Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) Page 3

  “So do you think the police have a handle on this from now on?”

  Clémence shrugged. “Do they ever have a handle on anything? I should hope so. They have all the suspects. I hope they know what to do with them this time.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  C lémence’s workplace, the Damour flagship patisserie, was only down the block at 2 Place du Trocadéro.

  The patisserie was in a prime location with a great view of the Eiffel Tower. In the summer, patrons could sit outside and enjoy the view and people-watch, but since it was starting to get colder now, the terrace seats were nearly empty when Clémence came by in the morning.

  She entered through the patisserie section to check on the selection of their baked goods. The subtle but fresh smell of the pastries hit her as soon as she opened the door, which she knew was more than enticing for the long line of customers. It was early in the morning, but locals and tourists alike needed a piece from Damour to start the day.

  After greeting the patisserie employees, she crossed over to the salon de thé section, which was also full. Half of the tables were occupied by tourists, and the other half seated were wealthy locals who had so much money and time on their hands that they could spend half the day in a cafe reading the paper and their smartphones. Sometimes Clémence spotted celebrities in the pack, which would excite some of the staff.

  She continued to the back of the patisserie, where she worked with the other bakers and chefs. Everybody greeted her with enough cheer given the time of day.

  It was a big kitchen, with plenty always going on. While Clémence was an introvert who needed plenty of quiet time, she also thrived on working at Damour. She had grown up in a kitchen, and she felt comfortable and at home in one.

  Sebastien Soulier perked up when he saw her.

  “How was the fashion show?” he said. “Was the cake a hit? Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

  “Oh, I guess you didn’t watch the news?” Clémence said.

  “No. I drove back late last night.” Sebastien had been out of town to visit his grandparents in Lyon for their wedding anniversary. “And I woke up early as usual for this shift, so I’m not caught up on my Parisian news.” He frowned. “Did something happen?”

  Clémence sighed and told him all that had transpired the day before.

  Sebastien was surprised but not shocked. Like Clémence, he was used to hearing about Damour-related murders. His girlfriend had also been falsely accused of murder once.

  “It seems like there’s a murder around here at least once a month,” Sebastien remarked.

  “At least it’s not every week.”

  “You see the glass half full,” Sebastien teased. “Only you can put a positive spin on these kinds of things.”

  “I know, how very un-Parisian of me. In all honesty, I still find it very disturbing. Maybe I’m just always in the wrong places at the wrong times. Hopefully the police have arrested the right person by now.”

  Sebastien started flattening his dough to make buttery croissants. Clémence helped him cut the dough into triangles.

  “So whatever happened to the cake?” Sebastien asked.

  “The cake?”

  “You know, the opera cake we made for Marcus. The edible one.”

  “Oh, I guess with all the commotion, I forgot about it. Since Natalie was the one who put the cake away, she’d know. It’s in the building somewhere, probably a cafeteria or staff room where there would be a fridge.”

  “So it’s just going to rot there?” Sebastien sounded alarmed by the thought. “After all that work?”

  “I suppose,” Clémence said.

  “It took a lot of work to make that cake. It’s a masterpiece. We can’t just let it go to waste.”

  An opera cake had many fine, delicate layers—almond sponge cake, coffee filling, chocolate icing. Since it was also an oversized cake, it must’ve taken Sebastien and a couple of helpers almost two days to make it, after some trial and error.

  “That’s true,” Clémence said. “Maybe I should go fetch it. Give it to Marcus. Poor guy, he just wanted to throw a good fashion show. Are you free to go with me after your shift? We can take it to Marcus to cheer him up. I mean, there should be nothing wrong with the cake if it was untouched.”

  “Sure. You need someone to drive, right? We’ll take the Damour delivery van. It should be free after the guys get back.” Sebastien looked at her. “That’s funny that you’d ask me to go with you and not the delivery guys. Why is that?”

  “What do you mean?” Clémence said innocently.

  “You know what I mean. I’m a renowned, in-demand baker. You want me to do a menial thing such as fetch a cake…”

  “Hey, I’m an heiress to an international chain. I have to do grunt work all the time.”

  “Actually, you don’t. You get our guys to deliver the cake. You could’ve gotten them to get it this time, too, but you want to go, and with me, too. I think I know why.”

  Clémence crossed her arms. “And why is that? Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “You want to snoop around the crime scene some more, don’t you?”

  “Oh, why does everyone think I need to stick my nose into this case?”

  “Because the police do a horrible job, and you love solving these things. You want me to go because you trust me.”

  “I also thought Marcus would like to meet the baker.”

  Sebastien patted her on the back. “I’m sure that’s part of it, too, but admit it, you want to gather some more clues.”

  Clémence shook her head, then finally relented.

  “Okay, fine. I guess I don’t completely trust Cyril and his guys. Maybe we can talk to some of the staff at the building, too.”

  “Let’s do it. You know, I rarely get to help you on your cases, so this should be fun.”

