by Harper Lin
“Make that two,” Arthur said.
“What did you want to talk about anyway?” she asked.
“I just came over to give you an apology,” said Arthur.
“Why?” Clémence was suspicious. Arthur apologizing? Surely there was a catch.
She turned and looked into his eyes. Arthur stared back. His brown eyes almost looked tender in the sunlight. And he seemed a little nervous.
“I think I offended you yesterday with my comment about you looking…run down.”
Clémence raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” she asked dryly.
“Yes, I mean, I personally can’t understand why, but I suppose women are sensitive to these things.”
“I was not offended,” Clémence said. “I was annoyed.”
“Fine, which is why I’m apologizing.”
Clémence wondered why Arthur cared. He was rude to her half of the time. His behavior was quite inconsistent, but she had to give him credit for at least owning up to part of his rudeness.
“I accept your apology.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, looking satisfied.
The waiter arrived with their expressos.
“If you want to go soon, you can,” said Clémence. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”
“Well we found the body together, we might as well wait for the killer together.”
Clémence gave a laugh. “You want to join in on the sleuthing?”
“Look, you’re poking around a guy who’s a potential killer. You need someone as backup.”
“I don’t need backup.”
“Oh for the last time, I found you unconscious a month ago, remember?”
“I didn’t really plan that evening,” said Clémence. “I just happened to have been home very late and things happened.”
“Exactly,” said Arthur. “Sometimes you don’t think. You just act. Somebody has to be the voice of reason.”
“And you think that’s your voice?” Clémence shook her head.
“You’re impossible,” Arthur said. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed.”
“If I need help I’ll ask for it.”
What was it about Arthur that always brought out her argumentative side? If she really needed protection, she had plenty of guy friends to ask, like Ben or Sebastien, and she wanted to tell him that, but something stopped her.
She looked at Arthur. Did she find him attractive? Sure, objectively, but was she personally romantically interested in him? She couldn’t be. Especially after he’d sneered about the flowers when she’d asked, or his insensitive insults, even if he’d just apologized.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then changed the subject.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
“Fine.”
“I hear you’re a painter,” he said.
“I dabble,” she said. “Why? Did your mother mention it?”
“Yes.”
Clémence got the feeling that Arthur’s mother really wanted him to pursue her. She also knew however that Arthur was more into bimbos. She’d seen enough girls coming out of the building with him on Sunday mornings—girls in tight mini skirts and full bosoms, doing the walk of shame. In fact, he had been bringing one of these girls home late at night when he’d found her unconscious outside of their building over a month ago.
So why was he being so nice now? Surely she wasn’t his type. She was slim and dark haired—not curvaceous and blond like his usual type. She didn’t show much skin at all. Clémence couldn’t go out with someone with such superficial taste in women. She’d been heartbroken by someone who’d dumped her for a great beauty, and she wasn’t going to risk her heart again. Especially by someone who was in essence a spoiled rich kid, even if he was working on a PhD and living in a servant’s room.
Nevertheless, she indulged him in his inquiries about her art, answering his questions about what she’d studied in school and the artists who inspired her. Although she was surprised by his interest, she didn’t want to delve into the subject of the personal paintings she was working on, or planned to work on. For now she felt like a fraud, a wannabe, even if she had a fancy degree.
Her ex-boyfriend had been the real artist. She knew she should probably have more confidence in herself, but confidence was something she had to build in this field.
She changed the subject to something that she’d been curious about, but had refrained from asking out of respect. But since Arthur seemed more and more relaxed, it felt like a good time to ask.
“Did your mother ever find out about Lana?” she asked.
He blew air out of his mouth and shrugged. “She probably knows, but I don’t know for sure.”
Last month when Clémence had been investigating the murder of la gardienne, the caretaker of their building, she’d uncovered that Arthur’s father had been having an affair with one of their maids. Arthur had been pretty upset about it. The maid immediately moved out from her room on the top floor. Such behavior from his father didn’t surprise him.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Arthur continued. “Their marriage is not really built on love, you know?”
Clémence didn’t. Her parents’ love story was grand and passionate. They’d met in culinary school, started the patisserie together and to this day they were still in love and having a great time travelling and having new adventures together.
“That’s a shame,” said Clémence.
Arthur shrugged again, as if to shrug the whole thing off. “It’s peaceful at home right now, so that’s all I can ask for.”
Clémence looked at his profile. Strong chin, gold reflecting from his chestnut hair and tawny skin. He looked vulnerable enough that she felt the urge to hug him. An urge that she obviously resisted. Who knew when he was going to go back to being callous again? She couldn’t open herself to that kind of vulnerability.
As she looked away, Arthur looked at her. She felt his gaze on her. Their faces were only inches away, and she wondered if he was inspecting her pores, her flaws.
She downed her café. How much longer did she have to sit there with him?
After another half hour of chatting about this and that, the man came out of the bank.
“There he is,” Clémence exclaimed.
CHAPTER 11
The man lit a cigarette and took a call on his phone. From afar, Clémence couldn’t decide whether he was handsome or not, as Celine had claimed. He was just as out of focus as the photo on her phone.
Although Clémence didn’t know why it mattered how good looking he was. She was spending way too much time with her boy-crazy employees.
“If he’s taking a smoke break, he probably does work at the bank,” Arthur said.
Clémence got up and searched her purse for her wallet to pay for her expresso.
“Let me.” Arthur paid their bill.
Clémence thanked him, surprised. He could be nice when he wanted to be. The nice thing about bourgeois boys was that they were raised to be gentlemen, even if they didn’t behave all the time.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She watched the man, who was chatting away on the phone and paying no attention in their direction.
“I’m just going to find out who he is,” she said. She stood up to cross the street.
