Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) (8 page)

People picnicked on the grass, drinking wine and eating baguettes with cheese. Clémence had shared some fun memories in the past with her friends on the Champs de Mars, but where there were tourists in Paris, there were pickpockets. Once, her cell phone had almost been taken from her picnic blanket when she wasn’t careful.
 

Arthur was still leisurely strolling up ahead. She closed in until they were fifteen feet apart. Clémence’s plan was to casually bump into him, but Miffy was too eager. At the sight of Arthur’s dog, she barked and pulled at her leash. Arthur’s Jack Russell turned back and recognized her too. Arthur turned around and noticed Clémence.

The dogs reunited like old friends, licking each other’s faces and wagging their tails in happiness.
 

“Looks like they missed each other,” Clémence laughed.

A smile even spread on Arthur’s face. She’d never even seen anything close to a smile on him before. He was very smartly dressed tonight, none of his usual sweaters. Instead he wore a light blue dress shirt and an olive colored hunting jacket with dark blue jeans. His chestnut hair was neatly combed like always and his dark eyes were smouldering in the twilight.

He bent down to stroke Miffy.

“
Coucou
,” he whispered to her. “Hey girl.”
 

Miffy licked his hand and wanted to jumped into his arms it seemed. Clémence was surprised to discover that Arthur had a soft side. He really was a dog lover.

“It looks like she missed you too,” Clémence remarked.
 

Arthur looked up at her. His brown eyes were the exact shade of his hair. His lips were full and his skin was translucent and flawless. She could see why girls would fall for him. Clémence, however, was not easily swayed by good looks. Arthur did have a big personality defect, not to mention that he was on the top of her suspect list for murdering la gardienne.
 

“So you’re walking your dog at Champs de Mars now?” he asked briskly. It sounded more like an accusation than small talk.
 

“Yes. I like this park. Where else would I walk Miffy?”
 

“It’s a bit far from the house, don’t you think? Your father used to walk around the block.”

“Well, I prefer parks,” Clémence said defensively. “And this is where Miffy would meet other dogs, and I want her to be social.”
 

Arthur didn’t say much more. He began walking when the dogs did, who were happily strolling side by side. Clémence followed. If Arthur wasn’t a suspect, she would’ve turned the other way. Something about him repelled her. It was the same way Cyril repelled her—the arrogance, the entitlement, the haughty attitude.
 

“A shame about the murder, isn’t it?” Clémence offered.

“The murder? Oh, la gardienne. Yeah. Weird stuff.”
 

His face was inscrutable.
 

“Did you know her well at all?” she pressed.

“Not really. I don’t think many people did.”
 

“Well, what about Lara?”
 

“Our cleaner? Yes, I have seen them talking. I think they’re friends.”
 

Clémence wasn’t getting much out of him and she had to up her game.
 

“Lara’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”

“I suppose.” His jaw seemed to clench. “What about it?”
 

“Oh, nothing. I think she mentioned once that she found you to be handsome.”
 

Arthur gave a snort. “You think I would go out with her? She’s our cleaner.”
 

He sounded too offended—or defensive?—and Clémence suspected that she had hit a nerve.

“What about it? She’s still beautiful.”
 

“Her French grammar is awful,” he said. “Not to mention that she can’t hold a conversation whatsoever.”
 

That’s funny
, Clémence thought.
Talking to you is like pulling teeth
.
 

Clémence have had enough with his arrogance. She cut to the chase. “So you’re not dating?”
 

Arthur gave her a funny look. “Are you kidding me? Why would you think that we’re dating?”
 

Clémence averted her eyes from his burning stare.
 

“I thought I heard a rumor.” She shrugged.

“From who?”
 

“Just someone in the building.”
 

“There’s not even an ounce of truth to that,” Arthur said. His face was beet red. “I can’t believe that you’d think that.”
 

“Well, I don’t know you that well,” Clémence said.
 

“I’m not involved with Lara.” Arthur rubbed his face in agitation. His pale skin became red and irritated. “My father is.”

“Excuse me?”
 

“My father. He’s having an affair with Lara. I didn’t think anybody else knew, but everybody seems to know everybody else’s business in this building.”
 

Clémence wanted to smack herself. “Is your father’s name Arthur as well?”
 

“Yes. I wish I wasn’t named after the bastard. He cheats on my mother right under our noses and thinks we’re too dumb to notice.”
 

Of course. It was Arthur Dubois senior. How could she have been so clueless?
 

“How many of your siblings know about the affair?”
 

“Not the younger ones, but Theo does, and so does Matilde.”
 

“What about your mother?”
 

Arthur laughed bitterly. “She probably doesn’t. She’s too busy shopping and lunching to notice.”
 

“And if she does find out?”
 

“I don’t know. The girl will be cast out of course, but I reckon my mother will still stay with my father.”

“But why?”
 

“Why?” He shook his head. “My mother has stayed with him for various reasons other than for the pleasure of his company.”
 

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry—”
 

“That’s okay,” he cut in abruptly. “My family is messed up, all right? I can’t wait to move out.”
 

“What’s stopping you?”
 

“My siblings. And I need to finish my PhD.”
 

“I didn’t know you were doing a PhD.”
 

“You don’t want to know about it,” Arthur said. “It’s too boring. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
 

They walked around the park in silence. The silence made Clémence uncomfortable. She wanted to leave Arthur alone out of respect. Sure, she felt bad that his family was screwed up, but there was nothing she could do or say.
 

When they turned the corner and walked back to the tower, Arthur turned to her.

“Now tell me about the desserts you’re making at
Damour
.”
 

