Croissant Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (3 page)

“To think,” Berenice continued, “my own brother, and I missed all the signs. He’d always been neat, and a very good dresser. He knows how to dance and enjoys movie musicals. He cooks and bakes, lives by himself, and hardly takes an interest in girls when we go out, even when they’re hitting on
him
. Let’s face it: he’s as gay as a rainbow.”
 

Clémence tried to suppress her laughter. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
 

“The thing with French men is that they all seem gay,” Ben contributed. “They’re all dressed really well, so it’s hard to tell. Why don’t you just ask him?”
 

“I don’t want to be insensitive,” Berenice said dramatically. “What if he gets embarrassed? It’s a big event in someone’s life, coming out of the closet.”

“Maybe Ben’s just a quiet, secretive guy,” Ben said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s gay. When’s his birthday?”
 

“October thirtieth. Why?” Berenice asked.

“Oh, he’s a Scorpio.” Ben nodded knowingly and took a sip of his beer.

“What about it?” Clémence asked.

“Scorpios are known for their secrecy. They’re all about control, so they like to hold information back from others so they can hold all the cards. They’re quite intense, but they’re ambitious and successful. Sounds like Sebastien.”
 

Berenice regarded Ben with surprise. “How do you know so much about astrology?”
 

“My mother,” he said. “She’s actually a professional astrologer.”
 

“No way,” Clémence exclaimed. “That’s cool. I’m a Cancer. What am I like?”
 

“Cancer is a water sign. You’re sensitive, emotional, intuitive, and it’s hard for you to trust, but you’re loyal and honest with the people you do.”
 

Clémence nodded. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
 

“You should ask my mom to do a full chart sometime, although she’s booked until the end of August.”
 

“She’s that good?” Berenice was impressed.

“Yup. She even has quite a few celebrity clients. In fact, she was the one who told me to come to Paris. Said the energy was a bit easier for me here, and that I would get more inspiration.”
 

“Did it turn out to be true?” Clémence asked.

“Sure. Especially with all the murders. I can write a series of policier novels based on all the things you’ve experienced, Clémence.”
 

“That’s true.” Clémence chuckled. “I’m glad the media hadn’t made the connection between Damour desserts and the murders. Sometimes I wonder if that inspector is right. Are our products cursed?”
 

“No,” Ben said. “Damour macarons and pastries are ubiquitous. Go into any Parisian’s home and there’s a 50/50 chance that they’ll have something from Damour.”
 

“Yeah, you can’t help it if those poor murder victims happen to love our baked goods,” Berenice added.

“Speaking of Cancer, that’s this month. Is your birthday soon?” Ben asked.

“Oh.” Clémence took a sip from her glass of white wine. “Right. Yeah. It’s coming up at the end of the month.”
 

“That’s soon then,” Berenice said. “I can’t believe I didn’t know! We have to do something.”
 

“Nah.” She shook her head. “29 isn’t a big deal. Maybe I’ll skip it altogether.”
 

“Come on, let’s have dinner or something at least. Better yet, let’s throw a huge party.”
 

“No. It’s been a crazy year so far. I think I’ll skip it. Maybe we’ll have a drink, but that’s it. As for a bash, I don’t need the media attention right now.”
 

“I bet people are coming out of the woodwork to talk to you now that you’re more famous, huh?” Ben asked.

“Well…” Clémence told them about her ex calling her out of the blue. She’d been dying to tell someone, and she felt that Ben and Berenice would understand. “I feel weird about seeing him, but I couldn’t say no. He sounded casual and genuinely nice.”
 

“But you still hate him, don’t you?” Berenice watched her closely. They’d been friends for five years, ever since Berenice started working at the patisserie, and she knew how hurt Clémence had been when Mathieu dumped her. The breakup was the main reason Clémence took off for two years to travel around the world.
 

“No, I don’t hate him. I can’t say I forgive him 100%, but I want to get past it.”
 

“You will,” said Ben, who was more cool about things. “There’s no harm. You’ve both moved on. Why not have a friendly drink?”
 

“When are you going?” asked Berenice.

“Actually, this afternoon. We’re supposed to meet at Café Dennis.”
 

“Are you nervous?”
 

Clémence shrugged. “I’m fine.”
 

But she wasn’t—not completely. If she had to admit it to herself, she was a teensy bit nervous.

At the last minute, she asked Mathieu to come to Damour instead. She had good reasons for the change in plans. First, the paparazzi could spring up anywhere, and she didn’t want pictures of her with Mathieu on a café terrace to show up on the Internet or the tabloids. It might upset Arthur, even though he knew about their rendezvous already. Secondly, Mathieu was the one who wanted to talk to her. He should come to her.

He obliged willingly, and Clémence reserved her corner table in the
salon de thé
. At Damour, she would be in control. She had her friends around for moral support, and they would be seated away from the windows and the photographers.

At 4p.m. on the dot, Mathieu entered, which surprised her because punctuality wasn’t his strong suit. He had shaggy, dirty blond hair, light blue eyes, and white teeth that were a bit too big for his mouth. He wasn’t as tall or classically handsome as Arthur, but he had a certain bohemian charm.
 

She wondered if Ben, being a writer, would get along with him. Mathieu was just as talented and creative. The last she checked, the art world was still in love with him.
 

