2 Éclair Murder (11 page)

“John,” said Clémence.

“John, whatever. Are you sure you’re safe around him?”
 

“Yes, he’s helping me. I only see him in public places anyway.”
 

“You’re not going out with him again, are you?”
 

“If a funeral counts,” Clémence said, and then immediately regretted it. She didn’t want Arthur to get into her business again. “Look, he’s not the murderer and I’ve already revealed my identity to him. He’s Dupont’s neighbour and he’s going to help me get to know the wife.”
 

She quickly explained what she’d found out about John.

“So you think the wife did it?” Arthur asked.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”
 

“Well, it’s clear that you don’t know much at this point. This banker guy can still be a suspect. Remember when you almost got killed last time when you were left alone with someone you thought you could trust?”

It was true that Clémence had placed herself in a dangerous situation last month, but she had learned from it and she was smarter this time.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said. Although doubts were forming. Arthur did find her unconscious last time and even went to the hospital with her.
 

“Like I said, I’m willing to be your bodyguard. Just tell me where you’re going to be and I’ll show up discretely and watch your back.”
 

Clémence thought about it. She guessed it would be practical to have help in case anything went wrong.
 

“Fine,” she said.
 

“I’ll give you my number,” said Arthur, then pulled out his phone to take hers.

After they exchanged numbers, he left.
 

Clémence closed the doors and sighed. Spending more time with Arthur wasn’t going to help her get over him. Even though he claimed that Lea was just a friend, nobody wanted to be just friends with a blond bombshell. She was sure he was sleeping around and she wasn’t going to be another notch on his belt.
 

She would just accept his help in this case and that would be it.
 

CHAPTER 19

Paris was raining, a fitting day for a funeral. While Dupont’s burial was reserved for family and close friends, John had been invited to a restaurant next to the cemetery reserved for Dupont’s party to pay his respects.

Clémence met John in front of the restaurant. He looked handsome in his black suit. She wore a long, demure black dress with black tights and flats.

They peeked inside the windows. The place was full of people. She spotted Madame Dupont chatting with a couple of people in a corner. They went in. She looked around for any blond women at the party, and she spotted two. One was a bottled blonde in her forties. Her hair was cut to her chin. Another woman was younger, in her late twenties or early thirties, with wavy hair up to her chest. The little boy did say that the woman who paid him to buy the éclairs had long blond hair.
 

She texted Arthur a description of the woman, asking him to chat her up. Arthur was already there. His cover was a former employee at Dupont’s company.

“Who are you texting?” John asked.
 

“Just a friend,” Clémence said.

“Come on, let me introduce you to Madame Dupont.”
 

“Okay.”
 

As the others paid their respects, Clémence waited for her turn. Madame Florence Dupont was a short, small-boned woman with sullen cheeks and grey-blue eyes.
 

“This is my girlfriend Anabelle,” John said after Madame Dupont greeted him.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Clémence said.
 

“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t know why anybody would do this to my sweet husband.”
 

Tears dripped from her eyes, which she quickly wiped away with a white handkerchief.
 

“It’s tragic.” Clémence tried to tread softly. “Your husband sounded like he had a powerful position. Could it have been one of his competitors?”

“Maybe. But I heard from the police that they’ve already arrested someone.”

“Who?” asked Clémence, even though she already knew.

“Somebody who works at a patisserie. Apparently
mon mari
had a spat with this guy.”
 

“What about?”
 

“Oh, I don’t know, Alex did have a temper sometimes. Maybe he went over the edge. His anger was his weakness, I suppose.”
 

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” said Clémence. “And he didn’t deserve to be killed this way.”

“No.”
 

“Did he have any enemies at work?”
 

“I don’t know,” said Madame Dupont. “Not as far as I know. I don’t know much about his work life except when I go to holiday parties, although I guess it could be someone from his work. He could be bossy with people. He was very demanding. But I still loved him.”
 

After exchanging a few more words, Clémence conversed with John about the exchange.

“She seems to be sincere,” said Clémence.

John nodded. “She is crying a lot.”
 

Clémence frowned. “It’s disappointing that she doesn’t know anything.”
 

She checked her phone. Arthur hadn’t texted her back, but she saw him chatting with the blonde in a corner.

Arthur’s body language was open—too open. He had a hand on the girl’s elbow and his face was tilted toward her, nodding sympathetically. Clémence’s face burned. She hoped he wasn’t going to try to pick her up.

When the blonde took a phone call and moved away, she told John that she was going to the washroom. There, she called Arthur.

“
Alors?
Well?”
 

“She works at Dupont’s company,” said Arthur. “Her name is Lydia Baudet. She seems upset, but not upset enough. Many of his coworkers are here out of obligation. It doesn’t sound like Dupont was well-liked, but well-respected.”
 

“How do we get more information out of her?”
 

“Do you want me to ask her out on a date?”
 

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
 

“Are you jealous?” Arthur teased.
 

“Please. If you think you can get more out of her, be my guest and take her out. Just don’t come crying when she poisons you.”

“It’s only fair. You went on a fake date with a potential murderer, so now I get to.”
 

Clémence hung up. If she could admit it to herself, she didn’t want Arthur going out with the murderous blonde. She was just his type, except for the murderous part. If only she could just find out more about her on her own. Perhaps she could ask Madame Dupont what she knew about this Lydia Baudet.

Clémence came out of the restroom and looked around for Madame Dupont. She noticed her walking up to the second floor of the restaurant with an old lady. She hadn’t paid much attention to the lady until now. She was tiny, with powder white hair. Clémence followed them. Perhaps it would nice to be able to talk to her in private after she spoke with the elderly lady.

When Clémence reached upstairs, she realized this floor was empty. Madame Dupont and the lady were speaking softly and Clémence tiptoed along the narrow hallway that led to a private room.

