Chocolat Chaud Murder Read online

  “So there was another designer, and Adine was taking credit for her work?”

  “She never told me outright,” Noel said, “and this is only my suspicion. I never questioned her about it because Adine was already touchy about her work. As an artist, I have a discerning eye, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t draw some of the original sketches. That’s all I know. Who knows? Maybe it was an ex-assistant who sketched out Adine’s ideas, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I just can’t see Adine doing that. She’s a bit of a control freak. She wouldn’t let assistants take over the creative process that way.”

  “So, were the drawing styles similar?” Ben asked.

  “Very. To the average person, they might not even tell it’s the work of different artists. But I can. Maybe Adine secretly hired someone to design for her.”

  “A ghost designer?” Ben asked.

  “It’s not unusual,” Clémence said. “Perhaps this hired designer wanted more credit and killed Adine in the heat of an argument.”

  “Look, I don’t know,” Noel said. “Maybe I’m crazy like the police say. Don’t take what I say as fact. Look into it yourselves.”

  “We will,” Clémence said. “Can you tell us anything else that struck you as unusual about this whole thing, or anything that can help us?”

  “Adine and Jennifer were both excited about the prospect of expanding their shop at one point. They wanted Adine to be like Vera Wang—have perfumes, a clothing line, and everything. Jennifer was gung ho about doing that. She had prospects lined up, investors, and everything, but Adine just didn’t want to go through with it. She wanted to remain a small boutique until she figured things out.”

  “What do you mean by figure things out?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I heard them arguing once when I was visiting Adine in her studio, back when we were still dating.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but why did you break up? Was there someone else?” Clémence wondered if there had been another man in the picture.

  “No. Adine was holed up in her studio all the time, trying to work. Her ambition was to become a famous designer, like mine is to be a well-known painter. I thought we would continue to work and ultimately marry and be a power couple. Well, maybe Adine was also a little envious of me. I never have problems creating new work. The pressure doesn’t get to me. And for Adine, well, she started showing runway collections in the past few years, and it’s a lot of pressure with the deadlines and everything, you know? We didn’t break up because of another guy. We broke up because she cared more about her work than about our relationship. I tried so hard to win her back, but she couldn’t stand me when she wasn’t doing well creatively. Maybe she was right. Two artists in a relationship is probably trouble.”

  “I can attest to that,” Clémence said. “My ex was an artist, and there was a bit of a competitive streak. I have to admit that in school, I was jealous of his work and felt like a total failure in comparison.”

  “So you dumped him?” Noel asked with an accusatory tone.

  “Actually, he cheated on me.”

  “Oh.” Noel softened. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. He’s in jail now. Long story. But back to this, do you have anything else you can tell me?”

  “That’s all I can think of. Try to find her old sketches. They’re probably still in her atelier.” Noel stood up, and Clémence followed.

  “Thanks for your time,” she said. “We’ll look into it and let you know what comes of it.”

  “Please do. Please find Adine’s killer.” Noel’s face conveyed everything. He still loved her. His heart must’ve been really bleeding.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clémence wanted to proceed with her investigation the first thing the next morning, but the holidays were coming, and her family was arriving in town. She had to pick her parents up at the Charles de Gaulle airport.

  Clémence waited at the arrivals gate holding up a handwritten “Damour” sign for fun. Monsieur and Madame Damour arrived a little past eleven in the morning. They’d been living in Asia for the past year to ensure the new Damour locations in Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Singapore were successful. Her parents had to make sure the management, staff, and business practices were running smoothly in all of the Asian locations before they could return to Paris.

  “Clémence, ma puce!” Her mother abandoned her carry-on luggage with her father as she ran to hug Clémence. Madame Damour was a lovely brunette who looked a lot like her daughter.

  Clémence’s father looked distinguished with salt-and-pepper hair and bright-blue eyes that she had inherited.

  Since she hadn’t seen her parents in months, she had offered to pick them up in the family car. Her parents’ five suitcases barely fit in the trunk and backseat.

  While her father was tired from his trip, her mother was as sprightly and chatty as ever. She recounted their adventures traveling around China. “They have the strangest beauty treatments. Did you know that they eat donkey hide for better skin in China? Something about increasing the collagen in your skin.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Clémence said. “Did you try it?”

  “No, but I wanted to. We went around with a translator who recommended really good restaurants, but none of them offered donkey hide. There were some specialty restaurants in Beijing, but we didn’t go there. Your father didn’t want to try them.”

  “Do you blame me?” Monsieur Damour asked. “I wanted to eat the food Xiu recommended. I don’t need to eat to grow collagen or whatever it is.”

  “But look at all your wrinkles,” Madame Damour teased.

  “I like them just fine.”

  “I think you look rugged and very handsome, Papa,” Clémence said.

  “What about me?” Madame Damour took pride in her beauty.

  “Your skin is like white peaches,” she said.

  “You’re kind.” Her mother pinched her on the cheek.

  “Maman,” Clémence whined. “I’m driving.”

  “You get cuter every day.”

