Baguette Murder: Book 3 (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (3 page)

“The baguette’s not from
Damour
, I hope.”
 

“No, the boulangerie downstairs.”

“I’d pick up something from
Damour
on the way home,” said Clémence, “but I wonder if it’ll upset Rose.”
 

“We can always remove the packaging.”

As the girls and Miffy headed towards the Métro, Clémence’s phone rang.
 

“It’s St. Clair.” Clémence answered eagerly, hoping he had the answers they were waiting for.

“Brain hemorrhage,” Cyril boomed into the phone. “Due to blunt impact. Pierre Colombier was killed.”
 

Clémence stopped in her tracks so suddenly that Miffy was pulled back by the leash. “What?
Mais non
!”
 

“
Si.
I tried calling your friend—what’s her name?—the victim’s girlfriend?”
 

“Rose Viard.”
 

“Right, but she’s not picking up. I have questions. Is she home?”
 

“I suppose,” said Clémence. “She was sleeping the last I checked, but I’m not at my house with her at the moment”
 

“You can tell her the news then.”
 

“Are you sure it was murder?”
 

“I wasn’t the one doing the test,” Cyril said. “Now that you know that it is murder, stay out of my case, all right Damour?”
 

Cyril hung up.
 

“What is it?” Berenice asked.

Clémence took a deep breath.

“Well, Pierre was murdered after all.”
 

CHAPTER 4

Clémence and Berenice broke the news to Rose after she had time to digest her breakfast.

“Murdered? Are you sure?” Rose’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Who would kill Pierre?”

“No clue,” said Clémence. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I—I don’t know.”
 

“I know it’s hard, sweetie,” said Berenice, “but can you tell us a bit more about him?”
 

Rose slumped down on the red leather couch in the salon. She put her hands over her face and breathed in deeply. Clémence and Berenice looked at each other, wondering if Rose was going to start crying. She surprised them by sitting upright and taking a sip of her espresso that sat on the glass coffee table.
 

“I met Pierre when I was in school finishing my MBA,” she started. “I thought he was a bit serious at first, but the more we got to know each other, the more comfortable we became. When we decided to be exclusive, we were inseparable; I was over the moon in love with him. I mean, he’s well-educated, he’s from an upper class family, we both have ambitious career goals, and he could be very romantic and attentive—well, for the first few months that we’ve known each other anyway. He moved in with me a year ago and that was when we started fighting more. It was around the same time that he got his project management job at F.R.Fraser, so I thought it was because he was overworked and stressed all the time. God, is it too early for some wine?”

Clémence jumped up. “It’s never too early for wine.”
 

In the kitchen, she uncorked a bottle of red. Berenice helped her take the wine glasses back in to the salon.
 

Rose took a sip. Then she chugged the whole glass. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“Did Pierre have any enemies?”
 

“Sometimes he would complain about his co-workers. I think there’s one co-worker that he always complained about, Paolo something, who was his main competition. Paolo Bruno. Pierre is a competitive guy. He always needed to be at the top of the class when we were in school. I don’t think he would’ve dated me if I had better grades than he did because he would’ve resented it. He resented anyone who was remotely better in anything, or had the potential to surpass him. Oh, and he also complained about his assistant all the time, saying she was inefficient and lazy. Her name is Mary, I think. That’s all I know.”
 

“That’s helpful,” said Clémence. “What about his friends?”

“He only has two friends that he hangs out with all the time, Adam and Thierry. He’s known them forever, and they hang around the apartment sometimes, but they’re definitely not killers. Gosh, I really don’t know who would hate him that much to kill him.”
 

“And who would break in?” Berenice asked. “The attack must’ve been a surprise to him if he was just sitting at the breakfast table, minding his own business.”
 

“Poor Pierre.” Rose withered back into the couch again.
 

“They could’ve only gotten in through the front door,” said Clémence. “The windows didn’t look tampered with, and they were locked from the inside. The exterior of the building is completely flat, so it wouldn’t be an easy feat to go through the window when there’s nothing to latch onto on the walls, unless it was a ninja or something.”
 

