To a French person, “pas mal” didn’t exactly mean “not bad.” It actually meant “pretty good.” I was pleased with that.
Also, now I really had him. Danny had told me once that if you could convince someone to take something from you—no matter how inconsequential it was—they tended to feel indebted to you. Then you could make the most of that tendency to gain their cooperation. In my case, I needed an answer to a question.
Sound shady? Maybe. Familiar? Sure. It’s the same tactic car dealers use when they offer you a “complimentary beverage” as soon as you enter their showroom. It’s what cosmetics counter associates are taking advantage of when they give you perfume samples or teeny-tiny bottles of new products. In both cases, you (as the recipient) tend to feel a basic human need to reciprocate—to restore the balance between the two of you.
Preferably by buying a car or a mascara you don’t need.
“I have a small problem,” I began, tipping up my basket to offer him another chocolate. He accepted one of the elaborately painted varieties. “I am Hayden Mundy Moore, a friend of poor Monsieur Vetault.” We exchanged muffled courtesies while he chewed. “He was my mentor. It’s because of him that I know how to make chocolates like these, hand-molded in the very best tradition.”
“Breton tradition.” He nodded and licked his fingers. If he’d considered my mentor a traître, he didn’t say so. “Poor Monsieur Vetault. It is good that you work so hard to honor his memory.”
“Oui,” I agreed. “The thing is—and I know this is a delicate matter—but I gave Monsieur Vetault some information a few days ago. Now I seem to have misplaced that information myself, and I need it for a certain client.” I bit my lip and tried my best to look desperate. “If I don’t come up with it soon, I’m going to be in big trouble, Monsieur. Is it possible to—”
“All of Monsieur Vetault’s personal effects are part of our investigation,” he interrupted, looking dour. “I am sorry.”
I looked downcast. It was easy. I felt that way. “I understand.” I rearranged my chocolates, then sighed. “Thank you, Monsieur. You have been very kind. Bonne journée.”
I took my chocolates and trudged toward the police station’s sortie (exit), hoping against hope. One, two, three . . .
“Attendez, Madame. Wait!” Whew. That was close.
I turned, one eyebrow lifted inquiringly. This role would have been more convincingly played by Danny, but I did my best.
“Oui, Monsieur?” It was always best to be respectful.
“You say it is information you are looking for?” the desk clerk asked me abruptly. “Information you gave to Monsieur Vetault?”
I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t press me for details. I couldn’t describe the thing I was here for. It had been too dark. But I knew that Philippe had been holding something in his hand on the night I’d found him. I was hoping to see it somehow.
I was also gambling that being vague would suffice.
The desk clerk glanced behind him again. Then back at me. “There was a business card in Monsieur Vetault’s hand. Is that it?”
A business card. Yes, that was probably the thing I’d seen. I sagged with relief. I nodded again, still afraid to speak.
I wasn’t very skilled at subterfuge. I didn’t want to be. But Travis’s friendship with Mélanie Flammant hadn’t yet yielded all the information we needed. I wasn’t sure it ever would.
“I will show you a photo of it. You will write down the information?” The clerk helped himself to another of the chocolates I placed within reach before taking out my trusty Moleskine notebook and a pencil. “Okay! You are ready to see?”
I breathed in, steadying myself. “Oui, merci.”
He typed something, frowned, then typed some more. Then he swiveled his computer monitor toward me. On its screen, I saw the poorly lit image of a crumpled business card. ANTIQUITÉS MOREAU.
I must have appeared unsettled, because the clerk frowned. “This card has a special significance for you, Madame?”
His suddenly alert tone made me take a step back. I shook my head, then started scribbling all the details from the card.
“No. No, I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Feeling shaken, I pointed at the image. “I didn’t expect there to be blood on it.”
“Oui, alors, qui est la mort.” Yes, well, that is death. His sympathetic moue said it all. “Et la vie.” And life.
It was only a little blood—a few drops. But there was no such thing as a little life. Especially not Monsieur’s.
With that information in hand, I made my getaway—unsteadily, but I did it. “Merci, au revoir, Monsieur.”
The desk clerk waved me off, and that was that. I’d done it. I’d engaged in some verifiable sleuthing . . . and I kind of wished I hadn’t. It wasn’t fun, this murder investigation stuff.
