Harper Lin - Patisserie 07 - Madeleine Murder Page 6

  Maybe she was wasting her time looking for ILILIL. It seemed like a hopeless plan to be walking around aimlessly. Paris was massive. The neighborhood was big, and who was to say that Nicole didn’t just hop in a cab and go to her secret meeting somewhere else?

  Clémence wasn’t exactly giving up, but she stopped looking so hard. Walking around Paris was her favorite thing to do anyway, and since she was already out and about, she might as well enjoy it.

  She stopped in the Pierre Hermé on Avenue de l’Opéra to check out their latest macarons. A few tourists were outside the small shop, smiling for pictures as they posed with their macaron boxes. Tourists often did the same in front of the Damour patisseries.

  Clémence chuckled and got in line. Sometimes she liked to see what the other patisseries were selling. Pierre Hermé was definitely their top competition when it came to macarons. Hermé was a family friend, and Clémence’s parents called him the Picasso of macarons. He was Sebastien’s hero.

  She bought just one macaron in their newest flavor, Coffee, Orange Blossom & Candied Orange. Back out on the street, she took the macaron out of the plastic bag and took a bite. How did Hermé do it? The strange coffee and orange combination worked well, while the individual flavors burst in her mouth. She went back in and bought three more of the same flavor. Sebastien and Berenice needed to try them. Sebastien needed some inspiration from the competition to step up his macaron game.

  Clémence considered what she should do next for the case since she was at a loss as to finding out what ILILIL was. She couldn’t talk to Sarah Briar until the next day, when Sophie had arranged for her to meet her on set. She wanted to talk to Sarah today, but her schedule was packed. Not only was she shooting on set, she also had interviews and even a quick photoshoot in the 2nd arrondissement, which could go into the evening. And there was also Cynthia Collins to worry about. Who knew when she was going to show up on set. Perhaps she could ask Sophie if she could go on set after all in case Cynthia was there.

  When she was about to whip out her phone to call Sophie, she noticed a store across the street. The sign was a mint green, with purple bubble letters forming the name Bébébé. She’d never heard of the store before.

  When the cars on Avenue de l’Opéra came to a stop, she crossed the street. The window display featured a high-tech stroller and a minimalistic and modern transparent plastic crib. The store seemed to sell outrageously expensive products for babies. Could the store be the one Nicole Blake visited? ILILIL. BÉBÉBÉ. The syllables matched. A quiver of excitement shot through her as she pushed open the door.

  “Bonjour,” a redheaded saleswoman greeted her brightly. “Welcome to Bébébé.”

  “Bonjour,” Clémence replied.

  A few patrons were walking around the store, all women. Two were noticeably expecting.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” the saleswoman asked.

  Clémence looked around. There were bath tubs, baby bottles, and towel sets. She’d never heard of the store before, but then again, she wasn’t pregnant.

  “Yes. I’m expecting.”

  She had blurted out the lie without thinking, and she immediately regretted it. What if the saleswoman recognized her as the Damour heiress? She’d be in the gossip blogs again.

  The saleswoman didn’t seem recognize Clémence, however. She seemed pleased to hear about the news.

  “Really? How far along are you?”

  “It’s pretty, uh, new,” Clémence answered. “Very new. And unexpected. But I’m pleased. I’m just, you know, browsing. How long has this store been here?”

  “About four years. It has always done well, but ever since Prince George was photographed in one of our beanie hats, the brand has really taken off. We sell online as well.”

  “I heard about this place because of Nicole Blake,” Clémence said. “She’d been in recently, hadn’t she?”

  The saleswomen looked conflicted about answering at first. “She was. I suppose word gets around. It’s unfortunate what happened to her.”

  “Yes. Terrible.”

  “What a shame, because she was expecting too.”

  Clémence stared at her. “Really? She was pregnant?”

  “I assumed. I was the one who’d helped her, but I didn’t press her, of course. She wanted to see the products for girls, so maybe she was expecting a girl, or at least hoping for one. I can recognize a mother’s glow, and she definitely had it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes, which makes the tragedy even more tragic. I was a big fan.”

