Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes)

by Harper Lin

  “No. I don’t know much about her personal life, but I know she had a new boyfriend. I don’t know much about him though.”

  “Do you know whether she got along with her boyfriend?”

  “As far as I could tell, she did. She was even trying to help him get a show here. His name was Mathieu something. He sounded promising, and I was considering his work, although we’re booked until the end of the year. I haven’t met him, however.” He looked pensive for a moment. “It’s rather depressing, isn’t it? You work with someone for three years, and you realize you don’t know them as well as you think you did. I only know her through this job, her take on art. I know very little else about her.”

  “Hmm.” Clémence nodded. “I wish I had gotten to know her better as well. She seemed so sharp. What were her opinions about art?”

  “She was incredibly into modern art, discovering the best new artists. I felt like she was five years ahead. In the last couple of weeks, however, I was a little surprised to find that she was completely enraptured by a 19th century French painter.”

  “Who?”

  “Felix Mercier, a painter from Normandy. Have you heard of him?”

  Clémence tried to disguise her surprise. “No, I don’t believe I have,” Clémence lied.

  “Mercier wasn’t as famous as his contemporaries, but, boy, was he good at painting light. Sunlight, moonlight, starlight. Charlotte really picked my brain about him. She was so interested in Merciers that she went to the Christie’s showroom on Monday. There’s one Mercier painting in the catalog that peaked her interest. As a matter of fact, she was registered to go to the auction at Christie’s later today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Sad. She requested the afternoon off just to attend. A shame she won’t make it.”

  Clémence decided she had to go to the auction and take Charlotte’s place. Didn’t Mathieu’s roommate own a Mercier? That couldn’t have been a coincidence, right? But the connection eluded her.

  Chapter 14

  At three fifteen p.m., Clémence went to the eighth arrondissement where Christie’s was located. She was on time for the 19th century European painting auction.

  She registered under Charlotte’s name and received a paddle and a catalog. This was where Charlotte had wanted to be. Clémence didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was open to receiving any kind of clue or information.

  She took a seat near the back and waited until the other chairs were filled and for the auction to begin. The paddle was in her hand, and it was a thrilling thought that she could raise it once and go home with a master’s painting and a six-figure dent in her bank account. The people around her were mostly older, distinguished, or well-dressed types with poker faces. When the paintings were brought out, one by one, their faces did not betray their enthusiasm. A raise of the paddle was enough to signify their desire.

  Clémence sat through paintings of children holding kittens, nudes of curvaceous women lying around in the grass, and scenes from the bible. A small Renoir portrait of a young boy fetched eighty-five thousand euros. That had been an exciting one, with two serious bidders in the end causing a frenzy. Finally an Italian gentleman in an eccentric pink suit and an electric blue pocket square staked his claim.

  After two more paintings were sold, Clémence saw a man around her age slip in. He had dark hair, glasses, and was average height. In black pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked absolutely ordinary, except something about him looked familiar to Clémence. Had she met him before? She was sure they’d never spoken, but she’d seen that face somewhere. He didn’t have an auction paddle. Did he work at Christie’s? She’d come to the auctions in the past with her mother and might have met him then.

  She also could’ve met him at a party. He must’ve been from a wealthy family, judging by his Gucci loafers and the Rolex on his wrist. What else could explain why someone so young would be interested in bidding on paintings that would cost some people a lifetime’s salary?

  They brought out the Mercier painting, the one Charlotte must’ve been interested in. It was of a boat on water during sunset. She’d seen that painting before. Where had she seen it?

  Then it hit her.

  On Mathieu’s wall.

  Surely it couldn’t be the same painting. Mathieu said Gilles’s was the original. Could it be that Mercier had painted similar paintings of the same subject?

  Clémence looked through the catalog and found the photograph of the painting so she could examine it in detail. The untitled Mercier oil on canvas was dated 1878. It featured the same dazzling quality of sunlight reflecting red, orange, and gold in the water, something Mercier was a master at. It was an exact replica.

  “Let’s start the bidding at five thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have five thousand? Yes. Six thousand?…”

  As bidders raised their paddles, Clémence squinted at the real painting on the platform. If the painting at Christie’s was real, the one in Mathieu’s must’ve been fake.

  “Eighteen thousand. Yes, eighteen thousand. Do we have nineteen thousand?…”

  The bespectacled young man in the white shirt never raised his paddle, but she noticed a trace of a self-satisfied smile on his face as he scanned the room, looking at the bidders.

