by Lin, Harper
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
Recipe 1: Pistachio Macarons with Oreo Cream Filling
Recipe 2: Lychee Macarons with Raspberry Buttercream
Recipe 3: Classic Chocolate Macarons with Chocolate Ganache
Recipe 4: Matcha Green Tea Macarons with Matcha Buttercream
Recipe 5: Black Sesame Macarons with Red Bean Filling
About the Author
Macaron Murder
A Patisserie Mystery
by Harper Lin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some street names and locations in Paris are real and others are fictitious.
Text copyright © 2014 Harper Lin. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
CHAPTER 1
Clémence Damour carried her travel backpack up the exit staircase of Métro Trocadéro. She faced the familiar bustle of the Parisian cafés brimming with locals and tourists alike, while lanky waiters in white dress shirts and black vests served them with grim politeness. After spending more than 21 hours on a flight from Melbourne, then riding the RER B train from airport Charles de Gaulle, she felt exhausted and more than a little gross. She hadn’t showered for two days and had slept terribly on the plane.
Australia had been her last stop after traveling the world for two years, and now she was back in her hometown of Paris, France. The posh 16th arrondissement hadn’t always been her neighbourhood. Her parents acquired their luxury three bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a Haussmanian building in one of Paris’s most exclusive neighbourhoods after she had graduated lycée, the French equivalent of high school. She had actually grown up in a humble house in the suburbs and wasn’t used to the chic ladies in Chanel jackets with their Hermès bags, and the dashing men in well-cut Armani suits.
Among the well-coiffed and the well-dressed now, she felt like a hobo with her unwashed hair, her grubby travel clothes and her unfashionable backpack. People-watching was a popular Parisian past-time and she could feel the eyes on her as she walked from the Métro exit to a nearby bench. They didn’t know that she was the heiress to one of the country’s most popular dessert and pastry chains.
It was strange to be back in Paris after all that she’d seen and experienced on her travels. She saw her surroundings with fresh eyes, as the snap-happy tourists would: the beautiful, uniform architecture; the cafés with the tiny tables barely big enough for one person, let alone two; the grand museums of the Palais du Challiot etched with lines of poetry by Paul Valéry; the trees just beginning to bloom in the onset of spring; but her favorite view was the one directly across from Café du Trocadéro.
Her old friend, the iconic Eiffel Tower, stood strong and confident across the Seine River. Place du Trocadéro had the best viewing platform of the tower, where ecstatic tourist gathered to pose for photos.
Clémence sat down on the bench to admire the view. Even though she was a French native, she never got tired of staring at her. The tower was female, as La Tour Eiffel used a feminine article. She stood so boldly, with such strength and conviction of her own beauty and power that Clémence was inspired by her mere presence.
Whenever Clémence used to visit her parent’s apartment, she would sit on the balcony with a cup of tea. It also had a great view of La Tour, and she could easily spend an afternoon staring and meditating as a way of unwinding.
She had lived more than she ever had in the last two years of her life, yet now that she was back, it also felt like a long distraction from her life in France.
She sighed as she looked at her old friend now and spoke to her in her head. I’m back. Did you miss me? I guess it was time to come back to reality.
CHAPTER 2
Clémence strolled to Avenue Kléber, noting and enjoying the beautiful architectural details on each building facade. She was in no hurry as no one was waiting for her at her parent’s apartment except their dog Miffy, who had been left with a neighbor.
When Clémence left for her travels two years ago, she had also left the apartment that she’d shared with her then-boyfriend Mathieu in Le Marais. Now that she was back, she would stay at her parent’s place. It was near-perfect timing. The week before, the Damours had left for a travel adventure of their own. They would be living in Toyko for six months, and then Hong Kong, as they oversaw the opening of more Damour patisseries/tea salons in each city.
The original Damour patisserie was in the 16th, right in the neighbourhood where they lived now, which was why they had moved here to begin with. Her parents were both bakers. Her father was Fernch and her mother was American. They met and fell in love while both enrolled in a Parisian culinary school for pastry making and then they went into business together after a shotgun wedding. Damour was how they made their fortune. What started out as a small neighbourhood bakery selling classic French desserts with some American and international influences became a hit with the locals. They expanded to three more locations around Paris.
