Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (6 page)

“I made salmon and green beans for dinner,” she said. “With rice.
Tu as faim
?”
 

“
Oui
, I’m really hungry. That sounds good.”
 

But Clémence could tell from his expression that he was still distant toward her.

At the table, he poured wine for her. Men always poured wine for women in France. She broke a piece of a fresh Damour baguette for him.
 

“It certainly smells good,” he said. It didn’t take long into the meal for him to bring up Mathieu. “How was the rendezvous with your ex—what’s his name again?”
 

“Mathieu,” she replied, even though she knew very well that Arthur knew his name.
 

“So what happened?”

“Um. Well, we talked at Damour—I made him come to the
salon
so the paparazzi wouldn’t snap us together out and about, not that we have anything to hide.”
 

“Well, that’s funny, because there are pictures of you all over the Internet.” He took out his phone from his pocket and showed her a blog post.
 

The photos were of her and Mathieu outside his house, snapped from earlier that afternoon. They were embracing as she kissed the side of his cheek. The headline said:
Clémence Damour Cheats on Boyfriend with Artist Ex
.
 

Who could’ve taken that photo?
Was she followed?

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked.

“You gotta be kidding me,” she said. “I can explain.”
 

He leaned back and crossed his arms. She could tell that he was pissed off. She told him about the ghost story, the child’s handprint on his wall, and how she was going to cleanse his house with sage.

“That’s pretty hard to believe,” he said. “You’re pretty naïve if you believe that story.”
 

“Excuse me?” Clémence exclaimed. “Okay, the ghost thing may sound crazy, but why would he lie to me? And there
is
a small handprint on the wall.”
 

“Oh, I don’t know, to get you over to his house? To bait you because he knows you’re a sucker for anything weird and mysterious? Have you ever thought that maybe the handprint didn’t come from an actual ghost?”
 

“I’m not naïve.” Clémence’s temper flared. “Look, I understand why you’re upset—”

“Do you? This is humiliating. I have friends phoning me up asking me if I’m all right, and even my mother asked me what was going on between us.”
 

“Oh God. I’m sorry. But it’s all innocent, I swear.”

“Ghosts,” Arthur muttered.
 

“Don’t you trust me?”
 

“Do you trust yourself?”
 

Clémence blinked. “What? You really think I’m going to cheat on you with Mathieu?”
 

“Why not? People cheat on each other all the time. If you were close to this guy, who’s to say you won’t get close again? He’ll charm you, pay you a couple of compliments, and you’re back in his arms before you know it.”
 

“Do you really think I’m that easy to impress? I don’t want him. I swear—”

Just then, the doorbell rang.
Who could it be at this hour?
She wasn’t expecting anyone.
 

“I’ll get it,” she stood up.

At the front door, she looked through the peephole. Mathieu! Again? He didn’t tell her he was stopping by. She considered not answering, but how could she? He probably heard her footsteps through the door and—

“Clémence?”
 

Shoot. He knew she was there. There was no other choice. She had to open up.

“
Bonsoir
Mathieu. What can I do for you at this hour?”
 

“I know it’s late, but I was in the neighborhood after dining with a gallery owner to talk about my work. Anyway, you left both of your sage sticks, and since I was the in the neighborhood, I figured I’d just return them to you.”
 

“How did you get in downstairs?”

“Someone was coming out. I hope it’s all right. I didn’t want to intrude. I suppose I also wanted to apologize in person for Charlotte’s behavior today. She was just surprised to see you. I hope she didn’t hurt your feelings.”
 

“No. It’s okay. And one of the sage sticks is for you. Go ahead and use it.” She took the other one.

“Charlotte knows a lot about you. It’s because I mention you a lot, especially during the past week, when stories about you were just everywhere. I guess she got a little jealous.”
 

“It’s understandable. No hard feelings.”
 

“Hey—is that an original de Kooning?”
 

