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

  “What did you know?”

  “Not a whole lot.” She shook her head. “After the show, I went to the bathroom to change and then came back out. I don’t like undressing backstage like the other girls, because photographers would sell my nude photos. They’ve done it before. I might’ve passed the room where she was killed, but I didn’t see anyone in that hall.”

  “Why was Natalie so hated?”

  “I didn’t know she was hated,” Gabrielle said. “She was a little gruff, but not to me.”

  “It’s probably because you’re a top model. Who else was she mean to?”

  “Well…” Gabrielle thought about it. “I don’t talk to a lot of people backstage. I’m ashamed to say this, but I don’t like to socialize with the other models, because I had some bad experiences living in model apartments when I was younger. Some of the girls can be, well, catty to say the least, and it reminded me of my high school experiences. Backstage, I usually stick to talking to people I know.”

  That makes sense, Clémence thought. No wonder she was antisocial.

  “I spent a lot of time talking to Tata. Do you know her?”

  “Yes. I met her.”

  “She mentioned something about Natalie at some point. I can’t remember what. I heard them debating about something earlier in the day. Something about animal rights. Natalie seemed passionate about something.” Gabrielle thought about it for a moment. “Oh, I remember now. Tata was defending her makeup line. Her company tested on animals, and Natalie was a vegan. So Tata was very defensive, saying how sometimes you needed to harm a rabbit so humans wouldn’t be harmed.”

  “Are you friends with Tata?”

  “Friends? Well, I like working together. We’re not close friends, but I do have a great working relationship with her.”

  “Do you by any chance think that Tata could be capable of killing a person?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  C lémence sat on a stool in a corner of the Damour kitchen. Sebastien and Berenice were baking while Celine came in on her break to chat.

  “What’s new, Clémence?” Celine asked. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”

  “I know. I’ve been busy. I’m waiting for this photographer to call me back.”

  “What photographer? Is this related to the case you’re working on?”

  Clémence nodded, still deep in thought. She snapped out of it when she realized she wasn’t giving her friend enough attention.

  “What’s new with you?” she asked Celine.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said coyly. “Except when I was going to work today, a cute guy asked me to go to coffee.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, I didn’t have time, but he asked for my number and I gave it to him. I’ll be playing hard to get this time.”

  “That’s going to be a challenge,” Sebastien quipped.

  “You shush,” Celine said.

  Clémence’s cell phone rang. It was the photographer Clémence had left a message for. She picked up and began talking.

  “…Yes. Please send me whatever photos you have…even if you have hundreds, that’s fine. I’ll look through them all. This is my email…”

  After Clémence spelled out her email address, she thanked the guy and hung up.

  “What was that about?” Berenice asked.

  “New angle on the case,” Clémence said. “It’s not Gabrielle the supermodel.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t be,” Sebastien said. “She’s too pretty, and kind of dumb.”

  Clémence glared at him. “She’s not dumb. Plus, we just hired her for our next campaign, so you will actually be working with her. Take care not to say things like that to her to her face.”

  “Oh, there’s an actual campaign now?” Sebastien said. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. One minute she’s the killer, the next minute she’s not. I can’t keep up with you.”

  “I think it’s Tata, the makeup artist. Now, I don’t know what shoes she’d been wearing; I wasn’t paying attention at the time. What if she’d been wearing Styra shoes all along? I checked with the police, and they didn’t check her shoes. Tata had left before that happened. I dismissed her because I’d already talked to her. I can’t believe I forgot that we didn’t check her shoes, and no one had mentioned that she was gone! There were just so many people backstage.”

  “Those fashion people probably get really distracted easily,” Berenice said. “They’re also probably pretty self-absorbed.”

  “It’ll be too bad if Tata’s the killer,” Celine said. “I like her lip glosses. They stay on really well.”

  “Thanks to animal testing,” Clémence muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Oh, the photographer just sent the photographs. He was a member of the press who had been taking photos of the show, then followed a journalist colleague backstage to interview Marcus. He did take some photos backstage, but he respected Marcus’s instructions not to take photos of models in a state of undress.”

  Clémence glanced through the thumbnails of photos, searching for the ones backstage. She opened one picture of Tata taking off Gabrielle’s makeup. She enlarged it on her iPad.

  Clémence squinted. The photograph wasn’t the clearest due to the dimmer lighting backstage.

  “What are you looking for?” Sebastien asked.

  Sebastien, Berenice, and Celine all came around to look at the photo on her iPad. Tata was wearing brown boots that came up to her knees.

  “These boots,” she replied. “Are these Styra shoes? I can’t tell. Girls?”

  Berenice and Celine both looked at each other. Berenice shrugged.

  “I’m not a shoe expert, to tell you the truth,” Berenice said.

  “I hadn’t even heard of the brand before you told me about it,” Celine said.

  “Don’t look at me,” Sebastien said, even though nobody was looking at him.

  “I don’t recall seeing these on the Styra website,” Clémence muttered.

  “Do another search,” Berenice suggested. “Search ‘Styra brown boots’ and see what you come up with.”

