Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) (5 page)

C
lémence braced
herself against the wind. Her scarf unraveled around her neck and threatened to fly away. She reached out and grabbed one end and looped it back twice around her neck.

The NEXX Modelling agency was in the 8th arrondissement, and as she approached the building, she went over what she would say to the agent in her head.

Somebody buzzed her in at the front door, and she pushed through the heavy red door. It led to a small garden. Following Madeleine’s texted directions, she walked to the back, toward a small blue door on the right side.

She passed by a young man who was tall, pale, handsome in a feminine way, smiling for photos as someone snapped away behind a big camera. He was probably a new male model recruit with nothing in his portfolio so far. The scene amused Clémence. To see an amateur model posing nervously and awkwardly for the camera was endearing.

Clémence pushed through the door and walked up to the second floor. When she went inside to the waiting room, three young women were already sitting on the cream leather sofas, leafing through magazines or glued to their smartphones.

After Clémence sat down, two more young women came in through the door, all very young but very tall, with cheekbones that were sharper than knives.

She supposed they were here to land modelling agents. And why was Clémence here? To land a murderer.

The other girls, the ones who weren’t texting like crazy, sized Clémence up. It didn’t seem to take them long to realize that Clémence was no competition, and they went back to looking at their phones and magazines.

At five foot four, Clémence was not built for this industry. She also ate too many sweets to fit into sample sizes, not to mention that she was pushing thirty, the age of retirement for many models.

She checked in with the receptionist, telling her that she had an appointment with Alice Ambrosia. Some of the young girls looked up at Clémence at the sound of the name. Alice was a top agent in the industry. If a model signed with her, she was almost guaranteed major contracts.

As Clémence sat back down, the girls seemed to be glaring at her. They were probably curious why Alice Ambrosia would possibly want to see her.

One of the girls was scrutinizing her more than the others, a blonde with light-blue eyes, thin lips, and striking cheekbones, who took off her earbuds when Clémence sat opposite her.

“Hey, are you…?” She trailed off, as if trying to recall Clémence’s name.

The other girls looked between the blonde and Clémence, as if wanting to say “Who? Is she someone important?”

Clémence gave no answer. Maybe the girl had seen her on a gossip blog or one fashion site or another, but she wasn’t going to let on. She blinked back at her innocently, oblivious to her line of questioning.

“You look familiar,” the model finally said.

“So do you,” Clémence said. “You look like Claudia Schiffer.”

“Who?”

“Claudia Schiffer. You know who that is?”

“No,” she replied.

Clémence supposed she was too young to know who the supermodel was.

“Maybe you can Google her,” she suggested lightly. It was all young people had to do nowadays to find out anything.

Clémence realized how old she felt sitting next to these young models. Although it felt like only yesterday that she had been eighteen herself and starting university, to these girls, she was probably ancient. After all, she hadn’t grown up with search engines and social media. She remembered her family using encyclopedias to get information, or they had to go to the library. It was strange how much the world had advanced, technologically, in the past decade. There was no privacy anymore.

Privacy
. How could a murder possibly be private at a fashion show? There were cameras everywhere. People with camera phones in the audience filmed everything. Yet five minutes backstage was all someone needed to kill Natalie. How? And why?

“Clémence?” the receptionist called. “Alice is ready to see you now.”

“Clémence Damour,” the model exclaimed. “Oh!”

Clémence smiled at her as she got up. The other girls were tittering amongst themselves.

She followed the receptionist’s instructions to go down the hall to the last room on the right.

“Come in,” Alice instructed after Clémence knocked on the door.

“Bonjour,”
Clémence said.

Alice was in her fifties. She wore a chic burgundy skirt and a black-and-white triangle-patterned blouse. Her hair was a sleek salt-and-pepper bob that curled into her chin. She smiled with burgundy lips that matched her skirt.

“Please, sit down.”

