Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) Page 7

  Clémence sighed. “You’re right. I’m trying my best.”

  “I know you are,” Lucie said. “Gabrielle is hiding something, something shameful. She killed Natalie because Natalie knew about it. That’s my theory, anyway.”

  “Well, thanks,” Clémence said.

  “I better go pay my condolences,” Lucie said. “Good luck.”

  * * *

  After walking Marcus back to his apartment, Clémence went to a nearby cafe to relax. Marcus was still very saddened and wanted to be left alone. Clémence was surprised by how affected he was. Part of it must still be guilt that the last thing he’d said to Natalie had been an insult.

  The cafe terrace she sat at had a view of a small park. It was chilly, but she was right next to a heating lamp. The sun was setting fast, filling the park with a wash of pink and gold. Kids were squealing as they swung on swings and balanced on teeter-totters.

  Clémence rubbed her cheeks, warming them up, as she waited for her café crème. She felt like she was getting nowhere. An innocent woman like Karmen might go to jail if she didn’t find out who the real culprit was.

  She sat there, trying to relax, although her mind was going in a million directions, trying to piece the moment of the crime together and imagining all possible scenarios with the people involved.

  Natalie was still turning out to be a bit of a mystery. She had hardly anybody in her life, based on what she could tell from the funeral. Only a mother who Natalie had left behind in order to pursue her dreams and a best friend she’d had a falling out with.

  Natalie sounded like a simple person and a complicated one at the same time—simple in that she had a single goal, and she had gone out into the world to pursue it, not letting anybody or any circumstance get in her way.

  Yet she was complicated because nobody seemed to know who she was. To some, she was sweet and hardworking. To others, she was mean spirited and a tyrant. Clémence supposed people all had these different facets. People in the city were so hardened sometimes, so cynical and jaded, like Tata, the makeup artist. She wished she could say these people were anomalies, but they seemed to be everywhere.

  When the waiter came with her drink, her phone rang. It was Alice, Gabrielle’s agent.

  “Clémence, she’s in. Gabrielle loves the idea.”

  “Really?” Clémence exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Like I said, her schedule is packed, but she is willing to meet you. She has a shoot all day for a mascara tomorrow for BISOUX. You can drop in around lunch, at noon, and she’ll have a quick chat with you. How’s that?”

  “Sounds great,” Clémence said.

  “Text me your email, and I’ll forward you all the details about the shoot.”

  “I’ll do that right now.”

  “Oh, and Clémence?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hear that you’re an artist.”

  Clémence paused. “Oui. How did you know that?”

  “I did a little research. Heard through the grapevine that you’ll be having an art show.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Fashion and art can go hand in hand,” Alice said. “I’m looking forward to seeing your art, but if you ever need to do publicity, my agency can help you. Just keep that in mind.”

  “Er, thanks.”

  When Clémence got off the phone, she was a little dumbfounded. She’d been getting more and more offers to be in the public eye recently, and she didn’t completely understand it. Sure, she was an heiress and had a couple of socialite friends, but she had no modelling or acting talents, her style was just like the style of every other Parisian woman living in the 16th, 6th, or 7th arrondissement, and she didn’t really want to be more famous.

  Sometimes it felt like people were trying to cash in on her recent run-ins with the press. She’d hated her experience with the paparazzi. Yet perhaps Alice was right. If she wanted to make it as an artist—and not just show in her own salon de thé forever—she might have to start doing more publicity.

  Fame could be a platform for good, but in her experience, it seemed to be used for evil more often than not.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  C lémence woke up to Rolling Stones songs in the kitchen. It must’ve been Arthur cranking up the music.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Miffy was jumping at her feet, and Clémence followed her down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Arthur was dancing. Horribly. She loved him very much, but the man didn’t know what to do with his limbs when it came to music.

  “What’s going on?” Clémence laughed.

  At the sight of her, he ran to her and picked her up, twirling her around.

  “I got a promotion!” he said. “A bigger office, less work, and more of telling other people what to do. I’m now a project manager.”

  Arthur was a business consultant at a big firm.

  “That’s great!” Clémence exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were up for a promotion.”

  “I didn’t want to jinx it. I figured that if I didn’t get it, I wouldn’t be as disappointed.”

  Clémence grinned. “But you did get it.”

  “I just got the call this morning. Did I wake you up? It’s not that early, is it?”

  “No, I needed to wake up to prep for this Gabrielle meeting anyway,” Clémence said. “You might’ve woken some neighbors though.”

  Arthur turned down the radio knob.

  “You know, Clémence, I know your parents are coming back soon, and I should probably move out.”

  “Well, you won’t be far. You have a room on the top floor.”

  “I know, but that place is a closet. I know my family is down on the third floor, but it’s about time I bought my own place. Now that I’m able to, I can invest in an apartment. What do you think? Move in with me?”

  Clémence was speechless. It was a lot to digest so early in the morning, but her natural inclination was, “Oui!”

  Arthur beamed. “Great. We can start visiting apartments this week.”