  It had come down to a stylish woman in her sixties with a white bob and a gentleman of the same age in a navy suit, balancing a cane against one knee.

  “Fifty thousand! We have fifty thousand. Anyone else? Going once, going twice, sold!”

  Clémence leaned back in her chair as the gavel struck. Had Charlotte known about Gilles’s painting? Had she been interested in Mercier because she had a suspicion that the one Gilles owned was a fake?

  Perhaps Charlotte had been involved in art fraud somehow, and that was why she was killed. But how? And which painting was the fake? The one that was just sold for fifty thousand euros, or the one that was hanging casually on a wall in Les Lilas?

  It was imperative that she found out which one was fake. If Gilles’s painting turned out to be authentic, then Christie’s had a problem on their hands.

  She went outside and jumped into a cab. She had the urge to see Gilles’s painting again, and to get a sample so she could test it. Mathieu was probably at home painting, but she called him to make sure he was there. He didn’t pick up.

  After Clémence reached the house and paid the cab driver, Mathieu called back.

  “Ça va, Clémence?” The usual flirtatious tone was in his voice. “You called?”

  “Hey, Mathieu, are you home?”

  “I’m about to go into a meeting with the same gallery owner I met for dinner this week. I think we’re close to striking a deal. What’s up?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be done. It might be a couple of hours. Where are you? Do you want to meet near the gallery, or perhaps you want to come over to my place?”

  “Why don’t you call me when you’re done, and I’ll let you know where I am?”

  “Great. I gotta go.”

  “Bonne chance,” she said. Good luck.

  She didn’t tell him that she was in front of his house. Perhaps something Arthur had said had stuck. She couldn’t trust Mathieu one hundred percent. He’d lied about the small things. Even if he hadn’t killed Charlotte, why did she have the suspicion that he was involved in all this somehow?

  Since she was here, she was going to go see that painting again, one way or another.

  She opened the gate and went around to the back yard. The window was open, to let the heat out of the part of the house Mathieu was using as a studio. She only had to push the window open more to reach the lock of the door from the inside. Looking around to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, she took a lawn chair from the yard. By the window, she stood on the chair and reached an arm through the window to unlock the door.

  Then, with a twist of the knob, she w
as in.

  Chapter 15

  “Hello?” Clémence called out. “Mathieu? Gilles? Anybody home?”

  Unless the baby ghost was around, she was alone. As she passed the studio, a canvas on one of the easels caught her eye. Mathieu must’ve started a new painting. He’d only done the background, shades of red, orange and gold that looked achingly familiar. Why was Mathieu working on a small landscape painting when he was supposed to be finishing his series of portraits? The style was different too. His brushstrokes were usually bold and precise, while these were softer and more diluted, giving it a dreamy quality.

  In the kitchen, she took a small sandwich bag from the drawer and grabbed a cutting knife. Her plan was to go directly to the Mercier painting, scrape a teensy sample of it into the bag so she could test the authenticity of the painting.

  She headed up the stairs, and that was when she saw it: the small framed photograph on the mantelpiece. She picked up the photo of the man stroking a tamed tiger. It was Gilles, his hair in a buzz cut. He had on the same glasses and had the same nondescript face as the man Clémence had noticed earlier at Christie’s. He’d looked especially pleased when the Mercier had sold for such a high price.

  Mathieu did say that Gilles was out of town. But she’d seen him in Paris earlier that day. Had Mathieu lied to her again?

  Mercier paintings…Gilles…Charlotte…they were all connected, but what was Gilles’s connection to Charlotte exactly? Did he kill her? If so, why?

  She could look in Gilles’s room for clues. She went upstairs and tried the door. It was locked. What could he be hiding in that room?

  Clémence bent down to look closely at the lock. It wasn’t something that could be picked easily. And from what she remembered from the outside, the opaque curtains of his window were completely drawn.

  Something stirred in her head, a possible formation of an explanation. But Clémence needed more information. She called a cab to pick her up from the house to take her back into central Paris.

  She might just make it to her art class at the Spinoza Atelier. Not that she was there to paint, as much as she wanted to. She needed to catch her classmate, Amelie. Clémence didn’t have her number, and Amelie could really help her.

  On the second floor of the building, Clémence reached Room Five just as students were spilling out.

  “Clémence,” Albert exclaimed. “Look Rita, Clémence is back.”

