Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) (7 page)

“You mean hipsters,” said Sebastien. “Or Bobos.”
 

Bobo
was short for Bohemian Bourgeois, a French version of the “richster”—rich hipsters, the young bourgeoisie who preferred to live in “real” neighbourhoods.

“But you’re a Bobo,” Berenice said.

“No I’m not,” Sebastien said. “I’m just a normal French guy.”
 

Clémence snorted. “What does that even mean?”
 

“I don’t pretend to be poor when I’m rich and I don’t pretend to be rich when I’m poor. I’m just a guy content with my status in life.”
 

“
N’importe quoi
,” Berenice said. “Whatever. So are you coming tonight or what?”
 

“To hear a bunch of pretentious poetry in some dingy basement of a crappy pub? No thank you.”
 

“How do you know it’s in
une cave
?” Clémence asked.

“Isn’t it?”
 

“Well, yes. But—”

A small, self-satisfied smile appeared on his lips.

“Know-it-all,” Clémence muttered. Sometimes Sebastien was too smart for his own good. “My friend Rose is coming, so is Celine. Are you sure you don’t want to go, Sebastien? Lots of lovely laaadies.”
 

Sebastien shook his head. “Can’t. I’m busy.”
 

He didn’t care to elaborate what he was busy with.
 

“Why, what are you up to?” Clémence asked casually.

“Are you investigating my personal life?” Sebastien asked, a small smile curling on his lips.

“I’m just curious. God, you’re so mysterious.”
 

“Good,” he said. “Girls love mysteries.”

“I don’t even know what he gets up to,” said Berenice. “I think he’s dating someone.”
 

The girls looked at Sebastien. He turned the a shade pinker.

“Don’t you girls have a murder to investigate? I’m too discrete to talk about my love life.”
 

Berenice sighed. “I’m your sister. I always tell you about the guys I date.”
 

“Thanks for sharing, but I never ask to begin with.”
 

Clémence shook her head. Too clever and too mysterious. No wonder Celine was mad about him. Even she was curious what he was up to in his spare time. She knew that Sebastien lived alone in the 5
^th
arrondissement, the Latin Quarter. Berenice still lived in her parents’ big apartment in the 2
^nd
.
 

When she went out to chat with Celine on her way out, she had to give her the bad news.

“He’s not coming, sweetie,” said Clémence. “Says he’s busy but won’t tell me why.”
 

“I’m going to kill him,” she fumed. “But forget him. We’ll find some cute guys tonight.”
 

“For sure,” said Clémence.
 

But she wasn’t so sure. Love wasn’t a priority right now. To her, love had always been messy. She was too easily attached and would rather be alone than to have her heart broken again so soon. For now, she would just enjoy Paris with her friends, new and old.

CHAPTER 11

After grabbing a tuna baguette sandwich to go from
Damour
, Clémence went home to feed and play with Miffy a bit.

“Did you miss me, girl?”
 

Miffy panted, stretching her lips in a way that looked like a smile. She ran to her play den and brought back a pink toy bone for Clémence as an offering. She played with Miffy a little more and gave filled her bowl with dog food before she turned her attention to her sandwich.

Clémence would’ve felt guilty for leaving Miffy home alone, but her parents had reassured her that Miffy was a very independent dog who could spend hours entertaining herself. Clémence could bring her along to the patisserie kitchen sometimes, but her dad had told her that Miffy was content either way.

All Clémence needed to do was spend a good half hour playing with Miffy if she planned to be out of the house for less than three hours at a time. All the furniture remained pristine; Miffy would’ve been chewing furniture if she was upset or lonely, so Clémence’s guilt eased. Miffy must’ve been a introverted dog who needed time alone to recharge. Later that afternoon she would walk her so Miffy would get some social interaction in her day as well.
 