  The saleswoman shook her head sadly.

  “Me too,” Clémence said.

  So that was what Nicole had over Zach. She’d been pregnant with his daughter, a child that he didn’t want.

  Chapter 11

  Clémence was tempted to buy some cute baby booties and a cashmere baby blanket from Bébébé, but she resisted since she wasn’t actually having a baby, and she didn’t want to freak Arthur out. They hadn’t even talked about marriage yet, and frankly she wasn’t sure she was even ready for the whole nine yards. She was quite in love with Arthur, but they’d only been going out for five months. There was no need to rush.

  However, she was starting to get warm fuzzy feelings whenever she passed babies on the street and children in playgrounds. Their cute chubby cheeks, their dimpled fingers, their infectious laughter. Sometimes Clémence did have the urge to have a baby. Of course, she wasn’t married yet. Not that a woman needed to be married to have a child, but it would be nice.

  Nicole Blake wasn’t married when she got pregnant. That is, if what the saleswoman said was true. Was the father Zach? And did he murder her because she was pregnant? Whether it was true or not, the whole situation was sad.

  Rachel must’ve not known about Nicole’s pregnancy. If she did, she would’ve mentioned it.

  Clémence had read all the recent tabloid articles about Nicole Blake, and there was a rumor that she’d dated a man named Elon Marchese. Elon was a French businessman who owned a few luxury fashion companies. He didn’t work in the film industry, which would’ve made it easier for them to keep the relationship a secret if he and Nicole had been an item. Their relationship was never confirmed officially. There was only speculation in the media that came from anonymous sources. Clémence didn’t know how reliable that was.

  The only proof she’d seen was a blurry photograph taken of them, presumably on a guest’s phone, at a charity event. They were only talking, but the source in the article claimed that they were hanging on to each other’s every word throughout the evening, and they got together because they bonded over their love of fashion. Elon was in his mid-forties. He was handsome and rich. Clémence could see the appeal. Whether the rumors were true or not was another story, but she made a mental note to investigate further into their relationship.

  She hailed a cab back to her apartment in the 16th arrondissement. Miffy jumped on her as soon as she entered the apartment.

  “I missed you too, girl.” Clémence kissed her then went into the kitchen to pour dog food in her dish.

  She hadn’t heard from Cyril about the autopsies, but it wasn’t as if he’d always been forthcoming with information. He only agreed to work with her when he was stumped, and he was stumped often. However, his ego was big, so he wouldn’t ask for help. He was probably all too happy when Clémence helped, even if he would never admit it in a million years.

  “Cyril,” she said when he picked up. “What’s the news?”

  She could practically hear him roll his eyes on the other line. He sighed and resigned himself to telling her. “Rachel was strangled, and not by the belt around her neck. There were bruises on her neck, and in other areas on her body.”

  “So I was right,” Clémence said. “She was murdered.”

  “Yes, fine,” he said with exasperation. “She was. We did find traces of DNA around the room, but they could be from a number of people. The maids, guests she’d invited into the hous
e, or even past guests. We’re in the middle of sorting that out right now.”

  “What about Nicole Blake?” Clémence said.

  “What about her? I already told you the results. Her head had injuries, but she could’ve hit her head on rocks and such in the river.”

  “You didn’t do a full autopsy, did you? I mean, did you know that she was pregnant?”

  Clémence wasn’t completely sure, but she had to sound certain.

  “Pregnant?” Cyril exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”

  “Do the autopsy and make sure. Call me back to confirm once you’ve done so.”

  She hung up. Cyril was probably fuming, but no doubt he’d take her tip and do as she said. He had no choice because he was stumped.

  She noticed that she’d received a text message from Ben asking her if he could come down to her place to do his laundry. The apartment that Clémence was living in actually belonged to her parents. They were in Asia for a few months, overseeing the operations of their new patisseries in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now Singapore.