Mathieu smiled broadly at her as he approached. Clémence stood up to greet him. Although she told herself that she couldn’t care less, she had been extra careful with her appearance that morning. She used a straightening iron on her bob and wore a little more makeup than she was used to on a weekday. Just before their meeting, she’d put on more lipgloss, another layer of mascara and reapplied pink blush for a natural glow. She was seeing an ex-boyfriend, after all. She couldn’t not look good.
 

He was wearing ripped, faded blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, a navy hoodie and Bensimon sneakers. Even though he was the same age as Clémence, he still looked and dressed the same as he did in his early twenties. He’d always dressed super casually. Somehow he made the look work, even in Paris, when everyone was classically dressed. Only Mathieu could make a hoodie look stylish on his skinny frame. Clémence would say that his style was normcore before normcore became a thing.
 

She had to admit that she still found him attractive. He’d always been inexplicably appealing to girls, when his features were average. The thing about Mathieu was that he didn’t care too much about what people thought of him. It was why everyone else was so in awe of him. He was an individual.
 

She wished she didn’t care about what people thought of her either. Especially now, with the media breathing down her neck. If only she could tell them what was on her mind without bracing for a backlash.
 

“You look amazing,” he remarked as he sat down across from her.
 

“
Merci.
”
 

Ana, one of the waitresses, came by to take their orders.

“What will you be having?” she said, giving Clémence a knowing look.

“I’ll just take a chocolate milkshake,” Clémence replied. Damour made a killer hot chocolate, all thick and creamy, like a rich chocolate bar melted down. But since it was summertime, she took the cold version of their famous drink.
 

“A
café crème
with a croissant,
s’il vous plait
,” Mathieu turned back to her, looking at her almost shyly. “You know, I couldn’t go into Damour for a year after we broke up.”
 

“
Pourquoi?
” Clémence asked.
Why?
 

“Well, what else? Guilt. I was such an ass. We were living together, and we were in love. I don’t know why I had to go and…betray you like that.”

I don’t know either
, Clémence wanted to say, but she bit her tongue, only nodding, listening.

“So I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?”
 

Clémence leaned back in her chair, examining him. He looked at her expectantly, eyes wide like a vulnerable puppy.
 

Had she forgiven him, truly? She’d tried to distract herself from the bitterness for the past two years, but seeing him now in the flesh, she didn’t feel the resentment any longer.
 

He wasn’t the best-looking guy, the most well dressed, or the one with the status or wealth, but he was the coolest. Her twenties were marked by her relationship with Mathieu. They were in a relationship for three years, but they knew each other for much longer, ever since they started university. That was a decade ago, Clémence realized.
 

“Of course I forgive you,” Clémence said.
 

Mathieu looked relieved.

Their drinks came, along with Mathieu’s croissant on a porcelain plate.
 

“I did ultimately go back and buy Damour croissants once in a while,” Mathieu said. “When I used to live around the Latin Quarter with Sarah, I would pass by the Damour in the sixth with longing, and one day I finally snapped and bought one.”
 

Sarah was the Irish model who posed nude for one of Mathieu’s paintings. A beautiful girl with long reddish brown hair and smooth white skin, with globes for breasts and a big ass—he simply couldn’t resist the temptation at the time. But Clémence didn’t cringe at the sound of her name like she thought she would.
Sarah.
It was okay. She hoped they were happy.

“But now you guys are living in Les Lilas?”
 

“Well, I do. Sarah and I are no longer together.”
 

“Oh. That’s too bad.” She didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing else to say. She was afraid that showing too much concern would seem insincere.

He bit into the croissant and a look of joy spread over his face. “This croissant is orgasmic. I can’t get over it. How do you guys do it?”
 

She shrugged. “Every baker back there is world class.”
 

“Including you,” he said.
 

“I’m all right.”
 

“You were always modest.” He smiled at her. Clémence was relieved, glad to have this friendly feeling between them. “How are you doing anyway? Are you still painting?”
 

“I was painting again,” Clémence said. “Starting to, except I’ve been, well, busy lately.”
 

It dawned on Mathieu. “Oh. The kidnapping. I’m such an idiot. Of course. Here I am going on about myself. What happened? Are you okay?”
 

Clémence gave him the basic facts, things he had probably read in the news. Mathieu nodded, hanging on her every word, finding every detail fascinating. She supposed it was, as horrifying as the experience had been.
 

“Anyway,” she said. “It’s really not a big deal. Sophie’s the one who really suffered through the whole ordeal.”
 

“Is she okay? I heard she’s in therapy.”
 

“She’s getting help,” Clémence said vaguely, not wanting to betray Sophie’s confidence. “Let’s not talk about that anymore. What have you been doing these days, career-wise?”
 

“Oh.” He frowned. “You haven’t heard about my shows?”
 

“No. I’ve been out of the country for two years, traveling around.”
 

“Oh. Right. I heard about that through the grapevine. Did you come back only recently?”
 

“Yes, in the spring. When we broke up, I deleted you from Facebook and all that.”
 

“Ouch. I guess I deserved that. I wouldn’t want to follow me either, if I were you.”
 

“So what have you been up to? Last I heard, you were doing well with your own show.”
 

“Right,” he said. “That show got good reviews. Sold some paintings, and I was doing well there.”

“Making a name for yourself, right? Do you still go out a lot?”
 

She was referring to the parties they used to go to together, back when she could be considered a proper socialite. She had been much more active on the social scene back then, and she’d introduced him to all sorts of people who eventually led to him getting his first exhibition at a small gallery.