“What about the front door?” Berenice asked. “Was that tampered with?”

“I don’t think so,” said Clémence. “I do have to lock this apartment and put on the alarm whenever I go out because our insurance company requires us to since it’s such a big apartment in an expensive neighborhood, and I lock the door from the inside when I come home. But Rose’s apartment is quite small. You probably don’t lock it from the inside when you are home, right? Even at night?”
 

“No,” said Rose. “We don’t. Our neighborhood is safe and I suppose there are way bigger and more luxurious apartments in the neighborhood to steal from. Pierre and I only lock the doors from the outside when nobody is home.”
 

“So the killer might’ve found a way to open the door. If you didn’t lock the door with a key from the outside or the inside, it’s possible to break in by taking, say, a thin sheet of plastic and sliding it between the door and the wall to unlock it.”
 

“How do you know so much about breaking in?” Berenice asked.

“I was locked out of my old apartment once,” said Clémence. “Back when I lived with Mathieu in the Marais. He was in class for three hours and wouldn’t answer the phone so I had to ask my neighbor for help. She gave me an old x-ray sheet from her health file and it actually worked.”

“That’s pretty brilliant,” said Berenice.
 

“Yes, so unfortunately it’s not too hard to break into a house. It’s just strange because this killer didn’t steal anything. I think the main motive must’ve been to get Pierre. Now the question is why?”
 

“And who?” said Rose.
 

“You know, someone could’ve had a key,” said Berenice.
 

“True,” said Clémence. “Who else would have an extra key to the apartment, Rose?”
 

“Just me and Pierre. It’s my father’s apartment, so he has a key as well.” Rose jerked her head up at Clémence with a startled expression. “But there’s no way my father had anything to do with this. He lives in Berlin anyway.”
 

Clémence nodded. “Of course he wouldn’t.” Although the idea did cross Clémence’s mind. Anything was possible.

“Besides, my father likes Pierre. He even wants him to propose. Both my parents do.”
 

“We just need to focus on the people who don’t like Pierre,” said Clémence. “And find out why. We ought to start with this Paolo guy. What exactly did Pierre used to say about him?”

Rose refilled her wine glass and took another long sip. “Just a bunch of insults. He’d say that Paolo was an arrogant imbecile who didn’t know his ass from his elbow. Paolo is probably just a really smart guy. You have to be to work at F.R.Fraser. The company only hires the best. Paolo probably also rubs him the wrong way because he’s friendly. In fact, Pierre often complains about how much he smiles at work, and how talkative and upbeat his is.”

“Leave it to a Frenchman to find smiles irritating,” said Berenice.

“Paolo is Italian,” said Rose. “So he probably doesn’t fully understand how serious the work atmosphere is here. I haven’t met him though, because Pierre doesn’t like going to company holiday parties and he never socializes with his coworkers outside of work. I doubt he even has lunch with anyone. Actually, I doubt he eats lunch outside. He probably just eats at his desk.”

“Wow,” said Berenice. “He was that anti-social, huh?”

“He’s that, and his job is also incredibly demanding. Even on holidays, he’s always catching up on emails. There never seems to be a moment’s rest with him.” Rose sighed. “
Seemed
, I mean. I haven to get used to speaking about him in the past tense, don’t I? The thing about Pierre was that he was brilliant and a hard worker. He was the first person in the office and the last to leave. That’s why he kept getting promoted over the others. Paolo was his main competitor at the position he was in.
 

“Maybe Paolo is also competitive,” said Clémence.
 

“Yeah,” said Berenice. “Maybe Paolo knew he couldn’t match Pierre’s level of productivity.”
 

“I definitely want to talk to him,” said Clémence.
 

“I suppose he’s at the office,” said Rose. “He should be. I’d go with you, but I don’t think I can handle that right now.”
 

“Don’t worry,” said Clémence. “I’ll just go. I’ll tell the truth and say that I’m a friend of yours, picking up Pierre’s things for you, and I’ll try to run into this Paolo guy.”
 

