Baguette Murder: Book 3 (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes)

by Harper Lin

  Diane nodded. “I’m glad. My cooking was one of the reasons my ex-husband stayed with me for so long. He couldn’t tell a spatula from a ladle in the kitchen. I keep telling Rose that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but you girls never seem to have time these days.”

  “It’s true,” Clémence admitted. “I’m so busy these days that I just grab whatever I can, or eat at the patisserie.”

  “Housewives are a dying breed,” said Diane.

  “Oh Mom, you know we appreciate everything you do at home,” said Rose. “Somebody has to do the things you do.”

  “Cooking is fine, but a housewife washes the floors, cleans the toilets—we’re glorified housekeepers. I’m living off alimony and it’s not enough, but at my age, it’s too late for me to get a job.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Clémence said.

  “A decent job, I mean. One where an education is required, which I don’t have, but I’m so proud of you girls for being successful. At least I can be useful feeding you.”

  Diane had been divorced for years, but she was still bitter about her divorce. The bitterness came out from time to time. Clémence could understand. She was with Mathieu for only three years before he dumped her for some nude model. After two years, Clémence was still bitter about it. Imagine if she had been married for two decades and had children with the man, and then find out that he had been cheating. She didn’t know how Diane coped. She’d given the best years of her life to someone who chucked her for some cheap hussy.

  This was why Clémence was so afraid of getting into another relationship. Deep down, love was what she wanted more than anything, but what she feared the most. It was why a simple lunch with Arthur could cause so much anxiety. Now that she thought about it a bit more, given Arthur’s romantic history, who was to say that he wouldn’t chuck her after one go, like he’d chucked all the other girls?

  Well, she had to put a stop to this before anything were to start. She whipped out her phone and sent a quick text to Arthur.

  Sorry, I changed my mind. I can’t go to lunch with you. Let’s just be friends.

  Cold, but it was necessary to protect her heart. Maybe she’d meet the perfect guy who could prove himself to be trustworthy, one day. Maybe then she’d be more open to it. Besides, she had a full life, busy with her career, her friends and, currently, the murder case.

  “Rose, can you give me Adam and Thierry’s numbers?” Clémence asked.

  “To ask about—”

  “Yes.”

  Reminded of Pierre, Rose gripped onto the kitchen counter and slowly nodded.

  “Of course.”

  “I need to know more about them,” said Clémence. “Where they work, what they do and all that.”

  “Well, Adam is all brawn. I actually think his brain is made out of muscle. He’s a gym teacher in an elementary school in the 6th arrondissement, not far from where my apartment is. Thierry is an engineer working in healthcare technology, so he’s smarter.”

  “They’re all quite different, aren’t they?” Clémence said.

  “Sure are. They probably wouldn’t be friends if they all met now, but they’d grown up together and that kind of bond is stronger. Plus, they’re all into soccer, rugby, and politics, so they have that in common.”

  “They know about the…death?”

  “Yes,” said Rose. “They both called me. I talked to each of them, but I kept it brief, since, you know, I don’t want to talk about it detail.”

  “Of course.” Clémence patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’ll make sure that the murderer gets caught.”

  Clémence took down the name of Adam’s school and Thierry’s company name, as well as their contact information.

  “Are you going to call them?” Diane asked.

  “Actually, I think it’s better if I meet them in person,” said Clémence. “I’ll start with the dumber one, Adam. If I pay him a surprise visit, I might catch him off-guard.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Clémence entered the front doors of the École Elémentaire Paul Cézanne in the 6th arrondissement. Classes were already over, but Rose had told her that Adam worked after school hours on Mondays and Wednesdays as part of the after school program for the kids whose parents worked late and couldn’t pick them up when classes ended. Many families in the wealthy arrondissement employed baby-sitters or nannies, since parents usually worked until seven p.m. or later, but some families preferred enrolling their kids in the after school program so they could get help with their homework, or take part in Adam’s sports program.

  Clémence kept on the same outfit she’d worn to F.R.Fraser so she could look to part of a working mom, and her presence wouldn’t be questioned. She supposed she was old enough to have a child in elementary school, since she was 28.