But for Philippe’s sake, I meant to carry on.
Next up: La Maison des Petits Bonheurs. At last.
* * *
When I arrived at Philippe’s chocolaterie, I was surprised to see that the ugly black graffiti was gone—not because I’d cleaned it (that had been one of my missions for today) but because (ostensibly) Mathieu had given up on waiting for me.
That didn’t bode well for our budding acquaintance.
I strode onward anyway, still carrying my basket of fancy Pâques chocolates. Between Lucas Lefebvre’s video crew and the desk clerk at la gendarmerie (the police station), I’d depleted my supply. I still had my giant showy chocolate egg and a few of the bonbons I’d gold-dusted before Travis had joined me, though.
For now, they would have to be enough to impress Mathieu—enough to show him that the two of us had a love of chocolate in common. That we had Monsieur in common and should trust each other. I wanted Mathieu to confide in me every last detail about Philippe Vetault’s relationships with his merchant neighbors.
Most particularly, about the redheaded woman who’d ripped down Monsieur’s Fest-Noz publicity banner with such vehemence yesterday—the same woman who just happened to be leaving La Maison des Petits Bonheurs now as I tried to enter the shop.
“Si vous ne leur dites pas, alors, je vais!” she was shouting at Mathieu from the doorway. Then she turned abruptly.
If you don’t tell them, I’m going to! was the gist of what she’d said. But I was so surprised to see her there and so busy mentally translating that I didn’t move out of her way in time.
We collided in the narrow entryway. Oof.
“Attention!” she yelped at me. “Regardez!” Watch out!
Her voice sounded raspy—the effects of longtime cigarette smoking, I guessed, judging by the smoky odors clinging to her floral dress, accompanying cardigan, and knotted silk scarf.
She gave a very Gallic puff of disapproval, then jabbed me forcefully in the shoulder. Shocked, I stumbled backward.
Having shoved me out of her path, she made her way down the street—but only a few paces. She galumphed into the magasin de confiture (the jam shop) next door and then slammed the door.
Mathieu saw me and shook his head. “Aie, aie, aie,” he commiserated as he held open the door to allow me to enter. “I am afraid Madame Renouf is not feeling very friendly today.”
“You can say that again.” Shaking my head, I stepped inside the shop. The blissfully chocolaty aromas that greeted me did a lot to restore my well-being, though. Mathieu had been busy doing more than cleaning graffiti. He’d been making a variety of chocolates today, too. “Are you all right?” I examined him with concern. “It sounded as though she was threatening you.”
In a town where someone had just been murdered, you couldn’t simply disregard hostile behavior, could you?
“Psh. Pas de problème.” Mathieu waved away my worries. “Clotilde Renouf is not as important as she thinks she is. Since she has taken over the confiserie, she is insufferable.”
Aha. “When I was training with Monsieur, there was a different woman running the jam shop. One who seemed less . . .”
“Angry? O
ui. Clotilde’s mother. But the daughter is much more ambitious than old Madame Renouf. She wants everything, including Monsieur’s shop, so she can expand her own. She—”
On the verge of revealing something incriminating about Madame Renouf (I was sure of it) Mathieu stopped abruptly. He frowned.
He’d caught sight of my basket’s sweet contents. Silently, he examined everything I’d brought. He stiffened. “You are making chocolate for Pâques? So soon? But you do this why?”
“Hey, it’s never too soon, right?” I joked. “The surprise egg filled with miniature chocolates is Monsieur’s specialty.”
My explanation didn’t exactly lighten up Mathieu. “I am aware. However, I told you before that I do not need your help.”
“I know, but—” I thought we could bond. Nope, that probably wouldn’t fly. “Did Monsieur Vetault teach you the hot sheet pan trick?”
“Bien sûr.” Of course. He sniffed. “I was his protégé.”
I was his protégée, I couldn’t help thinking. Me!
It was silly, but it was true. Suddenly I had new insight into Travis’s and Danny’s ongoing rivalry. Mathieu’s relationship with Philippe didn’t affect my own. Yet I wanted Monsieur’s memory all to myself. Or at least I wanted to share it nicely.
