Chocolat Chaud Murder

by Harper Lin

  Chocolat Chaud Murder

  A Patisserie Mystery Book 9

  Harper Lin

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  * * *

  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.

  CHOCOLAT CHAUD MURDER Copyright © 2015 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.

  * * *

  www.harperlin.com

  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

  Recipe 1: French Hot Chocolate

  Recipe 2: Healthy Hot Chocolate

  About the Author

  A Note From Harper

  Excerpt from “Sweets and a Stabbing”

  Chapter One

  Clémence wasn’t one of those girls who grew up dreaming about her wedding day. She always thought she would get married but she never quite understood what all the fuss was about when it came to the wedding planning, or why it took some people more than a year to get ready for the big day.

  The one thing that did cause her a bit of stress was finding a beautiful wedding dress. The dress was crucial. Not that beautiful wedding dresses were in short supply in Paris, but she needed to find her perfect dress. Once she did, she was sure the rest of the wedding would snowball into place.

  Clémence felt she was close. At La Belle, a small boutique in the 6th arrondissement, she’d already tried on six gorgeous white dresses. If only she could make up her mind. The problem was she was trying on dresses alone.

  After wolfing down a quick lunch at Damour, the flagship store of her family’s patisserie chain, she’d hailed a cab to her appointment. On an early Wednesday afternoon, all her friends were at work. Celine, who worked as a hostess at Damour, was supposed to come with her, but another hostess had called in sick, and Celine had to cover for her. Without a friend by her side, Clémence didn’t have an objective second opinion.

  The first three dresses she’d been drawn to were all classic strapless styles. The fourth had a ball gown skirt, and the fifth and sixth were more daring designs with corset waists. One of the corsets was encrusted with diamonds. She didn’t have the budget for a dress like that, but at the urgency of Eva Vincent, the salesgirl, she’d tried it on for fun.

  Eva insisted she looked great, but Clémence felt a little ridiculous, as if she were a fairy godmother with a bit of showgirl thrown in. She figured she would probably end up with one of the classic styles. She usually preferred modest clothing. Her clothes, considered stylish by most people, were all classic pieces, similar to what every other girl in Paris wore—tailored basics that were so tasteful, they were almost boring.

  Even though she was an heiress to Damour, Clémence shied away from attention. She represented the Damour family brand sometimes and had attended events with her parents since she was a teenager. Once the media had gotten wind of her socialite status, she had been a fixture in the entertainment sections of papers and blogs until she’d abandoned everything to travel the world. She’d returned to Paris less than a year ago, where she had slowly gotten her life back together.

  After she’d come back, she’d been a bit hesitant to oversee the family business while her parents spent time in Asia to open more patisseries, but she’d learned to embrace her leadership skills and public exposure. Sometimes, the exposure was for other reasons—getting mixed up with the police while solving murder mysteries, for example—but that was another story.

  She had always been uncomfortable with people staring at her. She hoped she would feel differently at her wedding. If she had her way, she would elope with Arthur to a tiny church in the countryside and avoid all the usual theatrics, but she couldn’t. In essence, a wedding seemed to be a celebration for everyone else, and the couple had to put on the show, especially to please their families.

  Meeting the man she was going to marry was the best thing that had happened in the past year. Their love story began as the typical love-hate relationship often found in romantic comedies. Clémence had laughed when she’d told Eva the story of how she had started dating Arthur. He had been right under her nose the entire time. Quite literally. He’d lived two floors below her family’s apartment in the 16th arrondissement.

  She’d always thought of him as an arrogant playboy, a finance guy who was a total bore. Yet the more she got to know him, the more she fell in love with him.

  Their mothers had wanted the two of them to date before they’d known they liked each other, and the women would have a fit if she and Arthur didn’t get married in a proper ceremony. Arthur was also very private and low-key, but he’d been more enthused about wedding planning than she’d thought he would be. He’d already selected his suit and helped her choose the invitations.

  Arthur’s mother had generously suggested using her house in Normandy as a venue, and Clémence might just agree to it. The house was really a mansion, with an even bigger garden. It was the perfect size for the seventy guests she planned to invite. Compared with other weddings Clémence had attended, hers was going to be small and intimate. She wanted the experience to be as laid back as possible.

  Finding the right dress was the most stressful part of the process so far but also the most fun. After changing back into one of the three strapless dresses for a second look, Clémence asked Eva, “Can I take a photo of myself in the dress? I want to show my friends.”

  Eva, a pretty brunette in her early thirties, shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry. The owners have a strict no-photo policy.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “I don’t know why exactly. I think Adine, the designer, just doesn’t like it.”