  Adam was in the playground area, blowing on his whistle as a dozen or so cute children skipped rope. She recognized Adam from the photos Rose had shown her on her smartphone. At 6’2”, Adam had black hair, and overly toned upper body. He wore a ratty Rolling Stone T-shirt, blue gym shorts and sneakers. She didn’t mind watching the fit guy from the glass door as she waited for a chance to speak to him. When the children had some free time in the playground to choose and play their own activities, Adam went to the benches to sit down and drink some water.

  Clémence took the opportunity to approach him. “Vous êtes Adam?”

  “Oui.” He gave her a quick once-over. The way his eyes widened conveyed that he liked what he saw.

  “Je m’appelle Clémence. You don’t know me, but I’m Rose’s friend.”

  Adam stood up. “Enchanté. It’s so unfortunate what happened to Pierre.”

  “Yes, and you can guess why I’m here.”

  “No, actually. Why are you here?”

  Adam was pretty slow on the uptake. He was too hot to be smart. Paris, in general, were full of handsome men, but Adam possessed the movie star kind of handsome, with his lean build and square jaw. Well, the American movies anyway. France hardly exported any real good-looking leading men. Her American girlfriends used to complain that it was a conspiracy really—the good-looking guys in Paris were everywhere except on the big screen.

  “I’m investigating Pierre’s murder,” Clémence said.

  “Are you a cop?” Adam looked at her again more carefully. His eyes slid up her body slower this time.

  “Will you cooperate if I said that I was?”

  “Only if you handcuff me.”

  Clémence narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I’m joking.” He grinned.

  “Do you know what happened to Pierre?” Clémence asked.

  “I heard from his parents that he was killed in his apartment. Robbers are getting so crazy these days. I know two other people who’d been robbed this year, but this is the first time that I’ve heard of someone getting killed over it. I haven’t even processed Pierre’s death. It’s so tragic.”

  “It wasn’t a robber.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. Nothing has been stolen.”

  “I just assumed,” said Adam. “Then who would kill him?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Clémence. “When was the last time you saw Pierre?”

  “On Friday night. We went to the bars in the Latin Quarter.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Not sure. I was pretty wasted.”

  “The others got wasted as well?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where did you go after?”

  “Home. Thierry lives in the 17th, but Pierre and I live close to each other. I think Pierre left first though, so I didn’t walk home with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He got a call and he left early.”

  Clémence frowned. “Who was the call from?”

  “No clue. That’s all I recall before we got those beers at this one bar and got really smashed.”

  “So Thierry stayed
with you?”

  “He did. We kept going until the bars closed late into the morning, then we sobered up a bit. We ate burgers and drank coffee. Then Thierry took a taxi home because he was falling asleep on me.”

  “Sounds like some boys night out,” Clémence said dryly. “Did you know that Pierre was killed on Saturday morning? Whoever he left you guys for probably had something to do with his death.”

  “You think so?” Adam asked. “Wow.”

  “That’s right. Are you sure you don’t have any clues as to who it was?”

  “I have no idea. I thought it was Rose or something. Usually he goes home because of Rose.”

  “No, she was in Switzerland that weekend. You didn’t know?”

  “Oh, I guess I heard something about that, but I didn’t make the connection.”

  “Unless…” Clémence said.

  “What?”

  “Do you know if Pierre was seeing someone on the side?”

  Adam hesitated. “I—I don’t know.”

  Clémence gave him a good hard look. “Are you sure? He’s been with Rose for two years. During this time you would know if he ever cheated on her right?”

  He was quiet for a moment. Clémence knew it: Adam knew something.

  “Okay,” he said, “but you won’t tell Rose?”

  “Look, Pierre is dead. Telling Rose would only hurt her. Help me out here. I’m trying to find Pierre’s murderer.”

  Adam thought about it, then nodded.

  “Okay, well, sometimes we go clubbing. We’d talk to girls, buy them drinks or whatever. When Pierre’s really drunk, he does let loose and he has made out with some girls on the dance floor in the past.”

