Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) (4 page)

C
lémence walked
Miffy in Champ de Mars early in the morning. It was grey and overcast, but the weather forecast predicted that things might turn around later in the day. The clouds, however, were threatening rain.

Miffy didn’t seem to notice or care about the weather. She barked happily and took off at a run. Clémence had her on a leash and ran after her in her ballet flats.

Despite the dreary weather, she was glad to be getting a bit of fresh air and to surround herself with greenery, even if it was in the middle of a big, bustling city like Paris. She hoped the rain would stay up there in the clouds while she enjoyed the open air before she had to go in for work.

Soon, however, it did rain, and she and Miffy tried to run home before the downpour got to them. Unfortunately, by the time they went home, Clémence got soaked enough that she had to change her clothes and shoes.

After throwing on a white cashmere sweater, socks, and water-resistant black ankle boots, she grabbed a few things to put in her purse. As she passed the hallway on her way out of her bedroom, she surveyed her paintings lining the tables and the floor to dry. They sat on newspapers, and they were nearly dry. She needed to paint a couple more during the weekend to complete her dessert series.

When all the paintings were completed, she planned on hanging them in the
salon de thé
. Her friend and neighbor, Ben, who lived in a room on the top floor of the building, had suggested that she hold an art show at Damour to show them off. She could even sell them.

Clémence had always wanted to be an artist, having graduated from art school, but it was not something she’d seriously considered again until recently. She didn’t think she was original or talented enough. Her subject matter was, for the time being, desserts. She wasn’t exactly making grand statements with her art or doing anything provocative.

But it did take courage to do what she’d always finally wanted to do and to open herself to the public. While she hoped that people would like what she did, she would also have to deal with criticism—as she had to face sometimes in her role with the public as a patisserie heiress and sometimes socialite.

Sometimes she’d read a frivolous gossip piece on a website, then scroll through the comments. Most of them would be negative, calling her talentless or questioning why the media was even paying attention to her.

Why
were
they paying attention to her? She didn’t really get it, either. All she knew was that she had to separate herself from the person people seemed to think she was and be the person her friends and family knew and loved.

Having had the experience of being in the spotlight, she’d developed thicker skin. It gave her the confidence to show off her art. She’d always been sensitive to critiques. Deep down, she was simply a fragile artist. There would be those who would call her talentless, resenting her for her family name and wealth, but she would deal with them as they came.

She was excited. This weekend, she was going to send out the invitations, as soon as she signed them all by hand.

“See you at lunch,
mon chou
,” Clémence said to Miffy before she went out.

At Damour, she greeted the hostess of the
salon de thé
with kisses on the cheeks. Celine was one of her best friends. She’d been working at Damour for years, and Clémence had gotten to know her quite well. Celine was one of the most fun and friendly girls she knew. Her only downfall was her terrible choices in men, which included a guy she had dated recently who turned out to be a murderer. Nevertheless, Celine had been changing her dating strategy in recent days. After going on a dating detox for a month, she had gone back out on the scene to start dating again.

“How was drinks with the engineer?” Clémence asked.

“He was nice.” Celine shrugged. “He’s not terribly talkative, though, so I had to do most of the talking.”

“Oh. Maybe he was just nervous.”

“Maybe. I found the silences really awkward. I had to keep talking to keep the conversation going. Otherwise, we’d both be staring down at our glasses.”

“So will you see him again?”

Celine made a face. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“At least you’re dating nice guys. Not bad boys who would break your heart at a moment’s notice.”

“I don’t like the word ‘nice,’” Celine said. “Why can’t I just find someone who’s a gentleman, but who’s also interesting? Am I asking too much?”

“No. Not at all. If anything, you need to have higher standards. There will be fewer people to choose from, but you’ll waste less time and energy on the wrong people.”

“Well, I’ll keep you posted.” Celine shrugged. Her tone didn’t sound so hopeful.

Clémence walked back to the store’s kitchen. She could understand Celine’s pessimism when it came to the dating scene. When she had been single, dating was awkward and horrible, not to mention she had still been hung up on her ex at the time. Come to think of it, she had also had terrible taste in men before she met Arthur. It was funny how someone who could seem so right for you could be so wrong and vice versa.

