Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (4 page)

“I tried to, but not recently. When I was with Sarah, well, she wasn’t that into it.”
 

“Oh. Too bad. Hey, so what’s this strange thing that you wanted to tell me?”
 

“Oh.” Mathieu chuckled. “Well, I thought you’d get a kick out of this. I think my place in Les Lilas is haunted. I was thinking of calling you when I made the discovery. Funny enough, you started appearing in the news, and I knew I had to get in touch with you.”
 

Clémence leaned in, eyes wide. “What is it? What do you mean, ‘your house is haunted’?”

“Yeah. There’s a ghost in my house for sure. And I have proof.”
 

Chapter 4

“What proof?” Clémence exclaimed. “Tell me!”
 

Mathieu chuckled. “I knew you’d be into this. It’s really bizarre. I mean, I really hope it’s not true, but evidence points to the contrary.”
 

“What kind of evidence?”
 

“Well, I painted the walls in my room recently, but before the paint dried, a handprint appeared. It’s still there.”
 

Clémence’s mouth hung open. “A handprint? And it’s not yours? What if it was your roommate’s?”
 

“I doubt it,” he said. “Gille’s in London for the month, and no one’s been over this week, since the handprint appeared. It can’t be either of us because you know what the creepy thing is?”

“What?”
 

“It’s a tiny handprint, a small child’s.”
 

“Your place is being haunted by a child?”
 

“Possibly. Which is why I’m not that creeped out. But I still want to know how to get rid of this ghost.”
 

“Can I see it?” Clémence asked.

“See the handprint? Sure.”
 

He finished the rest of his café crème and reached for his wallet.

Clémence laughed. “Come on. Have you forgotten already? It’s my café. Your money’s no good here.”
 

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’m going to buy a few more of your croissants to take home. So you want to come over now? If you have the time, that is.”
 

“I can, but can I meet you there?”
 

“Oh, you don’t want to take the Métro together?”
 

“It’s best if we don’t get photographed together,” Clémence said.

“Right.” Mathieu nodded, grimacing. “Those guys outside. That’s for you?”

“Yup. I’m trying as much as possible to avoid being written about. If they see how boring I am, they’ll leave me alone.”
 

“I see. Sorry they’re hounding you.”
 

“Ah, it’s all right. Actually I just don’t want there to be any crazy rumors. If I’m seen leaving with an ex-boyfriend, they’re bound to make up stories. Not that I care, but I just want to protect my boyfriend.”
 

“Right. I’ve seen a profile of you guys in the papers. You’re quite serious then.”
 

“Yes.” Clémence smiled. “Everything’s going well. We’re living together.”
 

“I’m happy for you.”
 

Did Clémence detect a hint of jealousy in his voice?

While Mathieu headed to the Métro station, Clémence decided to pick up some white sage. Although she’d never seen a ghost, she was a believer. She knew that one of the ways to get rid of negative energies in a house was by burning white sage. There was a shop in Belleville that sold it and she quickly picked some up, then jumped back in her cab to head to the address Mathieu had given her.
 

In Les Lilas, the cab stopped in front of a two-story house with its facade painted a burnt yellow. Mathieu was already waiting for her outside the gate. He greeted her, once again, with a kiss on each cheek, even though it was unnecessary as they’d seen each other half an hour earlier.
 

He pushed open the gate and she followed him, walking past the well-groomed front yard. The middle-class neighborhood was quiet and residential. A dog barked in the distance, and there were no other people in sight.
At least there weren’t any paparazzi around
, Clémence thought.

“You live in this house?” Clémence asked. “It’s not divided into apartments?”
 

He let her into the foyer, where there was a massive staircase to the left. To her surprise, the decor inside was white and minimalist. There was nothing on the walls, except a television mounted on one in the living room, where there was also a fireplace. An African sculpture was on the mantelpiece, as well as a small photograph of a bespectacled man she assumed was the roommate, stroking a tiger. It faced cream white couches and a coffee table made from blue and gray stained glass, the only colorful thing in the room.

“Nope. It’s really Gille’s house, and I’m renting a room from him.”
 

“Wow,” she exclaimed. “It’s huge. You can fit six more people in here.”
 

She wasn’t exaggerating. It was rare to find big living spaces in Paris. Although the house was not exactly in central Paris, she was still impressed. She remembered the cramped apartment she used to share with Mathieu when they were both fresh graduates. They both paid an arm and a leg for a tiny studio where there was no privacy between them.
 

“It’s great, huh? I’ll give you a tour.”
 

They passed the sleek kitchen with modern appliances and bare counter tops, save for the espresso machine and two familiar lavender bags with gold Damour logos embossed on them—Mathieu had bought two more croissants to take home after their meeting earlier.

He showed her a huge open space in the back of the house, adjacent to the living room, where a couple of easels had been set up. There were canvases of all different sizes leaning against the walls. Floor to ceiling glass windows allowed plenty of light in and had an expansive view of the backyard.

“And this is our workspace,” Mathieu said. “Where the real magic happens.”
 

“I can see why you moved out here,” she said. Space was a real commodity in central Paris. She painted on her tiny balcony, which was enough for her for now, but it wouldn’t be if she ever wanted to work on larger canvases, as Mathieu was doing.

