybe Paolo knew he couldn’t match Pierre’s level of productivity.”
“I definitely want to talk to him,” said Clémence.
“I suppose he’s at the office,” said Rose. “He should be. I’d go with you, but I don’t think I can handle that right now.”
“Don’t worry,” said Clémence. “I’ll just go. I’ll tell the truth and say that I’m a friend of yours, picking up Pierre’s things for you, and I’ll try to run into this Paolo guy.”
“Want me to go with you?” asked Berenice.
Clémence looked at Rose in her sad state. Rose was trying to keep strong, but Clémence knew that she was vulnerable and needed support in a time like this.
“Can you stay with Rose?” she asked. Then she looked at the clock. “Actually, it’s almost lunch time, and Paolo sounds like the kind of guy who would take his time enjoying his lunch. We can eat lunch together and I’ll go pay him a visit right after.”
Just then Miffy jumped up into Rose’s lap and snuggled into her. Rose’s sullen face crinkled into a smile as she stroked Miffy’s white fur.
CHAPTER 5
After lunch, Clémence took a quick shower and left. She wasn’t in a huge rush because she wanted to make sure that Paolo would be in the office when she got there. She had looked him up on the internet with Rose’s help. His photo on LinkedIn featured him smiling with both rows of teeth, and he was incredibly well-dressed in a well-cut suit and silk pink tie. With dark hair and tanned skin, Paolo looked too relaxed to have lived in Paris for long. But would this happy-go-lucky Italian also exhibit qualities of a killer?
As Clémence continued scrutinizing his photo and profile on her smartphone, the elevator stopped this time and Arthur got in before she had time to panic. Arthur was wearing a pink dress shirt with a fuchsia sweater tied around his neck.
“Bonjour,” he said in his usual stiff way.
“I don’t think you’re wearing enough pink,” Clémence couldn’t help but comment. While he usually wore those pieces separately, she thought he was going overboard this time.
He looked down at his beige khakis. “You’re right. I should’ve gone with the pink pants as well.”
Clémence nodded feebly, not knowing what to say.
He broke from his stony expression and laughed. “I’m kidding.”
“Phew.”
The elevator door closed. She tried to ignore his warm scent and the sudden intimacy of his arm pressing into hers in the tiny elevator.
“I shouldn’t have to defend my fashion choices,” Arthur said. “This is a classic look.”
Straight out of the preppy handbook, Clémence thought. Instead she said, “You’re right. Pink is your color. This is a free country and you should wear whatever you want.”
“Why thank you,” Arthur said. “I haven’t seen you around lately. Quoi de neuf?”
“What’s new?” Clémence repeated. “Oh, this and that. What about you?”
She could feel his brown eyes on her. But she refused to make direct eye contact—it was a trap. No way was she going to be one of the girls that did the Sunday morning walk of shame. She knew herself well enough to know that the more she interacted with him, the more of a chance that she would succumb to him. Like many women, she was weak for men who didn’t treat her as well as they could’ve. In order for Clémence to keep her standards high, she had to refuse the guys who weren’t up to par. Unfortunately, that also meant a smaller pool to draw from.
Maybe she was being picky, or insecure, but she had to take protective measures for her heart. Whenever she opened up to someone, she had been disappointed, hurt, or brutally bashed. It was good to have boundaries, although lately it had felt as if those boundaries had turned into impenetrable walls.
“Moi?” Arthur said. “I’ve been busy.”
“Hmm.”
“Not that kind of busy. I mean there’s an end in sight with my Ph.D., so it’s been going well. Are you still seeing that American guy, what’s-his-name?”
Arthur was referring to John, whom she meant when she was investigating a murder case recently. She had suspected the American banker of murder and had agreed to go on a date with him to obtain information. Fortunately he wasn’t the murderer, which meant she hadn’t gone out with a psychopathic killer. John had wanted to continue dating Clémence, but she wasn’t so sure. During their date, they had run into Arthur on his own date with a blond bombshell. From the way John had drooled over the blonde, Clémence knew that he wasn’t good for a long-term relationship and never returned his texts. Then she went to Switzerland for the weekend and pretty much forgot about him.
“Why so interested in my love life?” Clémence retorted. The elevator door opened and she stepped out first.
“Just wondering,” said Arthur. “He didn’t seem like your type.”
Clémence raised an eyebrow. “How would you know what my type is?”
“I know you better than you think I do.”
She didn’t know why, but the comment annoyed her. “I know why you don’t like John. It’s because you’re just like him.”
This in turn vexed Arthur, which she could read on his face.
“How? I’m nothing like him.”
“Sure you are. You’re both rich, overly educated, work in finance and pretty cocky. Then again, I’m describing 90% of the guys around here.”
“You know me less than you think you do,” said Arthur.
So you don’t sleep with a different girl every week? Clémence wanted to blurt out. But she kept silent.
