Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder (5 page)

Clémence nodded, taking it all in. “How did he react to seeing you at the party?”
 

Maya shook her head at the memory. “At first, he was pleasant. He shook Sebastien’s hand and made chitchat with us. Then he got drunker throughout the evening and a bit nastier. He made a snide remark about Sebastien when we were alone. Then he launched into this whole tirade of how I had bad taste in men, and that I was probably just a lesbian using Sebastien for social leverage because I was a nobody. I was so angry. I was fuming. I tried to calm down. Sebastien was engaged in another conversation, and I just downed a glass of champagne and tried to let the anger go. But I couldn’t. I needed to give that Cesar a piece of my mind, especially after the fiasco with the job. I wanted to tell him that he was a vengeful, talentless jerk. I looked around and tried to find him, but he wasn’t around, so I figured he was in the men’s room, and I went to look for him. The men’s room was, curiously, not locked. The door was slightly ajar. That’s what I told the police, and it’s the truth.”

“Well, you did tell me that you were going in there to use the restroom,” Clémence said.

“It’s true. I did lie about the fact that I went into the men’s room by accident. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police, and I panicked. So I made up that lie. Because I
really
didn’t have anything to do with Cesar’s death. All I wanted to do was confront him. I never imagined he’d be dead. I checked his pulse, so my fingerprints would probably be found on him, and I told the police that. Otherwise, I didn’t lay a finger on him. All I wanted was to give him a piece of my mind, but someone beat me to that and more.” Maya began to get teary and she buried her face in her hands.
 

Clémence had heard enough. “The inspector said Cesar might’ve killed himself. He said they found a suicide note, but he didn’t exactly tell me what it said. He mentioned it was more like a will.”
 

Maya looked up at her through her parted, tear-stained fingers. “Suicide?”
 

“Yeah. He overdosed on antidepressants, and it turns out that he had depression.”
 

“Wow.” Maya sat back.
 

“Did Cesar seem like the kind of person who was depressed?”
 

Maya slowly shook her head. “No. I don’t know. He was always doing things for attention. Partying like crazy and coming in on Mondays hung over. He had girls coming and going through a rotating door. It could explain some things. Depressed people sometimes do look for instant gratification to fill a void, right?”

“Right,” Clémence said. “He sounds like a rock star.”
 

“I guess I never thought he had anything to be depressed about,” Maya said. “He could do anything he wanted. He could buy anything he wanted and have anybody he wanted, almost.”
 

“I’m not sure if I completely buy the fact that he committed suicide,” Clémence said. “I mean, it sounds like there are people out there who might hate him and resent him. But what if it wasn’t a suicide? What if someone made it look like one? And what if the letter wasn’t a suicide letter, but just a will? I’m just trying to look at this from all angles here.”
 

“Yes. I don’t know. It doesn’t look good, either way.”
 

“What would make more sense to you though, Maya?” Clémence asked. “Cesar killing himself because of depression, or somebody murdering him?”
 

Maya looked down at her desk, at the paperweight in the shape of a golden egg. When she looked up at Clémence, there seemed to be a glimmer of certainty in her eyes.

“Somebody murdering him,” she replied.

Chapter 6

Arthur worked near Métro Miromesnil, and since his consulting company was on the way back to the patisserie, she made plans to meet with him for lunch. She waited for him in the lobby of the building.
 

Arthur came out of the elevator and smiled. His chestnut hair was growing out, and it was parted and neatly gelled with an adorable wave at the front. After they kissed and stepped out onto the street, his brown eyes shone with a golden tinge under the sunlight. They went to a nearby
crêperie
, where Clémence ordered a spinach and goat cheese galette and Arthur a seafood bisque galette.
 

“How’s it going at your new job?” Clémence asked. “Are you feeling withdrawal from university life?”
 

Arthur shook his head and laughed. “Not at all. Aside from seeing my prof, it could get pretty solitary working at the library. Hey, why didn’t you ever visit me there?”
 

