Harper Lin - Patisserie 07 - Madeleine Murder

by Harper Lin

  “Nicole Blake’s older sister. The film’s about two American sisters who come to Paris after they’ve inherited an apartment in Montmartre and a valuable painting. Nicole had a bigger role and a meatier storyline, but now I heard they’re forced to do without some of Nicole’s scenes, and they’re writing in more scenes for Sarah’s character.”

  “That sounds pretty suspect, doesn’t it?” Clémence said.

  “What? You think Sarah Briar killed Nicole Blake?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clémence said. “But I’d consider that angle.”

  “That is, if Nicole was even killed,” Berenice said.

  “True,” Clémence agreed.

  “Why don’t you snoop around on set and find out,” Arthur suggested wryly.

  Clémence shook her head. “No way. No more murder cases. If it’s even a murder. It could be an accident, you know. This incident has nothing to do with me, or Damour, so I’m just going to let the police handle it this time.”

  “Really?” Berenice said. “You’re not the least bit curious about what happened?”

  “Curious, sure, but enough to spend time with that inspector?”

  “I thought you loved getting on his nerves,” Arthur said.

  “That’s always fun, but if I had an option to not have to deal with him or any more dead bodies, I’d take it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Berenice said. “I think you like solving cases, and you’re good at it. And I think you have an in on the film set. Sophie Seydoux is making a small cameo as the girlfriend of one of the character’s love interests.”

  “Really?” Clémence asked.

  “Yup. I’m sure she could get you on set and introduce you to the cast and crew if you’d ask her.”

  Once again, Clémence shook her head resolutely. She downed her glass of white wine cooler.

  “Nope. I will not get involved this time. Definitely not.”

  Chapter 3

  After two weeks of being away from the Damour kitchen at 4 Place du Trocadéro, Clémence felt happy to be back. After greeting the staff, including the busy chefs and bakers in the kitchen, she settled in at the work table that she shared with Berenice and her brother Sebastien. Sebastien was Damour’s head baker, whom she often worked with to invent new dessert flavors.

  He was working on a new madeleine flavor, Raspberry and Rose, when Clémence came in. Together, they worked on three separate batches to improve on the recipe until they decided that the third one was perfect.

  Celine, one of the hostesses in the salon de thé, came in to chat during her break as they were indulging themselves with the new madeleines.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Celine took a warm madeleine and bit into it. “C’est très très bon.”

  “Merci.” Sebastien looked a little too proud. “We’ve outdone ourselves. It’s not too fruity, with just a hint of the rose.”

  “Hey, I forgot to tell you,” Celine said to Clémence. “When you were away, some of the stars from that Hollywood film, The Art of Amour, were here. Nicole Blake was here all the time, and so was Sarah Briar, although never together. They were shooting a lot in the neighborhood for about a week and a half. It was so exciting! I got to watch Zach film a kissing scene with Nicole outside La Coquette. Well, you know, it was before Nicole Blake died.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Berenice said. “The patisserie cashiers told me that a couple of crew members would come in and buy massive amounts of desserts and pastries to go for the set.”

  “If I’d known,” Clémence said, “I would’ve offered to give them a special discount on catering on the set.”

  “Well, they’ve already moved on to shooting scenes in other parts of the city,” Celine said. “I think they’re in Montmartre now. Too bad. Zach Brant is perfection.”

  “Is that guy ever fully clothed in a movie?” Sebastien quipped.

  “Pourquoi?” Clémence asked. “Are you only interested when he’s not?”

  Sebastien snorted. “He played a gigolo in his last movie and walked around naked in ninety percent of the scenes. He’s not big because he can act, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh please,” Berenice said. “As if women aren’t objectified in movies all the time. It’s refreshing for the girls to get some visual action for a change.”

  “Hey, Zach Brant just broke up with that mousy actress,” Celine said. “He’s single again.”

  “Are you going to stalk him until he notices you?” Clémence smiled.

  “Oh, he already has. After one of his takes, we made eye contact. Like, full-on eye contact for at least three seconds. It was intense. But they kept asking him to redo the takes, and after he wrapped, the bodyguards ushered the crowd away, and the actors disappeared into a van. I saw him looking around before he ducked into the van, so he might’ve been looking for me.”

  Sebastien laughed. “Eye contact? How far away were you? He was probably just staring into space and trying to remember his lines.”

  “Whatever,” Celine said. “I’m telling you, we had a moment. When I’m walking down the red carpet, arm linked with his, we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

  She turned on her heels and walked out the door in a huff.

  Sebastien shook his head. “Delusional as always.”

  “She’s a dreamer,” Clémence said. “I kind of admire that.”

  “Zach Brant is pretty hot,” Berenice said. “You could wash laundry on those abs.”

  “Ugh.” Sebastien put in his earbuds and turned on his iPod. “After you finish discussing the rest of his body parts, let me know.”

  Clémence and Berenice laughed. Sebastien could be so uptight sometimes.