  “Girls, as in plural?”

  Adam nodded. “He’s young. It’s harmless. As far as I know, Pierre has never gone home with them. Kissing was as far as it went.”

  “But you don’t know that for sure.”

  “No, I guess not,” he admitted.

  “One of these girls could’ve gotten attached, maybe even killed him.”

  “Like a Fatal Attraction kind of thing?” Adam asked.

  “Maybe. Do you know who any of these girls were?”

  “No. They’re just random club girls. We hit them and leave them.”

  “Classy,” Clémence said. “What was Pierre’s type?”

  “Any girl, as long as she was attractive. He liked blondes.”

  It was too bad she couldn’t go through Pierre’s cell phone. The police had it.

  “It’s crazy.” Adam shook his head. “I texted Pierre a couple of times this weekend and he didn’t respond. I thought it was weird, but figured he was busy. Now I know why.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Clémence said. “The inspector might want to ask you similar questions, if he ever comes around to it, just so you know.”

  “What inspector?”

  “The one on the case.”

  “I thought you were on the case. So you’re really not a cop?”

  Clémence shook his head. He was as dumb as they came.

  “Oh. You’re too pretty to be a cop,” Adam said. “But I’m disappointed. Hey, can I get your number? I can call you if I ever get more information.”

  Clémence wanted to turn him down, but she supposed that it would help if Adam did have any new insights, however unlikely that was.

  CHAPTER 10

  Clémence wanted—needed—the call log on Pierre’s phone. Cyril hadn’t contacted her or Rose with any follow-up questions yet so he might’ve been busy with other leads. He was one of the last people on earth that she wanted to talk to, but this time, she needed his help. As much as it hurt her pride, she dialled his direct line.

  “Oui?” came his gruff voice from the other end of the line.

  “Bonsoir,” Clémence tried to sound as polite as possible. “Clémence Damour here.”

  “Ah, la heiress. Are you calling with another Damour-related murder? I’ve got my hands full here.”

  “No, St. Clair,” Clémence said through gritted teeth. “I called because I have some information. You’ll need it. Where are you?”

  “I don’t see what I could possibly need. We’re close to solving the case. We’re just waiting for more evidence.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Actually, it is—”

  St. Clair hung up. But Clémence knew where he was. She had heard the noise of the strike in the background. The taxi drivers were on strike in the 1st arrondissement at this time, where he worked. She’d read about it on her phone while taking the Métro. Chances were he was in his office.

  Since it was rush hour again, and taxis were probably scarce to none, she took the Métro to Cité and walked to 36 Quai des Orfèvres. On the third floor, she knocked on St. Clair’s office door.

  “There should really be better security in this building,” Cyril muttered when he opened the door.

  “Ironic,” Clémence said, “since this is supposed to be the police headquarters.”

  “How did you get past the security?”

  “Just slipped the guy twenty euros,” said Clémence. “Just kidding. I just told the guy at the front desk that I had an appointment with you. If ever there was a benefit in being a young Caucasian woman, this is it.”

  “You’re supposed to wait in the waiting room and the receptionist is supposed to call me,” he huffed.

  “Couldn’t wait. They were too busy to notice anyway.”

  “The incompetency in this place.” Cyril picked up the phone. “I’m calling security.”

  “Come on. We’re peers now. I’m sure our case will go faster if we work together.”

  “Peers?” Cyril sneered. “Our case?”

  Clémence suppressed a smile. It was too easy to toy with Cyril.

  However, he also took every opportunity to peeve her off. He got a knowing look on his face and his scowl turned into a smile.

  “You’d usually go out of your way to avoid me, Damour. The fact that you’re here tells me that you really want something from me.”

  “Wow,” Clémence said. “Nothing gets past you does it St. Clair?”

  “It’s Monsieur St. Clair.”

  “Stop calling me ‘La Heiress’ and maybe I’ll consider it.”

  “Whatever you say, mademoiselle.” He spat the word out of his mouth as if it was a derogatory remark. “Dites-moi. Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”