By the time she made it across in the mad traffic, the man was already going back inside. He smoked like a Parisian. Parisian smokers were fast, sucking on those cigarettes as if they kept them alive.
“You’re not going to follow me inside, are you?” she asked Arthur.
“Fine, I’ll be waiting outside.”
“Really, you can leave. You’ve wasted enough of your morning. Go work on your thesis.”
Arthur groaned. “Just accept my help. I’ll be out here like a bodyguard. I won’t interfere with your schemes, whatever they are, okay?”
Clémence watched him closely. “All right.”
She went in
side the sliding doors of the bank and the brunette receptionist greeted her again.
“Bonjour. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. “I would like to make an appointment with one of your bankers.”
“Okay, which one?”
Clémence couldn’t believe she was going to do this, but it was the only plan she had. She lowered her voice.
“The handsome one who just came back in from his cigarette break?”
“Ah,” the receptionist was surprised, but soon her face fell into a knowing smile that women put on when they conspired with each other. “I see. He’s certainly good looking, isn’t he?”
Clémence laughed in embarrassed. “Do you know if he’s single?”
“As far as I know,” said the receptionist. “If I wasn’t married, I’d be after him myself.”
“I’m not a client here,” said Clémence, “but if you tell me his name, I will be.”
“John Christopher,” she said. “He’s American. He speaks fluent French though, and he’s our newest financial advisor. Did you want to make an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Clémence. She was wealthy enough to make investments, if it came to that.
At that moment however, John walked out to speak to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded towards Clémence .
“She’s interested in your services.” She turned to Clémence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Anabelle.”
She had panicked and spat out the first name that came to mind, but she should’ve given her real name, especially if she was supposed to be starting some sort of account at this bank.
“Bonjour Anabelle,” John said in American accented French. He introduced himself and smiled at her broadly. “Would you like to step inside my office? I have some time now as a matter of fact.”
Clémence inwardly panicked. This was turning awkward. She was just supposed to get his name and get out. But the man was in front of her now. And yes, Celine was right. He was certainly handsome with his tanned skin, ocean green eyes, strong shoulders and dirty blond hair. Americans weren’t known for their suits, which were boxy, but he was in an expensive European-cut black suit, which accentuated all the right places. His smile wasn’t too bad either.
She nodded and went in. Merde. What was she supposed to do now?
“Do you already have an account with us?” John asked.
“Er, yes.”
“What’s your last name if I may ask?”
John was posed before his computer, ready to key in her fake name. It was time to change directions.
“Actually,” Clémence said. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences. I’m not actually interested in starting an account or investments at all.”
John frowned. “Oh?”
“You see, well, I saw you across the street and I found you incredibly handsome.”
Clémence turned red as she said this. Nevertheless she kept a grin on her face, one she hoped was seductive. She was no good at acting, but John seemed to be buying it. A cocky smile began to spread on his face.
“Wow. I didn’t know French women could be so forward. I’m incredibly flattered.”
“I don’t usually do this,” said Clémence. “But there was just something about you.”
John beamed. His face softened and he looked at her with more interest.
“Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night?”
He was American and Americans didn’t waste time.
“Yes,” Clémence said.
John took her number and said he’d find a good restaurant and would call her as soon as he did.
When Clémence came out, the receptionist gave her the same conspiring smile.
“Tout va bien?” she asked.
Clémence nodded and smiled back weakly. She thanked her and went out the door. Her head felt light.
What had she done?
Did she just agree to go on a date with a potential murderer?
CHAPTER 12
When Arthur asked her what had happened, she simply said that she’d found out his name and position. She didn’t tell him about the hot date. For one, he would probably think that she was crazy.
Not that she cared about Arthur’s approval—she simply didn’t want him lecturing her again about putting herself in another potentially dangerous situation. She knew the risks involved. But it was just a date. John didn’t know her true identity and meeting him this way could work in her favor. Under the pretence of a date, she would find out more about him.
Plus, now that she knew his name, she could find out more about him. The sooner the better. Raoul was still being detained. After parting ways with Arthur, she walked back home and called her mother to find out more about what was happening with Raoul and their lawyers.
“I don’t believe they have too much on him,” her mother said. “Sure there were eye witnesses, but if you said there are no videos of Raoul giving Monsieur Dupont the éclairs that supposedly killed him, that should work in Raoul’s favor. The problem is, they can’t disprove it either. Suppose they claim that Raoul gave him the éclairs outside of work.”
Clémence sighed. “I’d like to talk to Raoul. How can I?”
“One of my lawyers is supposed to see him this afternoon. Why don’t you go with him?”
“Okay, great,” said Clémence. “Please put us in touch.”
“I’ll give him a call right away dear, then I’ll call you back. Imagine, another murder, and in connection with one of our employees too. This is madness.”
“Everything will be fine,” said Clémence. She didn’t want her mother to worry. “Just have a good time in Asia. Did you have a good time at the hot spring?”
“Yes, but I had the murder on my mind. I know the store is up and running now, but I worried that there might be something in the papers?”
“Well, I didn’t see anything in the papers this morning,” said Clémence. In fact, she did see something on a gossip blog, but she didn’t mention it to her. The blogger didn’t seem to know much anyway. The post had just mentioned that Damour was abruptly closed that morning and police had been spotted. It speculated theft, but not murder. They were lucky.
“Good,” said her mother.
“I think we’re fine for now. I’m working on it. I think there is someone else in connection with Dupont, but I have to find out more.”
“I trust you, Clémence. You did figure out who killed la gardienne. Just be careful.”
“Thanks, maman.”
Her mother didn’t know how much danger Clémence had been in before she solved la gardienne’s murder last month. And she wasn’t going to tell her. If she did, her parents would fly back right away and be worried for no reason.