  “That seems to be the only option.” Clémence did just that. She scrolled through Google images until she was nearly at the bottom of the page. “Is that it?” She exclaimed when she saw a style similar to Tata’s boots.

  It took her to a personal blog written in English.

  “These are from 2009,” Clémence said. “From Styra’s first season. These boots are old. Look, it says that they were only made in small batches, since the company was so new at the time. This is it. This is the proof I need.”

  “Why do you think Tata did it?” Celine said.

  “When I talked to her, I got the impression that she was a sociopath—she knew someone had been killed, but she didn’t seem to care. Now I hear that she’d had an argument with Natalie before she was killed and that she disappeared in the middle of the police investigation. Plus, now with the boots as proof, it has to be her.”

  “Oh no,” Celine said. “This sucks, because now I won’t feel right using her lip glosses, and I’ll have to toss them.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me out of a busy day at the office to do this,” Cyril groaned.

  “Let’s be honest,” Clémence said. “You don’t do much at that office. All you do is shuffle paper around a desk.”

  Cyril opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur cut in.

  “Let’s all be civil,” Arthur said. “You’re both here for a common goal.”

  Arthur had taken half a day off work to be by Clémence’s side for moral support. In this case, he had to act as a mediator. Cyril and Clémence fought like cats and dogs, and they were both competitive.

  “I still think Karmen is the culprit,” Cyril said.

  “What other proof do you need?” Clémence said. “Tata also wore Styra boots. Natalie threatened to ruin her reputation. So Tata killed her.”

  “Are you sure of yo
urself?” Cyril said.

  “Are we going to make a wager on this?”

  “Clémence,” Arthur cut in again. “This is not a game. Nobody’s placing any bets. We’re here for the truth, not to incriminate anyone, okay?”

  They were in Place de la Concorde, an area with numerous luxury jewelry and watch stores. Tata was doing makeup on a shoot for a high-end watch campaign. It was being held on the second floor of one of the exclusive buildings, above the watch store itself.

  Cyril buzzed from the front door. “Paris police. Detective Cyril St. Clair.”

  Clémence heard people talking through the intercom but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Ultimately, someone buzzed them in.

  The three of them squeezed into the tiny elevator. When they went in, they found themselves in a storefront that was exclusively for private clients. Clémence willed herself not to be distracted by the beautiful watches and jewelry.

  “Tata Milan?” Cyril called.

  Tata stood up. She’d been touching up the makeup of a brunette American supermodel whose face Clémence recognized but whose name she couldn’t recall. There was a small crew of around ten people at the shoot, and they all turned to stare at the newcomers.

  “Can we speak to you in private?” Clémence said. She noticed Tata was wearing the same boots. They looked like the Styra ones she’d seen on the blog.

  “I’m working.” Tata frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “Inspector Cyril St. Clair.” He flashed his badge proudly, walking toward her with the inflated chest of a rooster. “It’s a serious matter, so if you can come with us—”

  “I don’t think you understand how much these people are paying for my time,” she said. “If you have something to say, say it here. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Okay. You’re arrested for the murder of Natalie Albert.”

  Tata kept calm and continued working on the model, even though everyone else was staring. Their jaws dropped, and they started whispering among themselves.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Tata scoffed. “I’m not the murderer. I thought you caught the murderer already.”

  “Those shoes,” Clémence said confidently. “They’re Styra.”

  Tata looked her in the eye and laughed. “They’re not. I knew you didn’t know anything about fashion. I have no idea why you were sitting front row at Marcus Savin’s show. These are handmade from a family-run Italian shoe store in Florence.”

  “But…” Clémence looked at the boots more closely. The buttons at the side didn’t have the Styra “S” logo.

  “Do you want to see the bottoms of the boots?” Tata said boredly. “Is this what I have to do to prove that I’m not the murderer?”

  She sighed and stood up. Holding on to the back of the model’s chair, she bent one of her legs back. Cyril and Clémence peered down at the sole of the boot.

  Tata was right. These were not Styra boots.

  “Are we done?” Tata said.

  “But…” Clémence said. “You and Natalie were arguing.”

  “Natalie argued with everyone,” Tata said. “That’s how some people like to get attention in this industry. But just because we had one small debate, it doesn’t mean that I stuck a knife through her back.”

  “But…” Clémence’s face burned. She wasn’t used to being so utterly wrong.

  “Who do you even think you are?” Tata said. “You’re an heiress to some patisserie chain who never worked a day in your life. What are you doing playing detective? You have too much free time. But it’s at the expense of others. This is humiliating for me. How dare you barge onto my set like this?”

  “We’re sorry,” Arthur said, then whispered to Clémence, “Come on, let’s go.”

  “You’re finished, Clémence,” Tata snarled. “You’re not fit to work in fashion, and I’ll never work with you. I’ll tell everybody I know to blacklist you.”

  Clémence looked at all the disapproving faces turned her way. She turned to go. Her cheeks burned. Arthur put his arm around her.

  How could she have been so wrong?

  Even Cyril knew not to chastise her, knowing that she’d been humiliated enough.

  “I’m sorry,” Clémence whispered.

  “It’s okay,” Arthur whispered back.

