Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) (2 page)

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 still 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.
 

Then there was her life to figure out, the direction she should take with her art. She’d done some charcoal sketches here and there during her travels, but she hadn’t painted at all.
 

And don’t even get her started on her love life, which was nonexistent. There was a handsome Spanish fellow that had traveled with her and her friends for a month, but he had left as quickly as he appeared.
 

She’d left home at 26, and she was 28 now. She’d grown up after all that she’d seen and done, but there was still a lot of growing up to do.
 

After soaking for another half an hour, she felt a lot more refreshed. She combed out her black bob and put on skinny jeans, a silk lavender top, and penny loafers, which instantly transformed her into looking the part of a chic young bourgeoisie. It was amazing what a good scrubbing and some nice clothes could do for a woman, or anybody for that matter.
 

Clémence spritzed on her favorite Chanel perfume and she was on her way. It was almost 4pm. She would take her mother’s advice about not napping. Plus she couldn’t wait to visit
Damour
. She was craving a good French macaron, something she’d been deprived of except when her family visited her on various occasions in different parts of the world. A good chocolate macaron could make her day.

CHAPTER 3

The staff at
Damour
hadn’t changed much except for three new hires, as her parents had informed her. The flagship patisserie was at 4
Place du Trocadéro, where it had to view of the Eiffel Tower
. One door opened directly into the patisserie section, and the other into the tea salon, although both sections were connected on the inside. It just made it easier for the customers to get into two lineup, and at certain times, especially on Saturdays at lunchtime, people could line up for up to an hour to get a seat in the salon.
 

It wasn’t so busy on a Thursday afternoon, except for the bakery, so Clémence went in through the salon door. The hostess, Celine, greeted her.

“Clémence,
c’est toi
!”
 

Celine gave her two kisses on the cheeks. They were around the same age and they had been pretty good friends ever since Celine started working there three years ago. They had kept in touch on Facebook while Clémence was away. Sometimes Celine would fill her in on funny anecdotes about store regulars or among the staff.

After catching up a little, Celine introduced her to the wait staff who were there, Pierre and Christine. Then there were the cashiers in the patisserie section, Marie and Raoul. Caroline, the manager that day, who was a friendly middle-aged woman with dark blonde ringlets, came out to greet her.
 

Pierre and Marie were new, but they all seemed very friendly. Clémence’s parents were very particular about who they hired—they only wanted people who were happy to work there. Paris had a bad reputation for poor customer service and they wanted no part in that at
Damour
, which was partly what made the place so popular.
 

The inside of the place was the same aesthetic as her house: a mixture of classic baroque and modern contemporary. It had mother’s influence all over it. There were chandeliers and floral porcelain tea cups, with minimalistic and modern tables, and chairs cut from clear plastic. She had done a great job. The brand had lavender packaging and the place was painted in various shades of lavender and other pastel colors.
 

The back kitchen was Clémence’s favorite place. She loved watching the pastries get made. She was a mean baker herself, but she was out of practice. The chefs and bakers greeted her kindly. Sebastien Soulier was their star baker. He had only been an apprentice when Clémence first met him, but he’d since been promoted to head baker.
 

“
Salut
Sebastien. It’s been a while.”
 

Clémence gave him two kiss on the cheeks. His younger sister Beatrice was there as well and she greeted Clémence warmly with
bisous
as well.
 

He was making the shells for pistachio macarons, piping the pale green mix onto a baking tray in one-inch circles. In an American twist—her mother’s invention—this one had Oreo flavored cream filling. It was absolutely delectable.
 

The Soulier brother and sister were both young and innovative as well. It was the reason why her parents hired them. The both had strawberry blonde hair that could be categorized as red under direct sunlight, and flawless skin. Sebastien’s eyes were hazel, while Berenice’s were green. Clémence liked them both a lot.
 

“So glad you’re back,” said Berenice. “We’ll have an extra hand in the kitchen again.”
 

“Plus an extra tongue,” said Sebastien. The girls gave him a funny look. “For taste testing. Get your minds out of the gutter. Clémence can help us with our new inventions.”
 

Clémence picked a couple of fresh macarons from a tray and began munching.
Miam
. It was too good.