After lunch, she prepared for her dentist appointment. Naturally, she brushed her teeth after lunch, as dentists could be quite judgemental sometimes. Then she searched the internet for more information on the dentist, Phillipe Rousseau. He had a website, where he was featured on the homepage with his arms crossed and smiling, showing off his perfect white teeth. He had salt and pepper hair and a friendly smile. He sounded like an upstanding guy according to the testimonials on his site from his clients, but it wasn’t as if he would include anything other than glowing reviews.
 

That was the only info on Phillipe Rousseau that she could find. The other links that came up in the search were not for dentists. All she knew at this point was that he was a handsome older man with a solid reputation. Although his parents had gone to the same dentist for years due to habit, they did seem to think he was nice as a neighbor. Her mother had mentioned exchanging pleasantries with him once or twice.

What could he have been so worked up about regarding la gardienne? And what was he doing in her apartment the night she was killed?

She went downstairs and checked in with the receptionist at the dental office. It was interesting because the office was laid out like her apartment, but most of the rooms would contain a dentist chair. Clémence waited, browsing through Paris Match magazine. She read about the latest love affair of the country’s president. The scandal had read like a soap opera, and Clémence had to laugh at the melodrama of it all. What were these women thinking? She would somewhat understand if he was handsome, like the dentist, but their president was not attractive in the least.

The man of the hour appeared. His hair was whiter than in his website photos, but his smile matched. It was unnaturally white that she was sure it would’ve glowed if lights were turned off. Clémence wondered if she should be bleaching her teeth too.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Damour,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your mother.”
 

“My mother certainly likes to chat,” Clémence laughed.

He showed her into the room and she sat down in the dentist chair.
 

“I heard you’ve been traveling around for two years.”
 

“Yes, but I assure you, I still managed to get my teeth cleaned every six months.”
 

Phillipe chuckled. “What was the favorite place that you’ve visited?”
 

“Oh gosh, I can’t pick. It depends. I supposed I quite liked Croatia’s beaches. And Thailand was pretty insane.”
 

“Are you glad to be back in Paris?”
 

Phillipe was asking all the questions, but Clémence answered politely, figuring it might make it easier for her to ask him questions later on.
 

“Oh yes. I missed the pastries.”
 

“Be careful of cavities.”
 

“I’m surprised we don’t have more cavities than we do in our family,” Clémence said. “But we’re very consistent with oral care. Plus I’m glad that we have a dentist in the building. It’s so convenient.”
 

“Yes, for if you ever have a dental emergency.” Phillipe pushed a button and the chair went down. He put on his face mask. “Let’s take a look here.”
 

After much probing, Phillipe told her that her teeth were pristine.

“If only all my clients were like you.” He lowered his voice. “Some of them you wouldn’t believe. Even in this neighbourhood.”
 

Clémence suppressed a smile. It was her cue to begin her line of questioning.
 

“Yes, well, we’re not like the Americans, who put braces on their kids almost as soon as they’re born.”
 

Phillipe chuckled again. “But I don’t disagree with their methods.”
 

Clémence could see why he was such a hit with his clients. He was the nicest French dentist she’d ever met. The other ones had only reprimanded her for not brushing enough. It was easy to get swept up in Phillipe’s charm and compliments.
 

“Speaking of this neighbourhood,” Clémence started. “It’s a shame about la gardienne, huh?”
 

“Yes,” Phillipe said without a beat. “Awful.”
 

“I mean, she’s not very well-liked, but I can’t believe someone would do this, and in our building too.”
 

“I don’t believe it either.”
 

“Did you know her well?”
 

“Not well,” he said. “She often wanted to chat at inconvenient times, like when I’m coming to work. I think she had a little crush on me really.”

“A crush on you?” Clémence said.
 

“Well, don’t tell my wife or she’d get jealous, but la gardienne was always trying to make excuses to see me, and she made me go inside her apartment a couple of times when I was going home from work. She claimed that she had toothaches. I’d quickly check her teeth but both times they were fine. I was pretty sure that she was faking it to get attention.”
 

“Wow, that sounds…”
 

“Desperate, I know. But she’s a lonely woman with nothing to do all day but to listen in on other people’s conversations and getting into the residents’ business. She was always trying to tell me what she knew, as if I’d be interested by her gossip.”
 