Clémence closed the door and sat down, feeling awkward all of a sudden in the office. The walls were black, but much of the furniture and decor was gold. It was definitely dramatically decorated.

She felt like a show dog about to be judged, in the same way that the flurry of paparazzi had made her feel in the summer, when she had been the target of tabloid fodder after Sophie’s kidnapping.

She introduced herself, and Alice cut her off.

“I know who you are.” Alice’s voice was hard but her smile evened out the harshness. “You’re a natural.”

“I’m sorry? A natural what?”

“Model, of course. I saw you in the papers wearing the Marcus Savin dress that made all the fashion magazines.”

Alice was referring to the time she had been photographed leaving the police station.

“I didn’t know you were interested in modelling until now,” Alice continued. “Do you have a portfolio?”

“Er, no.” Clémence was confused. What exactly had Madeleine told the agent? “Did Madeleine tell you I was here about modelling?”

“Yes. Well, she said you wanted to speak to me. I naturally assumed. What did you want to speak to me about?”

“Well, I know that you are Gabrielle’s agent, and I wanted to talk to you about possibly doing a project with her.”

“Oh?” Alice was intrigued. “What kind of project?”

“As you may know, my family owns the Damour patisseries.”

“Yes, yes, of course I know.” Alice waved the information away, as if she was insulted to be told something so obvious.

“One of my new marketing ideas is to collaborate with high-profile tastemakers on new macaron flavors. I thought it would be interesting if we could collaborate with Gabrielle on developing her own macaron flavors. As you know, we’ve had a successful collaboration with the Marcus Savin label recently. The limited-edition macarons and cakes sold very well. We figured that our next collaboration would be with a model, since we can also shoot a series of ads to be placed on billboards and in magazines.”

Alice slowly nodded, warming up to the idea. “That’s not bad. It’s an interesting proposition. Gabrielle has worked with practically everyone in fashion, but a luxury patisserie chain would be the first. It’s most unexpected, and she gets to put her personal stamp on a dessert…yes, I think she would really like the idea.”

“Great,” Clémence chirped. “Can you tell me more about Gabrielle? What her personality is like, what she does in her spare time?”

“Gabrielle is a busy woman. In fact, when she’s not working, she’s planning her wedding—maybe the macarons can be wedding themed?”

“That could be something to consider,” Clémence said. That was, if this collaboration were actually to happen, which it wasn’t. She wasn’t about to work with a murderer if she could help it.

“Who are Gabrielle’s friends?” Clémence asked. “Does she mostly hang out with other celebrities, or does she have, say, childhood friends?”

“I don’t know about childhood friends. Actually, I don’t know, now that I think about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gabrielle outside of work events. At parties, she’s usually with her fiancé.”

“So she’s not a girl’s girl?”

“I don’t know. Is that important for this campaign?”

“Yes. I just want to get a better idea of who Gabrielle is. We want to sell a macaron that represents her.”

“Of course,” Alice said.

“Perhaps it’s better if I have a chat with Gabrielle directly?”

“Her schedule is jam packed this week. She’s flying back to Paris tonight after a photo shoot for
Vogue
in Morocco.”

“This will be a huge campaign. One that we’d like to get started right away for Christmas, if Gabrielle accepts. If it’s possible, I could even go on one of her shoots and just have a chat with her. I mean, models have a lot of downtime in between shoots, don’t they?”

Alice thought about it. “That might be arranged. She’s doing a commercial for BISOUX Cosmetics in the next two days. I’ll call Gabrielle and try to arrange something.”

“Thank you so much.”

Alice’s phone rang, and she answered it, speaking in rapid tones. Clémence figured it was time for her to leave. All she wanted to do was speak to Gabrielle. A fake collaboration had seemed the best way to do it, and it worked.

When Alice got off the phone, Clémence was gathering her things to leave.

“Clémence.” Alice smiled again, her burgundy lips spreading across her pale face. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you interested in modelling?”

