by Harper Lin
Madeleine Murder
A Patisserie Mystery
Book #7
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.
MADELEINE MURDER Copyright © 2014 by 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.
Follow Harper’s Pinterest boards for the Paris locations, fashion, and inspirations behind each book.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 18
All Books by Harper Lin
About Madeleines
Recipe 1: Traditional French Madeleines
Recipe 2: Almond Praliné Madeleines
Recipe 3: Pumpkin Pecan Madeleines
Recipe 4: Red Velvet Madeleines
Recipe 5: Raspberry and Rose Madeleines
Recipe 6: Lemon Madeleines with Lavender Glaze
Recipe 7: Earl Grey Madeleines
About the Author
Chapter 1
Clémence Damour didn’t know when she fell asleep on Arthur’s shoulder in the taxi. After three hours on a train that took them from Amsterdam Central Station to Gare du Nord Station in Paris, she had been exhausted. The slow journey from the station to her apartment in the 16th had a lulling effect on her. All the Parisians seem to be returning to Paris from their summer vacations at the same time.
When the taxi lurched to a stop, her eyes flew open, and she looked around in a daze.
“Enjoyed your nap?” Arthur shot her a cute smile. A lock of his chestnut brown hair fell over one eye. As sleepy as she felt, she couldn’t help but reach a hand up and brush the lock from his face in a sweet gesture.
“Looks like we’re back in Paris,” she said wryly.
It was car-to-car gridlock. August was almost over, and the city was back to being business as usual.
Their taxi driver honked, joining in on the melody of car honks. “Merde!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “C’est incroyable.” He said it as if he’d never been stuck in traffic before in his life.
“The stresses of modern living,” Arthur mused. “It would probably be faster if we walked home.”
“We could if we didn’t have our luggage,” Clémence said with a voice still groggy with sleep.
Her whole body was feeling the effects of bicycling around the Netherlands for the last seven days. It wasn’t fair—since the Dutch begin cycling as soon as they learned to walk, they have had a whole lifetime to develop thighs of steel. Not only were Clémence’s legs sore, but her butt hurt, and even her arms and shoulders were recovering from gripping her handlebars for dear life while cycling in central Amsterdam.
The taxi started moving again at a snail’s pace. At least they were right along the Seine, and Clémence could enjoy the view of the famous river. The car inched up the street like a tortoise until they reached Pont des Alexandre III. There were thirty-seven bridges across the Seine, and Pont Alexandre III was her favorite. She wasn’t alone in that sentiment. It was by far the most extravagant, with ornate Art Nouveau lamps and massive sculptures of cherubs and winged horses guarding each end. At night, when all the bridges were lit up, it was such a pretty scene. The bridge was a frequent backdrop in films and ad campaigns.
“What’s going on up there?” Clémence poked her head out the window.
A crowd had gathered at the base of the bridge. She strained her neck and saw the ambulance truck and three police cars parked along the sidewalk.
“They’re probably filming something,” the gruff taxi driver said. “It’s been that way for weeks now, streets randomly being closed around the city for those Hollywood films.” He let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“I don’t think it’s a movie shoot, monsieur,” Clémence said.
There were no cameras or lighting equipment as far as she could see. Clémence had passed by plenty of television and film productions in Paris, especially since she lived and worked near Trocadéro, the area with the best view of the Eiffel Tower. She’d also seen crews filming in cafés, bookstores, and along the Seine. Once she saw Audrey Tautou in the Tuileries Gardens, filming a scene for a romantic comedy.
“Maybe there’s been an accident,” Arthur said.
The cab lurched closer to the scene, but it stalled again.
“Maybe.” Clémence was fully awake now. Curiosity was brimming inside her. Was it another murder? Less than an hour back in Paris and she was already encountering another murder? C’est impossible.
“Are you okay?” Arthur examined her.
“Fine. Why?”
“You look a bit too anxious.” He smiled wryly.
“It’s because I think you’re right. I bet there’s been an accident of some sort. But I’m not going to check it out.”
She sat on her hands, as if that would contain her curiosity. After their murder-free vacation, did she want to get herself involved in yet another gruesome murder case?
She bet Inspector Cyril St. Clair was down there right now, scratching his head in response to whatever had happened.
Arthur turned to her, the amused expression still on his face. “You know, if you want to go see what’s happening, you can. The car’s not really going anywhere.”
Clémence shook her head. “No. What good would it do? There’s already a whole crowd over there. What’s the point in joining that crazy mob?”
“Okay.” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “You just look like you’re dying to find out, that’s all.”
The corner of his mouth was twitching. Was he trying to suppress his laughter? Clémence scowled. Why did her boyfriend have to know her so well?
