Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) Read online

  “Evidence of her leaving the scene? People knew she was leaving because she had another high-paying modelling job to go to. I don’t think that’s right, but other people seemed to think it was a perfectly acceptable excuse to leave. I figured the police would follow up with her, because I told them that she’d left.”

  “I don’t know whether they spoke to her or not, but—” She reached into her Gucci purse, which had been hanging from the back of her chair, and took out a DSLR camera. “Look.” She turned on the camera and showed Clémence the photos she had taken of Gabrielle.

  The leggy supermodel had her sunglasses on, making her way to the exit.

  Lucie zoomed in on her boots. “Do you recognize those boots?”

  Clémence looked closely at the camel-colored boots.

  “No. Are they Styra? They don’t look like they’re Styra.” Clémence had perused the brand’s website to familiarize herself with their line.

  Lucie nodded. “This style is not even out yet. The designers probably sent her the boots from their new line.”

  “So she was definitely wearing Styras. Do the police know about this?”

  “Not yet,” Lucie said. “I thought I’d come to you first. After being questioned by them, I realized that they don’t know the first thing about solving these things. I was talking to Madeleine Seydoux, since I was following up on doing a story on her closet, and she told me to come to you. After all, I did recall reading months ago about your involvement in helping her sister Sophie escape her kidnapping. Madeleine did say you were more astute with solving cases than the police. I figured you were the right person to contact.”

  Clémence didn’t confirm or deny that. She didn’t know if she necessarily wanted to get involved in yet another messy murder case. What was it with this city? But of course she wanted to help, especially if it meant clearing the name of an innocent person.

  “I do have the advantage of getting access to the people involved.”

  “Right,” Lucie said. “Since you’re in with the fashion crowd, maybe you can find out more about Gabrielle’s whereabouts. I’m just a fashion blogger. No one’s taking me all that seriously. I couldn’t even get backstage. Of course, I will help any way that I can.”

  Lucie handed Clémence her business card. It had a whimsical logo of her site, her email, and a phone number.

  “Thanks.” Clémence smiled.

  “You have great style, by the way,” Lucie said. “After this crazy mess is over, we should do a fashion story on you. That is, if you’re interested.”

  “My style is very basic,” Clémence said modestly. “That wouldn’t be a very interesting post. I dress like all the other Parisian girls. It’s almost like a no-style style.”

  “Oh, I think you’re too modest. Style is about looking good and being comfortable. A lot of my readers can relate to that.”

  Clémence realized she should give Lucie her card as well. “Wait right here.”

  She went inside Carolyn’s office and looked through a drawer holding some business cards. She rarely needed to give out her own business card.

  Clémence went back to hand Lucie a Damour card with her name on it. “You can also contact me if you have more information.”

  “Sure.” Lucie smiled. “And I’ll contact you about the fashion story as well?”

  “Okay. Why not?”

  “Talk to you soon. Cute tea salon, by the way.”

  Lucie walked away to pay for her coffee at the cashier’s counter.

  Clémence went into the kitchen, her thinking space, turning the new information Lucie had given her over in her head.

  The real investigation was about to begin.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gabrielle. What did Clémence know about Gabrielle? Aside from the fact that she was a supermodel engaged to a billionaire media mogul, not a whole lot.

  Gabrielle was like a statue. She wasn’t someone you were supposed to talk to. Backstage at the Savin show, Gabrielle had been quiet. Others, including Clémence, saw her as intimidating. Her beauty was otherworldly.

  It was true that her schedule was packed. Gabrielle worked nonstop. Marcus had even mentioned that he’d been lucky to book Gabrielle to close his show. To stay on top, Gabrielle had to manage her time well. Maybe she managed it a little too well.

  Clémence had noticed when she’d been backstage that Gabrielle would only schmooze with the important people: the famous designer, the famous makeup artist, and some members of the press. Was that how she had gotten to the top?

  In the kitchen, Clémence got out her iPad from her purse and started to read about Gabrielle online.

  She’d been born in the suburbs of Paris and was discovered by a scout when she went to a concert. She’d been eighteen, and after struggling with modelling for a year in Tokyo and other cities in Asia, she went to New York and landed a campaign with Prada. And the rest was history. Now she was twenty-eight and still on top.

  What could she possibly have gained by murdering someone? Her life sounded great—traveling around the world, working only the best shows and landing million-dollar contracts. She was rich, and even if her career stalled, she wouldn’t need to worry because she’d be married to a billionaire.

  Karmen could still be guilty, but Clémence needed to check out Gabrielle’s angle as well. She was the only other suspect. The facts that she was wearing Styra shoes and was seen coming out of the show in a hurry were suspicious.

  Clémence wondered if Gabrielle still had blood on the bottoms of her boots. Had she had time to wipe any traces of evidence from her clothes and shoes? Was that why she’d been in a rush to leave? Was that why she was peeved when Lucie took her picture?

  In any case, she needed to find out more about Gabrielle.

  “I know that look.”

  Clémence looked up and saw Berenice, another baker and Sebastien’s sister, staring at her curiously.

  “What look?” Clémence asked.

