Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (10 page)

“Clémence, you’ve said it yourself a million times: you never know who you can trust. You put Mathieu on a pedestal. He might not be the guy you think he is.”
 

“I don’t put him on a pedestal. I just think he’s a talented artist, not some criminal or murderer.”
 

“Well, Hitler was a talented artist too. Food for thought.”
 

“But we’re wasting our time talking about Mathieu. Like I said, he has an alibi.”
 

“Fine, but I still think there’s something suspicious about him. He’s probably hiding more than you think.”
 

“I’ve known him for years, way longer than I’ve known you.” She regretted it as soon as she said it, but it was too late to take it back now. “I just don’t think he’s involved in this. He’s a nice guy.”
 

“Nice?” he scoffed. “He cheated on you and kicked you out of your shared apartment.”
 

“I chose to leave. Look, let’s not do this. You’re accusing someone based on your…personal conflicts.”
 

You’re jealous
, she almost said, but she bit her tongue. He wasn’t being a lot of help.

Except he was right about one thing: Charlotte’s death could be connected to someone in the art world. Tomorrow, she’d have to continue with the investigation at the Madison gallery.
 

Chapter 13

The Madison Gallery was a modern art gallery located in the sixth arrondissement. While the neighboring galleries were full of tasteful black and white photography and scenic landscape paintings, the art at Madison was more experimental. It had an edge, while still remaining palatable for French buyers.

With exposed plumbing and white walls, the gallery space took up the street level floor of a Haussman building. Across the street was a Monoprix and the gallery was sandwiched between an ice cream shop and an upscale toy store.
 

Clémence let herself in. There was no one else in sight. She was alone with the art. The oil paintings on the walls were by a Chinese artist named Liu Weng, who painted himself grinning and doing the thumbs up in catastrophic world situations. Tiananmen Square. Hitler’s inauguration speech. Third world starvation. His pieces were irreverent and controversial. A black blob-shaped statue sat in the middle of the gallery. It was simply titled “Disease.”
 

Clémence could see Mathieu’s new work fitting in at a gallery like this.
 

The place was pin-drop silent. Clémence had wanted to speak to the owner. According to her research, his name was Chris Kassabian. Charlotte had been his right-hand woman. Perhaps things were quiet because Charlotte wasn’t in.
 

She waited, walking around, looking at the paintings, at Liu Weng’s ridiculous grin.
 

“Exuberant, isn’t it?” A male voice made her turn. He came out of a back room and approached her, his shoes clacking on the linoleum floor.

In a crisp white shirt and gray dress pants, Chris Kassabian was someone you’d pass on the street without a second glance. In his early sixties, he was almost as short as Clémence’s 5’4” frame. The most striking thing about the man was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
 

“It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve seen so far,” Clémence said.

“Weng really pushes the envelope. He criticizes his own government, but he’s extremely respected in China, to the goverment’s chagrin. We’re lucky to show him here. This series is the first that features him in the paintings.”
 

“I suppose they can be self-portraits,” Clémence said. “They’re great. Funny social commentary.”
 

“Have you heard of Weng?”

“No, I haven’t. My parents are art collectors though. They’d be interested if the paintings weren’t so big.”

Each painting was six feet tall. It would take up an entire wall of their apartment if she brought one home.

He chuckled. “You would definitely need to commit to his paintings. I’m Chris Kassabian, the owner.”
 

“
Je suis
Clémence.
Enchantée
. I actually stopped by because a friend told me she worked here. Charlotte Lagrange? I thought I’d drop in and say hi.”
 

His face fell at the mention of her. “Oh. Dear. Well—you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” She blinked innocently.

“Charlotte is…she passed away.”
 

Clémence gasped. She wouldn’t be winning a César Award for Best Actress anytime soon, but Chris seemed to be buying it. “What? But how?”
 

“Well…were you a close friend?”
 

“I met her at a party just last week. We’re more like acquaintances, but this is a complete shock!”
 

“All I know is that Charlotte was shot in her own apartment a couple of nights ago.”
 

“
Mon dieu! Mais pourquoi?
” Why?
 

“I have no idea. She came from a respectable family, she was at the top of her class, and she was great as an employee.”
 

“It’s so bizarre. There are no leads?”
 

“Not as far as I know. I spoke to her parents and they’re in shock too. Charlotte was a bright girl. She knew so much about art. All our clients loved her. I’ve been scrambling to find a replacement, but the girl was really something. She knew her stuff and she could probably sell a framed napkin.”
 

“So you don’t know whether she had any enemies?” Clémence asked. “Maybe someone who was jealous of her?”
 

“No. I don’t know much about her personal life, but I know she had a new boyfriend. I don’t know much about him though.”
 

“Do you know whether she got along with her boyfriend?”
 

“As far as I could tell, she did. She was even trying to help him get a show here. His name was Mathieu something. He sounded promising, and I was considering his work, although we’re booked until the end of the year. I haven’t met him, however.” He looked pensive for a moment. “It’s rather depressing, isn’t it? You work with someone for three years, and you realize you don’t know them as well as you think you did. I only know her through this job, her take on art. I know very little else about her.”
 

“Hmm.” Clémence nodded. “I wish I had gotten to know her better as well. She seemed so sharp. What were her opinions about art?”
 

“She was incredibly into modern art, discovering the best new artists. I felt like she was five years ahead. In the last couple of weeks, however, I was a little surprised to find that she was completely enraptured by a 19th century French painter.”
 

“Who?”
 

“Felix Mercier, a painter from Normandy. Have you heard of him?”
 

Clémence tried to disguise her surprise. “No, I don’t believe I have,” Clémence lied.
 