  “But where? In the same neighborhood or a different one?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think you’d want to stay here because your store is here?”

  “The 16th is great, but sometimes I feel like it’s…”

  “A bit too stuffy?” Arthur said.

  “Yes. But I’m not sure if I want to move to a trendy neighborhood, either. We’re not exactly party animals, either.”

  Arthur smiled. He looked so sweet when he did; Clémence had to pinch him on the cheeks.

  “We’re a young but boring old couple,” Arthur said.

  “Basically,” Clémence agreed.

  “Want some breakfast?” Arthur asked.

  “Sure, what are you having?”

  “Slices of salmon in a baguette.”

  “I’ll have that with some Brillat-Savarin cheese.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Clémence giggled. She liked it when Arthur pretended to be a cook and a waiter in the kitchen; it was a game they played. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could make simple things. It was an improvement on how he had been brought up. He’d been raised by nannies and private chefs who catered to his every whim. Since he’d moved in with Clémence, at least he’d learned how to do his laundry, which, shockingly enough, he had not done all his adult life. Even when he had done a semester abroad, he had sent out his laundry.

  Sometimes Clémence couldn’t believe she was dating the same person, since he’d changed so much since she had met him. Arthur used to be a playboy and a spoiled rich boy, but after they started going out, more and more of his sweet side was revealed to her. Underneath all that bad boy nonchalance, Arthur was a man who had been waiting to be in a relationship with the right woman.

  They’d both been able to heal and grow since they had gotten together. Clémence was slowly healing from her mistrust of men, finally allowing someone into her life again after her cruel breakup with her ex. Arthur was taking on th
e responsibilities that he had eschewed as a young man. He seemed ready to take the next step in investing in real estate.

  Did that mean that he was ready for marriage as well?

  Clémence brushed those thoughts away. She didn’t want to think about marriage right now. That was too scary. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d become Arthur’s girlfriend, and that was unbelievable in its own right. But to be somebody’s wife? There was a note of finality to that. She believed in marriage, but marriage was forever. To think about it, to consider being in one, was a lot to take in.

  After Arthur left for work, she got dressed. She wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, so she dressed in a navy cashmere sweater and black cigarette pants. Wearing her signature black ballet flats and barely there makeup, she was ready to go. Her bob was growing out. It was probably time for another trim.

  She was one of those people who had the same haircut all the time. Her black hair brought out the blue sparkle of her eyes. On special occasions, she wore eyeliner to make them pop even more, but just a smidgen of mascara was enough for this outing.

  Clémence had never been on a commercial photo shoot before. It was taking place in a studio just outside Paris. She had to flag down a cab to go there.

  The taxi took about twenty minutes to get to the studio. The driver listened to classical music the entire time. It put Clémence in a more relaxed mood.

  He dropped her off before a square, industrial building in the middle of nowhere. The taxi drove away.

  She was east of Paris, but she felt like she was far removed from the city now. It felt like she was standing in Brooklyn or Pittsburgh. She approached the door and knocked. No one answered.

  Clémence waited a while and then knocked again.

  Suddenly, the door opened, and the annoyed face of a surly-looking man in his late thirties poked out.

  “Were you the one knocking?”

  “Er, yes,” Clémence asked.

  “We were rolling. You could’ve ruined a take.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I?”

  “No.” He eyed her suspiciously. “But you could’ve. What are you here for? Background extra?”

  “No. I’m actually here because I have an appointment to speak to Gabrielle. Maybe her agent Alice told you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said briskly. “I’ll have to check with my colleague. What’s your name?”

  She told him, and he disappeared to search for the colleague. The set they were filming in was obstructed by screens, so Clémence couldn’t see what was going on. There were a lot of people coming and going, however, so they must’ve been between takes.

  “This is Clémence?” A woman came to scrutinize her. She had on a headset and a clipboard.

  “Yes. Hi.” Clémence put on her most winning smile.

  “Gabrielle’s about to take a break soon. Why don’t you wait by her chair, there.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  The woman pointed to a director’s chair with Gabrielle’s name on the back. The other chair also had a name on it, presumably the director’s, so Clémence figured she should stand.

  As Clémence walked toward the chair, Gabrielle came from the other direction, out of the sectioned set. She was wearing silver, and her hair was dyed a white blond with eyebrows to match.

  Clémence thought she looked absolutely incredible. As Gabrielle walked closer, Clémence noticed how full her lashes were. They certainly sold the product.

  When Gabrielle saw her, she broke into a warm smile, which took Clémence by surprise.

  “You must be Clémence Damour,” Gabrielle said.

  “Yes, hello.” Clémence received kisses on the cheeks.

  Gabrielle frowned when she realized that Clémence would be standing.

  “Excusez-moi, Gerard?” she called out.

  A harried young man of about twenty-five stopped and seemed to want to melt at the sound of Gabrielle’s voice. He looked alarmed at the fact that Gabrielle was actually talking to him.

  “Oui?” he said dreamily.

  “Can you please bring my friend a chair, too?”

