Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (12 page)

“Thanks, Clémence. You’ve been so supportive during this tough time.” He stepped in closer, mesmerizing her with his light blue eyes. “You know, I’ve really missed you. You’re the only person who understands me. I made a grave mistake being with Sarah, and I wish I could turn back time.”
 

Clémence tried to maintain the smile on her face.
Sarah is the mother of your baby
, she wanted to snap.
Have you forgotten that you have a baby?

“I really think we make a good team,” Mathieu continued. “I know you’re with Mr. PhD and you like him. He’s all right, I guess, but he’s a little boring for you, don’t you think?”
 

“Arthur is—”
 

“I still have feelings for you,” Mathieu blurted. “If you feel the same way, life is too short. What I took away from Charlotte’s death is this: if you want something in life, grab it, and I definitely want you, Clémence Damour.”
 

He leaned in to kiss her. Clémence turned her cheek, and he kissed her there instead. “I’m flattered Mathieu. But you know that—”

“I know, I know. Your boyfriend, Arthur.” He stepped back to give her space. “Just think about it, Clémence. We’re meant to be together. We can be one of those great artist couples, like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.”
 

“But they were miserable. They cheated on each other.”
 

“You know what I mean. We have a lot to learn from each other. And you’re so adventurous. You proved that when you went around the world. I’d always thought you didn’t like living life on the edge. You’re so different now, like you’re a new woman. Maybe we needed to be apart for a while so we can find ourselves before finding each other again.”

“Mathieu…”
 

“Okay, I’ll stop talking about it. You know where I stand now, and I’ll leave it up to you to decide.
 

“Thanks.”
 

They were silent for a moment, looking out at the cityscape.
 

“How’s your roommate?” Clémence brought up casually. “Is he still in London?”
 

“Yeah. He just called yesterday. Said he’d be back this weekend. I’m glad he’ll be around again. You know, with this whole ghost situation. Yesterday I really wasn’t able to sleep, because I kept hearing noises.”

“The ghost’s been keeping you awake?” Clémence tried not to let any sarcasm creep into your voice.

“Maybe you want to come over one night,” he said flirtatiously. “We’ll film it and make
Paranormal Activity 9
.”
 

“Maybe.” Clémence met his gaze, smiling in what she hoped was a seductive way. “I better be going. Arthur is going to be coming home soon, and there’s something I want to talk to him about. You know, about our relationship. Something between us hasn’t been right for some time.”
 

Mathieu nodded sympathetically. “Do what you have to do.”
 

They gave each other
bisous
good-bye and Clémence promised she’d call soon.
 

When she exited Galerie Lafayette onto Boulevard Haussman, Amelie called her.
 

“Hey Clémence,” Amelie said. “We ran some tests this morning on the Mercier painting. It turned out that one of the pigments used wasn’t invented until 1934. Since the painting is dated 1878, the painting is a fake. From what I can tell from the photograph, it’s a pretty good forgery.”
 

Clémence had suspected this all along. But what about the one from the auction? Did somebody pay 50,000 euros for a fake Mercier?

Chapter 18

The next day, Clémence wore a little black dress, courtesy of Marcus Savin, and red leather pumps. She was looking her best as she rang Mathieu’s door in the late evening.
 

She’d come uninvited, and she heard voices from outside the door. Gilles was home.
 

When she rang the doorbell again, Mathieu opened the door and received her with surprise.
 

“Clémence. I didn’t know you were coming by. It’s nice to see you.” He gave her a once-over. “You look drop-dead sexy.”
 

“Thanks,” Clémence said breezily, stepping into the house as if she owned the place. “So it’s settled. I talked to Arthur, and now I’m here to talk to you.”
 

She plopped down on the cream leather couch, and he sat down next to her, looking at her at with puppy eyes. “What is it?”
 

“I told Arthur everything. He was very understanding about the whole situation.”
 

Mathieu couldn’t help but smirk. “Hope he wasn’t too hurt.”
 

“No.” Clémence smirked back. “Actually, he was very relieved.”
 

