by Harper Lin
It felt nice in a way to be on a nice date, even if there was a high chance that John was some sort of sociopathic killer. She looked at him, but he seemed a bit nervous when he smiled at her.
Nervous? Why would he be nervous? But perhaps it was because despite his education and self-made wealth, he’d grown up in a more humble environment. Clémence could relate to that. She didn’t grow up in the 16th herself, and she never really got used to mingling with the bourgeoisie. It took her a while to learn which wine went with what, which forks to use and what the items on the menus even were.
The waiter came by with the menus and announced the specialties of the day.
“What will you have?” John asked.
“Um, perhaps the lobster pasta,” Clémence said. She’d been so nervous about the date that she’d lost her appetite, but now that she was here, she realized she hadn’t really eaten lunch and the hunger descended. “What about you?”
“The same,” he said.
After they ordered, they chatted about his work. He had been excited about the transfer, as he had learned French in school growing up and it had gotten a bit rusty.
“It’s been hard to get to know my French colleagues,” he said, sipping his glass of Moët champagne. “But they seem to be coming around.”
“Yes, the French are a bit harder to pry open,” said Clémence. “But once you’re in, you’re in.”
“I hope I’m in with you,” John looked at her in a sexy way. Under the dimness of the lights, his green eyes didn’t look cold at all, as Marie had claimed, especially when he smiled at her that way.
“We’ll see about that,” Clémence teased.
“So what do you do, Anabelle?”
Oh right. Clémence had almost forgotten that her name was supposed to be Anabelle Bernard.
“I work in public relations,” she said. “At JJ Anders. Have you heard of it?”
John shook his head. “I haven’t, unfortunately.”
“What about Preston & Olivier? They’re our biggest competitor.”
Preston & Olivier was the name of the PR company Dupont worked for, where he was directeur de l’agence.
“Oh, yes,” said John. “It sounds familiar. Actually, I think I have a neighbour who works there.”
Clémence perked up. “Who?”
“I know his last name is Dupont, from the name on his buzzer. But I can’t remember his first name.”
“Is it Alexandre Dupont?” Clémence helped. “He’s the boss at Preston & Olivier.”
“Yes, that sounds right,” said John. “He mentioned working there. We had a nice chat in the courtyard. I guess he wanted to practice a bit of English.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” asked Clémence.
“Early this week?” he said. “He gave me all sorts of recommendations for stores and restaurants this neighbourhood. He’s a man who loves to eat.”
Clémence frowned. “So you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Dupont is dead.”
She looked closely at his face. His expression twisted into shock.
“Dead? What do you mean?”
“You really didn’t know?”
“No,” he exclaimed. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Clémence lied. “Our company just received word that he’d passed last Thursday. It was also in the papers. He was poisoned.”
“What?”
Either John was a skilled actor or he was genuinely shocked. Weren’t sociopaths good at acting?
“Yes,” said Clémence. “By pistachio éclairs. The police are investigating who would poison him.”
“Oh God,” said John. “That’s shocking. I was just talking to him a few days ago. I didn’t know. I’ve seen his wife lately, but she was always in a rush and didn’t seem as friendly as she usually is. Now I know why. But pistachio éclairs—were they from Damour?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because he had been talking about them, saying how they were just the best things ever created. He talked about them in so much detail that the next morning I rushed out to the patisserie and bought two of them before work.” John gave a nervous laugh. “I’m glad they weren’t poisoned. It’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder who would be out to get him?”
“He is a formidable man in the workplace,” said Clémence.
“Yes, it could be someone from work. Or one of his competitors.”
Clémence nodded. John could be right.
She was disappointed that John didn’t seem to be involved in the murder, although she did find out that he was connected to Dupont. This could be useful.
At least she wasn’t on a date with a dangerous killer after all. Even if she did lie about her identity, it was a date, and she hadn’t been on one of those in a while.
They enjoyed the rest of their evening peacefully. Their food was delicious and John continued to be an attentive date. She knew that Berenice and Sebastien were seated a table away, but at one point she turned to them and quickly smiled to indicate that everything was okay.