She hoped Arthur was the one. They had been getting to know each other slowly, but now that they were living together, it was definitely more serious. Would they really get married one day? The thought was frightening and exciting. She loved Arthur, yet she was still approaching their relationship cautiously. Sometimes she wondered if Arthur would suddenly stop loving her and leave her. It was a secret fear that she would never tell him out loud.

Trust was something that was hard for her to build, simply based on her past experiences and the love entanglements that were at the core of many of the murder cases she had helped solve.

All that was behind her now. The police were on this murder case. She had her family chain to busy herself with, and her art. Murder would not be on her mind anymore.

That was, until she made her way into the kitchen.

Carolyn, the manager of Damour, spotted her going in and went into the kitchen to get her.

“Morning, Clémence. There’s someone looking for you.”

“Hi, Carolyn. Who is it?”

“She’s sitting in the corner.”

Clémence turned to follow Carolyn’s gaze.

Lowering a magazine was Lucie Harman, the fashion blogger. She had been at the Savin fashion show and had been one of the three main suspects—because she had been wearing a pair of Styra shoes.

L
ucie put
down her
Marie Claire France
magazine. She stood up and introduced herself.

“Clémence, I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. “I’m Lucie. I run a fashion website called Le Fashion.”

“Right.” Clémence nodded and smiled politely. “I’ve heard of your site.”

“I saw you at the Savin show, but I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself then, since it turned into such chaos near the end.”

Lucie had wavy ginger hair down to her rib cage and green-grey eyes. Her black, winged liner made her eyes look more catlike. She wore a sheer white dress and patent black boots that went up to her knees. Clémence quite liked her style, and she did peruse her blog from time to time, because Lucie had her finger on the pulse of the latest trends, and she went to most of the fashion weeks.

There were fashion bloggers who were more popular, but Lucie was quickly starting to do well, and she was making her mark as an international fashion blogger from France. Her posts were in both English and French.

“Oui—”
Clémence wondered what she was doing here, what she wanted, exactly, but she struggled to find the words to ask in a polite way.

Lucie gestured at the free seat across from her. “Can I please speak to you for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Clémence slid into the seat. She looked at her guest curiously.

“You’re probably wondering what this is all about,” Lucie said. “Me, ambushing you here at your work.”

“Is it about Natalie’s murder?” Clémence asked.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Lucie said. “I know the police have arrested someone, but I don’t think it’s the right person.”

“Karmen? What do you know about this?”

“Karmen is innocent. It’s as plain as day, but the police don’t think to get that. As you might have heard, I was one of the suspects taken in for questioning because I wore Styra shoes. They have a footprint of someone’s Styra in the blood on the floor.”

“So I’ve heard,” Clémence said.

“Luckily, the other model, Julia, and I had alibis. During the whole time that somebody killed Natalia, Julia was speaking to the people backstage, so there were plenty of witnesses to testify her innocence, and I was with my boyfriend outside, and the cameras filmed us. We didn’t have backstage passes.”

“I see. You’re lucky.”

“Yes. But Karmen is not. The police found drugs in her purse. Ecstasy. They also looked into her past, and she has relations in the Estonian mob. I don’t know if it’s a family member or an ex-boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Clémence said.

“Tell me about it. Karmen lives with models who have drug habits. The Ecstasy could easily be one of theirs.”

“How do you know?” Clémence asked.

“I’m a fashion blogger,” Lucie said, as if that was obvious. “I talk to everyone and find out things.”

“Are you sure the drugs are not Karmen’s?”

“I doubt it. Karmen is so sweet. I’m sorry to see her reputation ruined. She’s young and impressionable. I don’t think they considered another suspect.”

Lucie paused for dramatic effect. Clémence took the bait.

“Who?”

“Gabrielle.”

Clémence frowned. She had suspected that Gabrielle had something to do with the murder, and she felt validated that someone else would think the same.

“Why would you say that?”

“She left the fashion show before the police got there. I was outside, hanging out with my boyfriend, and we saw her. I took a picture of her for my blog. At the time, I didn’t know what the commotion was, and I just wanted to take a picture of her, but she noticed I took a picture and scowled at me. When I realized what had happened to Natalie, I wondered whether she was mad because I had evidence.”

“Evidence of her leaving the scene? People knew she was leaving because she had another high-paying modelling job to go to. I don’t think that’s right, but other people seemed to think it was a perfectly acceptable excuse to leave. I figured the police would follow up with her, because I told them that she’d left.”

