by Harper Lin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
RECIPE #1: Classic French Baguettes
RECIPE #2: Pain de Campagne
RECIPE #3: Pain Complet
RECIPE #4: Pain de Seigle
RECIPE #5: Pâté aux Pommes de Terre
About the Author
Baguette Murder
A Patisserie Mystery
Book #3
by Harper Lin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some street names and locations in Paris are real and others are fictitious.
Text copyright © 2014 Harper Lin. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
CHAPTER 1
Clémence Damour knew she lived a charmed life. As the heiress to the Damour patisserie chain, baking was in her blood. She spent her days developing new dessert flavors with her head baker, Sebastien Soulier, in their flagship patisserie in the 16th arrondissement, and her nights out with her friends to all the fine restaurants and bars that Paris had to offer. Aside from a couple of grisly murders that had happened in her neighborhood recently, things were going swimmingly. Now that she wasn’t mixed up with those murder cases and Inspector Cyril St. Clair was off her back, she had more time for all the things she wanted to do, including painting.
She was just starting to get the hang of the work-life balance. Perhaps it was easier because she didn’t have a boyfriend. Sure, there were a couple of guys who were interested, but Clémence found them to be wholly unsuitable. Besides, trust wasn’t something that Clémence doled out easily anymore. Relationships were complicated. This was exemplified in Rose’s relationship with Pierre.
Her good friend Rose, whom she has known since she was thirteen, had been fighting with her live-in boyfriend lately. When Rose asked Clémence to take off for a spa weekend in Switzerland, Clémence didn’t hesitate. She also deserved a break after a hectic few days of trying to prove an employee’s innocence in a murder case.
Rose desperately needed a break from Pierre, as he had been a curmudgeon in the past few weeks, always finding faults in whatever Rose did or said, and starting fights for no reason that she could find. Perhaps Pierre was stressed from the long hours at his finance job. He seemed to be coming home later and later in recent weeks. 9 p.m. was typical, but once in a while, he came home as late as 11. Rose was at a breaking point. When Clémence agreed to get away on Thursday, Rose booked the trip and packed so she could leave as soon as possible when she got home from work on Friday evening.
At The Dolder Grand Hotel and Spa in Zurich, the girls spend the entire weekend getting pampered. The balcony of their suites had a stunning view of the alps and the lake. They received shiatsu massages with gentle tapping with bamboo to stimulate the senses, organic facials with deep pore cleansing, and they dipped in calming thermal baths and listened to meditative music. By Sunday evening, they emerged from the hotel as serene and rejuvenated as they’ve ever been in their lives. Their skin were as soft as newborns and every muscle in their bodies were relaxed.
However, on the plane back to Paris, Rose’s problems began to resurface. They were flying first class and drinking champagne, but it didn’t seem to assuage matters.
“We’re probably going to break up,” she announced.
Clémence had avoided this subject all weekend because she could see that Rose wanted to escape from her relationship troubles. Now that they were going back to Paris, back to reality, she had to face the music.
“Why do you say that?” asked Clémence. “Maybe you’ll work it out.”
Rose shook her head. “He has never been this nasty before. It just gets worse and worse. I have a feeling that he’s being this way so he doesn’t have to break up with me. He wants me to break up with him.”
“You need to talk to him,” said Clémence. “Maybe he’s just stressed and doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.”
“I’m afraid to. What if there’s someone else?”
“Oh Rose, don’t jump to conclusions. I’m sure that if you just sit down with him, you’ll get some answers. He’ll either change or he won’t. If you’re sure that he won’t, then I agree, maybe it is best to part ways.”
Rose nodded meekly. “You’re right. I just can’t take it anymore. It’s just unfortunate because we’ve been together for over two years. I always thought we were going to get married. I mean, we haven’t talked about it, but I just assumed.” She began to sob quietly so the other passengers wouldn’t hear. “I wish things could go back to the way they were. He used to be so romantic in the first few months we were together—the length he’d go to impress me, and the presents he used to buy. And now? Nothing but meanness, insults, and taking me for granted. I do agree that his job is stressful—and it has always been stressful, but I think it’s something else. He’s hiding something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Pierre doesn’t seem like the type to express himself,” Clémence agreed. “I don’t really know him that well to tell you the truth.”
