Baguette Murder: Book 3 (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) Read online

  CHAPTER 7

  When Arthur came out of the office, his face was as pink as his shirt.

  “So what did he want?” Clémence asked with a sly smile.

  He quickly pressed the elevator button a few times with force.

  “He wanted to have dinner,” Arthur muttered.

  Clémence laughed. “He asked you out? I knew it! What did you say?”

  “I turned him down of course! Why would he think I’m gay?”

  Clémence raised an eyebrow and eyed the fuchsia sweater tied around his pink shirt.

  “Studies have proved that men who wear pink are more confident,” he said. “That guy must not know that only men of a certain class can pull off pink.”

  “Really, you should be flattered, a good looking guy like that?”

  Arthur snapped his head at her. “You think he’s good looking?”

  “He’s not bad. Too bad he swings for your team.”

  Arthur groaned. “When we go out for lunch, you’re paying.”

  “Hey, who said I agreed to go out to lunch with you?”

  “After this, you really owe me, Damour.”

  “You brought this on yourself.” Clémence laughed. “I didn’t even want you to come in the first place. But at least we got some information. Paolo doesn’t seem to be involved, don’t you think?”

  “I doubt it too.”

  “I have to admit that it did help for you to be there, since he was so friendly and open with you. I do wish I had spoken to Mary. We might have to come back.”

  “We?” Arthur exclaimed. “I’m never coming back here again.”

  “And you were so enthused about helping me with the case earlier.”

  “You’re on your own, doll.”

  When they got into the elevator alone together, again, Clémence started giggling at the whole situation. “You really made my day, Arthur.”

  “Laugh now, Damour, but you’ll pay at lunch.”

  “If you really want a free meal, I’m sure Paolo would be more than happy to take you.”

  Arthur pinched Clémence on the arm. “It’s true though. If I were gay, I’d attract the hottest men. How could you say no to lunch with a guy like me?”

  Clémence raised an eyebrow at him. She gave him a once-over and pretended to consider it. “Persistence pays off, Dubois. Fine, I’ll go to lunch with you. Just lunch.”

  She figured she’d give him a chance. When Arthur was uncomfortable, she thought he was kind of cute. Maybe she had a sadistic streak because she loved to see him squirm.

  “What kind of food do you like?” he asked. “Do you like sushi?”

  “Love it,” said Clémence.

  “Great. I’ll text you when I find a good restaurant.”

  Arthur went to the fourth floor for his meeting. When she took the Métro home, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. And she started to worry about their lunch date. Did she really agree to date Arthur? He claimed that he stopped serial dating, but could she really trust him? Could she really trust herself? If this was going to work, she would have to place some boundaries, some old fashioned rules. For one, she would not jump into bed with him. Not until he told her that he loved her, and she had ways of telling if a guy really meant it or not. She wanted to get to know him better first and that would take time. She doubted that he ever tried to get to know his former girlfriends before he slept with them. Did they even have anything in common? She knew nothing about macroeconomics and he didn’t know much about patisseries and painting except, like everybody else in France, he liked to eat pastries and go to museums every so often. They shared a few misadventures in crime solving—that seemed to be their common bond. When the murders stopped, then what?

  Clémence couldn’t believe she worked herself into this type of obsessive thinking again. It was just lunch. And she should really be focusing all her attention on Pierre’s murder. St. Clair seemed to be having a grip on the situation; he thought in the same vein as she had, questioning his co-workers first. She wondered what he thought of Mary, and what Mary had to say about Pierre.

  When she went home, Berenice was replaced by Rose’s mother Diane.

  “Bonjour Clémence.” Diane gave Clémence bisous on the cheeks.

  Diane smelled like Dior perfume, her signature scent. She looked like the older version of her daughter. Both women had big brown eyes and dirty blonde hair. Diane’s hair was cut in a cool shaggy do, but unfortunately she had gone the Californian housewife route of injecting her lips with fillers. Clémence thought she looked better before, but she didn’t want to judge. Some women needed to do something in order to feel attractive as they got older.

  “When I called Rose this morning, she told me everything, and I took the taxi straight over. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. I’m glad you’re here. Where is Berenice?”

  “She got called into work. Rose had a stomachache after lunch and she’s napping to sleep it off. I want her to stay in Romainville with me, but she seems adamant about staying in Paris for the time being. She says you’re helping the police investigate who really killed Pierre?”