“Want me to go with you?” asked Berenice.

Clémence looked at Rose in her sad state. Rose was trying to keep strong, but Clémence knew that she was vulnerable and needed support in a time like this.

“Can you stay with Rose?” she asked. Then she looked at the clock. “Actually, it’s almost lunch time, and Paolo sounds like the kind of guy who would take his time enjoying his lunch. We can eat lunch together and I’ll go pay him a visit right after.”

Just then Miffy jumped up into Rose’s lap and snuggled into her. Rose’s sullen face crinkled into a smile as she stroked Miffy’s white fur.

CHAPTER 5

After lunch, Clémence took a quick shower and left. She wasn’t in a huge rush because she wanted to make sure that Paolo would be in the office when she got there. She had looked him up on the internet with Rose’s help. His photo on LinkedIn featured him smiling with both rows of teeth, and he was incredibly well-dressed in a well-cut suit and silk pink tie. With dark hair and tanned skin, Paolo looked too relaxed to have lived in Paris for long. But would this happy-go-lucky Italian also exhibit qualities of a killer?

As Clémence continued scrutinizing his photo and profile on her smartphone, the elevator stopped this time and Arthur got in before she had time to panic. Arthur was wearing a pink dress shirt with a fuchsia sweater tied around his neck.
 

“Bonjour,” he said in his usual stiff way.
 

“I don’t think you’re wearing enough pink,” Clémence couldn’t help but comment. While he usually wore those pieces separately, she thought he was going overboard this time.

He looked down at his beige khakis. “You’re right. I should’ve gone with the pink pants as well.”
 

Clémence nodded feebly, not knowing what to say.

He broke from his stony expression and laughed. “I’m kidding.”
 

“Phew.”
 

The elevator door closed. She tried to ignore his warm scent and the sudden intimacy of his arm pressing into hers in the tiny elevator.
 

“I shouldn’t have to defend my fashion choices,” Arthur said. “This is a classic look.”
 

Straight out of the preppy handbook
, Clémence thought. Instead she said, “You’re right. Pink is your color. This is a free country and you should wear whatever you want.”
 

“Why thank you,” Arthur said. “I haven’t seen you around lately.
Quoi de neuf?”

“What’s new?” Clémence repeated. “Oh, this and that. What about you?”
 

She could feel his brown eyes on her. But she refused to make direct eye contact—it was a trap. No way was she going to be one of the girls that did the Sunday morning walk of shame. She knew herself well enough to know that the more she interacted with him, the more of a chance that she
would
succumb to him. Like many women, she was weak for men who didn’t treat her as well as they could’ve. In order for Clémence to keep her standards high, she had to refuse the guys who weren’t up to par. Unfortunately, that also meant a smaller pool to draw from.
 

Maybe she was being picky, or insecure, but she had to take protective measures for her heart. Whenever she opened up to someone, she had been disappointed, hurt, or brutally bashed. It was good to have boundaries, although lately it had felt as if those boundaries had turned into impenetrable walls.
 

“
Moi?
” Arthur said. “I’ve been busy.”
 

“Hmm.”
 

“Not that kind of busy. I mean there’s an end in sight with my Ph.D., so it’s been going well. Are you still seeing that American guy, what’s-his-name?”
 

Arthur was referring to John, whom she meant when she was investigating a murder case recently. She had suspected the American banker of murder and had agreed to go on a date with him to obtain information. Fortunately he wasn’t the murderer, which meant she hadn’t gone out with a psychopathic killer. John had wanted to continue dating Clémence, but she wasn’t so sure. During their date, they had run into Arthur on his own date with a blond bombshell. From the way John had drooled over the blonde, Clémence knew that he wasn’t good for a long-term relationship and never returned his texts. Then she went to Switzerland for the weekend and pretty much forgot about him.
 

“Why so interested in my love life?” Clémence retorted. The elevator door opened and she stepped out first.
 

“Just wondering,” said Arthur. “He didn’t seem like your type.”