Clémence had met Pierre only a couple of times, since she’d been away from Paris for two years to travel around the world. He was handsome in the typical Parisian way: dark haired, scruffy facial hair, well-dressed and exuding a prominent arrogance. She didn’t find him entirely memorable.
“Oh, forget about this.” Rose blew into her napkin. “We just had a lovely weekend and I had to spoil the end by whining about my boyfriend.”
“It’s fine,” Clémence said. “Sometimes it’s good to take a break from each other when you’re in a relationship. I’m sure it’ll work itself out in the end.”
“You’re right. Let’s get some more champagne.”
The flight attendant came around with a fake smile on her face and a bottle of fine champagne in her hands. The girls got slightly toasted on the rest of the flight back. When they landed in Paris, they were giggling too loudly and annoyed the other passengers, who gave them cut eye. Their jovial mood continued as they exited the airport and got a cab, that was until Rose called Pierre and he didn’t pick up. She tried both the home number and his cell phone.
“He’s not home,” said Rose. “Typical. He knew I was coming home at this time. Maybe he just wants to avoid me.”
“It’s Sunday. Is he with his family?”
“His family lives in Lyon, and I know his parents are on vacation in Australia, so I doubt Pierre has a good excuse to be out.” A thought struck her and her eyes widened. “What if he moved out?”
“Moved out?” Clémence said.
“Yes, it’s my apartment—my dad’s anyway. He let me take over the apartment when he moved to Germany. Pierre and I split the rent, and he gives me a check every month. There’s nothing stopping him from just packing up to live somewhere else. The apartment was fully furnished to begin with and Pierre doesn’t have
a lot of stuff.”
“Rose, you’re getting worked up over nothing. Pierre’s probably out with friends and having a drink.”
“Maybe.” Rose pursed her lips. “Want to come over? I mean, until he comes back?”
Clémence had planned on picking up her dog from her friend Berenice, but she supposed Rose needed her since she was in such distress. Rose was her best friend. They went to the same middle school in Romainville, a suburb of Paris, and they had stayed close friends ever since. Rose was the cool, collected type, so it surprised Clémence to see her so anxious. Love brought out the monsters in people, so she must’ve really loved Pierre.
“Bien sûr,” Clémence said. “Of course, I’ll come over.”
Rose’s parents were divorced. Her mother kept the house in Romainville after the split and her father lived in central Paris for a while before he relocated to Berlin for work. His—Rose’s—lovely apartment in Saint-Germain-des-Prés was not huge, but it was only steps away from the Luxembourg Gardens, Clémence’s favorite park in Paris. If Clémence wasn’t housesitting for her parents in the 16th, she would’ve looked into renting a studio apartment of her own in the 6th arrondissement.
Rose’s building was off in a small alley away from the tourists, in an old, narrow building with no elevators. She lived on the fourth floor and the girls had to carry their heavy weekend carryalls up the stairs by themselves. By the time they reached the apartment door, they needed another drink.
“Chéri?” Rose called when she opened the door. “Pierre, are you home?”
Nobody responded. The apartment had a stuffy smell to it that made Clémence think that perhaps Pierre hadn’t been home at all the entire weekend.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Rose stormed into the bedroom and Clémence followed her. She opened the closet, but all of Pierre’s clothes were still there. “Oh. Maybe he has just stepped out. Ugh. I’m so crazy.”
“Come on, let’s have that drink that you promised me.”
But when they stepped into the kitchen, Rose screamed. “Pierre? Mon dieu!”
The Frenchman was sitting in a seat, but his face was down on the table, smashed on a plate to be exact.
“Oh lord, is he conscious?” Clémence wondered out loud. She was reluctant to approach him, but considering how distraught Rose was and how she should’ve been used to being around dead bodies by now, she took a few steps forward and cleared her throat. With hesitation, she tapped him on the shoulder.
“Pierre?”
“I hope to god he’s just sleeping!” Rose exclaimed.
Clémence somehow doubted this. She touched his neck. His skin felt cold. When she felt for a pulse, there was nothing.
“I’m sorry, Rose. I think Pierre is dead.”
CHAPTER 2
Rose leaned back against the wall and began to hyperventilate as Clémence called the police. When she hung up, she took Rose out into the hallway. She wanted to say something comforting, but was at a loss for words. What could you say to a friend whose boyfriend’s dead body was just found in the apartment that they shared?