“I don’t know whether they spoke to her or not, but—” She reached into her Gucci purse, which had been hanging from the back of her chair, and took out a DSLR camera. “Look.” She turned on the camera and showed Clémence the photos she had taken of Gabrielle.

The leggy supermodel had her sunglasses on, making her way to the exit.

Lucie zoomed in on her boots. “Do you recognize those boots?”

Clémence looked closely at the camel-colored boots.

“No. Are they Styra? They don’t look like they’re Styra.” Clémence had perused the brand’s website to familiarize herself with their line.

Lucie nodded. “This style is not even out yet. The designers probably sent her the boots from their new line.”

“So she was definitely wearing Styras. Do the police know about this?”

“Not yet,” Lucie said. “I thought I’d come to you first. After being questioned by them, I realized that they don’t know the first thing about solving these things. I was talking to Madeleine Seydoux, since I was following up on doing a story on her closet, and she told me to come to you. After all, I did recall reading months ago about your involvement in helping her sister Sophie escape her kidnapping. Madeleine did say you were more astute with solving cases than the police. I figured you were the right person to contact.”

Clémence didn’t confirm or deny that. She didn’t know if she necessarily wanted to get involved in yet another messy murder case. What was it with this city? But of course she wanted to help, especially if it meant clearing the name of an innocent person.

“I do have the advantage of getting access to the people involved.”

“Right,” Lucie said. “Since you’re in with the fashion crowd, maybe you can find out more about Gabrielle’s whereabouts. I’m just a fashion blogger. No one’s taking me all that seriously. I couldn’t even get backstage. Of course, I will help any way that I can.”

Lucie handed Clémence her business card. It had a whimsical logo of her site, her email, and a phone number.

“Thanks.” Clémence smiled.

“You have great style, by the way,” Lucie said. “After this crazy mess is over, we should do a fashion story on you. That is, if you’re interested.”

“My style is very basic,” Clémence said modestly. “That wouldn’t be a very interesting post. I dress like all the other Parisian girls. It’s almost like a no-style style.”

“Oh, I think you’re too modest. Style is about looking good and being comfortable. A lot of my readers can relate to that.”

Clémence realized she should give Lucie her card as well. “Wait right here.”

She went inside Carolyn’s office and looked through a drawer holding some business cards. She rarely needed to give out her own business card.

Clémence went back to hand Lucie a Damour card with her name on it. “You can also contact me if you have more information.”

“Sure.” Lucie smiled. “And I’ll contact you about the fashion story as well?”

“Okay. Why not?”

“Talk to you soon. Cute tea salon, by the way.”

Lucie walked away to pay for her coffee at the cashier’s counter.

Clémence went into the kitchen, her thinking space, turning the new information Lucie had given her over in her head.

The real investigation was about to begin.

G
abrielle
. What did Clémence know about Gabrielle? Aside from the fact that she was a supermodel engaged to a billionaire media mogul, not a whole lot.

Gabrielle was like a statue. She wasn’t someone you were supposed to talk to. Backstage at the Savin show, Gabrielle had been quiet. Others, including Clémence, saw her as intimidating. Her beauty was otherworldly.

It was true that her schedule was packed. Gabrielle worked nonstop. Marcus had even mentioned that he’d been lucky to book Gabrielle to close his show. To stay on top, Gabrielle had to manage her time well. Maybe she managed it a little too well.

Clémence had noticed when she’d been backstage that Gabrielle would only schmooze with the important people: the famous designer, the famous makeup artist, and some members of the press. Was that how she had gotten to the top?

In the kitchen, Clémence got out her iPad from her purse and started to read about Gabrielle online.

She’d been born in the suburbs of Paris and was discovered by a scout when she went to a concert. She’d been eighteen, and after struggling with modelling for a year in Tokyo and other cities in Asia, she went to New York and landed a campaign with Prada. And the rest was history. Now she was twenty-eight and still on top.

What could she possibly have gained by murdering someone? Her life sounded great—traveling around the world, working only the best shows and landing million-dollar contracts. She was rich, and even if her career stalled, she wouldn’t need to worry because she’d be married to a billionaire.

Karmen could still be guilty, but Clémence needed to check out Gabrielle’s angle as well. She was the only other suspect. The facts that she was wearing Styra shoes and was seen coming out of the show in a hurry were suspicious.

