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

“I didn’t say you could tutoyer me,” Clémence shot back, referring to the informal way of addressing one another in the French language. “That’s presumptuous of you.”

  “If you’re comfortable enough to barge into my office, I think I have the right to call you ‘tu’.”

  “But I’m young enough to be your daughter,” she joked.

  “Ha.” Cyril was not amused. “You’re trying to distract me. Out with it. It’s late and I want to get home.”

  “Long day? Who’ve you’ve been chasing?”

  “Nice try, Damour.”

  “Let me guess. Is it Mary, the assistant?”

  Cyril’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw you question her.”

  “You’ve been following me?

  “Please. I was there to question someone from the office as well. In fact, I was there first. Now what do you have on Mary anyway? She seems like a nice gal.”

  Clémence was bluffing. She didn’t know anything about Mary, but the more argumentative she was, the more likely Cyril would want to show off and prove her wrong. He didn’t fall for it this time however.

  “Didn’t you say you had something to tell me? Out with it!”

  “Fine.” Clémence told him about Adam and how someone had called Pierre on Friday, which caused him to leave his friends early. “Do you have Pierre’s phone and computer? Did you find anything on it?”

  “Yes.” St. Clair sighed. “If you must know, we did follow up on one questionable call that showed up on his log. Other than that, this guy has no life outside of work and the same handful of people in his life.”

  “Well?” Clémence asked eagerly. “Who was this phone call from?”

  “We tried to trace it, but it only went to a phone booth out of St. Lazare station.”

  “A phone booth? I didn’t know there were any left in Paris.”

  “Exactly. It looks like whoever it was wanted to cover their tracks.”

  “Did you check the security cameras?”

  “Yes. It was a woman wearing a big hat that obscured her face. She also wore sunglasses and gloves. Plus she was wearing a hideous dark overcoat that swallowed her shape. We couldn’t tell who it was.”

  “But you could tell that this person was a woman,” Clémence exclaimed. “This fits in with my theory that the killer was someone he was seeing on the side. The other woman.”

  “Hardly. There’s no real evidence of that. This guy doesn’t text, or even receives any texts from any women aside from Rose and his mother. We have reason to believe that it’s Mary, the assistant. She doesn’t have an alibi for Saturday, and on her work computer, we’ve found dozens of emails where she expresses hate for Pierre, and once, a threat to murder him.”

  “I did hear that he was a slave driver. Plenty of people are not crazy about him at F.R.Fraser, but would it really mean that this girl would kill him?”

  “A regular employee wouldn’t write emails saying she wants to choke their boss to death.”

  “Yeah, but a killer wouldn’t either. Sometimes employees need to vent.”

  “Damour, this is out of your league. It’s her. Mary doesn’t have an alibi for Friday night or Saturday morning. Said she was home alone, reading. She lives alone. There’s no proof of her being anywhere, and she saw no one. Her only excuse was that she was so exhausted from the work week that she simply went home on Friday night and slept for twelve hours, then proceeded to spend all of Saturday morning and afternoon at home. We’re searching her house for further evidence and Pierre’s DNA. We’re questioning people in connection with her and Pierre. I’m sure we’ll build a case against her to arrest her soon. The truth will come out.”

  “If you say so,” said Clémence doubtfully.

  “We’ve got this, Damour. Your services are not needed. I always told you to leave the professionals to handle it. You got lucky with the two other cases. But that was all it was, luck. Your best use now is to be a pillow for your friend to cry on. Now get out of here, Damour. I don’t want to see your face in here again. ”

  Clémence stood up. She was glad that somebody was being held accountable. Mary did sound like the logical choice. Mary openly hated Pierre, made death threats, and she was quite possibly the woman in the video footage who called Pierre and lured him somewhere. But what could she have said to make Pierre leave a bar on a Friday night? It didn’t make complete sense yet.

  CHAPTER 11

  On Tuesday morning, Clémence joined Diane and Rose for breakfast. She would have suggested treating them to breakfast at Damour’s salon de thé, but she was afraid that Rose would be triggered by Damour’s association with Pierre’s death. Clémence felt horrible that Rose might never want to eat at Damour again.

  Rose looked better that morning. Aside from her eyes, which were still red and a little swollen from crying, her hair was styled into a sophisticated bun, she wore a bit of makeup, and she was dressed in a chic navy cashmere sweater and gray cigarette pants, and not the pajamas that she’d refused to change out of yesterday. At least she was making an effort to pull herself together.