“How come?”
 

Clémence turned to the staircase. “Hey, I heard voices before I came in. Is your roommate back?”

“Oh,” he said slowly, as if he was unsure of answering. “Yeah. He’s back.”
 

“I’d like to meet him,” Clémence said.

“Sure, I’ll get him.”
 

Mathieu disappeared upstairs, and came down a minute later with the bespectacled man Clémence had recognized at Christie’s. He was growing in a light beard that day, and wore a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
 

“This is Clémence,” Mathieu said. “Clémence, Gilles.”
 

“A pleasure to meet you.” Gilles spoke in French with a British accent.

She could see why Sarah would be creeped out by him. His dark eyes seemed to devour every curve of her body.
 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Clémence said. “Did you enjoy your trip to London?”
 

“Very much so. It was a mixture of business and pleasure, since I got to see some friends.”
 

“Did any portion of the trip involve murder?” Clémence asked nonchalantly.
 

Both men gaped at her in shock.
 

“Excuse me?” Gilles demanded.

“You heard me.” Clémence’s voice turned dead serious. “Charlotte Lagrange, Mathieu’s girlfriend. You killed her, didn’t you?”

Gilles sputtered, then broke out into a laugh. “Why would I kill her?”
 

“Because she was getting in the way,” Clémence said. “She was going to expose your art fraud scheme. Your reputation would’ve been ruined. You’d lose millions and you’d go to jail.”
 

“That’s ridiculous.”
 

“Mathieu said you were in London, but you’ve been spotted around Paris. Weren’t you at Christie’s, making sure your fake Mercier sold for a good price?”
 

“Clémence,” Mathieu cut in. “You don’t know you what you’re talking about.”
 

“Can it, Mathieu,” Clémence said, anger rising in her voice. “Don’t think I don’t know your part in all this. Why did you tell me that Gilles wasn’t in town? So you could try to seduce me in this house. Isn’t that also why you didn’t tell me you already have a baby with Sarah? That wouldn’t have fit in with your plan to win me back so you can use me for my fame and make a name for yourself in the art world again. You used me once and you won’t use me again.”
 

“Really, Clémence, that’s preposterous. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
 

“Is it? Isn’t that why Charlotte died? She was an inconvenience for the both of you. She was onto you, Mathieu, and she got jealous once she figured out that you were trying to win me back. She knew that you were done with her and her limited connections in the art world. Besides, you already got what you wanted from her: a recommendation to a reputable gallery. That night after I left, she must’ve let you know that she was onto your plan to make Mercier copies for Gilles to sell. And copies of other great lost paintings. She threatened you. You told Gilles and he must’ve made the snap decision to kill her on the spot. You guys didn’t expect anyone to trace this back to you, did you?”
 

Mathieu’s lips were were pressed in a grimace. “Clémence.” His tone dropped two octaves.
 

“Showing up at my house the night Gilles murdered her was a good touch,” Clémence said, “so I wouldn’t suspect you. And to feel sorry for you so you could get closer to me. At least that was a bit smarter than your original plan—using your baby to make the handprint, then baiting me to come here on some lame ghost story.”
 

“You believed it, didn’t you?” Mathieu said.
 

“You’re so pathetic,” Clémence spat. “Did you really expect me to dump my amazing boyfriend for a con artist like you? What happened to you? You could’ve made it on talent alone. Why did you do it?”

“Get off your high horse, Clémence.” Mathieu snapped. His face twisted into fury. “It’s people like you who I hate. Everything always comes so easy for you. If you wanted your own exhibit, I’m sure you’d get anything you want with a snap of your fingers, with your name alone, and talent would mean squat. Me? I have no name, I have no wealth. I graduated and expected the world to recognize my talent like everyone did in school, but you know what? They’re all idiots. As you said, my work is ahead of my time. I refuse to be a slave to everyone’s ignorance and mediocrity. So I did what I had to do to live comfortably. When Gilles approached me to make copies of famous masters to pass off as the real things, I didn’t have to think twice.” He let out a bitter laugh. “People are so stupid. They bought it. And my first Mercier easily passed for the real thing at one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world. It was easier than I thought.”
 

