2 Éclair Murder (6 page)

“Don’t you care what we think?”
 

“No,” said Sebastien.

“So you
are
seeing someone,” Berenice asked.

“I didn’t say that either.”
 

Berenice gave an exaggerated sigh. “See? You can’t get anything out of this guy. He doesn’t even have Facebook or any kind of online presence.”
 

“Well, I don’t have Facebook either,” said Clémence.
 

“You don’t?” Sebastien gave her a high five.
 

“Sometimes I post on the
Damour
fan page,” said Clémence. “So I’m not entirely social network-free.”
 

“That’s different if you’re just using it for business,” said Sebastien. “But I don’t really care what people eat for lunch or other mundane status updates, you know?”
 

“Unless they’re eating at
Damour
,” said Clémence. “But I get what you’re saying. I’d rather get to know people face-to-face.”
 

Clémence used to have a Facebook profile, but she deleted it when she started seeing photos of her ex Mathieu with his new girlfriend. She had been so distraught that she blocked him. Still, his pictures showed up in the feeds of their mutual friends, and she just had to delete her profile altogether and start living in the real world by taking off for her travels. She didn’t miss being online one bit.
 

“You’re just as hard to get to know offline,” Berenice said to Sebastien. “As your sister, how am I suppose to give you guidance on relationships if I don’t know what you’re up to?”

“Maybe I don’t need your guidance,” Sebastien retorted.

Clémence shook her head at the brother and sister. They looked alike, but they were so different. It made her miss her older brother and sister, who were living outside of Paris. Her brother was in Deauville in Normandy and her sister was in the south of France. She hadn’t seen Henri and Marianne since her birthday in January, when they’d all visited her in Malaysia.
 

“I very much doubt it,” said Berenice. She turned back to Clémence again. “Did you know that Seb was in a relationship for three years and I didn’t even know it until two years in? I ran into them at the movies once and that was when I found out.”
 

“You’re really annoying me,” said Sebastien. “I’m not one of you girls. I don’t kiss and tell.”
 

Clémence laughed. It was true that Berenice and Celine were boy crazy. They could spend entire lunch hours talking about boys with Clémence. But she understood Sebastien’s discretion. Lately she’d been guarded about her love life too, although there wasn’t much to talk about to begin with.

Celine came into the kitchen.

“
Pssst
,” she called to Clémence.

Clémence walked to her. “What is it?”
 

“He’s here,” Celine said in a loud stage whisper. “Your main man.”
 

“The murderer guy?” Berenice asked.

“Yes. He’s in line right now. I just saw him walk past the door and into the patisserie.”
 

They turned to Clémence.
 

“What are you going to say?” Sebastien said.
 

“I think I’m just going to follow him for now,” said Clémence. “I don’t want him to know that I work here.”
 

“Own the place you mean,” Berenice said.
 

“I’ll follow him to his workplace, see what he does, and I’ll figure out how to talk to him after that.”
 

“Clémence, come on,” said Sebastien. “If this guy has killed someone, you have to be careful.”
 

“I am careful,” she said. “I’m not following him into alleys. It’s Friday morning. It’s safe.”
 

Celine went back to her post. Clémence took off her apron and checked herself in a small mirror on the wall before she went out. The
salon de thé
was already full with customers eating breakfast. She traversed over to the patisserie section, which was divided by a half-wall. She could see the man’s back. Marie and another cashier, Charlotte, were working and Marie gave her a meaningful look. Clémence inched closer to get a better view. The man was looking at all their treats under the glass display.

He was looking at the éclairs, then the croissants. She was sure it was him, because he was the only man in a business suit in line.

Clémence waited, watching him from behind the wall opening. He ordered a
pain au chocolat
. As he paid, Clémence got ready to follow, but someone else came in through the patisserie door.
 

At the sight of her, this new arrival called out her name.
 

It was Arthur.

CHAPTER 10

“Clémence!”
 

Startled, Clémence ducked back into the
salon de thé
. She hoped that her suspect hadn’t spotted her.

“Hey, Clémence.”
 

Arthur came through to the
salon
section with a puzzled look.

“Didn’t you see me? Are you trying to hide from me?”
 

Clémence shushed him.

“Stop calling my name,” she said in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here anyway?”
 

“I wanted to talk to you,” said Arthur.

Clémence snuck another look into the patisserie.
 

“He’s leaving,” she exclaimed.
 

She watched the man push the door open and turning the corner.

“Who’s leaving?” Arthur asked.
 

“Nevermind.” She moved towards the door. She should follow at a good distance behind. “Arthur, this is not a good time.”
 

She pushed the door open.
 

“You’re not seriously stalking some guy, are you?” Arthur said. He came out after her.

Clémence groaned. “No. I mean yes, okay, I am following someone, but it’s not what you think.”
 

“How do you know what I think?” He was walking next to her now, as Clémence turned onto Avenue Raymond-Poincaré.
 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Clémence asked.
 

Arthur was carrying a briefcase. “Yes, I was going to go to the library to work on my thesis, but I thought I’d stop by and talk to you first.”
 

“
Pourquoi?
What do you want to talk about?”
 

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what exactly it is that you’re doing following some guy in the early morning.”
 

Clémence sighed. He could be quite persistent if he wanted to be. “Fine. I’m trying to solve another murder case, all right?”
 

“Oh. Don’t tell me it’s for the guy we found in the bush.”
 

Clémence nodded. She gave him the quick rundown of what she’d found out so far.
 

“If he’s been coming in the store consistently, doesn’t it mean that he just likes your baked goods?” Arthur asked.
 