  “Why don’t you tell Rose what you told me last night?” Diane said to Clémence.

  Rose jerked her head to Clémence. “What? Do the police have a lead?”

  Clémence nodded. “Cyril is convinced it’s Mary.” She explained why.

  “Well, what do you think?” Rose looked at Clémence closely.

  Although something didn’t feel right with Cyril’s conclusion, it wasn’t as if Clémence had ideas of her own. It could’ve been her ego talking; she didn’t want Cyril to be right on some level because they’d been sparring for so long. She also had not met Mary, so who was she to say? Could Cyril actually be right for once?

  “I don’t know,” Clémence said. “It could be her. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure either,” said Rose. “I met Mary very briefly once when I visited Pierre at the office. She was reasonably helpful to me. Pierre detested her though, but would she detest him back to the point where she would murder him?”

  Clémence did not want to tell her what Adam had told her. She thought about it last night, and it could’ve been a possibility that Mary had an affair with Pierre, and perhaps her heart had been broken if he had broken it off.

  “Clémence told me that this girl has no alibi for Friday night or Saturday,” said Diane. “Sounds pretty suspicious to me. I’m sure that once they prove it’s her, you’ll begin to put this whole episode behind you, Rose.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible,” Rose said. “Pierre died in daddy’s apartment. I saw his body. I can’t go back there again.”

  “I’m sure we can convince your father to sell the apartment. I’ve always hated that apartment. He used to take that bimbo there, the woman he left me for.” Diane clutched her napkin hard. She turned to Clémence. “Did you know that he got the apartment when we were married and I didn’t know about it? They could’ve had their secret meetings in hotels, but no, he needed an apartment. Who knows how long it would’ve gone on if I hadn’t caught them in the act?”

  Rose put a hand on Diane’s. “I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  Clémence fell silent. It was awkward whenever Diane’s bitterness about her divorce flared up. She used to be such a happy, vibrant woman. Clémence hoped that she could get over it, but it seemed doubtful as it had been years now. Maybe she and Rose could do something nice for her, like take her back to the hotel spa in Zurich.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it, girls.” Diane said. “Finish up your breakfast.”

  Clémence didn’t have much of an appetite. She hoped that she was wrong about Pierre cheating on her. She’d already witnessed how infidelity had wrecked her mother. Rose would be incredibly hurt to find out that the only man she’d ever loved had been lying and cheating on her.

  “Clémence.” Diane stuck her head back into the kitchen with a conspiratorial grin on her face. “The
re’s a gentleman friend here for you.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow at Clémence.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Clémence.

  “You didn’t tell me that this Arthur was so cute,” Diane whispered to her in the hall. “I invited him in. He’s in the salon.”

  Clémence turned red. She really hoped that he didn’t hear what Diane just said. The walls in the apartment were so thin. Through the glass door to the salon, she saw his profile. Clean shaven and wearing an azure blue shirt and black dress pants, he looked as gorgeous as ever. When she came in, he stood up.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” said Diane. Her gaze lingered on Arthur before she retreated back into the kitchen.

  Clémence closed the salon door, not that it would help much. Diane and Rose could could probably hear them from the kitchen if they left the door open, which she was sure Diane would do.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Arthur.

  “Nice to see you too,” he said. “I got your text, and I texted you back. I even called you, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “Oh. I’ve been busy.”

  “What happened yesterday to change your mind?” He stepped closer, overwhelming her with his warmth. Instinctively, she stepped back.

  “I just realized that dating a neighbor would be a bad idea.”

  “Come on, Clémence. We both like each other. I definitely know that you’re into me.”

  “How so?” She crossed her arms.

  He chuckled. “By the way you look at me. I’m not impervious to the effect I have on women.”

  “Oh please, Guillaume Canet,” she teased, referring to the only French movie star she found remotely attractive. He smiled in his cocky way that she didn’t know whether she found adorable or extremely irritating. This was the kind of guy she needed to guard herself against. She wasn’t going to be played like Diane or Rose. “You’re not my type.”

  Arthur gave her a doubtful look. “What’s your type? Tall, handsome, educated, well-dressed, confident, rich?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t irritate me,” she shot back.