  “That look you have when you’re concentrating on a case,” Berenice teased. “Sebastien told me about your trip to the Archives building. You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I just got new information. Gabrielle might have something to do with this.”

  “Gabrielle, the supermodel?” Berenice looked surprised. “I was shocked when they arrested a regular model, but a supermodel? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I have to call Madeleine to find out.”

  She excused herself and went home. There was little privacy at Damour, and whenever she was trying to solve a murder case, she couldn’t think about baking anyway. She wanted to go home, take out her notebook, and try to lay out all the facts clearly on paper.

  Miffy was surprised to see her back at the house so early. She was chewing on a rubber bone, but at the sight of Clémence, she dropped it and ran to her.

  “Did you miss me, girl?” Clémence cooed at her adorable dog. She always thought that if she never had children, she would be just as happy with Miffy to take care of.

  Miffy licked her cheek as a sign of affection.

  “Come on, girl.” She led the way into the kitchen, where she kept her notebook filed with some cookbooks inside an armoire.

  “What do we know so far?” she wondered out loud.

  She started writing all the facts she knew about Natalie, then Karmen and Gabrielle. She also included pages for Lucie and the other model, Julia.

  “Plus the makeup artist,” Clémence said. “Can’t forget about her. Chances are she was working backstage the whole time. The curious thing about this is that everyone backstage was so busy, too busy to notice the murder, and the murder happened quickly. Does this mean that it was planned? Did someone just slip in, kill Natalie, and slip out without anyone noticing? And why at a fashion show?”

  She looked down at Miffy at her feet, who only answered by wagging her tail.

  “Okay, let’s just say it was Gabrielle. She had just come off the runway. She changes by going to th
e restrooms, so no one can take a photo of a top model naked. On her way back, she is accosted by Natalie. So Gabrielle goes into the office alone with Natalie. They argue. She finds the knife and kills her? I suppose that’s plausible, in the craziest way.”

  Clémence sighed. Who knew what went on inside the heads of people these days? What was the motive for killing someone? Usually it was to hide something. Was it Karmen, who wanted to hide her mob connection? Or was it Gabrielle, who wanted to hide—what was it she wanted to hide? Her life was too perfect.

  Clémence took her cell phone from her bag and called Madeleine.

  “llo?” the socialite answered.

  “Hey, it’s Clémence.”

  “Clémence,” Madeleine greeted her. “Did that blogger, Lucie, get in touch with you?”

  “Yes. In fact, she stopped by my store today.” Clémence filled her in. “Do you know Lucie well?”

  “Not well, but I’ve met her a couple of times at fashion events. She seemed nice, and I checked out her blog. It’s pretty good, and I like her style, so I agreed to do a story about my closet with her. She said she felt that Karmen’s arrest was strange, so I suggested she get in touch with you. Did you guys find out something?”

  “Well, we came to the conclusion that Gabrielle might be the killer.”

  Madeleine gasped. “Gabrielle? No way!”

  “Yes. So I’m calling to see what you know about her. Are you friends with her?”

  “Friends? I wouldn’t say that. I’m not famous enough to be her friend. I’ve maybe exchanged two words with her.”

  “So you think she’s quite frosty?”

  “Maybe. Mostly, I think she’s busy. She doesn’t seem to have time to socialize, always running from place to place, and I also get the impression that she doesn’t open up easily—trust easily, I suppose.”

  “But she does seem to have a lot of friends in high places.”

  “In high places, precisely. All the major magazines’ editors, photographers, and other A-list celebrities love her.”

  “Why do you think that is? Is she that charming?”

  “Oh, maybe. She never gives me the time of day, so I wouldn’t know. When she comes into the room and sees no one worth talking to, she keeps to herself.”

  “Do you know anyone who is a good friend of hers? I want to talk to her. I would like to talk to Gabrielle directly, too, but I want to know the best way to approach this.”

  “We’re represented by the same modelling agency,” Madeleine said. “Not the same agent, but I know who her agent is.”

  “Really? Can you get me an appointment?”

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  C lémence braced herself against the wind. Her scarf unraveled around her neck and threatened to fly away. She reached out and grabbed one end and looped it back twice around her neck.

  The NEXX Modelling agency was in the 8th arrondissement, and as she approached the building, she went over what she would say to the agent in her head.

  Somebody buzzed her in at the front door, and she pushed through the heavy red door. It led to a small garden. Following Madeleine’s texted directions, she walked to the back, toward a small blue door on the right side.

  She passed by a young man who was tall, pale, handsome in a feminine way, smiling for photos as someone snapped away behind a big camera. He was probably a new male model recruit with nothing in his portfolio so far. The scene amused Clémence. To see an amateur model posing nervously and awkwardly for the camera was endearing.

  Clémence pushed through the door and walked up to the second floor. When she went inside to the waiting room, three young women were already sitting on the cream leather sofas, leafing through magazines or glued to their smartphones.

  After Clémence sat down, two more young women came in through the door, all very young but very tall, with cheekbones that were sharper than knives.

  She supposed they were here to land modelling agents. And why was Clémence here? To land a murderer.