Clémence reached across the table to pinch his cheeks. “You’re such a whiner. I would’ve if your snotty school would let me in without a student ID.”

“I was so lonely,” Arthur joked.

“Didn’t you have any friends at school?” Clémence teased.

“Sort of. But I was an older student, and the other PhD students were kind of aloof and not interested in making friends. Not that I was, either. I am glad I’m working now, since it can more be more of a social environment.”

“I feel the same about working at the patisserie. I don’t think I can be a painter full time. I need to interact with people.”
 

“Which is why I’m liking the job,” Arthur said. “I look up to my boss. He’s not as pompous as other successful men, and he’s quite flexible, letting us take breaks and extended lunches when we want as long as we get the work done. Right now, we’re working on rebranding the XY clothing store.”
 

XY was a clothing chain, a French version of The Gap. It had been popular when Clémence was a teen, but in the last decade they had trouble staying relevant.

“You’re involved in fashion?” Clémence was amused.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite fashionable.”
 

She had to admit, he did know how to dress reasonably well, although it was in the most classical, preppy sense. All the bourgeois men dressed more or less the same; style was like a uniform with men and women alike in Paris. “But this is a women’s store.”
 

“I think you forget that I have two sisters, and one of them is in fashion school in Italy to become a designer.”

“Right,” Clémence said. “That’s true. We’ll see how it goes. Make me proud.”
 

“I’ll be sure to consult you on the latest trends.”

“I’ll try,” Clémence said. “I’ll wear what I have to look good, and I am known to shop on occasion, but I don’t really keep up with the latest collections.”
 

“Not even now that you’re back on the socialite scene and you have friends in fashion?”
 

“I’m not back on the socialite scene,” Clémence protested. “I’m just happy the gossip blogs are leaving me alone. Now I can wear the same pair of pants three days in a row without feeling like a criminal.”
 

Their food came. Clémence dug right in; she was starved. All she had for breakfast was a
pain au chocolat
from Damour, and while it was full of butter, chocolate, and greasy goodness, it was low on nutrients.

Arthur chuckled at the thought of something. “You know, there’s one thing I really don’t miss about school—the unisex restrooms. I had to listen to the girls talk about the most inane things. Hair and boys and lip gloss. Ugh.”
 

Clémence chuckled. “You should hang out in the back kitchen at Damour. It’s pretty much what Berenice, Celine, and I talk about.”
 

“Do you talk about me?”
 

“Always. You and murder cases.”

“Right, the murders. So what exactly is going on with the Cesar Laberg case? Have you heard anything from the police?”

She sighed and explained what the inspector had said, and her visit with Maya. Arthur took it in as he finished his galette.

“What do you think?” Clémence asked. “Murder or suicide?”
 

“I’m not surprised by anything these days,” Arthur said. “But I don’t know. I had maybe a half-hour conversation with Cesar about the World Cup. He seemed like a pretty fun guy. Why would he kill himself?”
 

“Was he drunk when you guys talked? I only chatted with him a bit when we were introduced. I didn’t pay much attention to him throughout the evening.”
 

“Not
drunk
drunk. He seemed really easygoing, the kind who enjoyed life. I don’t know if it makes sense he’d commit suicide.”
 

Clémence shrugged. “I knew a girl who committed suicide when I was studying in America. She lived on my floor in the dorms. I didn’t know her well, but I think she was bipolar. Sometimes, I’d see her at parties, extremely happy and dancing like everyone else, always either high or drunk. Other times I’d see her looking glum and bored, listening to music with headphones on at the library. Once I even caught her crying to herself at a table where she was studying. I’d thought it was the pressure of winter exams. Then during the spring semester, she slashed her wrists, and her roommate found her.”
 

“Maybe you should talk to the people who did know Caesar well.”
 

“One step ahead of you,” she said. “I’ve left a message on Madeleine’s phone. I want to see if she can get me invited over to her boyfriend’s house. That way, I can talk to everyone in the family at once—the parents, both brothers, and maybe even the servants. I’ll be able to find out what this letter said. I think if I just keep asking questions, even about things that seem insignificant, I might get something out of it.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Arthur said. “But what about leaving the case to the police this time? Did that ever occur to you?”
 