  “Papa, ask Mom to stop treating me like a baby.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to start creating babies of your own for that to happen.”

  Clémence rolled her eyes. “So this starts.”

  “What?” Madame Damour asked innocently. “Is that unreasonable? You and Arthur are getting married.”

  “You already have plenty of grandchildren. You’re just being greedy now.”

  “Okay, we’ll lay off,” her dad said. “You’re still young. You know, I read an article online that mentioned you. A friend forwarded it to me. It was about the publishing heir. The article said you had helped the police with solving the murder.”

  “Oh, it’s true,” Clémence said. “Unfortunately, I seem to get wrapped up in more crimes than I’d like. The head inspector hates it, but I do help sometimes.”

  “Paris is becoming more dangerous,” her mother said. “But maybe it’s always been dangerous.”

  Clémence had helped the police solve eight cases. She was tempted to tell them about the more recent case. She decided not to so they wouldn’t worry. It was the holidays after all, and they were probably more jet-lagged than they let on.

  She was still concerned that the Damour products would be connected with the murders one day, but that was something she shouldn’t worry about. Her parents, particularly her father, had never been too concerned about bad press. He believed any press was good press.

  In the second year Damour had been open, a jealous competitor had spread a rumor in the press that Damour was using expired dairy products to save on expenses, and that their desserts were making people sick. The newspapers had a field day, but Monsieur Damour only shrugged off the claims, saying they were ridiculous. Business seemed to lag for a few days, but later on that year, they became so popular they decided to open their second location in Paris.

  Although Clémence still didn’t wan
t people to think Damour products were cursed, she was prepared to deal with the public fallout should someone like Cyril start spreading that story.

  “Your apartment is in pristine condition,” Clémence said. “And don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as Arthur and I get the keys to our new place. Well, after we buy some furniture.”

  “You and Arthur.” Her mother smiled. “I always knew you’d hit it off. Madame Duboir and I always thought so.”

  “If only I fell in love with a tattooed motorcyclist instead,” Clémence teased. “You would have loved that too, wouldn’t you?”

  Her dad chuckled. “Arthur’s a smart guy. He came over with his brother once, and we all talked over glasses of scotch. He has good taste in music too.”

  Arthur loved his ’70s rock. In many ways, he was an old man.

  “You can stay with us as long as you like,” her mother said. “In fact, I’ll really miss you. You’re the last of our children to leave home and officially start out on your own.” She was getting teary eyed.

  “I won’t be far,” Clémence reassured her. “I’m a neighborhood away.”

  “Yes.” Her mother folded her hands in her lap. “At least you’ll be in Paris. Henri and Marianne only see us on special occasions.”

  When they went up to the apartment, Miffy greeted them with loud, enthusiastic barks.

  “Mon chou.” Madame Damour scooped the white dog into her arms and kissed her head. “I missed you so much. Did you miss me?”

  Miffy barked.

  “I think that’s a yes,” Monsieur Damour said.

  “I’ll let you settle in,” Clémence said. “Henri is arriving on Wednesday, and Marianne on Thursday. I can’t remember the last time we were all together in Paris like this.”

  “I’m glad to be home,” Madame Damour exclaimed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Berenice still smelled strongly of sweet baked goods after her morning shift in the Damour kitchen. As they waited for Perrie on the side street of La Belle, Clémence smelled Berenice’s neck.

  “What are you doing?” Berenice asked, half laughing.

  “Trying to figure out what you were making this morning.”

  “Well?”

  “Umm, chocolate éclairs?”

  “Not even close.”

  Perrie arrived, looking sharp in a black pantsuit.

  “This is my friend Berenice,” Clémence said. “Berenice, Perrie.”

  “You have a lot of friends.” Perrie said.

  “You can never have enough friends. You look smart. Did you come from a meeting?”

  “Thanks,” Perrie replied. “Yes, I just came from a job interview. Fingers crossed that I get it.”

  “What job is it?”

  “It was for a cosmetics company, so not exactly fashion, but they’re a good company to work for.” She sighed. “It’s a starting position, but at least it’s not for assistant work. I would be working in the marketing department. At this point, I’ll take anything that pays.”

  As they entered the back door to La Belle, Perrie shook her head. “It’s more than enough to have one dead boss, but two? It’s crazy.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Clémence said.

  “To think that there’s a maniac out there killing people who work at La Belle.” Her brown eyes widened as she whipped her head around to look at Clémence. “You don’t think they’ll come after me next, do you?”

  “No,” Clémence said, although she wasn’t completely sure.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Perrie asked. “What kind of clues?”

  “Well, I want to find out if someone has been helping Adine with any of her designs. Do you know if Adine hired someone to help her with her designs?”

  Perrie shook her head. “No. She always drew alone. The seamstresses only took instructions from Adine.”

  “Did you ever suspect Adine of using another designer?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Adine probably wouldn’t tell me directly, either. I’ve only been working for her for a month. I don’t think she trusted me enough with that info when I was mainly doing coffee runs and running random errands.”