  “I am,” Clémence confirmed, “but I don’t know if it’s the best thing for Rose to stay here. Maybe it would be better for her to go to Romainville so she can grieve.”

  “I know. I’ve told her, but she wouldn’t go, and I don’t want to leave her alone. I mean what a terrible ordeal. Pierre murdered? Good heavens.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” said Clémence. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I promise not to be a bother. In fact, I’ll cook for you girls. It doesn’t seem like you have much in the fridge at the moment.”

  Clémence laughed. “Usually I’ll just eat at my store, or grab something quick on my way home.”

  “Rose is the same. Girls of this generation these days. Too busy to cook, but I don’t blame ya. Being a working girl is something to be proud of.”

  “Thanks, and I do appreciate a good home cooked meal. I’ve missed eating some of your famous dishes. My favorite is the pâté aux pommes de terre.”

  “That’s everybody’s favorite,” she said. “And funny enough, it’s what I want to make for dinner. About Pierre, have you found anything so far?”

  Clémence told her about how she tried to talk to his coworker, but he was now off her suspect list.

  “Are you sure it’s still not possible that it’s him?” Diane asked. “The workplace is so competitive these days. People all backstabbing each other. It’s all fear from the financial crisis and people losing their jobs, I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody would want to get rid of a brilliant guy like Pierre from the competition.”

  “Enough to murder him in his home?”

  Diane sighed and shook her head. “Who’s to say what motivates people these days?”

  “Have you met Pierre?”

  “Sure. Rose brought him home on several occasions.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  Diane thought about it. Clémence could tell that she was trying to choose her words carefully. “He seemed a bit, well, quiet. I didn’t really see what Rose saw in him at first. He had no sense of humor, just like my ex-husband.” Diane gave a shrill laugh. Clémence knew that her divorce had been a sore point. Rose’s father had run off with a woman half his age whom he had met at work. They divorced six years ago and Diane kept the house in Romainville. “But he seems like a nice guy. Very ambitious. What about you? What did you think about him? No need to mince words.”

  “I don’t know. He did seem like a nice enough guy, but I agree that he was a bit humorless.”

  “You know how girls can be. They’re attracted to their fathers.”

  “Is that so?” Clémence said.

  “That’s what they say. Freud, at least. Rose’s father was just as humorless.”

  “And you believe that?”

 
“Maybe. Or at least some version of their fathers.”

  “I don’t know about that theory,” said Clémence. “My father’s the greatest guy I know, but I keep dating these arrogant jerks.”

  Diane laughed. “What, so you’re in love with a jerk right now?”

  Clémence squirmed. “I wouldn’t say in love. We hadn’t even gone on a date yet.”

  “Oh, but you will?”

  She nodded. “Yes, this week.”

  Clémence broke into a smile. It felt good to confide in someone. She was used to telling her mom about the guys she dated, but it would be strange to when it came to Arthur because her mom knew Arthur’s mom, and they were all neighbors. Clémence also didn’t want to discuss it with her friends yet since she used to tell them how much she despised Arthur.

  “To be young and in love,” Diane sighed dreamily.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Sebastien is acting so weird,” Berenice said. “He called me to fill in for him this afternoon, but he won’t tell me what he’s up to.”

  “Any guesses?” Clémence asked.

  They were in the kitchen, where Berenice was preparing croissants to be baked. Clémence had dropped in after receiving a text from Berenice informing her where she had disappeared off to.

  “I think it has something to do with where he goes off to on Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” Berenice said. “I’m tempted to follow him one of these days.”

  “He’ll probably never speak to you again if you do,” Clémence said.

  “Sure he would. We’re family. He knows what I’m capable of. But I’ll find out what he’s up to one of these days. The truth always comes out sooner or later. So what are you going to do next for Pierre’s case?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Clémence. “I was going to talk to the assistant, but Cyril beat me to it. I do want to talk to her, but I wonder if Cyril already found something. I hope he does.”

  “Rose was sobbing in her room after you left. She was in such pain, physically and emotionally. She couldn’t digest the aubergine pasta I made for lunch because of her distress. Thank god her mother came or I wouldn’t have known what to do. Whoever killed Pierre is still out there, and the trail is still hot. I wouldn’t leave it up to chance. And Cyril and his team? That’s chance.”