Clémence wondered if Gabrielle still had blood on the bottoms of her boots. Had she had time to wipe any traces of evidence from her clothes and shoes? Was that why she’d been in a rush to leave? Was that why she was peeved when Lucie took her picture?

In any case, she needed to find out more about Gabrielle.

“I know that look.”

Clémence looked up and saw Berenice, another baker and Sebastien’s sister, staring at her curiously.

“What look?” Clémence asked.

“That look you have when you’re concentrating on a case,” Berenice teased. “Sebastien told me about your trip to the Archives building. You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

“Well, I just got new information. Gabrielle might have something to do with this.”

“Gabrielle, the supermodel?” Berenice looked surprised. “I was shocked when they arrested a regular model, but a supermodel? Why?”

“I don’t know. I have to call Madeleine to find out.”

She excused herself and went home. There was little privacy at Damour, and whenever she was trying to solve a murder case, she couldn’t think about baking anyway. She wanted to go home, take out her notebook, and try to lay out all the facts clearly on paper.

Miffy was surprised to see her back at the house so early. She was chewing on a rubber bone, but at the sight of Clémence, she dropped it and ran to her.

“Did you miss me, girl?” Clémence cooed at her adorable dog. She always thought that if she never had children, she would be just as happy with Miffy to take care of.

Miffy licked her cheek as a sign of affection.

“Come on, girl.” She led the way into the kitchen, where she kept her notebook filed with some cookbooks inside an armoire.

“What do we know so far?” she wondered out loud.

She started writing all the facts she knew about Natalie, then Karmen and Gabrielle. She also included pages for Lucie and the other model, Julia.

“Plus the makeup artist,” Clémence said. “Can’t forget about her. Chances are she was working backstage the whole time. The curious thing about this is that everyone backstage was so busy, too busy to notice the murder, and the murder happened quickly. Does this mean that it was planned? Did someone just slip in, kill Natalie, and slip out without anyone noticing? And why at a fashion show?”

She looked down at Miffy at her feet, who only answered by wagging her tail.

“Okay, let’s just say it was Gabrielle. She had just come off the runway. She changes by going to the restrooms, so no one can take a photo of a top model naked. On her way back, she is accosted by Natalie. So Gabrielle goes into the office alone with Natalie. They argue. She finds the knife and kills her? I suppose that’s plausible, in the craziest way.”

Clémence sighed. Who knew what went on inside the heads of people these days? What was the motive for killing someone? Usually it was to hide something. Was it Karmen, who wanted to hide her mob connection? Or was it Gabrielle, who wanted to hide—what was it she wanted to hide? Her life was too perfect.

Clémence took her cell phone from her bag and called Madeleine.

“
Âllo?
” the socialite answered.

“Hey, it’s Clémence.”

“Clémence,” Madeleine greeted her. “Did that blogger, Lucie, get in touch with you?”

“Yes. In fact, she stopped by my store today.” Clémence filled her in. “Do you know Lucie well?”

“Not well, but I’ve met her a couple of times at fashion events. She seemed nice, and I checked out her blog. It’s pretty good, and I like her style, so I agreed to do a story about my closet with her. She said she felt that Karmen’s arrest was strange, so I suggested she get in touch with you. Did you guys find out something?”

“Well, we came to the conclusion that Gabrielle might be the killer.”

Madeleine gasped. “Gabrielle? No way!”

“Yes. So I’m calling to see what you know about her. Are you friends with her?”

“Friends? I wouldn’t say that. I’m not famous enough to be her friend. I’ve maybe exchanged two words with her.”

“So you think she’s quite frosty?”

“Maybe. Mostly, I think she’s busy. She doesn’t seem to have time to socialize, always running from place to place, and I also get the impression that she doesn’t open up easily—trust easily, I suppose.”

“But she does seem to have a lot of friends in high places.”

“In high places, precisely. All the major magazines’ editors, photographers, and other A-list celebrities love her.”

“Why do you think that is? Is she that charming?”

“Oh, maybe. She never gives me the time of day, so I wouldn’t know. When she comes into the room and sees no one worth talking to, she keeps to herself.”

“Do you know anyone who
is
a good friend of hers? I want to talk to her. I would like to talk to Gabrielle directly, too, but I want to know the best way to approach this.”

“We’re represented by the same modelling agency,” Madeleine said. “Not the same agent, but I know who her agent is.”

“Really? Can you get me an appointment?”

“Sure.”