  Albert and Rita were her classmates. Both in their sixties, they were an old married couple, both talented painters with different styles.

  “We haven’t seen you in so long,” Rita said with a kind smile. “We heard you were kidnapped. Are you okay?”

  “It was a bit of a bother,” Clémence joked. “But I’m totally fine.”

  “We figured you needed a break to deal with everything,” Rita said. “Will you be back for the next class?”

  “Certainly. At least, if all goes well. Hey, was Amelie in class today? I need to talk to her.”

  “Yes, she’s inside, packing.”

  Just then the girl in question came out carrying her tote bag of art supplies. At twenty, Amelie was studying art restoration and she was taking painting classes as a hobby. At the sight of Clémence, her green eyes lit up in surprise.

  “Clémence, hey! I was wondering when you’d be back.”

  Like the others, Amelie also expressed surprise and concern about what she’d read about her in the news, but Clémence assured her, as with everyone, that all was well.

  “Actually, I’m here to see you,” Clémence said. “I need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “You study art restoration, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to authenticate a painting, a valuable Mercier painting, to see whether it’s real or a forgery. I have a picture of it and I’ve taken some paint samples.” Clémence gave her the photograph and the sample in the Ziplock bag. “Do you know anybody from your program, perhaps a peer or a professor who can run some tests?”

  “I have a professor who’s a renowned art expert, so sure, it’s possible. We have the technology to do that. Have you found a Mercier that you think is a fake?”

  “It’s a friend’s,” Clémence said. “But it’s actually quite urgent that I find out. When do you think you can do this?”

  “I was just going to a class right now, actually. I’m sure I can ask my professor, if he’s at his office today. Maybe we can start on it tomorrow.”

  “Great! I’ll owe you big time, Amelie.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure. It’ll actually be a fun, hands-on learning experience. No problem.”

  Clémence beamed and gave Amelie a hug. “Thanks so much!”

  Now that authenticating the painting was taken care of, Clémence had another person to visit: Sarah.

  Chapter 16

  The world-famous Galerie Lafayette department store sold everything from high-end clothing to home furnishings and gourmet food. The ten-storey building’s Bell Epoque architecture was dazzling, and the dramatic colored dome had all the tourists looking up and snapping pictures as soon as they stepped inside.

  The perfume and cosmetics section, where Clémence would find Sarah, was on the ground floor. Clémence spotted her at the Marcus Savin perfume counter, smiling and talking to two customers. Sarah’s cheeks were plumper due to her slight weight gain, but Clémence didn’t think the remnants of her pregnancy weight made her any less beautiful. For so long, Clémence had hated her while finding her intimidatingly gorgeous, but now Sarah seemed to be radiant. Perhaps it was because she had become a mother.

  As Clémence approached her, she felt shy. She’d prepared what she was going to say, but speaking to Sarah would still be awkward.

  At the counter, Clémence pretended to look at the beautiful glass bottles of Marcus Savin’s perfumes. Clémence knew the designer, and didn’t realize that his perfumes were so popular that they warranted their own stall in Galerie Lafayette. When Sarah finished ringing up a customer’s order, she turned her attention to Clémence.

  “Sarah?” Clémence faked surprise.

  “Yes.” Sarah blinked at her before recognition lit her eyes. “Oh, Clémence? Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Sarah gave her a shy smile, then told her she’d been reading a lot about her. Clémence answered the usual kidnapping questions and made small talk.

  “I love these perfumes,” she said. Marcus had sent her some of his clothes and three bottles of his perfumes last week as a gift, so Clémence wasn’t lying.

  “So do I,” Sarah replied.

  “Oh. Is that why you’re working here?” Clémence hoped she didn’t sound patronizing because she wasn’t trying to be. Sarah only smiled again sweetly, and didn’t seem to take it the wrong way.

  “Honestly, I’m working here because I need the money.” Sarah laughed.

  Clémence felt more at ease with Sarah being so frank with her. “Growing up, I always thought it would be fun to work here.”

  “It can be. You get to meet a lot of interesting people. And there’s the discounts.”

  “Discounts are always good,” Clémence said. “I heard you had a baby, so congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” She flashed her pearly white teeth once again. “Who told you? Mathieu?”

  “Yes,” Clémence lied.

  “I thought Mathieu didn’t want people to know, but I suppose you’re not just anyone. He told me he got in touch with you again.”