“He’s my biggest lead, so I have to check this out. What if he poisons someone else?”

“This is insane. You’ve already gotten seriously injured the last time you tried to find a murderer.”
 

“Yes, but I found out who the murderer was, didn’t I?”
 

Clémence didn’t know why Arthur had to be so argumentative. “Now I’ve told you what I’m up to. What did you want to tell me?”

Before he could answer, the man went inside a bank. It wasn’t the bank that Clémence was a client of, but she wondered if he worked there, or whether he was just there to make a transaction.

“Act casual,” Clémence said. “Pretend we’re just walking by and I’m going to look inside the window to see if the guy’s there.”
 

“Fine.”
 

They walked by, but Clémence didn’t see him. The receptionist was sitting at the front desk, and there were no one else in sight, not even clients.

“I’m going to have to go in to find out,” said Clémence .
 

Before Arthur could object, Clémence went into the bank. The attractive brunette receptionist greeted her, and Clémence smiled back, but moved to the cash machine. She would make a withdrawal. If the man didn’t reappear, it either meant that the man worked there, or had an appointment.
 

She should have went in after him immediately. She would’ve been able to tell by how the receptionist greeted him whether he was a client or an employee. That Arthur really set back her investigation.
 

By the time the euros came out of the ATM, the man still hadn’t appeared. She considered asking the secretary, but she might refuse to tell her who the man was if she didn’t have a good reason to know.

When she went back outside, Arthur was still hanging around, waiting.

“Why are you still here?” She asked him.

“I have better things to do, obviously,” he replied haughtily. “But you’ve made it difficult.”
 

“I’m making your life difficult? You’ve just set my investigation back.”
 

Clémence explained that she had to wait around now for the man to come back out.

“Okay, Clouseau, I didn’t mean to.” Arthur’s face softened. “Come on, let’s just go across the street and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Clémence wanted to reject his offer because she didn’t want to spend any more time with him, but this made the most sense. The café across the street did have a solid view of the bank and she’d be able to keep an eye on the scene without appearing suspicious.
 

“Fine,” she said.
 

They sat down and Arthur flagged down the server.

“
Un café, s’il vous plait
,” Clémence ordered.
 

“Make that two,” Arthur said.

“What did you want to talk about anyway?” she asked.
 

“I just came over to give you an apology,” said Arthur.

“Why?” Clémence was suspicious. Arthur apologizing? Surely there was a catch.
 

She turned and looked into his eyes. Arthur stared back. His brown eyes almost looked tender in the sunlight. And he seemed a little nervous.

“I think I offended you yesterday with my comment about you looking…run down.”
 

Clémence raised an eyebrow.
 

“Really?” she asked dryly.

“Yes, I mean, I personally can’t understand why, but I suppose women are sensitive to these things.”
 

“I was not offended,” Clémence said. “I was annoyed.”
 

“Fine, which is why I’m apologizing.”
 

Clémence wondered why Arthur cared. He was rude to her half of the time. His behavior was quite inconsistent, but she had to give him credit for at least owning up to part of his rudeness.
 

“I accept your apology.”
 

“Okay,” Arthur said, looking satisfied.

The waiter arrived with their expressos.

“If you want to go soon, you can,” said Clémence. “I’ll just sit here and wait.”
 

“Well we found the body together, we might as well wait for the killer together.”
 

Clémence gave a laugh. “You want to join in on the sleuthing?”
 

“Look, you’re poking around a guy who’s a potential killer. You need someone as backup.”
 

“I don’t need backup.”
 

“Oh for the last time, I found you unconscious a month ago, remember?”
 

“I didn’t really plan that evening,” said Clémence. “I just happened to have been home very late and things happened.”
 

“Exactly,” said Arthur. “Sometimes you don’t think. You just act. Somebody has to be the voice of reason.”
 

“And you think that’s your voice?” Clémence shook her head.
 

“You’re impossible,” Arthur said. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed.”
 

“If I need help I’ll ask for it.”
 

What was it about Arthur that always brought out her argumentative side? If she really needed protection, she had plenty of guy friends to ask, like Ben or Sebastien, and she wanted to tell him that, but something stopped her.
 

She looked at Arthur. Did she find him attractive? Sure, objectively, but was she personally romantically interested in him? She couldn’t be. Especially after he’d sneered about the flowers when she’d asked, or his insensitive insults, even if he’d just apologized.
 

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then changed the subject.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.

“Fine.”
 

“I hear you’re a painter,” he said.
 

“I dabble,” she said. “Why? Did your mother mention it?”

“Yes.”
 

Clémence got the feeling that Arthur’s mother really wanted him to pursue her. She also knew however that Arthur was more into bimbos. She’d seen enough girls coming out of the building with him on Sunday mornings—girls in tight mini skirts and full bosoms, doing the walk of shame. In fact, he had been bringing one of these girls home late at night when he’d found her unconscious outside of their building over a month ago.
 

So why was he being so nice now? Surely she wasn’t his type. She was slim and dark haired—not curvaceous and blond like his usual type. She didn’t show much skin at all. Clémence couldn’t go out with someone with such superficial taste in women. She’d been heartbroken by someone who’d dumped her for a great beauty, and she wasn’t going to risk her heart again. Especially by someone who was in essence a spoiled rich kid, even if he was working on a PhD and living in a servant’s room.
 

Nevertheless, she indulged him in his inquiries about her art, answering his questions about what she’d studied in school and the artists who inspired her. Although she was surprised by his interest, she didn’t want to delve into the subject of the personal paintings she was working on, or planned to work on. For now she felt like a fraud, a wannabe, even if she had a fancy degree.