Damour quickly became a franchise. They also had locations around France, such as in Nice and Cannes. There was one in New York and London. Their packaged chocolates, candies, tea and drink mixes were also sold in gourmet supermarkets around the world. The name “Damour” became synonymous with gourmet desserts and treats.
Clémence loved the location in the 16th the best. It had started off as a regular patisserie with a couple of tables because the shop was so small, but word soon spread and it became so popular and crowded that they had to expand to a bigger location. It included a salon de thé as well, a tea salon, where ladies could come for lunch, teenagers could hang out to do their homework, and people on the go could buy their favorite desserts to take home; it was a popular hangout for people of all ages, as the place was modern, clean and “French” enough to be a classic brand but not so posh that people felt uncomfortable passing an afternoon there.
Apart from being her parent’s house-sitter and dog-sitter for the next year, she would also help oversee the shops, particularly their flagship location in the 16th that was a mere two-minute walk from where she lived. Clémence had studied art history, but she grew up with a thorough knowledge of baking and desserts thanks to her parents. They were hoping that she would inherit the family business one day, along with her siblings, but she wasn’t sure about making it a full-time career yet. She still had hopes of becoming a great painter someday.
When Clémence got to 14 avenue Kléber, she saw la gardienne sweeping in the courtyard through the huge iron front door. She knew the code to get in and she went in. La gardienne was a stout lady in her late 50s, with mop-like white and grey hair, and a bulbous nose. When she heard Clémence coming in, she turned around and narrowed her eyes at her.
“Bonjour,” she said roughly. “Can I help you?”
From the way she scrutinized Clémence, it was as if sh
e thought she was some sort of unsavoury vagrant or thief.
“Bonjour Madame, I’m Clémence Damour. Comment allez-vous?”
“Ah.” A knowing look began to spread in la gardienne’s eyes, but she was still not smiling. “Ça va. I didn’t recognize you.”
She gave her another disapproving once-over. It was true that Clémence didn’t look her best, but she didn’t appreciate the blatant rudeness of her critical eye. Clémence couldn’t wait to escape to her home.
La gardienne unlocked the door to her own apartment, which was just beside the front door, and disappeared inside.
La gardienne was the caretaker in charge of two buildings. These two buildings united with another two around a private courtyard. In each of the buildings, an entire floor was one apartment. There were six floors in each building, plus the floor on the roof. The elevator was quite small.
La gardienne lived on the ground floor. She was in charge of delivering the mail, cleaning, overseeing who was coming and going, and small maintenance tasks around the building. It was in all the residents’ favor to be on her good side.
Clémence didn’t even know la gardienne’s real name. Her parents had always just called her “la gardienne”. She would have to ask them, but in a way, she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t imagine calling her anything other than “la gardienne”.
The woman was moody, gruff, nosy and a huge gossip. Everybody generally tried to stay out of her way—and her wrath. Clémence’s parents often complained to her about run-ins with la gardienne that Clémence felt as if she already knew her well, even though she’d only seen her in passing when she used to come to visit her parents.
It was fun to hear anecdotes about la gardienne when Clémence had been out of the country, but now that she was living at 14 avenue Kléber, she had to stay out of her hair to avoid getting trapped in conversations. La gardienne’s negativity and complaints about the other residents, as well as general rants about life, could be draining. La gardienne didn’t have a lot in life, aside from her job: no family, no hobbies, not even good health, as she walked with a limp, and often complained to Clémence’s mother about back problems.
When la gardienne came back out, she held something in her left hand.
“Voici les clefs,” she said. “Here are the keys your parents left for you. This one is for the front door, this one is for the door of your building, and this one is for your apartment.”
“Merci beaucoup.” Clémence put on her most pleasant smile.
She was glad that la gardienne didn’t want to chitchat, as she apparently did with her mother. She seemed to be in a hurry to get back to her sweeping, so Clémence took her cue to go into the building.
The tiny elevator, barely big enough for two people, took her up to the fifth floor. She unlocked the door and quickly punched in the code to deactivate the security alarm.
She dropped her backpack and the first thing she did was open the windows to let the air and the light in. The main hallway had two shimmering chandeliers. The apartment was decorated in a hip bourgeois way—classical paintings and baroque furniture mixed with chic modern furniture and abstract art. There was a painting of a group of pink flamingos in the hall that Clémence had painted at age 19 that her parents had treasured enough to prominently display.