  La Belle was an intimate boutique tucked into one of the small cobblestone streets. The showroom was as big as one of the many antique bookstores in the same neighborhood. No one else had an appointment at that time, and Clémence was the only customer in the store. The experience had been quite peaceful. She wouldn’t begrudge the designer for wanting to keep the shopping experience a low-key affair. After all, if she had created the most beautiful wedding dresses, she could set whatever rule she wanted at her store.

  “I like all of them,” Clémence said. “Well, these four most of all. Can you help me note down which styles they are so that I can come back with friends later this week to look at them again?”

  “Of course.” The young woman’s business-like expression cracked when she smiled. “It’s difficult to make a choice with such lovely options, isn’t it?”

  “It really is. Adine is so talented. Can I ask for your honest opinion? Which one of these dresses did you like better on me?”

  Taking the matter seriously, Eva scrutinized the five dresses on the racks and the one Clémence was wearing. “You were obviously not comfortable in the corset styles. I noticed when you were wearing them, so I think you were right to dismiss them. You looked like you couldn’t even move properly in them.”

  “True,” Cl�
�mence agreed. “Comfort takes precedence over style for me, to tell you the truth. You can take away the corset options, then. At least I went out of my comfort zone and tried them on, right?”

  “I’ll give you points for that,” Eva said. “The ball gown made you look too much like Cinderella, but I sense you’re not the princess type.”

  Clémence laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. Yes, the dress is a bit too fluffy for me. Actually, I threw that in for my mother’s sake. She wanted me to be in something ‘fit for royalty.’ But you’re right. This isn’t me. I’m looking for something simple and chic. What do you think of this one?” She gestured to the one she was wearing—a simple ivory silk dress with a skirt that flowed and draped around the floor.

  “The strapless styles are lovely, but maybe too boring.” Eva seemed more comfortable speaking frankly now.

  “Really?” Clémence frowned. “Even if I were to put on the accessories?”

  “I don’t mean to insult you. These dresses are great. You would look beautiful in whatever you wore. It’s just that it’s your special day. You may want to stand out more, even just a little. Wait.” Eva abruptly turned and walked to the back, where she began flipping through one of the racks. “You overlooked this one.” She held out a dress inside a plastic cover. “I know you weren’t looking for lace, but I think this would look great on you.”

  “Lace?” Clémence’s face fell. “I wasn’t.” She didn’t want to look like a doily.

  “What do you have to lose? Just try it on. It’s simple enough, and it’s romantic.”

  After Eva opened the plastic, Clémence fingered the delicate lace. The style wasn’t strapless, as she’d wanted, but it looked as though it would hug her body even tighter than the strapless styles.

  She hesitated. “It’s rather low in the front. The neckline is, well, rather plunging.”

  “Don’t worry.” Eva gave a dismissive wave. “You won’t look provocative because you don’t have a big bust. Go on. Try it.”

  “All right,” Clémence said with doubt in her voice. But Eva was right. What did she have to lose?

  When Clémence emerged from the dressing room, she was surprised how good she looked. Even though the neckline was much lower than the other dresses she’d tried on, the dress still looked classy and elegant on her. The silhouette showed off her body in a feminine way, and the lace hugged her like a glove.

  “What do you think?” Eva tried to sound indifferent, but Clémence could tell she was eager for a favorable answer by the way she arched her eyebrows.

  Clémence broke into a wide smile. “I love it. It’s actually really comfortable.”

  “Good.” Eva grinned back. “I’m rarely wrong.”

  “You’re good at your job. I could make a rash decision and buy it on the spot, but I’m still going to bring at least one friend in for a second opinion.”

  “Of course. This is not a light decision. I’ll keep your size available in the back.”

  “Merci. Thanks so much for all your help today.”

  “No problem.” Eva grinned again. “I love my job.”

  After Clémence changed out of the dress, she heard a loud scream. She was still zipping her jeans up when she stumbled out of the changing room to see what the commotion was.

  Eva was at the rear of the store in front of the open back door. A young woman stood at the door. She looked to be about twenty-five, with wavy, long reddish-brown hair, and she looked as pale as a ghost.

  “What happened?” Eva asked her.

  “She’s dead!” the young woman cried.

  Chapter Two

  “Who’s dead?” Clémence asked.

  “Adine,” the woman cried.

  Clémence gasped. “The designer?”

  “How?” Eva asked incredulously. “Perrie, are you sure?”

  Clémence walked over to the women and gently guided Perrie to sit in one of the cushioned chairs by the wall. The young woman put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this is real. I saw blood everywhere!”

  “Call the police,” Clémence said to Eva before turning back to Perrie. “Tell me what happened, please.”

