Chocolat Chaud Murder

by Harper Lin

  Clémence laughed. “It’s not as if they let me wolf down five chocolate croissants a day. I got to have a small treat after school, but that was about it. Sugar and little kids don’t mix.”

  “Tell me about it. My younger brothers used to climb chairs to get to the snacks in the top cupboards. By the time the nanny found them, they were running around like crazy with chocolate-stained cheeks.”

  Clémence helped set up the plates and utensils on the table. Arthur uncorked the wine. Miffy barked, wanting attention. Clémence kneeled and gave her head a good rub.

  “Are you hungry?” Arthur asked.

  “I’m always hungry. You’ve been doing a lot of cooking lately. Thinking about becoming a chef?”

  “You know what? I like it. It’s a de-stresser after a long day at work. I’m starting with simple dishes. Maybe one day, I’ll learn how to make a proper three-course meal.”

  “I’m not a picky eater.” Clémence smiled. “Those skills will come in handy when we throw dinner parties.”

  “That’s what married people do, right? Throw dinner parties?”

  “At least that’s what my parents did. I have to say my favorite dinner party was in America. My uncle—my mother’s little brother—and his wife used to have make-your-own pizza parties. They had a stone oven in their backyard. Guests would come over and make their own pizzas with the variety of toppings available, and they would compete to see who created the best-tasting one.”

  “Why did you have to bring up pizza?” Arthur said. “Now I’m craving pizza.”

  He dished up a chicken leg for Clémence, knowing it was her favorite piece of the chicken.

  “This is delicious, though,” Clémence said after a bite. “You’ll forget all about pizza after you taste this.”

  After Arthur distributed the green beans and put some salt and pepper on his food, he tried it. “It’s not half bad. It’s almost as good as Andre’s.”

  “Almost?”

  “The chicken is not as tender for some reason. I don’t know if it’s me or the chicken. I’ll have to ask him.”

  “The chicken is great. I’m not kidding. Restaurant quality.”

  After another few bites, he agreed. “You’re right. I’ve had some chicken in restaurants that was absolutely rubbery. This is a lot better.”

  “Look at you, Chef Duboir.”

  “It makes sense. You being the baker, and me the chef. It’s a gastronomic match made in heaven.” When Arthur smiled, a dimple appeared in his left cheek. It made him look sweet, like a little boy. Just a year ago, “sweet” would’ve been the last word Clémence would have used to describe him.

  After they ate their meals, they finished the bottle of wine, which was something they did more often than not. Arthur talked about his day at work, then they discussed world events and politics before Clémence brought up her news about the murder case.

  “So, Noel, you know, Adine’s ex-boyfriend who was arrested? Well, there’s a chance he might be innocent.”

  “I knew it,” Arthur said. “The Paris police always screw it up.”

  “I wouldn’t say that they screwed it up yet—”

  “But you’re going to investigate, right?”

  She nodded. “It might be Jennifer Moss, Adine’s longtime business partner, but she’s nowhere to be found. Madeleine sort of knows her. She gave me her number, and I left her a message, but she hasn’t returned my call. I called that girl Perrie, Adine’s assistant, and she said she hasn’t seen or heard from Jennifer since Adine died.”

  “You said Jennifer’s British, right? I wonder if she was even in town when the murder happened.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Or what if she committed the murder then fled the country?”

  “You’re not going to rest until you find out, are you?”

  “You know me too well,” Clémence said.

  “Go for it. Let me know if you need any help. We have a cake tasting tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll reschedule it to next week.”

  “Why next week?”

  “According to my calculations—and I am very much a finance guy, as you know—you’ll solve this by early next week.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s only a few days!”

  “It doesn’t usually take you more than two weeks to solve a case. I expect you to have it wrapped up before the cake tasting. In the meantime, I don’t expect you to do any work at Damour or come home on time for dinner.”

  “I hope that’s okay.”

  “When has it not been? I trust you to solve the case soon, anyway.”

  “Don’t say that, or you’ll jinx me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Early in the morning, Clémence kissed Arthur good-bye after breakfast. He left for work, and she took Miffy for a walk in Champs de Mars, the park under the Eiffel Tower. She wanted to clear her head before the day started, and the weather was lovely. The gray winter clouds had dispersed, and the sun had finally come out after weeks of playing peekaboo.

  As usual, tourists were posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, doing funny poses, like pretending to push the Tower. It was cheesy, but Clémence still liked tourists in Paris. They reminded her that she lived in a city that made other people happy, and she felt lucky to live there. On days when she had bad traffic, dreary weather, crowded metros, or murders to think about, she enjoyed reminders that Paris was as beautiful as everyone said.

  Even though Clémence wasn’t sure whether she would end up buying a wedding dress from a murdered designer, she took out her cell phone and made another appointment for later that day. The saleswoman named Laurie had answered. Clémence had been afraid La Belle would remain closed, but Laurie assured her they were still taking appointments. The next one available with Eva was that afternoon.

  “Did the other owner agree to keep the store open?” Clémence asked.