“I’m no model. I work at a patisserie.”

“But you could be more. Our agencies sign singers, athletes, and other personalities. You don’t need to be a
model
model to be in magazines. I’m sure, if you wanted to, I could land photo shoots for you, and they can even interview you about your chain. You can be the face of your company, even more so than you are now.”

“Thanks. I take that as a big compliment. At the moment, I don’t think I’m comfortable being the face of anything.”

“Come now. You’re too modest. Well, give me a call if you ever feel you’re ready.”

Alice passed her a business card. Girls would kill to land a contract with Alice. Clémence didn’t even have a desire to be a model, and Alice wanted to sign her.

Girls would kill to land a contract with Alice. Girls would kill to be a model.

Was that why someone would kill Natalie? Had she been in someone’s way?

M
arcus had told
her that Natalie’s funeral was later at seven in the evening. Clémence planned on going with him.

Natalie was often mean to the models. What if Natalie was a failed model herself and resented the successful ones? She was about Clémence’s age, but she was tall enough to be a model, with the figure to match.

Maybe Natalie had had a few heated words with Gabrielle in private, and Gabrielle was angry enough to grab the nearest thing around and stab her. Gabrielle was blinded with anger and then went back to the washroom to wash off any traces of blood before sitting back in the makeup artist’s chair to remove her makeup.

It was only an idea; Clémence had no proof of any of this. But what she did have was some time. Since she had to wait to hear back from Alice in regards to meeting Gabrielle, she could do more research on Natalie.

Clémence had some time to kill before Natalie’s funeral. She didn’t want to go back to work; whenever she was solving a murder case, she could never get into the spirit of baking. All she wanted to do was study the case until it was closed.

She decided to pay her friend Cyril a visit.

The police headquarters was at 36 quai des Orfèvres. It was still windy out, but Clémence decided to walk. She went east to Rue du Louvre, then walked down the rest of the way along the Seine.

Clémence couldn’t pick out her favorite neighborhood of Paris; each arrondissement was so different with its own delights and misgivings. Her favorite place to walk had to be along the Seine. Even if sometimes tourists with cameras got in the way, the view was something she could never get tired of.

The police station was on the Cité island, near Saint Chapelle. When Clémence entered, she saw that the receptionist was preoccupied with a group of police officers. Since Clémence knew exactly where Cyril’s office was, she slipped away up the staircase.

She knew she could usually find Cyril in his office. He was the type of man who would rather relax in an office than do the dirty work of being out in the field. He’d rather command from the height of a throne than perform any of the labor himself. Come to think of it, he wasn’t much of a thinker, either. In Clémence’s eyes, he was pretty much a village idiot who lucked out and somehow got to be a detective.

How did that happen?
Clémence often wondered. Did he come from a connected family? Did he have friends in high places? It was one mystery Clémence would never solve.

His door had his name stenciled on the glass window. She knocked. Someone inside could be heard shuffling papers.

“Oui?”
came Cyril’s bored tone.

It would’ve been wasted effort to ask Cyril if she could come in, so Clémence simply let herself in.

“Oh,” Cyril’s voice deflated even more at the sight of her. “What do you want?”

The detective was tall and skinny like a beanpole, with beady green eyes and a hawk-like nose. He had his legs crossed and propped up on his desk; they were so long that they reminded her of grasshopper legs. He was in his mid-thirties and a bachelor. Clémence couldn’t imagine a woman who would put up with someone so insufferable.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” Clémence said.

“Aren’t I always?” Cyril snorted.

“You should be. Especially since you know that I solve all your cases for you.”

“Hardly. You solve the cases that involve products from your patisserie chain. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a marketing strategy.”

Clémence suppressed an eye roll. It was too easy to get sucked into an exchange of insults with Cyril.

“I didn’t come here to banter,” she said.

“Then why are you here?” Cyril asked, shuffling some papers in his hands to make it seem as if their contents were far more interesting than interacting with Clémence.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing with the case. I heard you arrested Karmen Meri.”