“Mercier wasn’t as famous as his contemporaries, but, boy, was he good at painting light. Sunlight, moonlight, starlight. Charlotte really picked my brain about him. She was so interested in Merciers that she went to the Christie’s showroom on Monday. There’s one Mercier painting in the catalog that peaked her interest. As a matter of fact, she was registered to go to the auction at Christie’s later today.”
 

“Really?”
 

“Yes. Sad. She requested the afternoon off just to attend. A shame she won’t make it.”
 

Clémence decided she had to go to the auction and take Charlotte’s place. Didn’t Mathieu’s roommate own a Mercier? That couldn’t have been a coincidence, right? But the connection eluded her.
 

Chapter 14

At three fifteen p.m., Clémence went to the eighth arrondissement where Christie’s was located. She was on time for the 19th century European painting auction.
 

She registered under Charlotte’s name and received a paddle and a catalog. This was where Charlotte had wanted to be. Clémence didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was open to receiving any kind of clue or information.
 

She took a seat near the back and waited until the other chairs were filled and for the auction to begin. The paddle was in her hand, and it was a thrilling thought that she could raise it once and go home with a master’s painting and a six-figure dent in her bank account. The people around her were mostly older, distinguished, or well-dressed types with poker faces. When the paintings were brought out, one by one, their faces did not betray their enthusiasm. A raise of the paddle was enough to signify their desire.

Clémence sat through paintings of children holding kittens, nudes of curvaceous women lying around in the grass, and scenes from the bible. A small Renoir portrait of a young boy fetched eighty-five thousand euros. That had been an exciting one, with two serious bidders in the end causing a frenzy. Finally an Italian gentleman in an eccentric pink suit and an electric blue pocket square staked his claim.

After two more paintings were sold, Clémence saw a man around her age slip in. He had dark hair, glasses, and was average height. In black pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked absolutely ordinary, except something about him looked familiar to Clémence. Had she met him before? She was sure they’d never spoken, but she’d seen that face somewhere. He didn’t have an auction paddle. Did he work at Christie’s? She’d come to the auctions in the past with her mother and might have met him then.

She also could’ve met him at a party. He must’ve been from a wealthy family, judging by his Gucci loafers and the Rolex on his wrist. What else could explain why someone so young would be interested in bidding on paintings that would cost some people a lifetime’s salary?

They brought out the Mercier painting, the one Charlotte must’ve been interested in. It was of a boat on water during sunset. She’d seen that painting before. Where had she seen it?

Then it hit her.

On Mathieu’s wall.
 

Surely it couldn’t be the same painting. Mathieu said Gilles’s was the original. Could it be that Mercier had painted similar paintings of the same subject?
 

Clémence looked through the catalog and found the photograph of the painting so she could examine it in detail. The untitled Mercier oil on canvas was dated 1878. It featured the same dazzling quality of sunlight reflecting red, orange, and gold in the water, something Mercier was a master at. It was an exact replica.
 

“Let’s start the bidding at five thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have five thousand? Yes. Six thousand?…”
 

As bidders raised their paddles, Clémence squinted at the real painting on the platform. If the painting at Christie’s was real, the one in Mathieu’s must’ve been fake.
 

“Eighteen thousand. Yes, eighteen thousand. Do we have nineteen thousand?…”
 

The bespectacled young man in the white shirt never raised his paddle, but she noticed a trace of a self-satisfied smile on his face as he scanned the room, looking at the bidders.
 

It had come down to a stylish woman in her sixties with a white bob and a gentleman of the same age in a navy suit, balancing a cane against one knee.
 

“Fifty thousand! We have fifty thousand. Anyone else? Going once, going twice, sold!”
 

Clémence leaned back in her chair as the gavel struck. Had Charlotte known about Gilles’s painting? Had she been interested in Mercier because she had a suspicion that the one Gilles owned was a fake?
 

Perhaps Charlotte had been involved in art fraud somehow, and that was why she was killed. But how? And which painting was the fake? The one that was just sold for fifty thousand euros, or the one that was hanging casually on a wall in Les Lilas?

It was imperative that she found out which one was fake. If Gilles’s painting turned out to be authentic, then Christie’s had a problem on their hands.
 

She went outside and jumped into a cab. She had the urge to see Gilles’s painting again, and to get a sample so she could test it. Mathieu was probably at home painting, but she called him to make sure he was there. He didn’t pick up.
 

After Clémence reached the house and paid the cab driver, Mathieu called back.

“Ça va, Clémence?” The usual flirtatious tone was in his voice. “You called?”

“Hey, Mathieu, are you home?”

“I’m about to go into a meeting with the same gallery owner I met for dinner this week. I think we’re close to striking a deal. What’s up?”
 

“Oh, I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
 

“I don’t know when I’ll be done. It might be a couple of hours. Where are you? Do you want to meet near the gallery, or perhaps you want to come over to my place?”
 

“Why don’t you call me when you’re done, and I’ll let you know where I am?”
 

“Great. I gotta go.”
 

“
Bonne chance
,” she said.
Good luck.
 

She didn’t tell him that she was in front of his house. Perhaps something Arthur had said had stuck. She couldn’t trust Mathieu one hundred percent. He’d lied about the small things. Even if he hadn’t killed Charlotte, why did she have the suspicion that he was involved in all this somehow?
 

Since she was here, she was going to go see that painting again, one way or another.

She opened the gate and went around to the back yard. The window was open, to let the heat out of the part of the house Mathieu was using as a studio. She only had to push the window open more to reach the lock of the door from the inside. Looking around to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, she took a lawn chair from the yard. By the window, she stood on the chair and reached an arm through the window to unlock the door.