  The other girls, the ones who weren’t texting like crazy, sized Clémence up. It didn’t seem to take them long to realize that Clémence was no competition, and they went back to looking at their phones and magazines.

  At five foot four, Clémence was not built for this industry. She also ate too many sweets to fit into sample sizes, not to mention that she was pushing thirty, the age of retirement for many models.

  She checked in with the receptionist, telling her that she had an appointment with Alice Ambrosia. Some of the young girls looked up at Clémence at the sound of the name. Alice was a top agent in the industry. If a model signed with her, she was almost guaranteed major contracts.

  As Clémence sat back down, the girls seemed to be glaring at her. They were probably curious why Alice Ambrosia would possibly want to see her.

  One of the girls was scrutinizing her more than the others, a blonde with light-blue eyes, thin lips, and striking cheekbones, who took off her earbuds when Clémence sat opposite her.

  “Hey, are you…?” She trailed off, as if trying to recall Clémence’s name.

  The other girls looked between the blonde and Clémence, as if wanting to say “Who? Is she someone important?”

  Clémence gave no answer. Maybe the girl had seen her on a gossip blog or one fashion site or another, but she wasn’t going to let on. She blinked back at her innocently, oblivious to her line of questioning.

  “You look familiar,” the model finally said.

  “So do you,” Clémence said. “You look like Claudia Schiffer.”

  “Who?”

  “Claudia Schiffer. You know who that is?”

  “No,” she replied.

  Clémence supposed she was too young to know who the supermodel was.

  “Maybe you can Google her,” she suggested lightly. It was all young people had to do nowadays to find out anything.

  Clémence realized how old she felt sitting next to these young models. Although it felt like only yesterday that she had been eighteen herself and starting university, to these girls, she was probably ancient. After all, she hadn’t grown up with search engines and social media. She remembered her family using encyclopedias to get information, or they had to go to the library. It was strange how much the world had advanced, technologically, in the past decade. There was no privacy anymore.

  Privacy. How could a murder possibly be private at a fashion show? There were cameras everywhere. People with camera phones in the audience filmed everything. Yet five minutes backstage was all someone needed to kill Natalie. How? And why?

  “Clémence?” the receptionist called. “Alice is ready to see you now.”

  “Clémence Damour,” the model exclaimed. “Oh!”

  Clémence smiled at her as she got up. The other girls were tittering amongst themselves.

  She followed the receptionist’s instructions to go down the hall to the last room on the right.

  “Come in,” Alice instructed after Clémence knocked on the door.

  “Bonjour,” Clémence said.

  Alice was in her fifties. She wore a chic burgundy skirt and a black-and-white triangle-patterned blouse. Her hair was a sleek salt-and-pepper bob that curled into her chin. She smiled with burgundy lips that matched her skirt.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Clémence closed the door and sat down, feeling awkward all of a sudden in the office. The walls were black, but much of the furniture and decor was gold. It was definitely dramatically decorated.

  She felt like a show dog about to be judged, in the same way that the flurry of paparazzi had made her feel in the summer, when she had been the target of tabloid fodder after Sophie’s kidnapping.

  She introduced herself, and Alice cut her off.

  “I know who you are.” Alice’s voice was hard but her smile evened out the harshness. “You’re a natural.”

  “I’m sorry? A natural what?”

  “Model, of course. I saw you in the papers
wearing the Marcus Savin dress that made all the fashion magazines.”

  Alice was referring to the time she had been photographed leaving the police station.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in modelling until now,” Alice continued. “Do you have a portfolio?”

  “Er, no.” Clémence was confused. What exactly had Madeleine told the agent? “Did Madeleine tell you I was here about modelling?”

  “Yes. Well, she said you wanted to speak to me. I naturally assumed. What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “Well, I know that you are Gabrielle’s agent, and I wanted to talk to you about possibly doing a project with her.”

  “Oh?” Alice was intrigued. “What kind of project?”

  “As you may know, my family owns the Damour patisseries.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I know.” Alice waved the information away, as if she was insulted to be told something so obvious.

  “One of my new marketing ideas is to collaborate with high-profile tastemakers on new macaron flavors. I thought it would be interesting if we could collaborate with Gabrielle on developing her own macaron flavors. As you know, we’ve had a successful collaboration with the Marcus Savin label recently. The limited-edition macarons and cakes sold very well. We figured that our next collaboration would be with a model, since we can also shoot a series of ads to be placed on billboards and in magazines.”

  Alice slowly nodded, warming up to the idea. “That’s not bad. It’s an interesting proposition. Gabrielle has worked with practically everyone in fashion, but a luxury patisserie chain would be the first. It’s most unexpected, and she gets to put her personal stamp on a dessert…yes, I think she would really like the idea.”

  “Great,” Clémence chirped. “Can you tell me more about Gabrielle? What her personality is like, what she does in her spare time?”

  “Gabrielle is a busy woman. In fact, when she’s not working, she’s planning her wedding—maybe the macarons can be wedding themed?”

  “That could be something to consider,” Clémence said. That was, if this collaboration were actually to happen, which it wasn’t. She wasn’t about to work with a murderer if she could help it.