  “Oh, Jennifer?” Laurie asked. “Actually, I haven’t spoken to her. Sometimes, she does that. She goes out of town. When she’s away, I manage the store.”

  “I see. And you haven’t seen or heard from her either?”

  “No. I tried leaving messages on her phone. I guess we’ll hear from her when we hear from her.”

  “Any idea where she might be?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. See you at three thirty, then.”

  “Great! Thanks for calling.”

  As Miffy sniffed around the bushes, Clémence texted Celine, asking if she could come with her to the boutique after her shift. She knew Celine was working the morning shift and would get off around three o’clock that afternoon.

  Oui! Celine texted back. Can’t wait.

  After Miffy became tired from running around, Clémence brought her back to the apartment. The sun had returned to its blanket of clouds, and Clémence tossed an umbrella in her handbag just in case it rained.

  The flagship family patisserie was at 2 Place du Trocadéro. When the weather was nicer, they opened up the front as an outdoor patio. The store had a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower, and tourists and locals alike frequented their place.

  When Clémence arrived, the line for the patisserie section was out the door. The cashiers were working as fast as they could. They were used to the morning rush of customers wanting to grab a fresh croissant or treat before the morning started. The shop also sold espressos for the caffeine addicts. However, the patisserie didn’t have seats, so the customers usually took their shots at the counter and grabbed their treats to go.

  Customers could sit in the salon de thé section of the establishment. They could have a cup of tea or eat a full meal there. In recent years, business was doing so well that customers couldn’t stop in and grab a seat anymore. Tables had to be booked in advance. Sometimes, Clémence missed the good old days when older customers would read their newspapers at a leisurely pace, or students would drop in after work and do their homework. They still had customers like that from time to time, during seasons when
it wasn’t so busy.

  Celine was the first person she saw when she entered the salon de thé. Dressed in her classy uniform of black pants and a crisp white dress shirt, Celine greeted her with air kisses. “I can’t wait to go to that shop later. Sorry I missed your last appointment.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You missed seeing a dead body.”

  “That’s true. I was just really hoping to help you find a dress. Are you really going there for that dress or to investigate?”

  “A little bit of both, I suppose,” Clémence admitted. “I do really, really like the dress, and I need a second opinion. You don’t think it’s weird, do you?”

  “No. It might be a good way of honoring the designer.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way. Maybe you’re right. The police think they have it figured out, but I still think it’s odd that Jennifer hasn’t been in the shop. I wonder if the police have clued into that yet.”

  “So, she’s just missing?”

  “Yup. It’s odd. The salesperson doesn’t think it’s unusual, though. Jennifer’s British, so she might’ve been out of the country. Being a founder of the store doesn’t require her to be in the store all the time. Still, I think it’s odd that she didn’t call me back. You’d think someone who travels back and forth would have a phone plan that takes calls from France in the UK.”

  “Did her phone ring, or did it go straight to voicemail?”

  “It rang.” Clémence took out her cell phone from her purse. “You know what? I’ll call her again.” She made the call, and it went straight to voicemail. “Nope, no ringing this time.”

  “That’s odd,” Celine remarked.

  Clémence shrugged. “We’ll try to figure it out at the boutique, ask some more questions, see if there’s anything suspicious going on.”

  Customers came in, and Celine had to attend to them.

  “We’ll strategize at lunchtime,” Clémence said.

  “Sure. I can’t believe I get to work on a murder case with you.”

  Luckily, Celine only whispered the last part.

  As usual, when Clémence worked on a case, she couldn’t concentrate on her real job in the kitchen. Usually, she experimented with new flavors of macarons, éclairs, and other baked goods, helping Sebastien and Berenice with their inventions or custom orders, but when her brain was occupied, she was more of a passive baker. She went into machine-mode, where her body worked, and her brain tumbled with thoughts and theories.

  She helped make holiday gingerbread cookies, which were American. Since her mother was American, Damour never shied away from infusing foreign treats and recipes with homegrown ones.

  By lunchtime, Clémence had managed to make and package a few holiday cookie boxes. She’d kept busy with the repetitive work of baking, decorating, and packaging, but her mind wandered to the crime.

  Noel was still a suspect, even if Madeleine thought otherwise. He had enough motive, and he was even spotted at the scene of the crime. Adine had also known him. There was no sign of a break-in. Although Adine may have felt compelled to file a restraining order against him, perhaps he had convinced her to let him in.

  Jennifer was missing, and even her employees had not heard from her. That seemed highly unusual for a business owner. With phones, email, and social media, Jennifer could have easily checked in on the store, and she could have heard through friends and employees that Adine was dead. Then again, just because Clémence and the employees hadn’t heard from Jennifer, she could have gone directly to the police or Adine’s family and had been in too much of a shock to check in with anyone else.

  Perhaps Clémence should check with Cyril about that. He may have thought she was a drag, but when she showed up at his office, she usually left with information.

  There were also Adine’s assistants to look into.

  “Do you think Perrie could have done it?” Celine asked during a quick lunch break.

  Clémence had written all the suspects and their motives down in her notebook. “I doubt it.”