The taxi driver had the radio on. It had been playing frenetic jazz on low until a breaking-news segment came on. Clémence asked him to turn it up.
“We’ve just heard that a body has been found in the Seine River, near Pont Alexandre III. The body had been discovered by a local jogger around noon. The identity of the victim is still unknown, as is the cause of death.”
Clémence couldn’t stand it any longer—she got out of the car.
As she approached the crowd, she noticed some of the people were trying to film what was going on down at the Seine on their smartphones. Others were distraught, comforting each other. They were sectioned off by the police from the scene of the crime down by the riverbank.
Clémence stood on her tippy-toes to try to see, but she couldn’t push through the crowd.
“What happened down there?” Clémence asked a bespectacled man in his forties who was tall enough to see over the few heads before them.
“A woman drowned in the Seine,” he answered. “Apparently she’s an actress.”
A brunette teenage girl turned around. “Not just any actress. It’s Nicole Blake.”
; “Nicole Blake?” Clémence exclaimed. “I didn’t even know she was in Paris.”
“Yeah, she was filming some sort of drama.”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
The girl shrugged. “Dunno. But that’s what some people are saying. They have her in a body bag now.”
Clémence clasped a hand over her mouth. She loved Nicole Blake’s films. The twenty-four-year-old had been acting since she was seventeen, and her star had been on the rise in the last few years, when she developed killer curves. Not only was she beautiful, but she was talented enough to be nominated for an Oscar for best supporting actress last year for her role as a president’s daughter in a political thriller.
“It’s a shame,” the teenaged boy beside the brunette girl commented. “She was hot.”
The girl rolled her eyes at him.
“What happened?” Clémence asked.
The girl shrugged. “Nobody knows. Maybe she fell in, maybe she was pushed.”
“So it might be murder,” Clémence muttered.
She quickly shook her head to clear away her thoughts. She wasn’t going back into investigative mode again, not when she’d barely returned home.
A few people in front of her left, and she was able to look down at the riverbank.
The ambulance workers were pushing a gurney into the back of the ambulance. The body bag on top of the gurney was closed.
Then she saw the slim figure of Inspector Cyril St. Clair. As she had imagined, he was stroking his chin, looking puzzled by the situation.
Chapter 2
The next day, Clémence tried to block out any thoughts of the recent death in Paris. In the afternoon, she decided to set up her easel on her balcony again. While a few gray clouds were hanging over her head, the sky was lit up enough that she could paint with natural light and enjoy what was left of the summer weather.
Her artistic ambition had been reignited after visiting the wonderful museums in Amsterdam. She and Arthur had passed a full afternoon at the Van Gogh museum, where they were mesmerized by the vibrant brushstrokes of his masterpieces. Her favorite had been his self-portraits, where he always looked slightly lost, his dark eyes haunted.
They’d gone to the Rijksmuseum the next day to look at paintings of the old Dutch masters, then Stedelijk Museum for modern art. Clémence had neglected her desire to paint for too long. She’d even signed up for experimental art classes so she could discover her own painting style, but classes were on hiatus for the month of August. Even when classes were in session, she’d had to miss most of the classes she’d paid for due to the murder cases that had taken up most of her time.
As she began painting again, she realized that her style had emerged after all. She was beginning to feel satisfied with the whimsical style she’d adopted in the past few months. She used pastel hues, which gave the work a happy aura. With Miffy sniffing at her heels, she painted three Damour chocolate éclairs with a blue sky as a backdrop, giving the éclairs the impression that they were light enough to float.
So her subjects weren’t exactly deep enough to warrant a thought-provoking description. But she had decided that if she painted what she liked, the passion would come across in her work. For too long, she’d painted things she wasn’t passionate about in order to be taken seriously and along the way, she’d lost her creative passion. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, she was reclaiming the original magic that had made her want to be a painter as a child.
Wearing paint-splattered overalls and a straw fedora to protect her porcelain skin from the sun, she continued chipping away at the éclairs, and hours passed like minutes. During that time, Arthur came home from work early. Since many of his coworkers were still on vacation, the office wasn’t as busy as it usually was. When he poked his head out on the balcony, Clémence stopped what she was doing. She couldn’t paint with people looking over her shoulder—she supposed she was still shy about her creative process.
She looked at her watch. It was almost time for Ben and Berenice to come over anyway. She didn’t want everyone commenting on her work just yet, so she moved the painting to one end of the balcony, away from view, for it to dry.
It was almost five thirty when the couple came. Ben lived upstairs in a chambre de bonne, an old servant’s room, which was on the top floor of the Haussmanian building. Berenice must’ve been hanging out with him in his tiny apartment because they both came down through the kitchen door, which opened to the old servants’ staircase leading up to the top floor. Clémence led them straight out to the balcony. It usually rained all year round in Paris, and they had to grab any sunshine they could. Even in August, the city rarely got humid, but that afternoon was hotter than usual. Since the building didn’t have air conditioning, Clémence opened many of her windows to let the air flow in.