  “Of course. Right away.” He smiled and scurried away. A moment later, Clémence was sitting beside Gabrielle in a chair.

  “When Alice told me about the idea, I was so excited,” Gabrielle said, her dark-blue eyes all lit up. It could be the flattering lights of the studio, the makeup, or just her overall beauty, but Clémence felt hypnotized by her. And her voice was warm like honey—or a honey trap.

  “I’m glad,” Clémence said.

  “I love Damour, which is why I’m excited to meet you. My fiancé and I go to Damour every week to buy a box of macarons. We split it, but we usually end up fighting for them.”

  “Why don’t you each buy your own box?”

  “What’s the fun in that?” Gabrielle laughed. “When you had the Marcus Savin collection, we bought all the flavors, too. I loved the opera cake macaron. You know, as a model, I can’t eat too many sweets. Otherwise, I’d eat the whole store.”

  “You’re telling me.” Clémence was starting to relax in her presence. “That’s what I do when I go in to work. So, about the collection. I’m thinking of doing four macaron flavors, and you can create them. I wanted to talk to you to get a sense of who you are. Alice suggested that since you’re getting married, we can do a wedding-themed collection.”

  “Oh no,” Gabrielle moaned. “That sounds cheesy.”

  “Really? I thought so, too, but it’s true that it would sell.”

  “No. I want to do something more authentic.”

  “Great. Tell me about yourself. What are you interested in? Who are you? We know you from your glamorous image as a model, but what are you passionate about?”

  “Those are good questions.” Gabrielle bit her lips. “You know, I’ve been modelling since I was seventeen or eighteen. That’s more than a decade now. I’m not usually very candid in interviews. I’m guarded and don’t feel the need to expose myself. I’ve been going to a therapist lately, and I suppose I do that to protect myself. The thing is, my life, sometimes it feels too good to be true. I say this to you because you don’t seem the type to be jealous. I can tell because you have a charmed life, too.”

  Clémence nodded. She did. She had a lot to be thankful for. She didn’t have to worry about money. Her boyfriend was kind to her, and she had great friends. Her only worry was these pesky murders and trying to solve them.

  She observed Gabrielle. It couldn’t be true that she had done it, could she? Even as a woman, Clémence was falling under Gabrielle’s spell. She could see now why Cyril was quick to dismiss the possibility that Gabrielle was a murderer. She was simply too charming and beautiful in real life.

  “My life is good,” Clémence confirmed.

  “And you’re not a journalist, so I can be candid with you,” Gabrielle said. “There are not a lot of people, aside from my fiancé, who I can be candid with.”

  “Why is that? What about friends?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I used to have friends. Until high school. Other girls seemed to turn on me, or they used my biggest weakness against me.”

  “What weakness?” Clémence said.

  There was a look of shame in her eyes, but she took a deep breath. “I was dyslexic for a long time. As I child, I had a hard time learning how to read. I tried to keep it a secret by memorizing things. But once, in high school, I got called on in class to read a passage from a book. I did it, and the others found out.” She shook her head, remembering the shame. “It was very humiliating. The other girls already resented me because of the way I looked, the way their boyfriends looked at me, and they started bullying me, calling me dumb. Even the boys did it. For that reason, I didn’t go to college. That was around the time my modelling career took off anyway.”

  “That’s sad,” Clémence said.

  “So my life now, with a man who worships me, despite knowing my faults, and working with the top people in the indus
try, I’m very lucky. I’ve come a long way in overcoming my dyslexia and the shame I used to feel. But I still have a problem opening up to people about that disability. That’s why I still don’t get too close to other women. Anyway, you’re actually the first person outside of my family that I’ve revealed this to. I just don’t want people thinking I’m dumb, you know? That the only thing I’ve got going for me is my looks.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “The world judges by appearances, and I’ve suffered by that but also made millions by it.”

  “We should make the macaron line about empowerment,” Clémence said.

  Gabrielle smiled. “I like it. And I’d like to donate my proceeds to an antibullying campaign I’m starting.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  “It’s out of my comfort zone to be sharing my experiences about my past, but I think it’ll help people.”

  “Well, if they see a supermodel has been bullied, it would definitely help.”

  Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. I’ve been thinking about this antibullying campaign for a long time, and who knew that macarons would be my opportunity to launch this platform.”

  Clémence felt tempted to become Gabrielle’s best friend. There was something about her that was magnetic. Yet Clémence had to remind herself that Gabrielle was still a murder suspect.

  Why did Clémence think she was guilty again?

  “I saw you backstage at the Marcus Savin show,” Clémence said. “But we didn’t get a chance to meet.”

  “Oh, you were there?” Gabrielle said. “Fashion weeks are usually so hectic for me. I walk shows, yet I have photo shoots and commercial shoots at the same time. It was crazy, so I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t have the chance to meet a lot of people, since it was a crime scene.”

  “Right,” Gabrielle said sadly. “Poor girl. I didn’t know what had happened at the time. I was so absorbed in trying to make my next appointment that I just went. If I had known, I would’ve stayed and cooperated, told what I know.”