They walked for a few minutes without speaking. The sun was out and Clémence would have enjoyed the sunshine if she wasn’t self-conscious about Arthur being by her side. Did he want to walk together or was this awkward for him as well?
She walked as fast as she could, but since he was so tall, he only needed to stroll in his leisurely way to keep up with her.
“Are you going to the Métro?” he asked.
“Oui.”
“I’m going to Métro Miromesnil.”
“I’m going there too—” Clémence said before she stopped herself. She didn’t want to be stuck on the train with Arthur for another fifteen minutes.
“So we can take the 9 line together.” He smiled.
Clémence inwardly groaned. Why did he have to have such a nice smile? He wasn’t all bad when he smiled. His entire face lit up when he did and Clémence had to look away. What was the matter with her lately?
They made their way down to the Métro in more silence. When they got to the platform, Arthur turned to her.
“You know, I texted you once.”
“Oh?” Clémence replied.
“Did you not get it? Last week.”
Clémence had indeed received it, but she had ignored it.
“No,” she lied. “What did it say?”
“‘Ça va?’”
“That’s it? Just ‘ça va’?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Arthur gave her a funny look. “Just to say hi and see how you were doing.”
“Seems kind of pointless,” said Clémence. “I would’ve just texted back ‘ça va’. I’m really not into texting.”
“That’s how people communicate these days, by texting.”
“Texting is for making plans, not to make small talk.”
Arthur’s full lips curled into a smile. A lock of his chestnut colored hair curled down to his forehead. He looked so adorable and Clémence resisted the urge to brush the curl away.
“But you start a conversation with small talk,” he said.
“I’m just not into communicating via texting or the internet.”
Arthur cocked his head to one side and examined her. “That’s what’s intriguing about you. You have no internet presence. It’s kind of cute.”
Clémence blushed. “Have you been trying to find me online?”
“Well, I liked the Damour fan page on Facebook, but you’re nowhere to be found anywhere.”
“I’m a very private person,” she said. “So stop Googling me. You’ll never find me.”
The train came. Although it was a Monday afternoon, the train was still crowded. It was the beginning of tourist season in Paris, and once again, Clémence was pressed too close for comfort to Arthur.
He leaned over her and she could smell his familiar warm scent in spite of the putrid smell of a crowded Métro. She couldn’t help it—she looked up at him, met his eyes and a hot electric current passed between them.
“Your eyes are really blue,” Arthur said.
His lips were close enough to touch hers. Clémence backed away, or tried to. There were too many people and she couldn’t take a step anywhere without stepping into anyone. Did she really have to stay in this position for the entire ride?
“Thanks,” she muttered. “I like your, um, nose.”
The truth was, Clémence liked everything about him—his dark hair and eyes, his plush lips, his full eyelashes, his cute ears, even his forehead. But the nose seemed like the most neutral feature to comment on, even though it was stupid to verbalize, as she realized the moment it came out of her mouth.
“Oh, do you?” Arthur arched an eyebrow.
“Where are you going anyway?” She changed the subject before she turned really pink. “At Miromesnil?”
“I have an appointment with a consulting company. They want me to work for them part-time. I’m not sure if my school schedule and workload will allow me to, but the head of the company has agreed to answer some question I have for my Ph.D.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. Sounds like you’re making progress.”
“I am,” he said proudly. “And where are you off to?”
“Oh…”
It was a long story that she wasn’t sure whether she should tell Arthur. This was the third murder that she was investigating. Murders had been happening around her ever since she returned to the city. Arthur, like Inspector St. Clair, would probably think that she, or the store, was cursed. In a way, she wouldn’t blame them. Why did people keep getting killed when they were munching on one of her products?
“You’re more dressed up than usual,” said Arthur. “You’re not baiting another murder suspect are you?”
Clémence had styled her brown hair into a sleek bob with a straightening iron. She was wearing a white blouse and a black pencil skirt with kitten heels. It was how she would’ve dressed if she had an office job. Since she was heading to an office, she hoped to blend in with the other employees.
“I just have an appointment somewhere.”
“That’s pretty vague,” said Arthur.
“Like I said, I’m a private person.”
When they got out and went up to street level, Clémence waved goodbye to Arthur. She still didn’t know whether their hellos and goodbyes required bisous, the kisses on the cheeks that was the custom between friends in France. But Arthur leaned in with his left cheek facing her and she obliged with the bisous. Did this mean that she would have to kiss him every time they saw each other?
“Hey, uh.” Arthur looked down at his shoes. He suddenly seemed nervous for some reason. “You know those flowers that you received over a month ago?”
“You mean that big bouquet of roses?” Clémence said.
“Yes, those.”
“What about them?”
“I did send them.”
Clémence didn’t know how to react at first. She had always suspected it, and even confronted him about it, but he had vehemently denied it.
“Are you sure?” She asked. “Because you seemed really offended when I asked you whether they were from you a while back.”