CHAPTER 13

Clémence was surprised to find herself enjoying a walk with someone whom she had suspected to be a murderer only an hour ago. Arthur was actually sweet and incredibly bright, despite his sardonic and snide humor found in many Parisian men. He wasn’t the spoiled playboy who mooched off his parents’ wealth. Well, he was some of that, but he was more vulnerable than he let on. She supposed that was how men worked. How people worked. The more vulnerable they were, the tougher they acted.
 

Clémence found herself suppressing the urge to give Arthur a hug by the time they reached the tower again. Maybe it was the last pink glimpse of the sun. Maybe it was the tinkling chatter of the picnickers. Maybe it was la tour, the symbol of romance around the world standing over them. She felt a bit light headed—intoxicated—by it all that she panicked.
 

She looked at her watch.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m late.”
 

They were walking back home together, but Clémence tugged Miffy away from Arthur’s Jack Russell. She didn’t know whether to give Arthur bisous goodbye. Were they friends now after their intimate conversation? She didn’t know, but she hadn’t been lying when she said that she was late. A simple American wave sufficed, and Arthur waved back, a hand up like a white flag, and his face melancholy in the evening darkness.

Berenice, Celine and Rose were waiting for her at Métro Oberkampf in the 11
^th
arrondissement. Clémence dropped Miffy off at home and gave him a treat. She quickly changed into something more chic—houndstooth cigarette pants, a black v-neck tee, a black leather jacket, and blue velvet ballet flats—and scurried out again.

When she was on a train, she texted her friends to say that she was running around ten minutes late. She would meet them at the bar if they could just save her a seat. Then she calmed down a bit. A seat became available and she sat down and thought about the events of the day.
 

So Monsieur Dubois was having an affair with Lara. La gardienne knew about the affair and told the dentist, who told her. So what was la gardienne doing with that information that made Lara so upset the night she was murdered?
 

Perhaps la gardienne had threatened to expose them. Paris was one of the most expensive cities in the world. Lara probably lived in her little apartment on the cheap and if she was cast out, she would have a hard time finding affordable housing in Paris.
 

Or what about Dubois? He might risk losing his wife, his family, and his money from a divorce.
 

La gardienne had been saving up some money to escape, hadn’t she? So she could’ve blackmailed Dubois for her nest egg.
 

And the wooden button was from a man’s jacket. It seemed likely that Dubois, Sr was the type to wear a Burberry jacket. Clémence had never met the guy however.
 

When she changed Métro lines, she called her mother’s cell phone.

“Hello dear, we’re having dim sum in Hong Kong!”
 

Her mother sounded like she was having the time of her life.

“It’s on the twentieth floor of a building here on Hong Kong Island and we can see the mountains and the city. It’s incredibly romantic.”
 

Her father cut in.
 

“Clémence? Is that you chérie?”
 

“Hi Dad. I’ve missed you.”
 

“Wish you were here too. The pork buns we’re eating are absolutely delectable. Although it was hell deciphering the menu. I don’t read Chinese! Luckily the waiter was able to translate.”

Clémence was happy to hear updates about her parents’ travels. The Damour patisserie and tea salon in Hong Kong would open in two weeks and they were prepping for their grand opening. On their days off, they were exploring the exciting city. Hong Kong was formerly a British colony so the city was a mix of East and West.

“The shopping here is amazing,” her mother piped up. “I found a nice cashmere shawl for you. It’s pink, your favorite color.”
 

“Merci maman, I’m sure I’ll love it. By the way, I was just wondering, have you ever seen Monsieur Dubois on the third floor wear a Burberry jacket before?”
 

“What kind of Burberry jacket? The classic trench?”
 

“Sure,” said Clémence. “Any Burberry jacket.”
 

“Well, I suppose so. Why?”
 

“Nothing. I just found this button and thought it might belong to him.”
 

“Yes,” said her mother. “I’m sure he has at least one jacket from Burberry. He’s very fashionable.”
 

CHAPTER 14

The basement of the bar was boiling hot. The sweaty audience sat on short benches. They were squeezed around a little stage with a single bright spotlight shining down on it. Glasses of wine and pints of beer were flowing freely to distract the people from the heat.

Clémence bought a glass of rosé and went down to la cave. The event was running late and people were still chatting. She found her girlfriends sitting on a bench near the front and she went over to greet them.

“Hey, stranger.” A pretty brunette with bright blue eyes greeted her with bisous.

Rose had been friends with Clémence since they were thirteen. They had spoken on the phone when she came back, and Rose had even joined her in Australia for a week a month ago. Rose was now working in a PR firm and living in Belleville with her boyfriend.

“Where is Pierre anyway?”
 

“He’s too tired to come out,” Rose said.
 

“Have you met Ben yet?” Clémence asked her friends.

“No,” said Berenice. “We don’t know what he looks like.”
 

Clémence looked around and found him in the back corner chatting with a guy wearing a fedora and a tank top.

“Ben!” she called and waved.
 

He came over with his friend and Clémence made the introductions.
 

“This is my friend Sam,” Ben said. “He’s from Manchester.”
 

Sam had a dirty blonde shag and a dimpled grin. He was a little on the short side, but he seemed to possess plenty of charm. The boys chatted with the girls for few minutes before the room darkened and the MC announced that the night of poetry and debauchery was about to begin.
 

The first couple of acts were forgettable. Clémence realized that she didn’t exactly like spoken poetry. She preferred to read poems and devour each word to reflect on their meaning. Poetry read out loud was more like a performance that she didn’t quite understand.

One girl read a poem complaining about being seen and treated as a sexual object. Clémence couldn’t help but interpret her poem as a long brag about how beautiful she was. Then another performer sang on his guitar. He was French and sang English in a thick French accent and she had no idea what he was singing about at all.

About eight acts in, Clémence was thinking that the whole thing was kind of lame. Then Ben stepped on the stage.