by Harper Lin
Clémence hadn’t had a reaction like this since she was a kid, when they first discovered her allergy. Her symptoms had felt familiar, the closing of the throat, the dizziness. But it had never been so bad that she had passed out. “How could that be? I don’t eat peanuts.”
“What did you eat today?”
“Let’s see.” Clémence thought. “For breakfast, I just had a couple of pieces of baguette with butter, then I went to work. I ate lunch at Damour, where everything is peanut-free. The chefs know I have an allergy. I had salmon with a side salad.”
“And you consumed nothing after that?”
“No. Except, I went to a wine bar and ordered a glass of red. There shouldn’t be any peanuts in there, right?”
“Not in wine, no.”
“And I only took a sip. Then my friend Sylvie came in, we chatted for a few minutes, and I passed out.”
Clémence’s friends looked to each other. It must’ve been the wine, they were all probably thinking.
“Thanks, Doctor,” Berenice said. “Can please you excuse us?”
“Sure,” he said. “Clémence, you’re fine to go. Stay extra careful with what you eat. Sometimes peanuts can be hidden in unlikely places.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll be more careful next time.”
When he left, Clémence exclaimed, “Did someone try to kill me?”
“Are you sure you didn’t eat anything else?” Sebastien asked. “Absolutely sure?”
“No. Nothing.”
Sylvie nodded. “I was there. She didn’t have anything else on the table, and I knocked her glass over.”
“I haven’t been snacking lately,” Clémence added. “I’ve been trying to eat healthy, so I try not to snack unless I have to. The wine was enough for me.”
“You had the reaction immediately after drinking the wine, is that right?” Arthur asked.
“Yes,” said Clémence. “And I would’ve had more of it, if Sylvie hadn’t knocked over the glass. I guess you saved my life, Sylvie.”
Sylvie shook her head. “Wow. So your wine was poisoned?”
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?” Clémence said. “Maybe whoever called me didn’t want to give me information. They just wanted me dead.”
“Who knows about your peanut allergy?” Sebastien asked.
“A lot of people,” Clémence said. “My family. Friends—you guys know. The staff at Damour. I wonder if it was ever written about in the tabloids. I mean, some of those articles reveal a lot about me. Maybe anyone could find out about this if they did a little research.”
“We are definitely hiring a bodyguard this time,” Arthur said.
“Yesterday at dinner with the Labergs, I did tell them I had a peanut allergy, so the whole family knew, and their entire staff, as well.”
“You think it was one of them?” Arthur asked.
“I don’t know.” Clémence shook her head. “Why would they? But who knows? I can’t think straight right now.”
After a moment of reflective silence, Berenice said. “So it was someone who knew you were investigating Cesar’s death. It’s strange, because this morning you said you were sure Cesar committed suicide. If this person didn’t try to kill you, you would’ve left the case alone.”
“I have to call the police to tell them about this,” Clémence said. “Arthur, can you please pass me my purse?”
He handed over her brown Chloe purse. When she opened it to look for her smartphone, she pulled out a wrapper.
“What’s this—” It was a chocolate bar wrapper, the kind Clémence could never eat because she knew there were traces of peanuts in it. “It’s true. Somebody was trying to make it look like an accident. They planted this wrapper in my bag to make it seem like I’d consumed peanuts.”
Clémence started dialing for Inspector Cyril St. Clair, then she realized something. “The same thing probably happened to Cesar. Somebody poisoned his dessert with the pills he was taking, so when they did the autopsy, they’d find the antidepressants he was taking and write it off as a suicide!”
Chapter 14
Clémence and Arthur rode in a taxi that was following Inspector Cyril St. Clair’s car. They watched as Cyril sloppily parked stopped in front of Chez Georgina. The inspector’s long spidery legs stepped out onto the street first, followed by the rest of his lanky body.
Clémence refused to ever be in the same car as the inspector except under the most dire circumstances. The man had a bad case of road rage that she wanted no part in. She felt sorry for the members of his team, who had to deal with his nasty behavior on a daily basis. Although recently he’d been treating her with a smidge more respect. His snide insults decreased every time she solved another murder case.
Arthur got out first and went around to Clémence’s side to help her get out. She was feeling a lot better. She was lucky she’d only taken a sip of the wine. If a sip had been enough to send her to the hospital, there was no question what would’ve happened if the klutzy Sylvie hadn’t shown up.