“What
did
she know?” Clémence asked.

“Funny, the inspector asked me the same thing this morning. But I suppose this is common gossip in the building anyhow. Apparently the cleaner who lives on the roof—do you know her? I think her name is Lara.”

“I might have seen her around,” Clémence said vaguely.

“Well, I think that she’s having a love affair with Arthur Dubois, from the third floor.”
 

“Oh?”
 

“Yes, and Madame Dubois is not very pleased with it.”
 

“Wow, really?”

She could see why Madame wouldn’t be very pleased. She only wanted her son to date upper class girls, but it did always seem that Arthur had a thing for forbidden fruit.
 

CHAPTER 12

It all made sense…or did it? Lara and Arthur were in love and la gardienne was going to expose them, so Lara whacked her. Or arthur whacked her. Was Arthur even the type to fall in love? Something more must’ve been at stake here, but what? Money?
 

Clémence considered asking Lara, but figured she would have to question Arthur anyway, even if he was the embodiment of the type of men she detested. It wouldn’t be hard. He usually walked the family dog at night, before dinner. She could walk Miffy later than usual and casually join him.
 

After she left the dentist office, she pressed the elevator button to go back up to the fifth floor. The door opened to reveal Inspector Cyril St. Clair inside the elevator.
 

Clémence inwardly groaned. Cyril didn’t look too enthused to see her either and gave an obliged “bonjour”. Even at his rudest, a proper Frenchman couldn’t not say hello.

“Am I still a suspect?” Clémence asked. She was squeezed tight next to the inspector in the tiny elevator, even though he was tall and thin.
 

“You’re lucky,” he said. “We didn’t find any evidence against you. But I still have my eye on you.”
 

“Did you find
anyone’s
fingerprints or anything?”
 

“That is none of your business.”

The elevator stopped on the third floor.

“Oh, so is a Dubois a suspect?” Clémence asked.
 

“Stay out of it,” Cyril groaned.
 

He stepped out, pulling on his trench coat so it wouldn’t get stuck between the closing elevator doors. In the spring, many men wore these light beige colored jackets. It was either that or black jackets. Many Frenchmen dressed in the same classic style. Clémence recalled the wooden button. She wondered if Arthur had a jacket like that. She usually saw him in his lame cashmere sweaters in a variety of colors, so she didn’t know. Perhaps she could slip that question into the conversation as well.
 

***

Clémence had been watching the street from her balcony for the past hour and a half. Finally, she saw him: Arthur Dubois walking his Jack Russell terrier in his calm, leisurely way.

“Come on!” she exclaimed to Miffy. It was showtime.
 

The elevator took too long to come so they scurried down the carpeted stairs. Arthur was nowhere in sight, so he must’ve turned a corner. She and Miffy ran. Miffy looked happy; her tongue was out and at times she looked at Clémence sideways with what looked like a smile.
 

Finally, they spotted him waiting for the traffic to stop so he could cross the street around Trocadéro’s roundabout.
 

They followed him as he walked past the Cité de l'Architecture and all the tourists taking photos. Arthur didn’t stop to admire the Eiffel Tower like everyone else. The sun was setting and people were very appreciative of the view. There was even a professional photoshoot taking place with a Amazonian brunette standing high in designer heels and a flowy lavender dress. A photographer was snapping away while his assistant was bouncing a light reflector at the model’s face.
 

Clémence took in the aroma of the waffle and crêpe stand. She threw a few admiring glances at la tour, but tried to keep focused on Arthur. He was going down the steps to the park. There was a long fountain downstairs, and Arthur walked along it. He was heading for the Champs de Mars, Clémence was sure.

After he crossed the Seine river, they were there. The Eiffel Tower, now a dusty rose color, loomed above them in her greatness. Clémence sighed. When it came to la tour, she never ceased to be a tourist. Arthur didn’t seemed fazed at all. Then again, he had probably been living in the 16
^th
all his life and was jaded by the view.