“And Charlotte?” Clémence demanded. “You have no remorse that your so-called business partner killed her?”
 

Mathieu shrugged. “It’s her own fault. Things were going well and we could’ve had fun for a couple of months—that is, until she decided to stick her nose in our business.”
 

“How did you know about the fakes?” Gilles asked. His was looking at her with burning hatred. “How could you have possibly found out?”
 

“I was here yesterday,” Clémence said.

Gilles and Mathieu looked at each other. “You were?” Mathieu said.
 

“Yup. I wanted to get in to take a closer look at your Mercier, but you were out, so I broke in.”
 

“What?” Gilles’s mouth hung open.

“I saw the new painting that Mathieu was working on. I realized later that you were making a copy of another Mercier painting, of the sunset over the field of lavender in Provence. It’s a pretty good deal for you, huh, Mathieu? You have all the space to work on your own paintings, while you rip off respectable collectors.”
 

“Do you blame me?” Mathieu spat. “It was the only way to make it. I didn’t want to be a starving artist. Screw that entire ideology. Artists had to suffer for centuries due to the general public’s idiocy. Those people wouldn’t know art if it bit them in the ass. Real or fake, they’ll buy whatever so-called experts tell them is worthy of being owned.”
 

“You made your daughter proud,” Clémence shook her head.
 

“You know what, Clémence? You’re the pathetic one. You were always pathetic, following me around like a lost puppy. Where’s your great artistic achievement, huh? You’re just jealous, like you always were.”
 

Clémence took a deep breath. “You know, I used to have respect for you. But what’s the point of being talented when you’re unscrupulous and have no morals? Art is about revealing the soul. Is that why your new paintings are so dark and disturbing? But it doesn’t matter, does it? Your career is over. Murder and art fraud—you’re finished.”
 

“Shut up,” Gilles said coldly. “You’ve spoken for long enough. Now if you know all this, why would you come to the house of a murderer?”
 

Clémence gave him a strange look. “Who said I came alone?”
 

On cue, the police burst in through the front door.

“Freeze! You’re under arrest.”
 

Inspector Cyril St. Clair entered, after several armed policeman. He watched with delight as the men were handcuffed.

“Bravo, boys,” Clémence said. “Your confession has been recorded. That’ll make the trial a lot faster.”
 

Clémence pulled down the collar of her black dress to reveal a hidden mic taped to her chest.
 

Arthur also entered, smiling smugly. He stared Mathieu down, who looked away in disgust. Arthur hugged Clémence. “You were amazing.”
 

Clémence turned back Mathieu and Gilles. “You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to come without backup, did you? When your Mercier turned out to be a fake, I went to the police with my suspicions that you were making copies in this house. They also ran a test on the Mercier that had been sold at the auction. Surprise, surprise, that turned out to be a fake, too. The police backed my theory, and I came here and got your confessions. I’m sure that there is more evidence in Gilles’s room that the police would love to get their hands on. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more fakes in there.”
 

“We also found a footprint at the murder scene,” Cyril added, not to be outdone. “I’m sure we’ll find a matching shoe, Gilles. You’re going away for a long time, boys.”
 

Clémence looked deep into Mathieu’s eyes. “What do you want to tell your daughter?”
 

His pale eyes were blank. “Nothing. Tell her nothing.”
 

Chapter 19

The night before Clémence’s birthday, she wore a slinky black dress and stepped out on the balcony of her apartment. The moon was an oversized orange, perched above the rooftop of a neighboring building. The Eiffel Tower stood high and mighty across the Seine. In less than ten minutes, it would shimmer, as it did every hour on the hour after sundown.
 

A red tablecloth covered the balcony table. A single candle was placed on top. Arthur had set it with the meal that he’d cooked—pasta, as that was the only thing he
could
cook, but she was pleased nonetheless. He’d made an effort to learn to make something more complicated from his family chef: smoked salmon, mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes were thrown into the mix with a light creamy sauce.