“I have some ideas of my own,” said Clémence. “I’ve spent a good amount of time in Asia. How about an asian inspired line of macarons for this summer? I’m thinking green tea, red bean, lychee.”
 

“
Bon idée
,” said Berenice. “Good idea. Maybe cherry blossom too.”
 

“We can get started right away,” said Clémence. “Tomorrow that is. I’m still not in the headspace.”
 

“Don’t worry,” said Sebastien. “You have plenty of time.”
 

Clémence stifled a yawn. “Suddenly I’m feeling so drowsy. Maybe I should take a nap.”
 

“Maybe you can sleep really early and wake up early,” said Berenice.

“I’ve never been a morning person,” said Clémence. “But maybe this is a perfect time to start.”
 

Before she left, she got a box of 16 macarons for la gardienne. Her mother had mentioned that she liked the pistachio and chocolate ones the most, so she selected four of them, along with the usual chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, an some Damour inventions, such a cheesecake flavored one, a S’mores macaron, and even an olive oil and mint combo, which tasted better than it sounded.
 

She also got a box for the Dubois family, as they had taken care of Miffy for the past week.

The macarons were packaged in special collector’s item boxes. She chose a chic zebra patterned one for la gardienne and one patterned with little lipstick kisses for the Dubois family. They each came with a lavender bag with the store’s gold logo.

She felt a lot better after reconnecting with her staff. Her parents were away, and the staff were the closest thing to family. She did have an aunt and uncle who lived in Montmartre, but they were also away for vacation. May was a month where many Parisians went away due to the various religious holidays. It was why some of the staff were away and the shop wasn’t as bustling as it was normally.

La gardienne was inside her apartment when Clémence went home. She could hear her TV through the door.
 

“Madame?” Clémence knocked.
 

There was no response and Clémence tried again, knocking harder.

“
Oui?
” La gardienne opened the door so suddenly that Clémence almost jumped back.

La gardienne wore a sour expression and the nostrils of her bulbous nose flared.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Clémence said. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me the keys. Maman told me how much you love our macarons.”
 

Clémence handed her the bag. La gardienne’s expression seemed to soften, just a little.
 

“
Merci
,” she said.
 

Clémence could tell that she still wasn’t thrilled about her. She tried not to take it personally as la gardienne apparently didn’t like anyone at all. When she slammed the door shut, a dismissed Clémence went to the third floor.

A housekeeper opened the door. She showed her into the living room, where Madame Dubois was sitting with a café and a copy of L’Officiel magazine. She was an elegant Brunette in her late fifties with tanned, leathery skin and a thin frame. She wore a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink cardigan and pearls around her neck.

“Ah, Clémence. Nice to see you again. Would you like something to drink?”
 

They gave each other bisous on the cheeks. Only a few hours back in Paris and she’d kissed more people than she had in the two years she’d spend traveling. She had mostly traveled with American friends, who were accustomed to shaking hands, hugging, or nothing at all.
 

A little white dog, a West Highland terrier, came running up to her. Miffy! She jumped up Clémence’s legs, her tongue out and tail wagging.

“I’ve missed you too, girl!” Clémence kissed the Miffy.

A couple of boy ran into the living room as well. The Dubois had a large family. There were seven kids in all, the oldest son being Clémence’s age and the youngest son being seven. There were four boys and three girls in the family. The younger sets seemed to be trouble makers and the older ones were taciturn and snotty. Clémence had only ever talked to Madame Dubois, as she was the most friendly out of the whole bunch.

The oldest son, Arthur, poked his head in. He had his own dog on a leash, a Jack Russell terrier with a red handkerchief tied around its neck.

“Salut,” said Clémence.
 

Arthur gave her a stiff “Bonjour”.

“Clémence is housesitting for the year,” Madame Dubois said to his son. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of her. Arthur has been the one walking the dogs this week.”
 

“Thanks so much,” Clémence said.
 

“No problem.” Arthur backing away. “Well I’m off.”
 

Arthur was tall and dark haired. He would’ve been handsome if he smiled more and wasn’t a complete snob. He had always rubbed Clémence the wrong way, and she hated his preppy cashmere sweaters that her American friends would’ve probably ridiculed. He wore the sweaters tied around his neck at times like your typical bourgeois guy.