  “Now that you put it that way,” Clémence said slowly. “I should do more. Since Cyril’s grilling the co-workers, I can talk to Pierre’s friends. Pierre’s not very social, but if he’s been friends with these two guys forever, he probably confides in them more. They’re the only friends he has, apparently.”

  Berenice looked up. “Wait, but what if the killer is one of them?”

  “I suppose it could be.” Clémence thought about it a bit more. “Rose and I had left for Switzerland right after Rose got off work on Friday. She went home to get her stuff, so she saw him briefly to say goodbye. I waited in the taxi, so I didn’t see him at all. Maybe I should ask her what happened the last time she saw him. Were his friends there? Pierre hangs out with his friends often, so since she was gone, it’s likely that he would spend his Friday night hanging with them. Maybe one or both of them ended up sleeping over.”

  “That would explain why Pierre wasn’t surprised to have anyone in the house.”

  “Then either both guys were in on it, or only one.”

  “But if one did it, the other would know about it. It might’ve been an accident, you know?” Berenice said. “Maybe it happened when one of them was in a drunken stupor.”

  “It happened in the morning. They couldn’t have still been drunk.”

  “True,” said Berenice.

  “So Friday evening, Pierre bought some food, which included buying a baguette from Damour. He went out with his friends and maybe one of them crashed. The killer hit him on the head from behind with something hard, then fled. But why? I have to talk to these guys.”

  ***

  “Tu as faim?” Diane asked when Clémence returned. “Are you hungry?”

  Two pâtés aux pommes de terres were fresh out of the oven and two more were baking. “This looks and smells amazing.”

  The pâté aux pommes de terre was a potato pie. It was a specialty from Limousin, where Diane was from. With its delicious flaky pastry, crème fraîche and slices of potatoes, nobody made a pâté aux pommes de terre quite like Diane did.

  “Thanks.” Diane beamed. “I’ll serve it with a green salad for dinner. Will you be joining us?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I just came back to ask Rose something and I have to be on my way.”

  “What do you need? She still might not be feeling well. Is this something I can help you with?”

  “Perhaps. I need Adam and Theirry’s phone numbers. They’re Pierre’s best friends. I’m going to ask them some questions and I also wanted to ask Rose more about them.”

  Diane hesitated. “You think this is a good time to ask Rose, sweetie? You might upset her even more.”

  Clémence sighed. “I know it’s upsetting. She’s your daughter. But time is of the essence. Pierre’s killer is still out there. The sooner I find out, the sooner Rose will get closure.”

  “Don’t you think the police should be the ones doing the investigating? I heard you had some luck in the past, but criminal investigation is a dangerous field, chérie.”

  “I know it must look silly for a person like me to be trying to hunt down a murderer, but I can’t stand back and do nothing. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “And you think Adam and Thierry might have information?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

  Diane frowned, but she seemed to be considering her point of view. “Well, I suppose.”

  Suddenly, Rose came in. Her face was white and there were dark rings under her eyes. Her blond hair was a mess from sleeping. However, there was a small smile on her face.

  “Are you feeling better, Rose?” asked Diane.

  “Yes. I smelled the dish all the way from my room. I’ve really missed your cooking, mom.”

  She hugged Diane. Watching the loving mother and daughter, Clémence missed her own mother.

  “You can learn how to make this,” Diane said to Rose.

  “I’ve tried, but it never comes out as good as yours, so what’s the point?”

  “It’s a family recipe,” said Diane. “You have to learn it so you can pass it down to your kids someday.” She turned to Clémence. “Does your mom cook, Clémence? I know she’s a famous baker, but does she make all the meals at home?”

  “Sometimes,” said Clémence. “And my father likes to cook as well, at least when I was growing up. When the patisseries took off, they had less time to do that, but we would just get our chefs to make our meals. They were my parents’ recipes after all, and it was as good as homemade. We also ate at the salon de thé quite often, naturally. I couldn’t expect my parents to cook all the time since they work in the food industry for a living.”

  “So they do still get a sense of joy from cooking?” asked Diane.

  “They do and they are massive foodies. I work in the patisserie and I’m never tired of baked goods, you know? They’ll never get tired of cooking, at home or at work. It’s just a matter of time.”