  The salon de thé was extra busy during lunch since the Parisians were starting to return from vacation. All the tables inside and on the terrace were full. Customers needed reservations to get a table. Clémence helped Celine and another hostess deal with the lineup. They had to turn away a lot of people, mainly tourists who didn’t realize they needed to call ahead to get a table. They were encouraged to go to the patisserie, where they could at least take away some famous Damour treats to go so their trip wasn’t a total loss.

  They were still dealing with the lunch rush when a young woman wearing black-rimmed glasses cut the line to talk to one of the hostesses.

  “Do you have a reservation?” Celine asked her.

  “Non, desolée,” the young woman said in an American accent. “I’m not here to eat. Is it possible to see Clémence? Clémence Damour?”

  Clémence had been within earshot, chatting with a regular customer. She turned around to face the American.

  “I’m Clémence. Can I help you?”

  “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you at such a busy time, but I heard I could find you here, and I’d like to speak to you in private about an important matter.”

  Clémence sized up the young woman. She had a plain-Jane quality about her. Her brown hair in a ponytail, and her face completely devoid of makeup. She had a smattering of freckles on her face, and she couldn’t have been over twenty-five. Her French was a bit awkward, high school level, but it was competent enough.

  “Is it urgent?” Clémence asked.

  The young woman nodded. She stepped to the side, away from the lineup and closer to Clémence so the others couldn’t hear.

  “It’s regarding Nicole Blake’s death. I was her assistant.”

  Clémence slowly nodded. “I see.”

  She looked around. Carolyn was coming out of her office and walking toward them. Clémence asked her to fill in for her.

  “Why don’t you come with me to the back?” Clémence told the American.

  The young woman followed Clémence past the tables of the salon into the back section. They turned to the right and reached Carolyn’s empty office. When they were both inside, Clémence closed the door behind them.

  “Please sit.” Clémence gestured to a chair as she sat behind Carolyn’s desk.

  “Je m�
�appelle Rachel.” Her voice sounded shakier now that they were alone in a quiet room.

  “We can speak English if you prefer,” Clémence offered.

  “Oh, that would be great.” Rachel sighed in relief. “My French is usually okay, but it would be easier to speak in English for this matter. I’m a bit nervous.”

  “You must be shaken after Nicole’s death.”

  Rachel nodded solemnly. “It was definitely a shock.”

  “Were you her personal assistant?”

  “No, not exactly. I was interning for Harper Studios, which is making The Art of Amour. Are you familiar with the film? They’ve been shooting here in Paris for the past few weeks. You know, the one Nicole Blake was starring in?”

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Well, the studio assigned me to be Nicole’s assistant on this film because her own assistants kept quitting on her. Nicole didn’t want another assistant at first, but the producers insisted. I guess they wanted me to keep an eye on her here. In a way, I was a glorified babysitter, but I’d come to like Nicole. She was prickly at first, but through this experience on set in Paris, we’d become friends, almost. I feel guilty that she died on my watch.”

  “Why are you here to see me?” Clémence asked.

  “Sophie Seydoux recommended that I speak to you. She says you’re good at digging out the truth.”

  “Really?” Clémence raised an eyebrow. “What exactly is the problem?”

  “I think Nicole Blake might’ve been murdered.”

  Chapter 4

  Clémence caught her breath. “How do you know? What do you know?”

  Rachel took out an agenda from her black purse. “This is Nicole’s agenda. She’s so secretive that she wrote a lot of it in a secret code.”

  Clémence took the red leather agenda from Rachel’s frail fingers. She unhooked the metallic clasp. “I didn’t know people still used these.”

  “Well, Nicole had been paranoid about technology ever since somebody hacked into her phone.”

  “Right,” Clémence said. “I remember her topless photo scandal, but those kinds of things are not a huge deal in France.”

  “Nicole had a good PR company, and it did blow over, but she’d been paranoid ever since. She avoids texting anything personal, and the same goes for emails. In a way her extreme privacy backfired, because her death is a secret as well. The police are having a hard time figuring out what happened to her. They might rule it as an accident.”

  “Why are you coming to me with this agenda?” Clémence asked. “It could be a vital clue. Why don’t you go to the police?”

  “I thought about it.” Rachel twisted the hem of her cotton button-down shirt. “I lived in Paris for a semester for exchange when I was in my third year of university. Once, my purse was stolen when I was in a bar, and the police basically laughed at me when I reported it and asked whether they’d be able to help me get my stuff back. I’ve heard other stories about the police from my French friends as well. And with the clumsy investigation I’ve witnessed so far, I just don’t have any faith in them.”

  Clémence nodded. “I really don’t blame you.” She thought about the clueless Inspector Cyril St. Clair. He couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag.

  “Sophie told me about what you did when she was kidnapped,” Rachel said. “She says you’re clever, and you’d do a much better job than the professionals. What do you think? Can you help?”

  “I want to.” Clémence turned the pages, frowning at the indecipherable letters. “But this is in code, and I’ve never decoded anything before. What do you think is in here that would prove that Nicole was murdered?”

  “Where she was and who she was with last Saturday, for example, the night before her body was found.” Rachel helped her flip to the page. “Here. It says ‘Meeting with OVUJOV.’”

  “Ovujov? What could that be?” Clémence remarked. “Why does she only write certain things in code and not others?”

