2 Éclair Murder (3 page)

So why couldn’t she apply the same patience, certainty and perseverance to her art? It was probably because she took it too seriously. Baking and experimenting in the kitchen was fun, while painting and trying to figure out what it was that she wanted to express through lines and colors was work. Painting conjured up insecurities, and it was easier to stick with what she was good at.
 

When she was living with her ex-boyfriend in Le Marais before she went on her two-year tour around the world, she had been the girlfriend of a talented artist. Mathieu had been her classmate, and the one deemed “talented” in school. His technique did in fact rival the masters. His portraits of people were incredible.
 

The last she’d heard, Mathieu had put on a small exhibition, portraits of farmers from the countryside. She read one of the glowing reviews in the papers. As everyone had predicted, Mathieu was on his way. She wondered if he was still with the girl he’d broken up with her for, Susanne whats-her-name. He had scouted her from the streets and asked her to pose for one of his portraits. What a cliché
it had been, the artist and the muse getting romantically involved.

The whole breakup had turned Clémence off from dating artists—and creating art. After it happened, she decided to go off and travel, which had been one of the best decision she’d ever made.
 

She’d been together with Mathieu for three years, and she used to be crazy about him. Mathieu was so brilliant and charming, but ultimately, he didn’t think Clémence was good enough for her. Looking back now, he had hardly been encouraging about her work. He was condescending towards her efforts, paying false compliments as if he was a parent praising the ugly scribbles of a child. There could only be one artist in a couple and it certainly hadn’t been Clémence.

“Oh what the hell,” she said to Miffy. “If I’m no good as a painter, I might as well just have fun with it, right? I already have a pretty good job. I’ll just do it for the enjoyment of it.”
 

Clémence looked at La Tour Eiffel for support as well, which seemed to be emitting the positive response that she needed.
 

“If it sucks, I’ll just throw the painting away, right? It’s just practice.”
 

Clémence went ahead and sketched Miffy on the canvas. She painted her on top of a Parisian rooftop, since that was her view from the balcony.

Time seemed to fly as she painted. Miffy barked every so often to cheer her on.
 

When Clémence took a break in the kitchen to eat a snack, she heard knocking at the kitchen door.

It was Ben, the Englishman who lived in one of the former servant rooms on the roof. He rented the room from her parents.
 

“Hey.” The goofy Englishman was dressed all in black, his signature attire, and he was holding his laundry bag. “I saw that you were in and I figured I’d be able to do the laundry. I tried calling you.”

“Come on in. Sorry, I was on the balcony so I didn’t hear the phone ring. Run the machine and come have a drink outside if you want.”
 

“Sure.”
 

“Plus I want to hear all the latest on your relationship with Berenice.” Clémence smiled mischievously.

She had invited Berenice out to Ben’s poetry slam a few weeks ago and the two had hit it off.

“You’re gonna grill me, are you? You’re going to have to ply me with alcohol first.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” said Clémence. “Sometimes I worry about your drinking problem.”
 

“Don’t worry.” Ben grinned. “It’s just the British in me.”
 

They took a bottle of white wine to share on the balcony. The sun was bright and the clouds were a brilliant white.
 

“What’s that you got there?” Ben peered at the half-finished painting on the easel. “You did this?”
 

“Just now,” Clémence said, a little embarrassed. She’d been looking at the painting so closely that she had not stepped back to look at it in its entirety until now. She scrutinized it, hoping that it wasn’t awful.
 

“It’s amazing,” Ben said.
 

“Really?” Clémence beamed. She did think the painting wasn’t too bad. There was a sense of whimsy to it, and it captured Miffy’s friendly personality well. “I’m still working on the shading.”
 

“I’d forgotten that you were a painter,” said Ben.
 

“I’m trying to get back into it,” said Clémence.

“You’re obviously very good.”
 

Clémence blushed. Her parents had always told her that she was good, but art school had been so competitive. It felt good to have another person tell her that she had talent, even if he was a friend.

“Is that what you want to be? A painter? Your mother mentioned that you really wanted to be a great painter.”
 

Clémence groaned. “She told you that? I suppose I do.”
 

“So you’re thinking of putting on a show any time soon?”
 

“A show? No, I’m just trying to practice.”

“But that’s the ultimate goal, right?”
 

“Well, I guess so,” Clémence admitted.

“I have friends in Belleville,” said Ben. “If you ever want to put on a small exhibition or something, I know some artists and gallery owners. Maybe you can team up with some other artists.” His face lit up. “Or we can collaborate too. We can make it an art and performance project. I can get my musician and dancer friends in on it, and we can perform all evening. Maybe we can put on a show where there’s a performance every hour.”
 

Clémence’s head spun. She’d just wanted to draw her dog, and Ben wanted to put on some big
spectacle
?

“I wouldn’t even know what to paint,” said Clémence. “I’m still trying to find my footing.”
 

“You’re painting Miffy,” said Ben.

“Yes, but I can’t put on a show with portraits of my dog.”
 

“Anything can be done, but you must paint something you’re passionate about.”
 

Clémence thought about it. “Well, I’m passionate about desserts.”
 

“Yes, desserts! It’s perfect! Clémence Damour of the
Damour
patisseries painting desserts and pastries. I’m sure people will snatch those pieces up.”
 

She gave a little laugh. “Sounds like a big advertisement for our company.”
 

“Not if it’s sincere,” said Ben. “Cheers.”
 

They clinked wine glasses. Clémence smiled.

“You should be an inspirational speaker or something.”
 

“I’m a writer,” said Ben. “I help people with perspective.”
 

“How’s that mystery novel coming along?” asked Clémence .
 

“It’s going well. The inspector has decoded the pages of code in the briefcase. I’ve decided that it’s a plan to access another dimension. But now it’s turning into sci-fi.”
 