John was superficially attractive in the conventional sense, but she didn’t know whether they had much in common. The conversation flowed easily enough however, and at one point Clémence thought she wouldn’t mind seeing John again.
After they finished a coffee at the end of the meal, Clémence said she’d better be heading home. They got up after John paid, and Clémence had trouble once again with her balance in her four-inch heals after sitting down for more than two hours. She stumbled a bit and lightly bumped into someone.
“Clémence?”
It was Arthur. Standing behind him was a hot blonde wearing a silver mini dress even shorter than her red dress.
John looked between Clémence and Arthur, confused.
Clémence shot Arthur a look. “You must be mistaken. Je m’appelle Anabelle.”
John stepped in and introduced himself to Arthur. “How do you know Anabelle?”
“We’re neighbours,” Clémence said.
“Yes,” Arthur said slowly. “Just up the street.”
“Up the street?” John looked at Clémence again. “I thought you said you lived in the 8th.”
“I—I do,” Clémence lied. “But my parents live here.”
She looked at the blonde and a feeling grew inside the pit of her stomach. The girl had the most pouty red lips. She could’ve been a model if she had less curves. Clémence felt the food in her stomach churning.
“This is Lea,” said Arthur.
John was looking at her too, but trying not to. Lea smiled and thrusted her chest out even more. Arthur however, gave Clémence a quick once-over. Clémence felt embarrassed. She must’ve looked so odd trying to dress up like one of the sexy girls.
“We’ll leave you to your dinner,” said Clémence, turning away. “Bonne soirée.”
She followed John out the door.
“Who was that?” asked John.
“Oh,” said Clémence. She quickly tried to come up with something. “We dated once, but he must’ve not remembered my name.”
“That was weird,” said John. “He seemed sure your name was Clémence.”
“He’s just a jerk,” said Clémence. “He probably forgets the names of all the girls he dates.”
“I don’t think he will forget the name of the girl he’s with tonight,” John joked.
Clémence nodded and forced a smile. She wondered if John was the bigger jerk to comment on the sexiness of another girl while he was on a date with her. She couldn’t wait to go home.
“I don’t live far from here,” said John. “Do you want to come over and have a coffee?”
“But we just had coffee,” said Clémence. Then she realized what he was suggesting. “Oh. No. I really have to get home.”
She flagged down cab, to continue on with the charade of living in the 8th.
“Well I had a great time,” said John. “I’ll call you.”
“Su
re.” Clémence smiled weakly. She kissed him on both cheeks goodbye. She didn’t have it in her to keep up the pretence of enthusiasm anymore.
She got into the cab. She asked the cabbie to drive around the block once and then drop her off at 14 Avenue Kléber.
She was furious with Arthur. He had almost blown her cover.
That was what she was mad at him for, wasn’t it?
CHAPTER 15
“We saw the whole thing,” Berenice said the next morning in the kitchen. “Although we couldn’t hear much over the conversations in that restaurant.”
Clémence wasn’t feeling so well. She couldn’t sleep the night before. She had kept thinking about the blond bombshell that Arthur had taken out to dinner. How foolish she’d felt when her own date had drooled over Lea.
Was she jealous because John had taken an interest in the blonde or because Arthur was going out with her? She didn’t think she cared what Arthur did, but when she got home from the date, she couldn’t sleep. She kept imagining Arthur bringing his date back up to his little room on the top floor.
“What an evening,” Clémence said, sighing.
“But you looked like you were having a good time,” said Berenice. “So we gather that this guy is not the killer after all?”
“No. But he is Dupont’s neighbour.” She explained how Dupont had recommended the pistachio éclairs to John, and that had been why he bought them.
“Weird coincidence,” said Sebastien.
Clémence nodded. “John bought two because he was going to give one to a colleague, but it was so good that he ended up eating both of them.”
“If that’s not a testimony to my baking powers, I don’t know what is.” Sebastien crossed his arms and looked proud.
“But I’ve hit a wall,” said Clémence. “I was really hoping it was John. Now I’ll have to look into Dupont’s enemies, although that’s what the inspector’s doing. How am I supposed to infiltrate his company? Poor Raoul. I just feel so responsible.”