Rose slumped down to the floor and buried her face in her palms. Clémence let her cry, putting an arm around her to comfort her. After a few minutes, Clémence decided that she would go back into the kitchen for clues before the police came.
There was no blood on Pierre that she could see. It could’ve been a medical condition. Sudden death did happen to young people. He could’ve had a heart defect, for example. Since he was wearing a gray T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and eating what looked like breakfast, he was probably starting his day before he fell dead somehow.
On the plate, where his head rested, were three pieces of buttered baguette bread. The rest of the baguette beside the plate, still in its long and fitted paper bag that it came in.
Clémence sighed. The bag was lavender with the company logo embossed on it in gold; the baguette came from Damour. Not again.
There was a Damour in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which was smaller than the location in the 16th, but popular nonetheless. As nice as it was that Pierre was loyal to her family’s company to buy his baguettes from their store, this was the third death that Clémence encountered that involved a product from Damour. If that insolent Inspector St. Clair was on this case again, he would harass her to no end about this coincidence.
What could she do? She couldn’t get rid of the baguette and mess with the evidence. But she couldn’t resist the urge to feel the baguette. She had already touched the dead body anyway.
The baguette felt as hard as a baseball bat. Clémence had eaten Damour baguettes for most of her life. She knew exactly how long they lasted before they hardened. From the state of the baguette on the table, she knew that it meant Pierre had been dead since Saturday morning.
However, she still couldn’t let go of the idea that there had been foul play. She looked around the rest of the apartment. Everything looked fairly normal. The TV and stereo were still in the living room, the valuable art were still on the walls, and Rose’s designer clothes and purses were untouched in the closet. There didn’t appear to be any signs of a break-in on the locks of the front door.
To be sure, she asked Rose, “Do you have anything valuable here that could be missing?”
Rose looked up at her with tear-stained eyes. All that relaxation at the spa had been undone in a matter of minutes.
“I-I don’t think so. I have some jewelry on my dresser. It’s in a box. Why? Do you think someone robbed us and then killed him?”
Her lips trembled as she spoke and Clémence kneeled down in front of her.
“It doesn’t look like it, but I just want to make sure before the police gets here.”
“Is this really happening?” Rose whispered.
“You’re in shock.” Clémence hugged her. “I’m so sorry this happened. Do you want me to call your parents?”
“No. I can’t talk to anyone right now.”
Clémence nodded. “I understand. You’re more than welcome to stay with me tonight.”
She checked the jewelry box in Rose’s room. It was full and it didn’t look like it had been touched either. She would’ve asked Rose to check the rest of the apartment if her friend wasn’t in such emotional shock.
It was the police’s job to do the investigating anyhow, no matter how incompetent they were at it. Clémence wasn’t sure that it was a murder yet. It was unfortunate that Pierre had died, but there was nothing she could do for him now. She just wanted to know why, and only an autopsy would tell them.
Ten minutes after the police arrived, so did the hawk-nosed Cyril St. Clair. Clémence braced herself for St. Clair’s snide remarks. Sure enough, he noted the baguette bag as soon as he set foot in the kitchen.
“When there’s a murder, there’s the color lavender,” he said. “Does everybody eat at Damour before they die?”
“Excuse me, but it’s my friend’s boyfriend who just died. She might hear you from the hallway so I ask that you remain professional.”
“Pardon, madame,” Cyril said dryly. “What’s your friend’s name? Was she the pitiable girl slumped in the hallway? Let’s go talk to her.”
“Elle s’appelle Rose,” said Clémence. “Be gentle with her.”
Rose shook Cyril’s hand feebly when he introduced himself, but she didn’t get up from her spot on the floor.
“You said that you found him like this?” Cyril asked.
“Yes,” Rose said slowly. “We didn’t know whether he was asleep or what, so Clémence checked his pulse.”
Cyril glared at Clémence. “So you touched him?”
“I had to,” said Clémence. “To know what was wrong with him.”
Cyril sighed. “La heiress, always messing with my investigations. You and that little dog of yours.”
Clémence turned red. Anger was a reflex with Cyril. She swallowed all the biting insults at the tip of her tongue, for Rose’s sake, and took a few deep breaths instead.