Berenice brought two strawberry white-wine coolers, which were good for the late summer afternoon. Arthur helped her put the bottles in an ice bucket, and they brought out wine glasses to the balcony.
Berenice also brought some macarons, rejects from her shift as a baker at Damour. She smelled like the kitchen, full of sweets and cinnamon. It was how Clémence smelled whenever she got off a shift at Damour. She’d been immune to the smell herself until she started dating Arthur, who always made comments about it. He would bite her neck and tell her that she was sweet enough to eat.
“Oh Berenice,” Clémence sighed in jest when Berenice opened the Tupperware of pastel treats. “You just have to tempt me with macarons when I haven’t even gone back to work yet.”
“You don’t have to eat them.” Berenice grinned. “They’re for everybody.”
The box contained Damour’s pistachio, raspberry, and chocolate macarons. While they tasted the same as regular Damour macarons, they were deformed in some way, whether cracked at the shell or shaped funny. Damour didn’t sell any macarons that looked or tasted less than perfect. Still, the macarons looked delicious, however misshapen. Clémence couldn’t resist for long.
“Oh, give me one.” She reached for a chocolate one and quickly bit into it.
The boys chuckled.
“You’re an addict,” Arthur said. “I bet you can’t last a week without eating a macaron or a pain au chocolat.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about that,” Clémence replied, licking her fingers. “I have no choice but to eat plenty of sweets because I’m in the kitchen five or six days a week.”
“You didn’t have that excuse when we were on vacation.” He turned to the couple. “Clémence was still going into different patisseries and buying all kinds of desserts.”
“Yeah, but you’re supposed to try new things when you’re on vacation. Plus, it’s research.”
“Clémence ate a lot of Dutch waffles,” Arthur said.
“They have pretty good ice cream and pies too,” Clémence said brightly. “But we also did plenty of biking, so I think I actually lost weight.”
“What else did you guys do?” Ben asked.
“My sister Marianne joined us when we were in Normandy for a few days,” Clémence said. “She was pretty happy to get a few days away from her kids. We spent some time at the beach. My brother Henri and his family didn’t live far, so we all went to visit him for the day too.”
“So I finally met her siblings,” Arthur said.
“I wish they’d spend more time in Paris,” Clémence added, “but they’re so busy.”
“Well, I don’t think Henri likes Paris very much.”
“Right, he always goes on these rants about how Paris is crowded, dirty, and full of tourists. He’s just not a city guy.”
“Did you guys end up going on vacation?” Arthur asked Ben and Berenice.
“I wouldn’t call going back to London a vacation,” Ben, who was English, said. “But yeah, Berenice spent a few days there. My mom gave her an astrology reading.”
Ben’s mother was a well-known astrologer who often did readings for celebrities.
“No way!” Clémence
exclaimed. “Was it accurate?”
“Startlingly so,” Berenice said. “She also made some predictions. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“She won’t tell me anything,” Ben said. “My mom won’t either, staying loyal to client confidentiality.”
“I can’t wait.” Clémence grinned at Berenice mischievously. She wondered if Ben’s mom had said anything about their relationship and whether she and Ben would get married or not.
“Hey, did you guys hear about the actress who drowned in the Seine?” Ben asked. “I read about it on my Twitter feed today.”
“We did,” Clémence said. “They just confirmed it was Nicole Blake this morning. How sad.”
“We were actually driving past the scene when they found her body in the Seine,” Arthur said.
“It’s unfortunate,” Clémence added. “I loved her in Peach State.”
Peach State was one of Clémence’s favorite movies. It was about a small-town restaurant owner and baker played by Nicole Blake. It was a sweet romantic comedy where Nicole’s character played matchmaker to many of her regular customers before finding love with the local veterinarian.
“That was a cute movie,” Berenice said. “Did they say why she drowned?”
“I don’t know,” Clémence said. “The papers didn’t say. Was she on a boat? I have no idea.”
“There’s some speculation that Nicole Blake had some sort of drinking problem,” Ben said.
“She is rumored to be somewhat of a diva,” Berenice said. “Especially since she got her Oscar nod. I’ve been reading stories in the papers about her not getting along with her co-stars on the movie she’s filming here.”
“Did the film wrap already?” Arthur asked.
“No,” Berenice said. “They were halfway done. There were all these filming delays. I heard that they have to give more scenes to Sarah Briar now that Nicole’s not able to shoot the rest.”
“Who’s Sarah Briar playing?” Clémence asked. She hadn’t been keeping up with the news in Paris since she’d been away.