  “I think you’ve been watching too much Sherlock.” Clémence chuckled. “It’s not so much fun as frustrating and dangerous.”

  “Isn’t the danger the fun part of it? It’s much more exciting than making croissants.”

  “I thought you loved making croissants. And macarons and cakes.”

  “I love it, but it doesn’t mean I’m always on the edge of my seat. Well, except when the milk overboils. Then I throw a fit.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The traffic at four in the afternoon on a Monday wasn’t as bad as during rush hour. They were able to cross the Seine and down to the 6th arrondissement in less than fifteen minutes. It was September, and tourism was starting to dwindle.

  Sebastien insisted on blasting eighties music through Bluetooth from his iPhone, and Clémence sang along to the Cure and the Smiths.

  Paris was a pretty sight at this time of year. The leaves were turning gold and burnt orange, falling to the ground in clusters. Clémence snapped a picture of the street on her phone, particularly a grocery shop the van stopped in front of at a stoplight that she thought looked very quaint. It looked like a set from a movie from the fifties. It was so impossible to take bad pictures in Paris that it was almost unfair.

  She posted the photo on Instagram. She’d started an account a couple of weeks ago to promote her art, but she found herself posting more photos of what she found interesting in daily life.

  Sebastien yawned. With his early hours as a baker and the lack of sleep the night before, he was starting to feel the consequences. They parked the lavender Damour van on a side street near the building so as not to associate the brand with the crime scene, since the van had the Damour logo boldly emblazoned on both sides.

  Sebastien insisted on stopping inside a cafe first, where he immediately went to a bar and ordered an espresso. It was a local cafe that was unpopular with tourists. Only Parisians over sixty seemed to be hanging around there.

  A small television was hanging from one corner of the room. As Sebastien knocked back his espresso, Clémence caught the news on TV.

  “Can I turn it up?” she asked a waiter.

  “
Sure.”

  The news anchor reported that police had arrested a runway model from the fashion show for stabbing Natalie Albert to death. The model was Karmen Meri, nineteen years old and from Estonia. She was a fresh face to the fashion scene. Little was known about her, but the news showed her glamorous comp card featuring the young model in strong poses wearing barely-there clothing and a bored expression.

  “No news yet on why they arrested the young model,” Clémence told Sebastien. “Just that they arrested her.” She turned the TV back down when the news segued to a story about politics.

  “So a nineteen-year-old model did it?” Sebastien asked.

  “That’s what they say.” Clémence shook her head.

  “Did you see this model at the show?”

  “Yes, I think I saw her, but I didn’t talk to her. There were more than a dozen other models who look just like her, so I don’t think I even noticed her backstage.”

  Sebastien paid for the espresso, and they headed out.

  “I don’t think she did it,” Clémence said, after they got out the door.

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t. My instincts say so.”

  “You’ve never been wrong, have you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been wrong,” Clémence said. “But when I think someone didn’t commit a crime, I’m usually right.”

  They turned the corner. The French Archives building was so beautiful that it could’ve been a museum. It was classically designed, with a large garden with perfectly hedged green plants. Clémence and Sebastien needed to get past a security guard at the gate to get in, and with the events of the previous day, it looked like the security had increased.

  “Bonjour,” Clémence said politely to a humorless guard.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  She explained what they were here for, making it sound as if she was simply a dessert caterer and not an heiress who had been invited to sit in the front row of the fashion show.

  The security guard took a hard look at Clémence, who was dressed down in a navy bomber jacket and dark jeans, and then at Sebastien, who still had his white baker’s uniform on underneath his black parka.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “Go check in with my colleague as to where to go.”

  “Merci, monsieur,” Clémence said brightly.

  They walked across the park. Had the fashion show been in the summer, Marcus surely would’ve held the show in the garden. Clémence could imagine it now. They would only have to set up the seats by either side of the path, on the grass, and the models could emerge from the front door of the building.

  The garden was massive. By the time they made it to the front of the building, Clémence regretted not asking at least one of Damour’s delivery guys to help them with the cake. Or they should’ve brought a cart. She had not thought the cake delivery aspect through very well.

  Two other security guards greeted them at the entrance. Clémence had to explain again what they were doing here. The security guard who looked to be in charge gave her the directions for where to find the staff break room on the second floor, where there was a fridge that possibly contained her cake.

  “Do you know which of the employees were yesterday during the Marcus Savin fashion show?” Clémence took the opportunity to ask.

  “Yesterday was Sunday. Most people don’t come to work on Sundays.”

  “I know, but some employees must’ve had to come in, if they were to allow a whole fashion crew and their guests here.”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Wasn’t working yesterday.”

  “I was,” the other security guard piped up. He looked young enough to be a high school senior. “I don’t usually work here, by the way. Usually there is little or no security here, but since there was a fashion show, I was hired. And of course, today, because, ahem, you know, the incident.”

  Clémence nodded. She was right about the increase in security. “So you know anyone who was working yesterday that you recognized today?”