  The three women went upstairs to the studio.

  “Did she ever consult with you about the designs?” Clémence asked.

  “Not really. When she was drawing, she didn’t like to be disturbed. Sometimes, I was able to take a peek when I was nearby. Personally, I thought her designs were good, but at the end of the day, I’d usually find a wastepaper basket full of rejects.”

  “Let’s put on our gloves,” Berenice said. She passed out some plastic gloves from a box in her purse. “Don’t want our prints on anything.”

  “We’re looking for Adine’s sketches,” Clémence said. “We want to compare the styles of the illustrations. Noel said that some of the drawings are not in her usual style. If we can find a sketch that Adine didn’t do, we might be able to track down who this other designer is, if there is one.”

  “Okay.” Perrie nodded. She opened the door cautiously, as if she were scared a ghost might jump out and scare her.

  “Hello?” Clémence yelled.

  The place was still marked as a crime scene, but the police weren’t there.

  “All right, where did she keep her drawings?” Berenice asked Perrie.

  “They were usually scattered on the tables, but she must have kept them somewhere on these shelves.”

  They looked through one shelf along the wall that was full of design books, boxes, binders, and picture frames.

  “They’re in these binders,” Berenice said. “Dated by year.” She passed the binders among them so they could start scrutinizing them.

  “That’s her signature,” Perrie said, pointing to the big loopy A in the right-hand corner of each dress sketch.

  Clémence had the binders for the most recent two years. As she looked through the sketches, she thought that perhaps Noel was wrong. In her eyes, the illustration styles were the same. Then she got to the last binder, from the current year. She was halfway through the illustrations before she stopped on one familiar dress design. “That’s my dress,” she exclaimed.

  Berenice and Perrie came over and crouched down next to her.

  “Look.” Clémence pointed to the drawing of the familiar lace dress with the low front and the body-hugging silhouette. “This dress is from the current season, but Adine didn’t design it.”

  “Really?” Perrie asked.

  “The style is familiar. It’s almost as if someone was mimicking Adine’s loose drawing style, but you can tell it’s someone else. This sketch is more controlled. Someone spent a lot of time on the detailing.”

  “Where’s the signature?”

  The loopy A on the top right-hand corner was missing.

  Clémence looked closer. “Here. See the faint pencil mark? What does that look like to you?”

  “I think it’s an E,” Perrie said.

  “E…V,” Berenice added.

  “So whoever did it had the initials E.V.,” Perrie said. “Who could that be?”

  Before Perrie could come to that conclusion, the answer struck Clémence. She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the police. I know who killed Adine and Jennifer.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The police had already arrived in front of the murderer’s apartment building by the time Clémence got there. She, Berenice, and Perrie decided it was faster to walk there than to take the Métro. The traffic was unpredictable because it was quite busy, and the 14th arrondissement had fewer Métro stops.

  Inspector Cyril St. Clair was getting out of his tiny clown car when the girls approached. He only nodded at Clémence with the stoniest of expressions then looked away, giving terse instructions to his team.

  Clémence followed Cyril and three armed policemen through the front door. Berenice and Perrie came in too, but they were a good distance behind her.

  On the second floor, one of the policemen kicked open the
front door to an apartment. Clémence felt the ground shake and the thin walls rattle.

  “Eva Vincent,” Cyril shouted. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Adine Wittell and Jennifer Moss.”

  Eva was sitting on the couch in the living room with her laptop perched on her lap. “What?” Eva was wide eyed, staring incredulously at the uniformed men suddenly inside her home. “This is ridiculous!”

  “Admit it.” Clémence entered and met Eva’s eyes. “You killed Adine first, in the heat of the moment, then Jennifer, when you realized she knew you were the one who’d killed Adine.”

  “Why would I murder friends I’ve worked with for years?”

  Cyril cuffed Eva. “Friends?” Cyril sneered. “They were hardly your friends. They were your employers.”

  “We know that you’ve been helping Adine design a portion of her collections,” Clémence said. “She’d use at least one of your designs every year.”

  “Search her home,” Cyril said to his team. “Search for her sketches and other evidence.”

  “That’s why you were so enthusiastic when I liked the dress I tried on,” Clémence continued. “The one you recommended, remember? You designed that dress. You were thrilled that I was considering buying it.” She shook her head. “It’s such a shame, because it’s a lovely dress.”

  Eva’s lips quivered. “It’s all I wanted to do. Design.”

  “And Adine gave you the chance,” Clémence said.

  “Yes. She was slipping. She used to be good, but every year, her designs became more and more mediocre. So she used me, knowing that I wanted to design too. She said she would give me credit, but after four years, only she got successful, and I got stuck on the sales floor. I’d had enough.”

  “Did you plan on killing her, or was it an accident?”

  “It was an accident, but you know what? I don’t regret it. Adine had it coming. She treated everyone—her assistants, her seamstresses, and me—like crap. She thought she could just pay me a hundred euros for my design, and that would be that. I deserved more than that. I deserved part ownership of her business.”