“How did you learn how to cry like that?” the old lady asked.

Madame Dupont gave a low, bitter chuckle. “As if I didn’t cry enough living with that man.”
 

“Well good riddance, darling. Now you’ll get everything and nobody suspects a thing. Well done, dear.”
 

“Yes, Mother. We’ll be able to live in peace.”
 

Clémence took out her smartphone to record the conversation. Unfortunately, just after she pressed play, her phone began to ring.

It was Arthur! Again!

“Shit,” she muttered.

“Someone’s out there,” the elderly lady said.
 

Madame Dupont and her mother poked their heads out to the hallway. Clémence hid her phone up her sleeve, hoping Arthur was listening on the other end.

“What are you doing here?” Madame Dupont asked.
 

“I was trying to find
les toilettes
?” Clémence said innocently, looking around and trying to act clueless.

But Madame Dupont wasn’t buy it. She narrowed her eyes at her. “How much did you hear?”
 

“Who is this?” the elderly woman asked.

“I don’t know,” Madame Dupont looked at Clémence sharply. “I should’ve known you were some sort of snoop, asking all those questions earlier.”
 

She was furious, but they were at a public event. Madame Dupont was cornered, and she looked a bit frightened.

“I work at
Damour
,” said Clémence. “So it was you! You were the one who hired a boy off the street to buy pistachio éclairs. Then you poisoned the éclairs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She feigned ignorance.

“Come off it,” said Clémence. “I heard everything. You wore a blond wig when you hired the little boy, right? And I heard you talking about how you were fake crying tonight. About nobody suspecting a thing?”

“She was talking about something else,” the elderly lady said lamely.

“And you.” Clémence turned to the old lady. “You should be ashamed of yourself, encouraging your daughter to murder her husband like that. Why?”

“All right,” said Madame Dupont. “Fine. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Dupont abused me for years. Like I said, his temper was his downfall. When I married him, I thought my life was like a fairytale. This rich, handsome guy whisking me away, not caring about my lower-middle class background, but after a few months of marriage, he began beating me. Whenever he was frustrated with work, he’d beat me until I gathered into a ball, crying in a corner.”
 

“It’s true,” said the elderly lady. “He deserved what he got. My girl has a huge bruise on her back, and scars all over her body.”
 

“You see this face?” She pointed at herself. “Light bruises covered with heavy makeup. Sometimes I couldn’t wear short-sleeved shirts and skirts because of my scars and bruises. I hated him. And I didn’t want to go back to working in retail if I divorced him, so he got what he deserved.”
 

“So you just poisoned your husband?” Clémence. “You couldn’t just, you know, report that he’s abusing you?”
 

“No. I could’ve, but why would I, when I could get the ultimate revenge and get everything? The apartment, the summer house in Greece, and his stakes in his company? And you little snit, you’re not going to ruin it for me.”
 

Madame Dupont lunged at Clémence, who screamed down to the lower floor for help. Arthur came running up with John behind him.
 

Arthur tore Madame Dupont away and Clémence took out the phone from her sleeve.
 

“I have everything recorded,” she said. “And now, I’m calling the police.”
 

John held down Madame Dupont’s trembling mother as Clémence called Cyril.

CHAPTER 20

“She confessed on tape,” Clémence said to Cyril. “You have to let Raoul go now.”
 

Cyril’s face was red, but he took a breath. “Fine. It would be wrong to detain the wrong man. I just don’t know how you did it.”

“Somebody had to find the right killer,” she said. “And we both know it wasn’t going to be you.”
 

Clémence knew she shouldn’t rub her good luck in Cyril’s face, but she couldn’t help it. It was too easy.

“Congratulations,” he said sarcastically. “Come to the station.”
 

“I’ll be there in an hour,” she said. “I want to enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.”
 

Cyril fumed and stalked away. Madame Dupont and her mother were handcuffed and escorted out of the restaurant.
 

Clémence went outside to get some air. Her heart had been beating wildly, but it had also been such a thrill. Now she needed to calm down again, take a walk around the block.
 

John followed her out the door. Arthur did too.

“That was amazing,” said John.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked her.

“I just need to get some air,” said Clémence. But she grinned. “That was pretty cool wasn’t it? We did it!”
 

John turned to Arthur. “I’m sorry, but who are you again?”
 

Arthur’s face darkened as he met John’s eyes. “We’ve met. We ran into you at the restaurant.”
 

John slowly nodded. “Oh. Right. You were with a date. A blonde.”
 

“Yes, but she wasn’t a date. She was just a friend.”
 

“Anyway, what were you doing here?”
 

“Clémence needed backup,” Arthur said, his jaw clenching. “So she called me.”
 

“Actually, I didn’t call you,” said Clémence. “You offered your help—”

“Why would Clémence need backup, when she has me?” John asked, meeting Arthur’s intense stare.

“Because we weren’t sure who the killer was.”
 

John turned back to Clémence. “Did you still think I was the killer?”
 

“No. Arthur is just cautious. You see, last month I was hurt when I was trying to solve a murder case so he wanted to protect me this time.”
 

“I hope both of you know by now that I’m not a murderer,” said John.
 

“Yes, of course,” said Clémence. “I’m sorry. Your help was invaluable. Wasn’t it, Arthur?”
 

“Whatever,” he said. “Come on, Clémence, let’s go home.”
 

“I can walk my date home,” John said.
 

“Clémence and I live in the same building,” Arthur said. “So it’s much more convenient if she walks with me.”
 

“You do?” John said, startled

Clémence didn’t know what John was getting worked up about. She wasn’t his girlfriend. And Arthur was acting strange as well. He had wanted to go out with some murderous blonde just moments earlier.