  They’d rented their chambre de bonne to Ben. Ever since Clémence had introduced him to Berenice, they’d been a couple. Clémence had also become close friends with Ben, especially since he came over to do his laundry every week.

  From his room on the top floor, he could see into Clémence’s kitchen, so he’d probably seen that she was home. After she texted back that he could, he knocked on the kitchen door in no time.

  “Coucou,” Clémence greeted him.

  Lanky, dark-haired, pale-skinned Ben was always dressed in black. He was an aspiring novelist and Clémence assumed that was his writer’s uniform.

  “How are you?” He grinned. There was a mischievous quality about him when he smiled.

  “Oh, not much, just starting to make a late lunch. You hungry?”

  “I just ate, thanks.” He’d dragged in his linen laundry bag, and he started using the washing machine in the kitchen.

  Clémence got along with Ben because they were both artists at heart. Ben hung out with a lot of artists, writers, and musicians in Paris, and he was always pushing her to finish her paintings so she could put on a show.

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” Clémence said. “No, I haven’t finished my paintings yet.”

  “Actually, I was going to ask how the murder case is going.”

  “Oh, I guess Berenice told you about that?”

  He nodded as he added detergent to the slot in the washing machine. “I’m a big fan of Nicole Blake. She kicked ass in Red Sniper.”

  “I didn’t see that,” Clémence said. “I forgot that she was in an action film. She was quite versatile, wasn’t she?”

  “She could play anything. Any leads on who killed her?”

  “A few.” Clémence gave him the rundown, and then she showed him Nicole’s red agenda and explained how certain events were coded to protect her privacy.

  “I didn’t know she was so private,” Ben said. “But I suppose she does have that aura of mystery about her that’s so captivating on screen. Did you break the code?”

  “I was about to start working on it.” She continued to explain that she’d found out that Nicole had been in the baby store Bébébé. In the agenda, it had been coded as ILILIL. “As soon as I figure out how to decode it, I can decode the others.”

  “I bet it’s a cipher,” Ben said. “I use ciphers in the mystery novel I’m working on. Wait here.”

  He dashed upstairs. When he came back to the kitchen, he held out a round piece of paper.

  Clémence took it. “This is the cipher?”

  “Yup. It’s easy to use.”

  It was basically two sets of alphabets, one lining around the bigger wheel and the other around the smaller one. She could spin the smaller wheel around for the letters to line up. She lined the “I” from ILILIL up with the “B” from Bébébé. It worked. The “L” lined up with “E.”

  She beamed at Ben. “This is it. This is the combination! Now I can crack OVUJOV. This is nerve-racking, because it could reveal the killer.”

  “This is so exciting.” Ben leaned in over her shoulder as she wrote down the letters as she decoded them.

  “H-O-N-C-H-O.” Clémence frowned. “Honcho? Who or what could that be?”

  “Maybe it’s a nickname for someone.”

  “Another code?” Clémence sighed. “Honcho…it does sound male.”

  “You have someone in mind, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s Zach Brant. There was something between him and Nicole. I couldn’t tell whether it was love or hate. Now I find out Nicole was pregnant when she died. Maybe it was his child, and he killed her.”

  “I never liked Zach Brant,” Ben said. “Something about his face. He’s too good looking. And his acting is total crap. Was he going out with Nicole? I did hear they didn’t get along.”

  “Apparently they didn’t, but they made a convincing couple on screen. Their scenes together were supposed to be electric. When I interrogated Zach, he said that Nicole tried to seduce him and he rejected her.”

  “Who doesn’t like Nicole Blake?”

  “That’s what I said. But he hated her personality. He basically said she was manipulative and fake. Even Rachel said this was true about her.”

  “So Nicole Blake’s not perfect. Even if she was pregnant with his child, would it be so bad for him? His star power would rise.”

  “Zach is only twenty-five. I doubt he’d want to be a father at such a young age, especially when he’s got the world at his feet. Maybe he felt as if he was tricked into sleeping with her. Knowing her, she might’ve threatened him with going public, and he made a rash decision and killed her to silence her. I mean, with that temper of his, it’s plausible.”