“It’s really not your fault.” Sebastien’s voice was full of kindness and Clémence appreciated it.
Lately she’d been too overwhelmed by everything and felt extremely frustrated.
“Ça va aller,” Sebastien continued. “It’s going to be all right. Raoul didn’t do it, and they’re going to figure it out sooner or later. You’re not responsible for this man’s death. He just happened to love the éclairs so much that somebody took advantage of that. You don’t have to do anything. It’s the police’s job to catch the murderer anyway. Just relax.”
Clémence felt soothed by his words. There was something incredibly calming about Sebastien and she felt better already.
“You’re right.” She blinked back the tears that were on the verge of forming.
“No need to fret,” said Berenice. “You know your hot neighbour last night?”
“Arthur?” Clémence made a face.
“Did you see his face when he saw you in your dress?” Berenice said. “He couldn’t stop staring at you.”
“You did look pretty good,” Sebastien admitted.
“Well my date was drooling over his date,” said Clémence.
“We left shortly after you did, but Arthur was staring at you the whole time you walked toward the door. I was surprised he didn’t run after you.”
Clémence waved her comments away. “There’s no way. Arthur does not care one bit about me.”
“Didn’t you say he had a coffee with you when you waited for John to appear outside the bank?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have much going on with his life. Apparently he’s working on his PhD, but he seems to be going about it in a leisurely way. I see him going to the tennis court all the time.”
Berenice gave her a look. “How can you miss the signs? He’s into you. And it sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time together recently.”
“It’s just a coincidence. He lives in the same building, and we’re bound to run into each other.”
“I’m telling you,” Berenice said. “He’s into you.”
“Stop,” Clémence said. She was starting to get annoyed. Now she knew how Sebastien felt when Berenice bugged him about his love life. “Arthur would stare at anything in a tight dress. There’s nothing going on between us.” She took off her apron. “I think I need to take a personal day.”
Sebastien looked at her in sympathy. Berenice started to apologize, but Clémence shook her head.
“No, don’t apologize. I’m just stressed out and I need a break to relax. I’ve been working every day this week, so I should just go chill out.”
CHAPTER 16
Clémence took a long walk along the river. She looked into the glimmering waters of La Seine as she headed towards Palais de Tokyo. The skateboarders were out in front of the huge museum, doing tricks near the fountain. People sitting in the museum’s outdoor cafe were chatting, laughing and having a good time. Watching them, she felt a bit lonely.
She turned back to look at her old friend, La Tour Eiffel. There was a million things on her mind. She hoped the tower would give her guidance.
Maybe she wasn’t so good at solving murder cases after all. The first one had just been luck—after all, the victim had been someone in her building and it was a lot easier to interrogate people. With this Dupont guy, it was probably best to let the police handle it. She would just have to pray that Raoul would be let go soon. She hoped that Cyril had some other leads, and was not just putting all his energy into finding more evidence against Raoul.
Clémence wished she could do more, but she felt foolish enough going undercover as some cheap date. She was lucky that no one she knew had seen her. No one except Arthur that was.
Arthur. The thought of him made her blush all over again. She had to admit it to herself: she was attracted to him. But she couldn’t understand why. He came from the worst kind of upper class families, he slept around, plus he wore pink dress shirts and cashmere sweaters tied around his shoulders. Personality-wise, he was as abrasive as a cactus, he was a snob, and he was arrogant.
But he was also handsome, educated and rich. Even Clémence had to admit that he was a catch for many girls; it was obvious why he had such an easy time finding girls to sleep with. She chided herself for liking a guy with such shallow taste in women. Then again, Arthur must’ve liked this Lea girl if he would take her to such a good restaurant.
Clémence sighed. Arthur could also be kind sometimes. He liked dogs and was good with them. As far as she could tell, he was a good brother to his siblings. And he was doing something with his life, even though he was taking his sweet time with it. She had to admit he was reliable, since he was there when she needed help.
Maybe that was why she liked him: he had the potential to be a good guy. However, she couldn’t like someone because of misguided hope. She’s had one too many bad experiences to know that she couldn’t accept Arthur as he was right now.