  When they got back out on the street, Cyril cleared his throat. “I’ll be going back to my office now, where there’s real work to be done.”

  He turned abruptly and walked away.

  Clémence was grateful that Cyril didn’t gloat too much.

  She had been such an idiot. Tata was right. Who did she think she was? She was no detective. She wasn’t good at anything, really.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A t the Damour patisserie the next morning, Clémence willed herself to go to work again. She helped Sebastien make pumpkin-flavored macarons, but she was still burning from the embarrassment of the day before.

  She’d accused an innocent woman of murder. Even if she was not the most likeable person, Tata had been innocent nonetheless. Clémence couldn’t remember the last time that her ego had been this bruised. She had been so wrong. Maybe she’d gotten too sure of herself after all the cases she had helped solve in the past—she got too cocky.

  Had she been turning into a Cyril? Self-important, pompous, and delusional?

  In any case, this experience had brought her back down to earth.

  Tata had threatened to blacklist her. While Clémence didn’t care that much to be working in the fashion industry, she didn’t like the thought of people hating her. Perhaps when Clémence’s ego recovered, she would apologize to Tata.

  During her break, she opened her iPad and browsed through a few articles. With a cup of coffee by her side and a pain au chocolat fresh from the oven, she tried to relax. She sat in Carolyn’s office, which was empty, since Carolyn didn’t come in until eleven a.m.

  Clémence checked her email and found a new email from the photographer with the subject line “Marcus Savin show 2”. It was another batch of photos. He must’ve sent the two emails, one after another, but she’d only looked through the first one.

  She opened the second email and looked through the photos simply out of curiosity. Since Gabrielle and Tata were both innocent, it had to be Karmen.

  Unless…who was that figure lurking in the background in one of the photos? Clémence didn’t know she had even been backstage. The woman had said she’d not been there, but it was unmistakable that it was her.

  Suddenly Clémence knew who the killer was. She sprang out of her seat, ready to make a call to Cyril despite her destroyed reputation as the better sleuth.

  * * *

  Clémence waited in the outdoor cafe in the gardens of the Tuileries. The sun was out that day, and plenty of people were enjoying the scenic surroundings of the gardens and the fountains. If one stood in the middle of the Tuileries, the Louvre could be seen on one side and the Luxor Obelisk the other.

  She was wearing a stylish outfit—a black leather pencil skirt with a patterned dark-green silk button-down shirt. A fitted, distressed brown leather jacket was worn over it, and black Louboutin pumps graced her feet. She had to dress more like a fashionista than usual, since she was about to be photographed.

  Lucie appeared, camera in hand.

  “Hi, Clémence! So glad you agreed to this.”

  Clémence stood up, and Lucie greeted her with kisses on the cheeks.

  “No problem,” Clémence replied brightly. “I thought this would be fun.”

  “Let’s take some pictures of you from different angles.” Lucie took the sense cap off her camera.

  She snapped away while Clémence smiled. Lucie was a good photographer. She took all the photos on her blog, so Clémence could trust that she’d look good.

  Lucie photographed her having coffee, fake laughing, posing near the trees, playing with a dog that came nearby.

  Too bad the photos would never make it onto her blog by the time Clémence was
done with her.

  When Lucie finished, she sat down with Clémence and ordered a cappuccino.

  Lucie got out her pen and notebook and asked her some questions.

  “Who are your style inspirations?”

  “My mother,” Clémence replied. “I have a question for you as well.”

  Lucie looked up from her notebook. “Sure. What?”

  “Why did you kill Natalie?”

  Lucie’s good-humored expression faded. She was speechless.

  “I can take a guess,” Clémence said. “Natalie wouldn’t let you go backstage. Being the social climber that you are, you went back anyway.”

  “What proof do you have?” Lucie said.

  “Photos. From a photographer. You weren’t as careful as you thought. Sure, there were no cameras backstage, but there is always someone taking photos. You should know, since you’re always snapping away.”

  “Show me,” Lucie said. “Show me the photo.”

  Clémence got out her iPad and showed her. Lucie grabbed it and tried to break the iPad in half on the table. Other patrons turned to look at her. Lucie turned red, but she kept her voice low.

  “Now you don’t have the photo.”

  “It’s on the Internet,” Clémence said. “I know you were back there.”

  “You and who else?” Lucie looked around suspiciously.

  “The fact that Natalie rejected you from backstage shouldn’t be the only reason. So why? Why did you do it?”

  Lucie let out a strange, high-pitched laugh. “For the fun of it. Nobody cares about a fashion blogger, especially a second-tier one with little influence. I was never the prettiest or the most stylish or anything. I would never amount to anything. My mother told me that. So I showed her. I showed everyone. If I can’t get backstage and be where all the beautiful people are, I’ll kill whoever stands in my way. And Natalie. She was a nobody, too. I hate her. I hate nobodies. And you know who else I hate? The somebodies. That’s why I was trying to get you to see that it was Gabrielle.”

  “How?”

  “You’re always snooping around. I thought you’d find some dirt on her. I’m surprised you didn’t. Gabrielle must really be an angel. She must be the only one in this industry.” She let out another laugh.