Even though the place smelled a little musty, which nothing a little airing out wouldn’t fix, it felt nice to be in that apartment. Everything was exactly the same. She would have the entire apartment to herself, which would take some getting use to after staying in hostels or cramped on friends’ couches for the past couple of years. It made her parents’ place seem even bigger and grander than ever.
There was hardly anything to eat in the kitchen. Her parents had been gone for a week already, and their housekeeper wouldn’t come until next Wednesday. It was only Thursday. There was some Camembert cheese, a bottle of pasteurized milk, and some boudin sausages, but no baguette, as it would be rock hard after a couple of days anyway. In the pantry, she found a box of whole wheat penne pasta. She boiled water to make pasta with pesto sauce, and heated up a thick sausage in a frying pan.
After lunch, her discomfort from long periods of travel still remained. She went into her bathroom inside her classically decorated bedroom and drew a bath.
The chevron wood flooring squeaked as she walked, and she could hear a baby crying from the floor below and footsteps from above. The floors and walls in France were as thin as Band-Aids, but she preferred this now that she was living alone. If something were to happen to her, the neighbors would hear her screams.
Just before she could get into the bathtub, the home phone rang.
“Allô, chérie?” It was her mother. “Tout va bien? You’re home already?”
“Oui, maman,” Clémence replied. “I’m just a bit jet-legged, but I’m going to take a bath.”
“Try not to sleep. Keep awake for as long as possible and you’ll be back on schedule in no time. Did la gardienne give you trouble about the keys?”
“No, but she’s not exactly enthusiastic to see me.”
Although her mother was American, she’d lived in France for over thirty-three years. Her French was flawless and she was as sophisticated as any of her friends’ mothers.
“She’s a pain in the derrière, but give her a box of macarons from the shop to be in her good graces. She has eyes and ears all over the place, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” said Clémence. “She doesn’t scare me.”
“It doesn’t hurt to give her the macarons. She adores the stuff, especially from our store. She’ll be as happy as a clam. Once we gave her a box of 32 just before your father’s birthday party, and she gave us no trouble about the guests coming in and out all night.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” said Clémence. “Are you still in Tokyo?”
“Yes, and they don’t have streets names here, can you believe that? It’s a system where they don’t use street names, but something to do with blocks and numbers. I don’t get it.”
“Oh I remember. I got totally lost once and none of the locals knew how to use my map either.”
“So how do people find where they want to go?” her mother asked.
“They use their phones, or from memory I guess.”
“C’est très bizarre. Are you enjoying yourself back in Paris?”
“Sure. I mean, as soon as I get some rest. What about you?
“It’s simply mad here, but your father is loving every second. He’s out buying some takeout noodles right now. I don’t know why he doesn’t just call room service. I suppose he wants to feel like a local. What do you recommend we do next?”
“Yes. Have you been in their Metro?” Clémence laughed. “There are professional people pushers to push you on certain trains during rush hour. Imagine, getting crammed like sardines.”
“It’s not that much different from Paris,” her mother said. “We haven’t taken the Tokyo Metro yet. We take taxis everywhere. Otherwise we’d get completely lost! Oh, the store opening was incredible. People lined up around the block and the tea salon was booked for a month in advance.”
“That’s great, maman. I knew it would do well. I’ll have to come once I get my bearings.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your bath. Enjoy yourself, and don’t forget Miffy. Bernadine comes on Wednesdays at 2pm to clean and we don’t give her a key, so you’ll have to be home at that time to let her in. You’re going to the patisserie later?”
“Yes, I’ll check in and introduce myself in case any of the staff has forgotten me.”
“How can they? You’re too pretty. Well, call me if you get in any trouble.”
“Give papa a gros bisou for me,” said Clémence. “Bye.”
Clémence soaked in the bath for a good half hour. In no time, the water was grey with soap suds and her own filth. She had to draw another short bath to feel completely clean.
Even though she was home, she stil
l hadn’t made it official yet. There were friends and relatives scattered around the country whom she would have to reconnect with soon. There was also the staff at the bakery to integrate back into. She was officially the boss, but she wasn’t the type to do the bossing around. There were already two managers for that. She was planning on being a regular in the back kitchen, where she’d whip up new desserts with her team.
