Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) (3 page)

A couple of times when Clémence had come to visit her parents for Sunday brunch, she’d seen Arthur coming out the side of the building with a different girl each time. Good looking girls in tight clothes and heels, doing the walk of shame.
 

Arthur didn’t bring them home to his parents’ house with all his siblings, of course. He had his own room on the top floor. In these Haussmanian buildings, the servants used to live on the top floor because back then, there were no elevators. The servant rooms had a separate staircase, a harrowing dingy one next to the entrance of the “real” apartments. The staircase took you directly to the top floor, although on each floor, it was connected to the kitchens of the main apartments.
 

Each apartment came with two or three servants rooms—
chambre de bonne
as they were called. Some were bigger than others. Most were just a bedroom with a kitchenette. Two toilets were shared between the tenants on the floor, as well as a shower. Some rooms already had a toilet, a shower, or both. It was odd, but that was the way things worked.

Arthur was too old to be living at home, but didn’t want to part with the luxuries of doing so. He and his brother each took a servant’s room, where they were free to commit whatever debauchery they wanted.
 

The Damours also owned two servant rooms. One was so small and windowless that they thought it was inhuman to allow anyone to live in it, so they used it for storage. Another room was spacious, had a window of the beautiful rooftops of Paris and a tiny shower next to the tiny kitchenette. Tenants changed from time to time, but right now, they had a British guy living there who Clémence hadn’t met yet.
 

The rent for the rooms were extremely cheap compared to the rent for a proper apartment. The other tenants were nannies, cleaners, or students. The rooms were practically dorm rooms. Arthur, however, had a housekeeper to clean up after him.

Clémence could tell that Madame Dubois wanted Arthur to pay more attention to Clémence. In the past, she had tried to coax Clémence’s mother to set them up, but it wasn’t happening. Clémence and Arthur were like oil and water. She just hoped that he had been good to Miffy while they were away.

“So glad to have you back, girl.” Clémence stroked her ears. She was beyond happy. With Miffy, the big apartment wouldn’t feel so empty.
 

CHAPTER 4

Somebody was knocking on the kitchen door of the apartment. Clémence had been on the balcony, drinking her tea and having a silent chat with La Tour, when she went back inside the kitchen and heard it.
 

“Who is it?”
 

“It’s Ben. From upstairs?”

He spoke English with a British accent. Clémence could tell the difference between British and American accents because she’d gone to university in the states and her English was nearly accent-less. Sometimes however, when she was tired, the French accent slipped through a little.
 

Clémence unlocked the door and opened up. A lanky guy with dark hair dressed all in black—black v-neck tee and black jeans—stood in the staircase with a mischievous smile.
 

“You’re Clémence, right? Hi, I’m Ben Mason. I wouldn’t be bothering you this early except that I saw you from my window.”
 

His room on the roof could see down into part of the kitchen.
 

“I’ll be sure to wave next time I see you at the window,” said Clémence.
 

They made their introductions and Clémence let him in. Her parents liked Ben. He had finished his studies in English lit in Cambridge and was in Paris for the year to finish writing his novel. He also wrote poetry and went to open mics and writing workshops at the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. Living in Paris was every writer’s dream.
 

“Would you like a
café
?” Clémence asked, referring to the shots of expresso that the French preferred.

“That’s okay,” said Ben. “I’ve already had two cups.”

“You’re an early riser.”
 

“I’m also a night owl. So I’m really an insomniac,” he joked. “You rise pretty early yourself.”
 

“I’m just jet-lagged actually. Not really a natural early riser, but I’m hoping to stick with this schedule.”
 

He peered at Clémence more closely. She blushed, wondering what the heck he was staring at.
 

“This is incredibly odd,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve spend so much time looking at your parents, and you look like an exact combination of the both of them.”
 

Clémence laughed.
 

It was true that Clémence had her mother’s dark hair and bone structure and her father’s blue eyes and full lips.
 

“They talk about you a lot,” said Ben. “Naturally.”
 

She only hoped that they hadn’t said anything too embarrassing.
 

“They’d told me about you too,” she said. “You’re writing a novel? That’s interesting. What’s it about?”
 

“Well, I hate to call it a crime novel, because it’s more literary. So it’s a literary crime novel then. A man gets killed in the Tuileries and he has a suitcase full of codes. The Inspector has to figure out what it all means.”
 

“Well, are you going to tell me?” Clémence asked.

“Actually, that’s all I have so far. I’m hoping the rest of the plot comes to me soon.”
 

Clémence laughed again. With Miffy and Ben around, she was feeling more at ease at home now. She had hoped that she and Ben could be friends, and things were looking good.

“Hey, I was wondering if I could get the number of your plumber,” said Ben. “You see, my tiny sink is clogged. It’s my fault for not pouring those chemicals as often as I probably should have. I should’ve listened to your mother.”

“Please don’t tell her that,” Clémence joked. “So it’s completely blocked?”

“Yes,” said Ben. “I can’t wash my hands anymore, so I need to do it in the shower.”
 

“Oh gosh, sure. Actually, let’s call him right now.”

Clémence had the plumper’s number on the home phone’s directory. Luckily, the plumper was able to come in that morning, but was very vague about the time. She gave the Ben’s cell phone number as well as her own.

“Will you be at home all morning?” Clémence asked Ben when she hung up.
 

“Yes, I’ll be writing.”
 

“Great. Because I have to walk the dog, buy groceries, so I’ll be in and out all morning. He’ll call you when he’s around.”
 

“Thanks Clémence,” said Ben. “I’ll see you soon. Oh, there’s a poetry slam tomorrow night and I’ll be performing. Do you want to come? Bring some friends if you want.”
 

“That sounds like fun,” said Clémence. “Why not?”
 

“Great, I’ll text you the details.”
 