  “I was planning on taking you to SushiSalsa,” he said. “The new restaurant near Victor Hugo that everyone’s talking about. You heard about that place, right?”

  “I can’t,” Clémence said, even though she was tempted. She’d been wanting to try SushiSalsa.

  “Why? Are you still investigating leads on this case? How’s it going by the way?”

  “Fine. The police are handling it.”

  “The police?” Arthur burst into a laugh. “It’s not like you to let the police do their job. Something’s up.”

  “No, everything fine,” said Clémence. “It’s under control.”

  Arthur examined her for a second longer. “Okay, forget about lunch. But look, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we go take a walk? You look tense. Maybe some fresh air will do you good.”

  “Tense?” She scowled at him.

  “Still beautiful,” he said quickly. “You look beautiful.”

  Clémence considered the offer. She did want to take a walk. What was the harm in that?

  “Fine. Let’s go. Just a short walk.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Clémence and Arthur walked down Avenue Kléber towards the Arc de Triomphe, the grand monument at Place Charles de Gaulle.

  “Have you ever been up there?” Arthur asked.

  “The Arc de Triomphe? Yes, a couple of times. Have you?”

  “I’ve never been up.”

  Clémence gave him a surprised look. “Why not?”

  “It’s a tourist-y thing to do.”

  “Well, have you been up the Eiffel Tower?” she asked.

  “Of course not. Have you seen the lineups?”

  “It’s why I haven’t been up either,” said Clémence. “I’m content just to look at the tower.”

  “Same here.”

  The truth was, Clémence had plenty of opportunities to go up the Eiffel Tower. Whenever she had friends or her American cousin in Paris to visit her, she’d been invited to go up the tower with them, but she never did. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to or minded the crazy lineups. She had just always wanted to save the occasion for when she found the love of her life. Deep down, she was a romantic. She held on to the idea of a special “one”, someone who deserved to go up the tower with her. She never told anyone this desire.

  She had almost made it up with her ex, Mathieu, but something had always gotten in the way: a sudden rainstorm, Mathieu complaining about the tourists and the long lineups, a last minute invitation to go somewhere else. Their relationship just wasn’t meant to be, she could see that now.

  “It’s funny.” She smiled at Arthur. “You live so close to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, yet you have never been up either.”

  “Anything to avoid the tourists,” said Arthur.

  “You’re a true Parisian,” Clémence teased.

  “Well, I think there are better views of Paris, like on top of the George Pompidou, or the roof of Galerie Lafayette.”

  “Or from the Sacré-Cœur,” said Clémence.

  “I rarely go to that section of Montmartre.” Arthur crinkled his nose. “But, you’re right. It is funny that I’ve never been up the Arc. What do you say we go up now?

  “Why now?”

  He shrugged. “Since you’re with me, it might be nice.”

  “I thought you hated tourist stuff.”

  “I can’t let some dumb people in horrid sandals and oversized cameras stop me from enjoying my own city. Come on.”

  “Okay, but I’ll warn you, there are a lot of stairs to climb.”

  “No need to worry.” Arthur grinned. “I’m incredibly fit.”

  The Arc de Triomphe stood in the middle of the Place Charles de Gaulle, a large road junction where twelve avenues intersected. The avenues met at the Arc, forming a star shape, and it was essentially a huge roundabout that they had no way of crossing. Instead, there was an underground passageway in order to enter the Arc.

  The Arc was built to honor those who fought during the French Revolution and it stood at 164 feet tall. The tourists on the streets were snapping away, in awe of its size. Clémence had been up once during a school trip when she was eleven, and another time when her American cousins came to visit when she was sixteen. Both times she’d been thoroughly impressed by the view from the top. The second time she’d visited, the sun had been setting, and the skyline had been washed in pinks and purples; the city really lived up to its own image of beauty.

  The weather that day was perfect. No sign of rain clouds, which were constantly threatening the state of the weather and the moods of the city’s inhabitants. There was a lineup, but it was a Tuesday morning and it wasn’t as long as it was at peak times. After waiting for ten minutes, where she and Arthur soaked in their surroundings and Arthur even managed to crack a few funny jokes and made her laugh, they got to the ticket booth. Arthur insisted on paying for them.

  “You really don’t have to,” Clémence said. After all, it wasn’t a date. Just a friendly stroll.

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Besides, you’ll owe me.”