Mathieu brushed past Clémence and entered the apartment’s hallway to look at an abstract charcoal sketch of a woman by the famous Dutch artist. Clémence didn’t know how to stop him.
 

“Er, yeah. It’s an original. My mother’s. She won it at an auction at Christie’s.”
 

“Do you mind if we turn on the lights? I want to take a better look.”

Clémence whispered, “Actually, Mathieu, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time—”

“
Bonsoir.
” Arthur approached.
 

Mathieu turned to him and put on his smoothest grin. “I’m Mathieu Leroy, Clémence’s…friend.”
 

“Arthur Dubois.” He reluctantly shook his hand.

“This is Arthur, my boyfriend that I told you about.” Clémence said awkwardly.

“Anyway, I’m just dropping by to return something Clémence left at my house earlier, since I was in the neighborhood. Hope you don’t mind.”
 

“Not at all,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “I heard you’re an artist.”
 

“That’s right.”
 

“I think I read about you recently—about one of your shows.”
 

“Well, chances are you read a bad review, but as Clémence reassured me earlier today, my new works are the stuff of genius. And the public will finally realize it someday. Maybe when I’m dead, right?” He chuckled, then something caught his attention. “Hey—I remember this painting.”

It was an oil painting of pink flamingos. “Clémence painted it ages ago,” Mathieu mused.

“You did?” Arthur looked at her. “You didn’t tell me you did it.”
 

“Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed by it,” Clémence said. “There’s a lot of mistakes. See these brush strokes? And how the black paint mixed with the pink?”
 

“It’s beautiful,” said Arthur. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
 

“Clémence was always modest about her work,” Mathieu said. “But she’s talented all right. Maybe more so than I am.”
 

She blushed. She’d never heard Mathieu say that. It meant a lot to her—even though she didn’t quite believe what he said was true.

“Your parents have an amazing collection of art, as always,” Mathieu remarked. “Arthur, I hear you’re in finance.”
 

“Sort of. I’m working on my PhD right now, on macroeconomics and working at a consulting firm part-time.”
 

“Macroeconomics? I really know nothing about it.”
 

“I’m sure you’re more creative than scientific and it’s probably not very interesting to you.”
 

“That’s not true,” said Mathieu, even though it was. “I just don’t understand it.”
 

The three of them didn’t say anything further. Clémence stood close to Arthur. She wanted Mathieu to leave but was too polite to say so. She hoped he could take a hint.

“Well, I didn’t mean to disrupt your evening,” Mathieu finally said. “I better be going.”
 

“Okay, thanks for bringing the sage back,” Clémence said. “Hope it’ll work in your home.”

“Let’s hope.” Mathieu crossed his fingers.

“Pesky, those ghosts, huh?” Arthur remarked.

“I don’t know what’s worse, if the handprint is real or if somebody went out of their way to play a practical joke on me. Well, bonne soirée.”
 

Before leaving, Mathieu gave Clémence a
bisou
on each cheek, and shook Arthur’s hand again.

“That was awkward,” Clémence said, after she closed the door.
 

Arthur didn’t reply. He only went back into the kitchen. Clémence followed.
 

Their dinner, half eaten, was cold.
 

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Arthur said.
 

He opened the door in the kitchen that led to the servant’s staircase and went up the stairs. While Arthur’s family lived on the third floor, he took a servant’s room on the seventh.

“Wait, Arthur.”
 

He didn’t turn back. He kept walking up the steps as his footsteps echoed on the staircase.

Chapter 8

Clémence stuffed a piece of
pain au chocolat
into her mouth. Lately she’d been eating more than she’d been baking. Ever since the kidnapping, she’d been binge-eating like crazy. She’d never been an emotional eater, but it was never too late to start. It was the stress. Now that Arthur was mad at her, she needed comforting more than ever.
 

“Are you okay?” Sebastien gave her a strange look.

“I look like
merde
, don’t I?” Clémence certainly felt like a mess.