  “Maybe,” Ben said, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Lots of men get women pregnant accidentally. In this case, however, he had more to gain if Nicole was pregnant. It’s not like he would have to marry her. Even if he did, they would’ve been a power couple; their careers would’ve skyrocketed.”

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. But there’s also this Elon guy.” Clémence told Ben about Nicole’s other rumored boyfriend. “What if Nicole was really pregnant with Elon’s baby, and Zach was jealous? What if he was really in love with her? He was very passionate when he spoke about Nicole. Love could easily cross over to hate.”

  “Maybe,” Ben said.

  Clémence stood up and paced. “So Zach might’ve killed her because she was having Elon’s baby. Or Elon might’ve killed Nicole because she was having Zach’s baby.”

  Chapter 12

  Carolyn, Damour’s head manager, had gone home sick. Celine called Clémence to come in because they needed help at the salon de thé. They were dealing well with the heavy traffic at the restaurant until a customer became upset about a lost reservation and demanded to see a manager. Since Damour was less than a five-minute walk from her apartment, Clémence agreed to come in and sort it out.

  After talking to the irate man, she could tell that he was lying and never made a reservation in the first place. Bad liars usually had a tell, and he blinked too much when he was insistent on his story that he’d made the reservation five days ago. Clémence didn’t want to reward liars, but luckily for him, a table opened up by the time he’d finished ranting, and Clémence showed him and his wife to their seats. She would keep a closer eye on this couple in the future.

  Since she was already at Damour, she decided to check in the kitchen. When she entered, the sweet aromas hit her. She never got tired of the smell of a kitchen, especially one that was as big and busy as the one at Damour. The energy and rhythm of her bakers and chefs never failed to liven her up. She went to her usual spot at Berenice and Sebastien’s table. A tray of lavender madeleines had just come out of the oven. Sebastien was mixing the lemon glaze to dip them in, but Clémence couldn’t help trying one. It was a new flavor that she hadn’t tried after all.

  “Delish,” Clémence said.


  The madeleines recalled what Rachel said about how much Nicole Blake loved Damour madeleines. She would’ve loved the lavender ones.

  “What happened to Carolyn anyway?” Clémence asked.

  “I don’t know,” Berenice answered. “She’d been nauseous all morning. It might be food poisoning, since she dined out with her husband at some new restaurant last night.”

  “I hope she’s alright.”

  Clémence shot Carolyn a text, asking how she was.

  “Clémence, are we still on to work on the new éclair flavors for our winter collection? I have some ideas.”

  “Oh, sorry, Sebastien. I know I said I would, but I have to do something tomorrow.”

  “Clémence is in the middle of a murder case, remember?” Berenice said. “You know how she gets when she’s investigating.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot,” Sebastien said sheepishly. “How’s that going?”

  Before she could answer, Clémence got a call on her cell phone. It was her friend, fashion designer Marcus Savin.

  “Clémence, ma belle,” the top designer greeted her in his jovial voice when she answered.

  “Ça va, Marcus? Are you all ready for fashion week?”

  “I live for fashion week in Paris,” Marcus said. “You’ll be getting an invite to my show soon, like I promised. Say you’ll be there?”

  “Of course I will.” As long as she solved this murder case by then, that was.

  “Great. I have you seated in the front row. Sophie and Madeleine Seydoux are both walking in my show. Are you sure you don’t want to walk too?”

  “Non, Marcus. I really wouldn’t be good on the runway. I’d probably fall, and people will probably put that up on YouTube. Plus, I’m too short to be a model.”

  “Come on, Clémence. Sophie is only five-foot-seven.”

  “Kate Moss is also five-seven. I’m only five-four. Trust me, I’m better behind the camera.”

  Marcus sighed. “I figured you’d say that, but you can’t blame a poor designer for trying. So here’s the thing. You know how my ready-to-wear collection is inspired by Damour’s desserts?”