  “How do you know?” Celine asked between spoonfuls of her homemade red quinoa with spinach and mushrooms. “How long has she been working for Adine?”

  “Not long. A month, maybe. I just don’t think she did it. It’s just an instinct.”

  “Who knows? Maybe you should look into her history.”

  “I suppose I can ask Eva, the saleswoman I’m meeting, later today.”

  “Eva. How about her? Could she have done it?”

  Clémence thought about it. “I didn’t consider her. I mean, she was working in the boutique.”

  “She has access to the atelier, doesn’t she?”

  “I suppose, but she was working. Who kills an employer in the middle of a shift? And why?”

  Celine shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just looking at all possible angles.”

  “Okay.” Clémence wrote it down, using a new page for each suspect. It didn’t hurt to look into it. She hadn’t considered Eva. For her to have killed Adine would have been unlikely. “Eva has known Jennifer and Adine for five years. She told me.”

  “So there’s history there.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And who’s to say that just because Perrie has been working for Adine for one month, she didn’t have history with her before that? What if she weaseled her way into a job just to kill her then pretend to be innocent upon finding her?”

  Clémence shook her head. “I really don’t know about these two suspects, but I’ll keep an open mind. I do want to know more about these former assistants. Maybe I’ll look into that.”

  “Just remember,” Celine said in a grave voice. “Everyone you talk to might be a murderer.”

  “Wow.” Clémence laughed. “I’ll try not to forget that.”

  “Was that too dramatic?” Celine asked. “I was trying to sound like someone in one of those murder dramas.”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded. So, let’s see. This afternoon, we shall go find a wedding dress and then a murderer.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Celine said.

  Chapter Nine

  After lunch, Clémence took over Berenice’s task of piping a few trays of éclairs with chocolate. The work was meditative, killing her impatience and anxiousness to get to the bottom of the case. When three o’clock came, she went with Celine to the 6th arrondissement.

  Celine had changed out of her uniform into jeans, boots, and a gray coat. It was chilly outside, and Clémence wrapped a big wool scarf around herself in two loops. She smelled like sweet pastries. She always did when she got out of the kitchen. Arthur liked it, and he told her he had come to associate the smell of patisseries with Clémence.

  The girls jumped into the Métro, which was the fastest way to the store with all the afternoon traffic. Hordes of tourists had descended on Paris for the holiday season, which was an even busier time than the summer.

  Christmas was Clémence’s favorite holiday. Even though it was more celebrated in other parts of the world, like America, the lights and décor in Paris weren’t too shabby. On Champs-Élysée, the lights were already up, and she couldn’t wait to see what the window displays at Galeries Lafayette were going to look like. They were usually extravagant spectacles, and tourists would crowd before them, making them almost impossible to see.

  At least she had beaten the holiday rush by buying half of her presents online. She’d bought a new stationery kit for her mother, with her initials on the box and on the letterheads; a beard and moustache kit for her father, complete with organic beard oil and a little brush; a trendy jacket for her sister; and an antique pocket watch for her brother. She knew her family well. She would have to poke around the shops in Paris to buy her remaining presents, but at least her immediate family was covered.

  As for Arthur, she was still searching. What could she get the man who had everything? He certainly had enough brown brogues.

  “You’re so lucky to be getting married,” Celine said on the Métro.


  A subway performer was playing the accordion, and Clémence couldn’t hear Celine very well, so she asked her to repeat herself.

  “I said you’re so lucky to be getting married!” Celine repeated loudly.

  “Yes,” Clémence said. “Thanks. You’ll get married someday too, don’t forget.”

  “It seems like an impossibility right now.”

  Celine was one of Clémence’s few friends who were single at the moment. Clémence could understand how she felt. She’d had times in her life in which she’d felt as though everyone was coupled off except her. Her siblings both married young, and after she’d broken up with her cheating boyfriend, she’d traveled the world to find herself. When she’d returned and was in a better place, she’d found love when she’d least expected to.

  “You just can’t predict these kinds of things,” Clémence said. “Last year, I was so single, I felt like I was going to be alone forever. I didn’t even want love. I hated being cheated on. Even though I tried to date, I wasn’t open. Well, you know my story. Things just happen, and the universe orchestrates events that you can’t control.”

  “That’s the problem,” Celine said. “I’m impatient. It feels like I’ve been waiting forever… like everywhere I go, I’m met with dead ends.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t get stuck in the maze. Just think of every wrong guy you date as a bread crumb to the right guy.”

  “Have you seen the guys I’ve dated? There was at least one murderer!”

  Clémence chuckled. “You live and you learn, right? What’s the rush, anyway? You want to have children?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not something I think about.”

  “Then keep busy and happy. Be happy for everyone who has love too. It’s not easy to find.”

  “It’s kind of like a miracle,” Celine agreed. “How do people find each other? I just feel like I’m left out sometimes, and I hate that.”

  “Oh, Celine.” Clémence gave her a hug. “You won’t feel left out. Ever. We’re still your family. You know that. We’re all rooting for you.”