When Ben left, Clémence took Miffy out. She wanted to go all the way across the Seine to Champs de Mars, the park beneath the Eiffel Tower.
 

On her way out, she planned to tell la gardienne that a plumber was coming so that she wouldn’t give him any trouble. She had a reputation for treating any intruders with rudeness and suspicion.
 

Her door was slightly ajar and the TV was off so Clémence knocked. When her phone rang, Clémence reached into her purse, loosening her grasp on Miffy’s leash. Before she could get her phone, Miffy was off. She ran straight into la gardienne’s apartment, pushing the door wide open.

“Miffy, no!”
 

Clémence went in after her.
 

“I’m sorry, madame—”

Then Clémence saw her: la gardienne on the ground with a pool of blood pouring from underneath her head.
 

Clémence screamed.
 

Miffy was barking and running around.
 

“No, Miffy, let’s get out of here!”
 

Across the apartment was a doctor’s office. After Clémence banged on the door, the receptionist and some of the people in the waiting room came out.

“What’s wrong?” asked the receptionist.
 

“Call the police!” Clémence exclaimed. “La gardienne is dead!”
 

CHAPTER 5

“Miffy, no!”
 

Miffy kept wanting to go back inside to look at the dead body, and Clémence had to block the door.

“Please contain your dog, Mademoiselle.”
 

Cyril St. Clair, the Inspector, managed to grab Miffy by the leash. He handed the leash back to Clémence. He was a man in his late thirties with smile lines like parentheses on the sides of his mouth. Not that he smiled much. It was when he grimaced that the lines appeared. He had a strong, hawk-like nose and intense green eyes that turned cold when they met Clémence’s.
 

“Now, what is your name?” he asked.

“Clémence Damour.”
 

“Damour?” He squinted at her. “You mean, of the Damour bakery chain?”
 

“Yes.”
 

Cyril looked back down on his notepad and scribbled quickly.

“I see. Now tell me what happened.”
 

Clémence explained that she was just trying to tell la gardienne that a plumber was coming by later that morning, but she found her body on the floor after Miffy ran in.
 

“It’s rather a coincidence, then, that the victim had a box of macarons from your store, and she was in the middle of eating the macarons before she died?”
 

Clémence was taken aback by the blunt accusation.
 

“It is.” Clémence told him that she had given her the macarons as a gift the day before.
 

“So it’s also a coincidence that you happened to have found her dead this morning?”
 

“Yes,” Clémence said with impatience. “I didn’t find her exactly. As I told you, my dog ran in and I ran in after her.”
 

“You’ve messed up our investigation,” Cyril said indignantly. “You dog might have destroyed possible evidence.”
 

As if on cue, Miffy spat out a button. A big wooden button.
 

Cyril made a disgusted face and picked up the button with only a thumb and an index finger.
 

“Any idea where this is from?” He looked at Clémence’s outfit. She was wearing a black blazer and skinny jeans.

“It’s not from any of my clothes,” Clémence said.

Cyril sighed. “See, this is what I mean. It could’ve helped to have known whether the button was taken from la gardienne’s apartment. And we could’ve checked for fingerprints.”
 

Clémence couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Oh please, if it wasn’t for Miffy, you wouldn’t even have an investigation so soon. She was the one who went in.”
 

“Did anyone see her go in?” Cyril raised an eyebrow.
 

“No, but I swear, the door was open.”
 

“And where were you last night?”
 

“I was home, sleeping. I just came back from Australia actually and I was jet-lagged—”

“Who else lives with you?”
 

“With me? No one. It’s my parents’ apartment and they’re away.”
 

“So let me get this straight. You live alone, and you don’t have an alibi for last night. The victim had been eating a box of macarons that you gave her before she was murdered, and you just happen to find her dead in her apartment this morning.”
 

“Yes.” Clémence was exasperated already. She was starting to think this Inspector was as dimwitted as the rest of the useless police in the city. If she was in his shoes, she’d take a closer look at the button. She would’ve found it curious that there were two drinking glasses on the table and one had a lipstick stain on it when la gardienne didn’t wear lipstick. She would’ve taken a closer look at whatever it was that was written on the pad of paper on the table. Everything except accuse an innocent person of murder.

But maybe she wasn’t looking at this objectively. If she wasn’t so offended by being accused for murder, she could see how Cyril would find her suspect.
 

But Clémence was no inspector. She wanted no part in this murder. And she certainly hadn’t done anything wrong.
 

“If I was the killer,” Clémence said. “Which I’m not, why would I want to place myself in the position of finding her? Wouldn’t I want to get as far away from the scene as possible?”
 

“It could be the work of a clever girl who thinks she could outwit a professional.” Cyril looked at her smugly. “Finding her, screaming, acting innocent and clueless—I don’t buy it.”
 

“Look, I’ve told you all you need to know,” Clémence said. “Why would I want to hurt la gardienne? I didn’t even live here before yesterday. She’s not very well liked by the rest of the residents. Maybe you can start questioning others who have actually interacted with her more than I have.”
 

Cyril was still looking at her closely. “I’m not letting you off the hook yet, Clémence Damour, even if your patisserie does have the best almond croissant in the neighbourhood.”
 

“You mean in the world,” Clémence said. “Speaking of which, I’ll have to be at the patisserie now, so if you’d excuse me, I’m off.”
 

***

“Oh wow,” Berenice exclaimed in the patisserie kitchen. “A murder in your own building. Is it total chaos on your street right now?”

Clémence sighed. “Yes. The street is closed off. Residents are scared. There were a million policemen and
pompiers
at the building, even though she’s already dead.”
 

“You would’ve thought that the pope died or something,” Sebastien quipped.

“It’s not exactly exciting,” Clémence said. “And now this inspector thinks I’m involved.”