  “Yes. A redhead. She’s beautiful.” The man had a dreamy look on his face. “She’s wearing a red business suit today and glasses. I didn’t get a chance to catch her name, though.”

  “Maybe if you’re brave enough, you’ll ask for it next time,” the first guard teased.

  “Merci.” Clémence said.

  Sebastien followed Clémence into the building. The place definitely had more of a work atmosphere than it had during the glamor of the fashion show the day before. Men and women in somber suits walked by with tense, pensive expressions. They didn’t seem to pay attention to Clémence and Sebastien at all.

  They climbed the grand marbled staircase to the second floor. Clémence found the staff room at the end of the hall. The door was closed, so she knocked.

  “Come in,” came a man’s voice. “It’s open.”

  She opened the door to find a middle-aged, bespectacled man eating a baguette sandwich at one of the tables.

  “Sorry for disturbing your lunch,” Clémence said. “We’re here to pick up a cake.”

  “Oh.” There was a slightly guilty expression on the man’s face.

  Sebastien went over to the fridge and opened it. He frowned. His face turned red, and he pressed his lips together.

  “What is it?” Clémence looked into the fridge.

  More than half the cake was already gone.

  “Who ate the cake?” Clémence asked the man.

  “Everybody,” the man said sheepishly.

  “But…it’s not yours,” Sebastien replied.

  “I came in during a coffee break this morning, and people were already eating the cake.”

  “It’s not right,” Sebastien said. “Someone else’s name is on the cake. Marcus Savin.”

  “Right.” The man couldn’t disagree with that. “They probably thought he wouldn’t want it after the incident.”

  “So you guys just ate it? Without telling us?”

  “We didn’t know you would come in today,” the man said. “But hey, don’t blame me. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “But you ate it, too.” Sebastien fumed.

  “Yeah. You can’t say no to a cake.”

  Sebastien was about to give him a piece of his mind when Clémence cut in. “Let’s all calm down.” She turned to the man. “Were you working here yesterday, Monsieur?”

  “On a Sunday? No. Of course not.”

  “Do you know who was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you happen to have a coworker here who has red hair and is wearing a red suit today?”

  “Oh. Veronique. Sure. She’s the manager of the family archives.”

  “Where is she?” Sebastien demanded.

  “She’s on the third floor. On the right wing. Her door has her name on it.”

  “Merci,” Clémence said.

  Sebastien threw his hands in the air as he followed her to the door. “What are we going to do?” He shot the man one last dirty look. “Marcus’s assistant was murdered. Now somebody eats his cake, too?”

  Clémence grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door. “Come on, Seb, let’s go.”

  When they were back in the hall, Sebastien was still fuming. “Can you believe these people? They just assumed that the cake was for the taking.”

  “Oh, let’s calm down. I know you worked really hard on that cake, but a cake is meant to be eaten. At least some people enjoyed it. I’m not sure Marcus would actually want to eat much of it anyhow, especially since he’s always on one diet or another.”

  “Fine.” Sebastien sighed. “I just don’t think it’s right. Morally.”

  “Stop pouting. At least we don’t have to carry the cake back across the garden and down the street. We didn’t even bring a cart. How dumb are we?”

  “That’s true. Fine. You’re right.”

  They went up to the third floor. It took them a while to find the right door after checking all the names on them.

  Clémence knocked.

&
nbsp; “Oui? Come in.”

  Clémence opened the door. When she saw the redheaded woman, she stepped in.

  Veronique was in her early forties. She was well kept in a classy tailored suit and black heels, and she reminded Clémence of a femme fatale in a film noir.

  Veronique took off her oversized black-rimmed glasses and looked at Clémence and Sebastien curiously.

  “May I help you?”

  “We’re from the Damour Patisserie,” Clémence said.

  “We came here to pick up our cake,” Sebastien added, “but it seems like a bunch of people have already gotten to it.”

  Clémence nudged him in the gut to tell him to can it.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Veronique said. “I was going to find out who to call to take the cake back after what happened to Natalie, but by the time I got to the kitchen this morning, some of my colleagues had already eaten the cake.”

  “Likely story,” Sebastien muttered under his breath.

  Clémence elbowed him in the ribs, harder this time. He stifled a groan.

  “When was the last time you saw Natalie?” Clémence asked.

  “Before the fashion show started. I was helping out, making sure that nobody was damaging anything, and then I took a seat in the audience when the show was ready to start.”

  “Did you help her hide the cake?”

  “Yes. I helped her roll the cake on a cart into the elevator and then into the fridge. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a smart, determined girl. I’m sorry to hear that life was cut so short.”

  “Did you work a lot with her yesterday?” Clémence asked.

  “I mostly worked with other members of Marcus’s team on the set to coordinate the space, to make sure everything was going smoothly.”

  “I see. Did you hear about the model’s arrest?”

  “Yes. I was quite shocked.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “That model looked like the sweetest girl,” Veronique said. “Why would she want to kill Natalie?”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Natalie?” Clémence said. “Did you think there was anyone who didn’t get along with her?”