Forcibly, I shook off my competitive feelings. I moved aside my basket, too. I would need a different approach with Mathieu. His encounter with Clotilde Renouf must have annoyed him. That was understandable. She seemed an unpleasant woman.
“You must be a very patient man, if you’re forced to battle Madame Renouf very often,” I remarked. “Are all of Monsieur Vetault’s shop neighbors so combative? No wonder he wanted to retire.”
It was a fishing expedition. But would I hook anything?
Mathieu exhaled gustily. He turned and flung up his arm in exasperation. “I am not supposed to deal with any of this. By now, I thought that Monsieur Poyet would arrive with his decision.”
About the merger. I gave a sympathetic nod. “It must be very difficult.” A pause. “Have you asked Madame Vetault about it?”
His pursed lips were all the answer I needed. But Mathieu added more, unfortunately. “No. Women cannot manage business.”
Great. He was sexist, too. Maybe we weren’t fated to bond over chocolate and become fast friends. Not even a little bit.
I probably shouldn’t have said anything more. But Mathieu’s narrow-minded statement somehow felt like a slam against Philippe. Also, against me. I couldn’t let it go unchallenged.
“I happen to know that Monsieur did not agree with you about women in business.” My mentor might have intended Nathalie to take the helm at La Maison des Petits Bonheurs, after all. But maybe Mathieu knew that—and that’s why he was angry? “In the coming days, I think you’ll see that.” I inhaled and tried to smile. “Now, I think I need to go buy some jam next door.”
Nine
The selection at Clotilde Renouf’s jam shop was truly exceptional. All manner of fruit preserves were available there, from berries to stone fruits to orchard fruits, sometimes mixed together in delectable combinations. I was surprised to find that Clotilde Renouf was such an artist with confiture—and astonished to note that her small shop was teeming with eager customers.
How could such a disagreeable woman have cultivated such a following? I wondered as I wandered, choosing one jam after another for my private stash. Surely she drove away customers?
Yet the shop itself couldn’t have been more popular. Inside its lively space, I was tempted to follow Clotilde’s lead and push everyone out of my way when it came time to pay. Instead, I queued behind the other customers, studying the shop’s cozy, gingham-checked interior as I waited. There wasn’t an inch of wasted space inside, from the shelves chockablock with golden mirabelle jam, fig jam, and flavored honey, to the table near the caisse piled high with Madame Renouf’s own cookbook, to the gingham aprons embroidered with her shop’s strawberry logo.
All in all, Clotilde had made quite an empire for herself. When I’d last been inside the shop, during my training with Monsieur, it had been a simple local confiserie (sweet shop), content to serve hungry residents and a few tourists. Now, it looked like a burgeoning jam empire, with branding and tie-ins to prove it.
If I’d been a betting woman, I’d have bet that Clotilde Renouf had spearheaded the opposition to Philippe’s Fest-Noz sponsorship banner. She’d certainly ripped it down with gusto.
Had Madame Renouf also attacked Philippe in the dark that night? Had she scrawled that graffiti next door just beforehand?
I didn’t know, but I wanted to find out. I remembered the threat Clotilde had yelled to Mathieu—remembered what he’d said about her wanting Monsieur’s shop to expand her own. I could see now that she urgently needed the space to serve customers.
That was no reason to murder someone, I reasoned, but it might be motivation. Especially given Saint-Malo’s restrictions against new construction in the touristy, historic old town.
When I reached the counter to pay, Madame Renouf didn’t even blink. Through her reading glasses—worn on a chain around her neck—she regarded me sternly. She rang up my purchases on her shopworn cash register, then brusquely announced my total.
I had to say something to stretch out the transaction. But what? “Votre magasin, c’est très beaux, Madame,” I tried.
It was a compliment about how nice her shop was. It failed.
Clotilde Renouf regarded me unsmilingly and repeated the total owed. I counted out coins, searching for exact change—a maneuver that typically made me a heroine to exacting French cashiers. But Madame Renouf was the exception that proved the rule.
She snatched away the coins as soon as I doled them out, all but tapping her foot with impatience while I tallied more.