She examined the two art pieces he was working on. One was on an easel and another was drying against the wall. She felt a tinge of jealousy.
 

“This is great.” She pointed to the six-foot canvas that was drying. It had a Modigliani influence with its pastel splattered background, but the pale figure of a woman was battered with shades of dark grays and blues. Her gray eyes were sad and her thin lips were downturned. There was an alien quality about her head, and her body was tiny in proportion to it.
 

“It’s part of my new portrait series,” he explained, “except these people aren’t real. I’m painting them from my head.”
 

He’d always paid great attention to detail, but his style was becoming more distinct. Looking at the sophistication of his work, she felt that her own work was like child’s play in comparison. She was painting desserts, for crying out loud.
 

It was typical of her to feel insecure about her own talents whenever she compared her work to Mathieu’s. He had always been the great talent and she the hack. He inspired her while making her feel terrible about herself at the same time.
 

He was the kind of artist who could simply close his eyes and produce a masterpiece. Clémence did not possess that raw talent. She was a worker bee. It took her weeks, or even months, to produce something to match Mathieu’s caliber, and even then she didn’t think it was good enough. What made a piece of art special was such a mystery—what gave it a special edge over the other paintings? Whatever that required, Mathieu had
it
in droves.
 

The other piece was of a black man with dreadlocks down to his chin. Lines creased his eyes and there was blood splattered on his cheeks. It seemed to be the theme so far: sullen, withdrawn characters with bloody, battered bodies, calmly placed in front of a pastel backdrop.
 

Mathieu’s work had certainly evolved. He used to focus on nudes, during the phase when he was obsessed with the feminine form, as many masters were. Now he’d created pieces with a modern edge.
 

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“It’s good,” she said. “Great, actually. I’m really touched by their expressions.”
 

“Life is difficult,” he said. “But art has always been there for me. That’s what I’m trying to express in this series.”
 

She was moved to see him in this rare moment of vulnerability. What had happened to him over the years? She knew that his father had died from stomach cancer when he was only twenty, and his mother died in a car crash while he was in school. There was always something tragic about Mathieu, a side that Clémence had pitied and wanted to take care of. A part of him was a little boy who needed healing. It was also the part that made him a sensitive and talented artist.
 

“It’s certainly unlike anything you’ve done before,” she said.
 

He smiled modestly and headed back toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink? I’ve got some champagne, actually.”
 

“That’d be great. So where’s the hand print?”
 

“It’s in my bedroom,” he said. “I’ll show you in sec.”
 

He came back with two champagne flutes and handed her one. She brought it to her lips and drank, while feeling his gaze on her. She blushed. The way he was looking at her was making her slightly…dizzy. What was his agenda?

She told herself not to be silly. It had been her idea to come to his place to look at the handprint to begin with.
 

“It’s upstairs,” he said. He led her up the grand staircase.
 

The walls on the second floor were just as bare, except for a funny sketch of a moose and one painting of a boat and a sunset. It wasn’t an original subject, but the painting’s style seemed familiar.
 

“I know this artist,” she said.
 

“You do?”
 

“Didn’t we learn about him in school? He was the French painter from Normandy, right? Was a sailor and painted a lot of boats and the sea?”
 

“Good job,” he praised. “You know your stuff.”
 

“But not his name.” Clémence scowled, berating herself for not remembering. “It starts with an M…”
 

“Mercier,” he said. “Felix Mercier.”

“Right, of course. Is this an original?”
 

“Yes,” he said, flushed with pride, but he quickly added. “Not mine, of course. I wouldn’t be able to afford one. It’s Gilles’s.”
 

“Who is Gilles exactly?”
 

“He’s a financial trader. Part of the reason he wants to room with me is that he wants to learn how to paint. But frankly, he’s not very good! He’s big on art though. He’ll be away in London for another week on a business trip so he’s not around.”
 

“What company does he work for? My boyfriend’s in the finance world. Maybe they’ve crossed paths.”
 

“Oh, I forget.” Mathieu made a face. “All those companies sound the same. It’s so boring to me.”
 

Clémence agreed, but she did not say so. As much as she loved Arthur, whenever he talked about finance or economics, it went over her head.
 

Mathieu opened the door to his bedroom. To her surprise, it was neat and sleek, with cream walls. It only contained a desk, a bed and a book shelf. When they were living together, one of the things that drove her crazy was that he had been messy—and a hoarder.
 

“What happened to all your stuff?” Clémence asked.
 

He chuckled. “As you can tell, my roommate loves minimalist living, so I’ve been influenced. I mean, why let material possessions drag you down?”
 

“A financial trader who is not a materialist?” Clémence mused. “I’m learning a lot today.”
 

Mathieu pushed the bed a few inches back. “Check this out. I get chills when I see this.”
 

Clémence crouched down to take a better look. She could see it: a small handprint with a visible palm line.
 

“Whoever it is must be very, very young,” she remarked. “Have you seen this ghost?”
 

“No. Sometimes I hear a child crying in the middle of the night. At first I thought it was a neighbor, but it’s not possible. The family next door does not have a child, and there’s nobody living in the other house right now since they’ve gone away for the summer. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just having nightmares.”
 

“Definitely creepy. So are you scared to sleep alone?”
 

“Well, I wouldn’t say scared. More like disturbed.”