They followed the inspector and two members of his team into the cozy wine bar. The same bartender was tending the bar and looked surprised to see the grim-faced inspector.
Cyril introduced himself with his usual arrogance and spoke about the incident that had happened earlier. He demanded to see the waiter who’d served Clémence.
The bartender was glad to see that Clémence was all right.
She thanked him, then reiterated Cyril’s question. “Where’s the waiter who was working here?”
“He’s not a regular employee of mine,” the bartender said. “His name is Jean, but he was just helping out. I didn’t know him before today.”
“What do you mean? How could you not know who he is if he’s working here?” the inspector said.
“My regular waiter Anton didn’t show up for the lunch rush. I had to serve everyone and run around like a chicken with its head cut off. One of my customers noticed and asked why there was no one else working, and I told him my dilemma. I’d tried reaching Anton, but he was an hour late, and his phone was off. So this customer, who introduced himself as Jean, offered to help. He said he used to work at a wine bar just like mine in Lyon and knew a lot about wine and gastronomy so I told him he could serve—I would handle the cash and the end of the shift, and I’d paid him in cash. I was really grateful because he did his job with more efficiency than Anton.”
“He’s probably the one who poisoned my wine with ground peanuts,” Clémence said.
The bartender’s eyes widened at the accusation. “What?”
“Yes. I went to the hospital because I had a peanut allergy, and we think he was the person who wanted me dead.”
“But why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. We don’t know who he is, either, but I bet he offered to work for you just for the opportunity to poison me. What other information do you have about him?”
“He gave me his phone number, in case I ever need his help in an emergency again,” the bartender said. “I actually offered him a job, but he said he was already working at the moment, and I assumed he meant in another restaurant.” He gave them the number from his contact book.
“Check this number out,” Cyril said to one of his officers, who left the bar to work on it immediately.
“I doubt it’s a real number,” Arthur said.
“I agree,” Clémence said. “He wouldn’t be stupid enough to use a traceable number, at least.”
“What did he look like?” Arthur asked her.
“Tall. I remember he loomed over me,” Clémence said. “I hardly paid attention to him, although I looked up at him once. He was probably in his early thirties. His face was quite forgettable: dark hair, dark eyes, a hint of stubble, average features.”
“Yes,” the bartender agreed. “He had a very quiet demeanor. He had been drinking at the bar by himself, just observing, before he offered to work. I rarely paid any attention to him before he spoke up. He was the t
ype to blend in with the walls.”
“But there was something familiar about him,” Clémence said. “I’d seen him before. But I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”
***
Arthur had already hired two bodyguards from a company that came recommended by his mother. They worked in rotating shifts throughout the day. The first bodyguard, Michel, was currently guarding outside their apartment door.
The presence of a bodyguard gave Arthur peace of mind when they were home. Clémence wasn’t sure how she felt about it yet. Having a hulking man following her around to babysit her was going to be a nuisance, but what choice did she have, if she wanted to stay alive until she caught the guy who’d tried to kill her?
In the salon, Clémence wasn’t in the mood to drink wine to unwind, as they often did at the end of the day. She stuck to tea, and Arthur drank a café. She’d had enough wine for the day.
“Where have I seen this waiter before?” Clémence closed her eyes. She’d been asking herself the same question all evening, to no avail. Miffy, her fluffy white dog, jumped up into her lap. Clémence stroked her back, still pondering.
Her cell phone rang. It was Inspector Cyril St. Clair.
“I tracked down the waiter, Anton, who missed his shift,” he said. “Apparently, he was mugged and knocked unconscious in an alley. That’s why he didn’t show up for work for the lunch shift.”
“I bet he was beat up by the same guy who was posing as my waiter,” Clémence said.
“He’s still out there,” Cyril warned. He hung up before he really started sounding like he cared for her safety.
So this guy had it all planned out. He had chosen the place to meet Clémence, and he had gone out of his way to attack an innocent waiter of the place in order to step in his shoes.
Why was he so familiar to her? Had she met him somewhere before at a social event? At a party? Or perhaps he really was a waiter?
A waiter…
A possibility hit her. She retrieved her laptop from her room and popped in the DVD of the security footage from her birthday party that Ralph had given her.
“Arthur, come look at this.” She played through the footage, fast-forwarding to the bits where the waiter came into view.