“What’s it to you?” Cyril sneered. “Jealous that we nailed the perp this time?”

“How do you know it’s Karmen? Do you have proof?”

Cyril crossed his arms. She detected a defensive expression on his face, and she leaned back, anticipating the information that she had come to hear.

“Karmen Meri has family in the Estonian mob. They have a history of violence. She was missing at the time of the murder, and she was wearing Styra shoes.”

“Where was she?” Clémence asked. “Where did she say she was at the time of the murder?”

“Some story about how she was in the bathroom, throwing up.”

“Bulimia?” Clémence asked. She found that more believable than Karmen killing Natalie.

“Yes, but no one saw her in that bathroom, or going in or out of it.”

“What’s her connection to Natalie? Why would she want to kill her?”

“We interrogated a lot of people. A couple of girls admitted that Karmen was not a fan of Natalie, that she had even mocked her.”

“What else?”

“Karen didn’t like Natalie.”

“That’s it?” Clémence asked. “That’s all you have to incriminate her for murder?”

Cyril’s eyes bugged out. “What else do you need? There is no one else. Like I said, someone from a mob family must have a pretty quick temper. Perhaps Natalie said something to annoy her, and she just wanted to hurt her and stuck a knife in her.”

“Karmen gave a candid interview in an article I read on my phone on the ride over here,” Clémence said. “Modelling was her ticket to a better life. It was her stepfather and stepbrother who were connected with the mob, and she didn’t grow up with them, nor was she ever influenced by the mob. As soon as her mother married into the mob and didn’t seem to want to get out of it, Karmen was starting to get modelling work, and she moved to Paris shortly afterwards. The mob connection is not very incriminating. Everyone I’ve talked to said she’s a sweet girl.”

“It’s always the sweet ones.”

Clémence sighed, trying not to lose her patience with him. It was like talking to a brick wall most of the time.

“Look, this girl might be innocent, and you don’t sound like you care.”

“All right, who do you think is the killer? Do you have any better ideas?”

“What about Gabrielle?”

“What about her? We talked to her at length, and she didn’t do it.”

“How do you know that? She was also missing backstage during the time of the murder, and she was wearing Styra shoes. Plus, she went out before the police came.”

“Yes, Clémence,” Cyril said in a patronizing tone. “We’re aware of that. Like I said, we looked into it, and she’s innocent.”

“Really? How?”

“Gabrielle is too…charming to be a killer.”

“You’re basing her innocence on charm? You know, there are psychopaths out there who are extremely charming.”

“Clémence, you don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t have anything on Gabrielle or the blogger or the other model, whatshername. It’s Karmen.”

“What about Natalie?”

“What
about
Natalie?” Cyril retorted. “She’s dead. She’s not a suspect.”

“I know that.” Clémence wanted to tear out her hair. Of course Natalie wasn’t a suspect in her own murder. “I mean, what do you know about her? Why would anyone want to kill her?”

“Natalie Albert…she was not very significant. She went through school an average student, didn’t go to college. Modelled for a while, then worked for Savin.”

“What did she model for? I didn’t know she was a model.” Although she had suspected it.

“She did some lingerie modelling. Catalogs, websites.” Cyril smiled. “I checked out her work.”

Clémence couldn’t suppress an eye roll this time. “Classy, checking out a dead girl.”

“It’s part of my profession.”

“Why did she quit?”

“Her agent dropped her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t getting the right work.”

“Who was her agent?”

“The Dexter Agency.”

“Haven’t heard of it,” Clémence said. “It must be a smaller agency. Do you know if she really wanted to be a model?”

“She moved here from a small town to model, with no education and no other backups, so I might say so. Why? Where are you going with this information?”

Clémence brightened up. “
Merci,
Cyril. Sometimes I really don’t know how you got this job, but I suppose you do do your homework once in a while.”