I tried apologizing for our earlier run-in. I even went so far as to take the blame for not watching where I was walking. It got me nowhere. Plus, customers were piling up behind me.
Another few minutes longer and there’d be a jam-based riot.
Growing increasingly desperate to forge some sort of alliance with Clotilde so I could question her (later) about her whereabouts when Philippe had been murdered, I looked around the jam shop. My gaze lit on something familiar. I was in luck.
“Ah, Christine Ferber, d’Alsace!” I recognized the woman whose autographed photo occupied a place of prominence behind the caisse. “Je la connais.” I know her, I told Clotilde. “Un de mes amis utilise ses confitures dans son restaurant à New York.”
One of my friends uses her jam at his restaurant in New York. He was no slouch, either. His place was Michelin starred.
“Ce nést pas vrai!” All at once, Clotilde’s entire character changed. She couldn’t stop smiling at me. She scooped up my jams, bagged them while gushing about “our mutual friend, Madame Ferber,” then warmly hustled me down some narrow stone steps to her office—a miniature nook tucked next to the kitchen, with jam pots and long spoons hanging from the rafters. “Tell me more!”
I obliged as much as I could, doing my best to hide my surprise while I rambled on about having met the famed Alsatian jam maker a few years earlier while consulting for a struggling pâtisserie near the German border. I’d hoped to find some common ground with Clotilde Renouf, but I’d accidentally stumbled upon a gold mine. I learned, over a cup of tea and a sample of a new “in development” chocolate-almond spread intended to enhance her shop’s product line, that the celebrated Christine Ferber was Clotilde Renouf’s longtime idol—her model for all her business success.
“Madame Ferber has a very small shop, just as I do here,” she enthused, her eyes shining at me. “But hers is recognized worldwide for its excellence. Her confiture is served in all the finest establishments, from Paris to Hong Kong to—as you told me—New York, en Amérique. My favorite is her sour cherry. You have tried it? She makes it herself there in Niedermorschwihr.”
It sounded delightful, and it was. But I happened to know—thank
s to my aforementioned friend—that Madame Ferber’s jam-based delightfulness earned her family’s company at least two and a half million dollars per year. That was a lot of homemade jam.
As business models went, it wasn’t a half bad choice.
“It’s impressive how much Madame Ferber accomplishes with such relatively modest means,” I agreed. “How do you manage here?”
Clotilde gave me a blustery snort. “Not easily, I promise you! As you can see, I am so successful that I need more room.”
I understood. Maybe I was wrong about her. She certainly seemed belligerent, but when met on her own terms, here in her own twee shop, Madame Renouf was actually . . . horrifyingly ruthless.
“But now that Monsieur Vetault is gone, my luck may be turning,” she was boasting. She leaned confidingly nearer. “If you ask me, it was that Mathieu Camara who killed him. Mark my words.”
I almost choked on a bite of chocolate-almond spread.
“No,” I managed to say, eyes wide. “Do you really think so? He seems to miss Monsieur Vetault very much, and he seems so kind.”
I’d already divulged some background about my work as a chocolate expert, and my training in Brittany under Philippe Vetault. Now I felt icky for saying anything at all to her.
Clotilde poo-pooed my take on the situation. “That boy wants everything to be handed to him, as smooth as butter. That is what is wrong with the young today. They want no work!”
I could verify that Mathieu worked hard. I’d tasted (okay, inhaled) the results myself. But I wasn’t there to argue.
Besides, Mathieu hadn’t liked Clotilde Renouf much, either.
I sipped my tea. “You say your luck may be turning?”
I felt queasy asking but did my best to sound sympathetic.
“That’s right.” Clotilde Renouf nodded. “Old Monsieur Vetault promised us that shop of his. Years ago, this was. He swore that we would have first chance to take his space when he was gone.”
I hoped she meant gone as in retired, not gone as in dead.
“He knew we needed it, my mother and me,” Clotilde went on, not bothering to lower her voice. She leaned closer again, her face suffused with gossipy certitude. “I think they were lovers, Maman and Monsieur Vetault. No man and woman could have worked side by side for all those years without succumbing to temptation. Of course they were together! Monsieur Vetault wanted to make certain that she would be looked after, once he was gone. And now . . .”
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