  “She does it for important meetings that she doesn’t want anyone to know about. See her appointments for hair salons and manicures?”

  “It’s in plain English.” Clémence nodded. “It’s impressive. She was that private, huh?”

  “She hates computers and technology now. The phone-hacking incident had been really humiliating for her. Not so much that her nudes were leaked and tainted her image. She doesn’t like things to be beyond her control. And for some anonymous hacker to gain access to all her information was a lot to bear. She often said she wanted to live in the sixties, when everybody used typewriters. She hates the internet, and would avoid it like the plague, although I’ve caught her Googling herself more than once.”

  “The internet is a vicious black hole.” Clémence could sympathize. There were plenty of horrible articles and blog posts written about her online. “When was the last time you saw Nicole?”

  “At the hotel. The cast and crew are all staying at the Athena Hotel.”

  “Oh, that’s not far from here.”

  “Yes. The actors, the directors, and the producers are in suites, so they’re on a different floor. The rest of us are in regular rooms. I’m lucky to get my own room, since others have to share. It was Nicole’s doing. She insisted I get my own room and have it be close to hers, but they couldn’t manage that, since they didn’t want to spring for a luxury suite for an assistant.” Rachel shrugged. “The night before she was found dead, she was in my room before she went out, and we had been going over her lines for the next day.”

  “Is that why you got your own room? So she could come over?”

  “Yes. I was only allowed into her room to do specific things, like organize her closet. Otherwise, she came to my room. Nobody else could go into her room. She was that private.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “It was about ten thirty p.m., which was late. We were in my room for hours. She was snacking a lot. She kept eating madeleines—they were from Damour, by the way. The crew bought a lot of Damour items, and she became obsessed with the madeleines. It’s funny, now that I’m here talking to you, the heiress of Damour.”

  “What kind of madeleines?” Clémence knew she was getting off topic, but she was curious.

  “The almond praliné ones,” Rachel replied. “I remembered because she brought them into my room and offered some to me. She said she always ate Damour madeleines when she was in Paris.”

  “The almond pralinés were a new flavor,” Clémence muttered. She tried to imagine Nicole Blake stuffing her face with her madeleines and smiled.

  “She did need to watch her figure, but she argued that the madeleines weren’t as fattening as the other Damour desserts, so she felt as if she could indulge. But that night she was wolfing them back like there was no tomorrow. Maybe she was nervous, because I’d never seen her eat so much so fast.”

  “It’s unfortunate that my madeleines were the last thing she probably ate before she died.” Clémence sighed. Were her products really cursed?

  “Considering that Nicole’s call time the following morning was at six a.m., wherever she was going must’ve been pretty important,” Rachel said.

  Clémence looked at Nicole’s agenda again. The coded appointment was written beside the 10:30 p.m. slot.

  “She gets into this zone when she rehearses with me sometimes,” Rachel said. “After half an hour, she stopped snacking and really got into her scenes. I don’t care what anyone says about her. She was the most talented actress of our generation. We both lost track of time as she worked, and when she glanced at her watch at around ten thirty, she practically jumped out of her chair. She grabbed her clutch and said she had to go run an errand.”

  “That was all she said?”

  “Yes. She just ran out. She was in a huge rush, and I didn’t have time to ask her anything else. But she left her script behind, and her agenda, which she’d carried in a separate Gucci tote bag. She had her clutch that contained her phone and keys with her, which still has
n’t been found. The police are saying that it was a mugging. Or the clutch is at the bottom of the Seine.”

  Clémence sighed. “I suppose you’re right about the agenda. It’s our best bet to find out where she’d gone. But tell me, is it true that she had a drinking problem?”

  “I think she used to, when she was a teenager. Whenever the crew went out to dinner, she never drank alcohol, which gave me the impression that she was trying hard not to fall off the bandwagon. She never told me she was in AA, but it was clear she had issues with alcohol in the past. I assumed she was trying to keep on a straight path.”

  “So you don’t think she could’ve been drinking that night?” Clémence asked.

  “No. I’m sure she wasn’t. Unless she drank with someone else that night.”

  “What if it was an accident?” Clémence said. “What if she only went out with a friend, went crazy on the drinks, and maybe fell in the Seine on her way home. It is a possibility.”

  “Nicole’s a great swimmer. When we were shooting in L.A., we were shooting at a beach house, and she’d swim in the ocean on her off days, no problem. She even knew how to surf. There’s no way that she wouldn’t have been able to handle the Seine, even if she had been drunk, which I doubt. I don’t believe the rumors that blame alcohol or drugs for landing her in the river.”

  “You said Nicole was nervous that evening. Why do you think she was nervous?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t unusual to see her that way. I rarely saw her relaxed, in fact. But actually, when she was jumping to leave, I thought she seemed happy to go. Excited even.”

  “Was she dating anyone?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know much about her private life. She wouldn’t tell me. I did get the impression that she was, because sometimes she’d get a text and she’d have a dreamy smile on her face, or she’d laugh. Since her phone was lost, we don’t have a way of knowing who she’d been in contact with.”

  “Do you think anyone would have enough motive to kill her?”