“Is that a joke?”

He smiled and shrugged. “Sort of.”

“I wish I could trust them enough to, but I feel responsible, since Cesar did die at my party. I need to get to the bottom of this.”
 

“And you will. But once you do, let’s take that vacation we were talking about. Most of the Parisians have abandoned the city, and I want to join them.”

“Maybe if I take a break from Paris, I could take a break from all these murders.”

Arthur chuckled and held her hand on the table. “Let’s hope.”
 

Chapter 7

“Lift those legs!”
 

Clémence and Berenice reluctantly obeyed their boot camp instructor. This was Clémence’s first outdoor workout class, and it felt like death.
 

“Higher! Higher!”

If I go any higher, I’m going to pull a groin muscle
, Clémence thought.
 

They were working out on a patch of grass outside the Louvre. Berenice had been faithful to these workout sessions, coming twice a week. At first Clémence had been concerned about working out in public in case the paparazzi got wind of her, but she figured now that her fifteen minutes of fame was up, she could go back to doing whatever embarrassing things she wanted to in public. A part of her really enjoyed being bullied by a sadist into getting into better shape.
 

The pounds she’d gained since she started working at the patisseries again all went straight to her hips. She was now restricting how many sweets she was putting in her body, but it wasn’t easy, considering she was surrounded by them every day. Her mother used to have the same problem, but she developed a habit of eating rabbit food and exercising six days a week, early in the morning. Clémence wasn’t ready to make that level of commitment yet, but the masochism of boot camp workouts was a good start.
 

“Push-ups! Come on. I need fifteen push-ups, now!”
 

Clémence didn’t know how to do one push-up, never mind fifteen. Their instructor was a short but bulky Spanish man in his early thirties with square sideburns and amazing hair that was slick and styled into a pompadour.

She resigned herself to doing girly push-ups, with her knees on the grass. She had to build up her upper body strength.
 

“Come on, Clémence, you can do better than that! Faster. Stop scowling. Smile. Smile through the pain!”
 

Smile through the pain?
Clémence found the suggestion ridiculous, but she did it anyway. Soon she was laughing. Berenice couldn’t help but laugh, too. There were only three other girls in the class, two of whom were super fit and ran rings around them twice while Clémence and Berenice lagged behind, panting and complaining.
 

There were fifteen minutes left in the class, as Clémence could see from her sports watch that also measured her heartbeat. She did lunges and sit-ups, jumping jacks and butt squats. When they were done, Clémence and Berenice fell on the grass in exhaustion. It was a particularly hot afternoon. Clémence squirted water all over her face and neck.
 

The instructor smiled, dropping his drill sergeant act as he packed up. “Good job, girls.”
 

“I can’t feel my legs,” Clémence moaned.

“Sorry about that, girls,” he said brightly. “Take a bath. That helps the muscles.
À la prochaine fois!
”

“Yeah, see you next time.” Berenice sat up and looked around. “Man, it’s so nice to be working out outside, at least. Gyms are so depressing.”
 

Clémence sat up, too. A girl in a straw fedora snapped her camera phone in their direction. Clémence wondered if she was going to appear sweaty and makeup-less on some gossip site again, but the girl could’ve been a tourist. They were surrounded by beauty. Everybody was taking photos.

Before it became one of the biggest museums in the world, the Louvre used to be the royal palace. Clémence admired the sculptural details of the Louvre palace’s façade, contrasted against the modern glass pyramid, which was designed by I.M. Pei in the eighties.
 

Clémence used to visit the Louvre to draw all the time when she was younger. She’d take a stool, her sketchpad, and pencils, and find a different wing every time to work in. She drew everything from sculptures to windows to people looking at paintings. It was a quiet, reflexive experience, almost meditative, as she would be so absorbed in the act of drawing that no thought entered her head except for those related to observing and transferring what she saw onto paper.