2 Éclair Murder (7 page)

Her ex-boyfriend had been the real artist. She knew she should probably have more confidence in herself, but confidence was something she had to build in this field.

She changed the subject to something that she’d been curious about, but had refrained from asking out of respect. But since Arthur seemed more and more relaxed, it felt like a good time to ask.
 

“Did your mother ever find out about Lana?” she asked.

He blew air out of his mouth and shrugged. “She probably knows, but I don’t know for sure.”
 

Last month when Clémence had been investigating the murder of
la gardienne
, the caretaker of their building, she’d uncovered that Arthur’s father had been having an affair with one of their maids. Arthur had been pretty upset about it. The maid immediately moved out from her room on the top floor. Such behavior from his father didn’t surprise him.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Arthur continued. “Their marriage is not really built on love, you know?”
 

Clémence didn’t. Her parents’ love story was grand and passionate. They’d met in culinary school, started the patisserie together and to this day they were still in love and having a great time travelling and having new adventures together.
 

“That’s a shame,” said Clémence.
 

Arthur shrugged again, as if to shrug the whole thing off. “It’s peaceful at home right now, so that’s all I can ask for.”
 

Clémence looked at his profile. Strong chin, gold reflecting from his chestnut hair and tawny skin. He looked vulnerable enough that she felt the urge to hug him. An urge that she obviously resisted. Who knew when he was going to go back to being callous again? She couldn’t open herself to that kind of vulnerability.
 

As she looked away, Arthur looked at her. She felt his gaze on her. Their faces were only inches away, and she wondered if he was inspecting her pores, her flaws.
 

She downed her café. How much longer did she have to sit there with him?

After another half hour of chatting about this and that, the man came out of the bank.
 

“There he is,” Clémence exclaimed.
 

CHAPTER 11

The man lit a cigarette and took a call on his phone. From afar, Clémence couldn’t decide whether he was handsome or not, as Celine had claimed. He was just as out of focus as the photo on her phone.
 

Although Clémence didn’t know why it mattered how good looking he was. She was spending way too much time with her boy-crazy employees.

“If he’s taking a smoke break, he probably does work at the bank,” Arthur said.

Clémence got up and searched her purse for her wallet to pay for her expresso.

“Let me.” Arthur paid their bill.

Clémence thanked him, surprised. He could be nice when he wanted to be. The nice thing about bourgeois boys was that they were raised to be gentlemen, even if they didn’t behave all the time.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

She watched the man, who was chatting away on the phone and paying no attention in their direction.
 

“I’m just going to find out who he is,” she said. She stood up to cross the street.
 

By the time she made it across in the mad traffic, the man was already going back inside. He smoked like a Parisian. Parisian smokers were fast, sucking on those cigarettes as if they kept them alive.
 

“You’re not going to follow me inside, are you?” she asked Arthur.

“Fine, I’ll be waiting outside.”
 

“Really, you can leave. You’ve wasted enough of your morning. Go work on your thesis.”
 

Arthur groaned. “Just accept my help. I’ll be out here like a bodyguard. I won’t interfere with your schemes, whatever they are, okay?”

Clémence watched him closely. “All right.”
 

She went inside the sliding doors of the bank and the brunette receptionist greeted her again.

“
Bonjour
. Can I help you with something?”
 

“Yes,” said Clémence. “I would like to make an appointment with one of your bankers.”
 

“Okay, which one?”
 

Clémence couldn’t believe she was going to do this, but it was the only plan she had. She lowered her voice.

“The handsome one who just came back in from his cigarette break?”
 

“Ah,” the receptionist was surprised, but soon her face fell into a knowing smile that women put on when they conspired with each other. “I see. He’s certainly good looking, isn’t he?”
 

Clémence laughed in embarrassed. “Do you know if he’s single?”
 

“As far as I know,” said the receptionist. “If I wasn’t married, I’d be after him myself.”
 

“I’m not a client here,” said Clémence, “but if you tell me his name, I will be.”
 

“John Christopher,” she said. “He’s American. He speaks fluent French though, and he’s our newest financial advisor. Did you want to make an appointment?”
 

“Yes,” said Clémence. She was wealthy enough to make investments, if it came to that.

At that moment however, John walked out to speak to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded towards Clémence .

“She’s interested in your services.” She turned to Clémence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Anabelle.”
 

She had panicked and spat out the first name that came to mind, but she should’ve given her real name, especially if she was supposed to be starting some sort of account at this bank.

“Bonjour Anabelle,” John said in American accented French. He introduced himself and smiled at her broadly. “Would you like to step inside my office? I have some time now as a matter of fact.”
 

Clémence inwardly panicked. This was turning awkward. She was just supposed to get his name and get out. But the man was in front of her now. And yes, Celine was right. He was certainly handsome with his tanned skin, ocean green eyes, strong shoulders and dirty blond hair. Americans weren’t known for their suits, which were boxy, but he was in an expensive European-cut black suit, which accentuated all the right places. His smile wasn’t too bad either.
 

She nodded and went in.
Merde.
What was she supposed to do now?
 

“Do you already have an account with us?” John asked.
 

“Er, yes.”
 

“What’s your last name if I may ask?”
 

John was posed before his computer, ready to key in her fake name. It was time to change directions.

“Actually,” Clémence said. “I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences. I’m not actually interested in starting an account or investments at all.”

John frowned. “Oh?”

“You see, well, I saw you across the street and I found you incredibly handsome.”