“A sci-fi mystery. Sounds cool. Berenice loves mysteries. You should let her read it.”

Clémence turned to Ben, waiting for his response.
 

“She is reading it,” said Ben. “She has plenty of ideas.”
 

“So is it official now?” Clémence grinned. “Are you a couple?”
 

“I don’t know,” said Ben. “I really like hanging out with her, but I don’t know if either of us are taking the romance aspect seriously, which makes me wonder if there is a romantic aspect. I mean, we’re attracted to each other, and we have a good intellectual rapport, but I wonder if the chemistry is there.”
 

“Well have you tried to kiss her?”
 

“No,” he said.

“No?” Clémence
 
gaped. “What are you waiting for?”
 

“We only hang out once or twice a week. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush. I think she might even be dating other guys, but I like her, so I’m waiting to see how this unfolds naturally.”
 

Clémence shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”
 

Berenice was a little boy crazy. She often made eyes at Raoul, who worked at
Damour
. Still, it did seem like she and Ben had a lot in common, but if one took the relationship more seriously than the other, someone could get hurt. Clémence would probably end up feeling responsible because she was the one who’d introduced them after all.
 

“But you’re also right,” said Ben. “A kiss would probably tell me if we have something more. If there isn’t, we’ll just go back to being friends, no big deal.”
 

“You’re very practical for a poet and a fiction writer,” Clémence remarked.
 

“We’re not all drunks and philanderers,” Ben joked. “Don’t you usually work at this time or are you taking an extended lunch break?”
 

“Oh.” Clémence sighed. “No. Actually, the place is closed for the day.”
 

Clémence explained about the murder and the poisoned éclairs.
 

“That’s really strange,” said Ben. “Paris is actually a pretty sinister place if you think about it.”
 

“Don’t blame Paris,” said Clémence. “Blame the psychopathic murderers. I wonder who would do such a thing.”
 

“So the inspector thinks your store has something to do with it?”
 

“I think he
hopes
that it does,” said Clémence. “He’s out to get me.”
 

“I think he’s out to get everyone.” Ben had met Cyril once and felt the same way about him that Clémence did.
 

“What if he finds something?” Clémence asked. “What if the store
is
responsible?”

Just then, the cell phone she’d taken out to the balcony with her began to ring on the table. An unknown number.

CHAPTER 5

“One of your staff members has been arrested,” said Cyril.
 

“What?” Clémence exclaimed, jumping up.
 

“Raoul Baka. Just thought you would want to know.”
 

Cyril hung up.
 

“I can’t believe this!” Clémence said to Ben.
 

“What?”
 

“Apparently Raoul has something to do with this.”

“Who’s Raoul?”

“He’s one of the cashiers at the patisserie. I’ve got to go to the store and chew off that inspector’s head!”
 

Clémence went back inside the apartment.

“I’ll go with you so you don’t seriously hurt him,” Ben said.
 

They walked back to Place du Trocadéro, where
Damour
was. A few people gathered outside, looking into the window, wondering what was going on.

This was not good. This was not good at all. Not only was the store closed, her customers could see the police car and Cyril’s team in the store. Now an employee had been arrested in connection with a murder. Her parents were going to be furious. Clémence’s fear would be realized:
Damour
’s reputation would take a nosedive under her watch. How could she let this happen?

She knocked on the door to the
salon de thé
. One of the members of Cyril’s team opened up.

“Where is he?” she said. “Cyril St. Clair?”
 

At the sight of her furious face, the man didn’t hesitate in pulling Cyril out of the back kitchen. Clémence stepped in the store with Ben. From outside, a camera flashed. People were taking pictures of this. They would be in the papers. What a mess.
 

Cyril had that smug grin on his face, with lines that appeared at the sides of his mouth like parentheses trying to contain his mean intentions.
 

“Ah, Mademoiselle Damour. I knew it was only a matter of time before you started sticking your nose in our business again.”
 

Clémence crossed her arms and bit back a retort about his large nose. She wasn’t in grade school. Trading insults wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

“What’s the story?” she asked instead.

“It seems to me that your employee had a public spat with our deceased only a few days ago. A grocer saw him punch out Monsieur Dupont in front of his grocery. Plus, Raoul had been working the morning shift the day that Dupont was killed, so putting two and two together, it’s simple mathematics really.”
 

“In this case, you end up with five,” said Clémence. “Did you even find any traces of poison or anything suspicious around here? Do you even have proof that Raoul poisoned the éclairs or know of any witnesses who’d seen him?”
 

“You are lucky that your employee covered his tracks well, but he still has a couple of eye witnesses who saw him punch out Dupont on the street, as I’ve told you. It explains why Dupont’s eye still has a trace of a bruise.”
 

“Who is this Dupont guy anyway?” Ben asked.
 

“Alexandre Dupont,” said Cyril. “One of your best éclair customers, according to his wife, who is in hysterics by the way. He works at Avenue Kléber and comes to your patisserie often, though he’s learned his lesson now, hasn’t he?”

Cyril gave a nasty laugh. Clémence grimaced, disgusted by his ability to joke at a time like this.

Clémence had never seen Dupont at the store before, but she’d only been back for a month. Her employees probably knew way more about him. And she was eager to find out why Raoul would punch him out.

“Where is Raoul?” asked Clémence.

“Already in custody.”
 

“Can I talk to him?”
 

“Unless you’re his lawyer.”
 

She sighed. “So why did Raoul punch Dupont?” she asked Cyril.

“I don’t know yet,” said Cyril. “But I’ll be questioning him later on. Next time, be careful who you hire.”
 

“What about the store?” Clémence asked. “You’ve found nothing, right? So can we reopen it now?”