After Arthur left the night before, she had polished off the rest of the wine and begun crying. It wasn’t just their fight that caused the breakdown, it was everything. Maybe she should call Sophie Seydoux and get the name of her therapist.

“Take it easy on that pastry,” Sebastien said.

“Too much alcohol and too many sweets,” she muttered. “I can cut the alcohol, but not sure about the sweets.”
 

“Put down the
pain au chocolat
and let’s get back to work.”
 

“Fine. I need to get my shit together, don’t I?

Sebastien was working on the apricot-and-melon macaron for their fruity summer macaron collection.
 

“Well, I have been doing most of the inventing lately,” he said.
 

“How was the banana macaron anyway?”
 

“See for yourself. It’s coming out of the oven, and I’m making the coconut filling. I think I’ve finally perfected it.”
 

Since the shells needed to cool before they could pipe on the filling, she busied herself helping Sebastien improve the starfruit recipe.
 

As she started to work, she began to relax. This was what she loved about being in the kitchen. There was something soothing about weighing the ingredients, mixing them together, and watching the colors change. A few simple ingredients could make the most delicious, decadent, and beautiful treat. That was the joy: the transformation from the ordinary to the extraordinary.
 

Unlike painting, working in a kitchen wasn’t something she struggled with. Even perfecting the recipes after multiple attempts was still fun. Maybe it was because she didn’t need to prove to herself in this field. There was no pressure and she only enjoyed herself.
 

When she’d seen Mathieu’s new paintings, she’d rediscovered how much she wanted to be a painter. Even though the art world couldn’t see it now, she was certain his work had merit and that he was going to go places. Mathieu had something to say and he was not the type to compromise artistic integrity. She had meant it when she said that his work was brilliant. Although they’d had some personal conflict, she respected him, from one artist to another.
 

Seeing how productive Mathieu was, how persistent, Clémence felt she could do more. A lot more. She was too stuck in her comfort zone to pursue her big passion. She’d barely gotten started on her series of dessert paintings. The one and only painting she’d worked on was of the pistachio macaron, and she hadn’t been to an art class at the Spinoza Atelier since she started investigating Sophie’s kidnapping.
 

The teacher and her peers couldn’t blame her for taking some time off, but she couldn’t make excuses to herself anymore. She needed to get her life back on track. There were no more murders, no more ex-boyfriends, no more chaos to get in the way.

Mentally, she made a list of all the things she needed to straighten out:

1) The issue with Arthur. A non-issue really. She wouldn’t see Mathieu from now on. If he contacted her again, she’d respect Arthur enough to say no. His girlfriend Charlotte would also appreciate their lack of contact. Arthur was still mad, but she couldn’t see why he wouldn’t forgive her when she proved how much she loved him. Maybe she’d give him a full-body massage that night, and feed him some fresh-made macarons.
 

2) Restrict to eating only one dessert a day. Then one every two days. Stop grabbing junk to eat on the go, and consume more vegetables. If she needed to, she could get her chefs to make her healthy meals to take home.
 

3) Exercise. Go to bootcamp with Berenice. Maybe she could even start taking self-defense classes. It would definitely come in handy.
 

4) Go back to her art classes, starting tomorrow. No more excuses. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t as talented as Mathieu or other artists. She had to push herself to do what she loved.

The macaron mix was done, and she smiled in pride. She scooped the mixture into a piping bag then piped perfect one-inch circles on a lined tray.
   

She felt better already, making the macarons and a checklist.

Sebastien began piping the coconut cream on the cooled banana macaron shells and sandwiching them together. Clémence helped. Making macarons was a simple kind of happiness, like enjoying a beautiful garden, or wearing nice clothes.
 

“Try one,” Sebastien said.
 

When she bit into the banana-coconut macaron, the flavors exploded in her mouth. It was melt-in-her-mouth delicious, as all Damour macarons were.
 

“Amazing.”