  Perrie slowly spoke. “I was looking for Adine in the atelier, but she wasn’t there, so I went up to her apartment. The door was open. I called her name. She didn’t answer, so I looked for her. She was on the floor, and—oh, it was quite the sight. Like in those gruesome murder mystery shows, except this was real.”

  Perrie was shaking as Eva put her phone away after making the call.

  “Wait, so Adine lives upstairs?” Clémence asked.

  “Yes,” Eva said. “There’s an atelier on the second floor, where she works and makes all of the dresses by hand with a couple of other seamstresses.”

  No wonder these dresses cost a fortune, Clémence thought.

  “She also lives on the third floor,” Eva continued, “in her private apartment.”

  “So the store, the atelier, and the apartment are all connected?” Clémence asked.

  Perrie nodded. “Just think of it as one big house.”

  “And who are you, may I ask?”

  “I’m Adine’s assistant. I’ve only been working for her for a month.”

  “I need to see the crime scene,” Clémence said.

  “Shouldn’t you wait for the police to do that?” Eva asked.

  “I work with the police,” Clémence blurted out without thinking.

  Eva turned to her in surprise. “Really?” She paused. “You don’t look like a police officer.”

  Clémence didn’t exactly lie. She had worked with the police numerous times. She was on a first-name basis with them, even if the head inspector wanted to forget hers. “I work with the police on a consultant basis.” That was also not a lie. She was similar to a consultant, even if the police never paid her for her good work.

  “Consulting on… murders?” Eva asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not a detective.”

  “No.”

  “Like Sherlock Holmes,” Perrie said, brightening up a little. “That’s what he does!”

  Clémence had to chuckle. “I’m nowhere near as clever as Sherlock. I can’t tell what happened to someone just by scratches on a wall.”

  “So what can you do?” Eva asked, curiosity shining in her bright, green eyes.

  “This whole thing is crazy,” Perrie said, “but I want to know too.”

  “Why don’t you lead the way,” Clémence said to Perrie, “and I’ll show you?”

  “All right.” Perrie stood up reluctantly. “You first, though. I have the keys, but the door is probably still open. I don’t think I even want to go up there with you.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. Eva, can you stay here to talk to the police when they get here?”

  “Sure.”

  This wasn’t Clémence’s first rodeo. She’d seen plenty of dead bodies up close and personal, and she could remember when she had once been squeamish about them like Perrie was. Clémence was still a little squeamish, but at least she didn’t feel the vomit rising in her throat anymore.

  Perrie looked pale. Clémence didn’t know if it was because she was a redhead and naturally had paper-white skin, or because she wanted to puke.

  Perrie led Clémence through the back door of the store, which was a small space with an employees’ restroom, a closet, and a staircase. They went up the stairs.

  The door to the atelier was open, and Clémence looked in. The space was beautiful, with floral wallpaper and big, bright windows. A row of mannequins lined one wall, half cloaked in beautiful completed wedding dresses, and half in a state of undress.

  White fabric samples were scattered over one of three tables. Chairs and workspaces suggested that at least three people could occupy the space.

  “There are the stairs going up to the apartment.” Perrie pointed to a black iron spiral staircase in one corner of the atelier.

  Before she went up, Clémence wanted to ques
tion Perrie. How did she know Perrie didn’t do it? After all, that was what the police were going to investigate. A quick glance at Perrie told her the girl hadn’t been in contact with any blood. She wore a nude-colored coat, so any blood splatters would be obvious.

  “Did you see Adine today before she was found, you know, up there?” Clémence asked.

  “Yes. I was with her this morning in the atelier. Nobody else was at the atelier. The two seamstresses aren’t here this week. They’re sisters, and they both went back to their hometown in Italy for an aunt’s birthday. I was alone in the atelier most of the time, working on my laptop. Adine was here from time to time, designing, but she was distracted today. She went out to smoke a lot. I went out for a late lunch because I had so much work to catch up with. I was gone for about an hour. When I came back, I found Adine up there, dead.”

  “I see. You didn’t touch anything, right?”

  Perrie balked. “That depends. I’m here all the time. I touch everything!”

  “Even the things in her apartment?”

  “No, I don’t get invited up there so much, but I touched the doorknob when I was trying to find her. Oh my gosh! Do you think the police will think I had something to do with it?”

  “Well, they’ll question you,” Clémence said. “I think you’ll be okay because you’re innocent.”

  Perrie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for believing me.” Perrie looked at her. “Why do you believe me?”

  “I just do.” Clémence didn’t add that she’d been in the same situation before. Just because someone found a body didn’t mean she had anything to do with the murder. It would be pretty stupid for a real killer to do that. Most people were not great actors.