Clémence turned red as she said this. Nevertheless she kept a grin on her face, one she hoped was seductive. She was no good at acting, but John seemed to be buying it. A cocky smile began to spread on his face.

“Wow. I didn’t know French women could be so forward. I’m incredibly flattered.”
 

“I don’t usually do this,” said Clémence. “But there was just something about you.”
 

John beamed. His face softened and he looked at her with more interest.
 

“Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night?”
 

He was American and Americans didn’t waste time.

“Yes,” Clémence said.
 

John took her number and said he’d find a good restaurant and would call her as soon as he did.

When Clémence came out, the receptionist gave her the same conspiring smile.

“
Tout va bien
?” she asked.
 

Clémence nodded and smiled back weakly. She thanked her and went out the door. Her head felt light.
 

What had she done?

Did she just agree to go on a date with a potential murderer?

CHAPTER 12

When Arthur asked her what had happened, she simply said that she’d found out his name and position. She didn’t tell him about the hot date. For one, he would probably think that she was crazy.
 

Not that she cared about Arthur’s approval—she simply didn’t want him lecturing her again about putting herself in another potentially dangerous situation. She knew the risks involved. But it was just a date. John didn’t know her true identity and meeting him this way could work in her favor. Under the pretence of a date, she would find out more about him.

Plus, now that she knew his name, she could find out more about him. The sooner the better. Raoul was still being detained. After parting ways with Arthur, she walked back home and called her mother to find out more about what was happening with Raoul and their lawyers.

“I don’t believe they have too much on him,” her mother said. “Sure there were eye witnesses, but if you said there are no videos of Raoul giving Monsieur Dupont the éclairs that supposedly killed him, that should work in Raoul’s favor. The problem is, they can’t disprove it either. Suppose they claim that Raoul gave him the éclairs outside of work.”
 

Clémence sighed. “I’d like to talk to Raoul. How can I?”
 

“One of my lawyers is supposed to see him this afternoon. Why don’t you go with him?”
 

“Okay, great,” said Clémence. “Please put us in touch.”
 

“I’ll give him a call right away dear, then I’ll call you back. Imagine, another murder, and in connection with one of our employees too. This is madness.”
 

“Everything will be fine,” said Clémence. She didn’t want her mother to worry. “Just have a good time in Asia. Did you have a good time at the hot spring?”
 

“Yes, but I had the murder on my mind. I know the store is up and running now, but I worried that there might be something in the papers?”
 

“Well, I didn’t see anything in the papers this morning,” said Clémence. In fact, she did see something on a gossip blog, but she didn’t mention it to her. The blogger didn’t seem to know much anyway. The post had just mentioned that Damour was abruptly closed that morning and police had been spotted. It speculated theft, but not murder. They were lucky.

“Good,” said her mother.

“I think we’re fine for now. I’m working on it. I think there is someone else in connection with Dupont, but I have to find out more.”
 

“I trust you, Clémence. You did figure out who killed la gardienne. Just be careful.”
 

“Thanks, maman.”
 

Her mother didn’t know how much danger Clémence had been in before she solved
la gardienne
’s murder last month. And she wasn’t going to tell her. If she did, her parents would fly back right away and be worried for no reason.
 

So last time Clémence had been careless, but this time, she would definitely be more on guard. Be in public places and not alone with potential suspects. She should also probably take some more self-defence classes.

At home, she played with Miffy a bit. Miffy’s portrait was still in the kitchen, drying on the dishrags. She propped it up against the wall and stepped back to look it at from different angles. It wasn’t half bad. Miffy’s face was mostly still intact and detailed.

She snacked on some madeleines and did some research on her laptop. She searched for John Christopher. There were several John Christophers on LinkedIn, but she found the right one fairly quickly since she knew where he worked.

John Christopher had an MBA from Stanford University. He spoke Fluent English and French, and an adequate level of Spanish. He even put in the hobbies he enjoyed: swimming, tennis, and running. A normal guy—if normal meant a superior education on top of being athletic and generally good-looking. No wonder the other girls were crazy about him.

She wondered if other girls had been as forward she had been, asking him out point blank. Maybe he was used to girls hitting on him and giving him their phone numbers. He had been right—French girls were never forward. They were coy and coquettish. American girls were probably more blunt.

Clémence stopped her line of thinking. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation. She had to get focused.
 

She searched next for Alexandre Dupont on LinkedIn. Perhaps they’d worked together. However, the search came back with more than a dozen hits, and none of them seemed to be the right guy. Maybe Dupont didn’t have LinkedIn. A broad internet search didn’t show what she wanted either. It would’ve been easier if she knew more about Dupont, like where he worked. That way she would be able to narrow down her search.
 

***

Clémence met the lawyer outside of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. Michel Martinez was a kind-looking man in his late fifties with a friendly smile and salt and pepper hair. He wore round spectacles and carried a black briefcase.

They introduced themselves and shook hands. Michel came recommended by his parent’s lawyers.
 

Her parents had known Raoul for over two years and didn’t doubt his upstanding character. The police however, was taking forever to figure this out. Cyril didn’t like to be wrong and Clémence knew that it would take some convincing for him to let Raoul off the hook.
 

Clémence was dressed in a black pantsuit. She hoped to pass as Michel’s associate so they would let him speak to Raoul.
 

On the third floor, Clémence and Michel waited to be called in. After twenty minutes, hey were shown in to a room where Raoul was sitting at a small table.

“Clémence.”
 
Raoul had a shaved head and deep brown eyes. He stood up. “I really hope I don’t become an Amanda Knox, or that guy in the
Shawshank Redemption
.”