The cater waiter who served Cesar the crème brûlée was also lanky, with dark hair and a nondescript face. She couldn’t see his face for the most part, but she kept watching the tapes carefully for a moment when she could. Then she got it: a split second when he glanced up at the chandelier, squinting.
“Is it him?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, it’s him!” Clémence took a screenshot of his fuzzy black-and-white face. “That’s how I recognized him. I don’t know him at all, but he was one of the waiters hired for my party. He’s our guy.”
Chapter 15
Clémence had sent Cyril the freeze-frame of the cater waiter. Although the photo wasn’t crystal clear, at least it gave a clear outline of his facial features, and they didn’t have to rely on a police sketch. In the black-and-white footage, the waiter’s cheekbones looked cavernous, giving him a sinister effect that she haven’t noticed in real life. She had shuddered when the picture came out, blown up, from her printer.
And to think she had liked the waiter, too, and she even shared a laugh with him.
Her second bodyguard, Guy, accompanied her to work that morning. Guy and Michel had both followed her request to look less like bodyguards, so Guy was wearing a simple blue polo shirt and faded jeans. The shift was an easy one—all he had to do was sit in a corner of the Damour salon de thé, sipping cafés. Clémence still thought having a bodyguard during the day was silly, but she didn’t argue with Arthur, who had to work and felt guilty for not being at her side to protect her during the day.
The first thing she did when she came in was see Carolyn, the manager, in her office.
“Clémence, bonjour.” Carolyn greeted her with bisous. “Are you okay? I heard you had an allergic reaction yesterday.”
Clémence had asked her coworkers not to make a big deal of her incident. “I’m fine. I wanted to ask you, did you get the invoice from the catering company hired to work at my birthday party? Did you already pay them?”
“As a matter of fact, I did get it, and I was going to mail out the check later today.”
“Thanks, Carolyn. Actually, I want to deliver the check in person. I want to speak to the boss.”
“Sure.” Carolyn looked into her “outgoing” tray on her desk and took out an envelope. “Here’s the check.”
“Who’s the owner, again?” Clémence asked. “I met her at the party. Was it Pierrette something?”
“Pierrette Manteau.”
“Right. Thanks. I’m off.”
***
The catering company was in the 14th arrondissement, and they typically catered French cuisine for special events. Clémence had only hired them for the waitstaff, since her chefs and bakers at Damour had already provided the food.
She got off the Métro at Denfert-Rochereau with her bodyguard, Guy. They walked past the wraparound lineup for the Paris Catacombs, which she had visited when she was a teenager for a date with her first boyfriend. She hadn’t found it as fascinating as her boyfriend had, however. The dead skulls lining the walls of the underground tunnels killed any romance that had been on her mind that day. She hadn’t returned since.
Arthur had expressed interest in going, because he’d lived in Paris all of his life and he’d never been, but they never had the chance to because the line was usually an hour long. Perhaps they’d go in the off season, like in the late fall or winter.
As she followed the address of the catering company on the map on her smartphone, she and Guy found themselves in a secluded alley. She had to admit, good thing she had a bodyguard to accompany her to such places.
When she reached the right number, there was only an inconspicuous sign above a red door to advertise the place. All the windows were tinted. There was no sign of life anywhere. It was one of those sketchy kinds of alley where homeless men relieved their bladders.
She rang the doorbell. After about a minute, Pierrette Manteau answered. Pierrette had been present alongside her team at Clémence’s birthday party. She was a woman in her early sixties with long white hair tied up into a bun, and she wore bifocals that magnified her eyes, making her appear loopy and eccentric.
“Bonjour?” Pierrette greeted her with a confused smile. Her orange-red lipstick was crackling over her dry lips.
“Madame Manteau, do you remember me? It’s Clémence Damour. Your team worked at my birthday party last Saturday?”
“Oh, Clémence, of course! I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m so bad with names and faces.”
Clémence chuckled. “It’s fine. But a bit of a problem if you’re bad with names and faces.”
“I’ll say. It seems to get worse with old age, too.”
“This is Guy,” Clémence said.
The bodyguard nodded and smiled at Pierrette.
“Bonjour,” Pierrette said.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute,” Clémence said.
“Of course. Come on in.”
They passed an industrial kitchen where three cooks were working. Clémence followed Pierrette into her office at the back. Guy stayed just outside the door.