Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes)

by Harper Lin

He was wearing ripped, faded blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, a navy hoodie and Bensimon sneakers. Even though he was the same age as Clémence, he still looked and dressed the same as he did in his early twenties. He’d always dressed super casually. Somehow he made the look work, even in Paris, when everyone was classically dressed. Only Mathieu could make a hoodie look stylish on his skinny frame. Clémence would say that his style was normcore before normcore became a thing.

  She had to admit that she still found him attractive. He’d always been inexplicably appealing to girls, when his features were average. The thing about Mathieu was that he didn’t care too much about what people thought of him. It was why everyone else was so in awe of him. He was an individual.

  She wished she didn’t care about what people thought of her either. Especially now, with the media breathing down her neck. If only she could tell them what was on her mind without bracing for a backlash.

  “You look amazing,” he remarked as he sat down across from her.

  “Merci.”

  Ana, one of the waitresses, came by to take their orders.

  “What will you be having?” she said, giving Clémence a knowing look.

  “I’ll just take a chocolate milkshake,” Clémence replied. Damour made a killer hot chocolate, all thick and creamy, like a rich chocolate bar melted down. But since it was summertime, she took the cold version of their famous drink.

  “A café crème with a croissant, s’il vous plait,” Mathieu turned back to her, looking at her almost shyly. “You know, I couldn’t go into Damour for a year after we broke up.”

  “Pourquoi?” Clémence asked. Why?

  “Well, what else? Guilt. I was such an ass. We were living together, and we were in love. I don’t know why I had to go and…betray you like that.”

  I don’t know either, Clémence wanted to say, but she bit her tongue, only nodding, listening.

  “So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  Clémence leaned back in her chair, examining him. He looked at her expectantly, eyes wide like a vulnerable puppy.

  Had she forgiven him, truly? She’d tried to distract herself from the bitterness for the past two years, but seeing him now in the flesh, she didn’t feel the resentment any longer.

  He wasn’t the best-looking guy, the most well dressed, or the one with the status or wealth, but he was the coolest. Her twenties were marked by her relationship with Mathieu. They were in a relationship for three years, but they knew each other for much longer, ever since they started university. That was a decade ago, Clémence realized.

  “Of course I forgive you,” Clémence said.

  Mathieu looked relieved.

  Their drinks came, along with Mathieu’s croissant on a porcelain plate.

  “I did ultimately go back and buy Damour croissants once in a while,” Mathieu said. “When I used to live around the Latin Quarter with Sarah, I would pass by the Damour in the sixth with longing, and one day I finally snapped and bought one.”

  Sarah was the Irish model who posed nude for one of Mathieu’s paintings. A beautiful girl with long reddish brown hair and smooth white skin, with globes for breasts and a big ass—he simply couldn’t resist the temptation at the time. But Clémence didn’t cringe at the sound of her name like she thought she would. Sarah. It was okay. She hoped they were happy.

  “But now you guys are living in Les Lilas?”

  “Well, I do. Sarah and I are no longer together.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” She didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing else to say. She was afraid that showing too much concern would seem insincere.

  He bit into the croissant and a look of joy spread over his face. “This croissant is orgasmic. I can’t get over it. How do you guys do it?”

  She shrugged. “Every baker back there is world class.”

  “Including you,” he said.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You were always modest.” He smiled at her. Clémence was relieved, glad to have this friendly feeling between them. “How are you doing anyway? Are you still painting?”

  “I was painting again,” Clémence said. “Starting to, except I’ve been, well, busy lately.”

  It dawned on Mathieu. “Oh. The kidnapping. I’m such an idiot. Of course. Here I am going on about myself. What happened? Are you okay?”

  Clémence gave him the basic facts, things he had probably read in the news. Mathieu nodded, hanging on her every word, finding every detail fascinating. She supposed it was, as horrifying as the experience had been.

  “Anyway,” she said. “It’s really not a big deal. Sophie’s the one who really suffered through the whole ordeal.”

  “Is she okay? I heard she’s in therapy.”

  “She’s getting help,” Clémence said vaguely, not wanting to betray Sophie’s confidence. “Let’s not talk about that anymore. What have you been doing these days, career-wise?”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “You haven’t heard about my shows?”

  “No. I’ve been out of the country for two years, traveling around.”

  “Oh. Right. I heard about that through the grapevine. Did you come back only recently?”

  “Yes, in the spring. When we broke up, I deleted you from Facebook and all that.”

  “Ouch. I guess I deserved that. I wouldn’t want to follow me either, if I were you.”

  “So what have you been up to? Last I heard, you were doing well with your own show.”

  “Right,” he said. “That show got good reviews. Sold some paintings, and I was doing well there.”

  “Making a name for yourself, right? Do you still go out a lot?”

  She was referring to the parties they used to go to together, back when she could be considered a proper socialite. She had been much more active on the social scene back then, and she’d introduced him to all sorts of people who eventually led to him getting his first exhibition at a small gallery.

  “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?