Opera Cake Murder (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes Book 8) (3 page)

T
he traffic
at four in the afternoon on a Monday wasn’t as bad as during rush hour. They were able to cross the Seine and down to the 6th arrondissement in less than fifteen minutes. It was September, and tourism was starting to dwindle.

Sebastien insisted on blasting eighties music through Bluetooth from his iPhone, and Clémence sang along to the Cure and the Smiths.

Paris was a pretty sight at this time of year. The leaves were turning gold and burnt orange, falling to the ground in clusters. Clémence snapped a picture of the street on her phone, particularly a grocery shop the van stopped in front of at a stoplight that she thought looked very quaint. It looked like a set from a movie from the fifties. It was so impossible to take bad pictures in Paris that it was almost unfair.

She posted the photo on Instagram. She’d started an account a couple of weeks ago to promote her art, but she found herself posting more photos of what she found interesting in daily life.

Sebastien yawned. With his early hours as a baker and the lack of sleep the night before, he was starting to feel the consequences. They parked the lavender Damour van on a side street near the building so as not to associate the brand with the crime scene, since the van had the Damour logo boldly emblazoned on both sides.

Sebastien insisted on stopping inside a cafe first, where he immediately went to a bar and ordered an espresso. It was a local cafe that was unpopular with tourists. Only Parisians over sixty seemed to be hanging around there.

A small television was hanging from one corner of the room. As Sebastien knocked back his espresso, Clémence caught the news on TV.

“Can I turn it up?” she asked a waiter.

“Sure.”

The news anchor reported that police had arrested a runway model from the fashion show for stabbing Natalie Albert to death. The model was Karmen Meri, nineteen years old and from Estonia. She was a fresh face to the fashion scene. Little was known about her, but the news showed her glamorous comp card featuring the young model in strong poses wearing barely-there clothing and a bored expression.

“No news yet on why they arrested the young model,” Clémence told Sebastien. “Just that they arrested her.” She turned the TV back down when the news segued to a story about politics.

“So a nineteen-year-old model did it?” Sebastien asked.

“That’s what they say.” Clémence shook her head.

“Did you see this model at the show?”

“Yes, I think I saw her, but I didn’t talk to her. There were more than a dozen other models who look just like her, so I don’t think I even noticed her backstage.”

Sebastien paid for the espresso, and they headed out.

“I don’t think she did it,” Clémence said, after they got out the door.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. My instincts say so.”

“You’ve never been wrong, have you?”

“Oh, I’ve been wrong,” Clémence said. “But when I think someone
didn’t
commit a crime, I’m usually right.”

They turned the corner. The French Archives building was so beautiful that it could’ve been a museum. It was classically designed, with a large garden with perfectly hedged green plants. Clémence and Sebastien needed to get past a security guard at the gate to get in, and with the events of the previous day, it looked like the security had increased.

“Bonjour,”
Clémence said politely to a humorless guard.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

She explained what they were here for, making it sound as if she was simply a dessert caterer and not an heiress who had been invited to sit in the front row of the fashion show.

The security guard took a hard look at Clémence, who was dressed down in a navy bomber jacket and dark jeans, and then at Sebastien, who still had his white baker’s uniform on underneath his black parka.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Go check in with my colleague as to where to go.”

“Merci, monsieur,”
Clémence said brightly.

They walked across the park. Had the fashion show been in the summer, Marcus surely would’ve held the show in the garden. Clémence could imagine it now. They would only have to set up the seats by either side of the path, on the grass, and the models could emerge from the front door of the building.

The garden was massive. By the time they made it to the front of the building, Clémence regretted not asking at least one of Damour’s delivery guys to help them with the cake. Or they should’ve brought a cart. She had not thought the cake delivery aspect through very well.

Two other security guards greeted them at the entrance. Clémence had to explain again what they were doing here. The security guard who looked to be in charge gave her the directions for where to find the staff break room on the second floor, where there was a fridge that possibly contained her cake.

“Do you know which of the employees were yesterday during the Marcus Savin fashion show?” Clémence took the opportunity to ask.

“Yesterday was Sunday. Most people don’t come to work on Sundays.”

“I know, but some employees must’ve had to come in, if they were to allow a whole fashion crew and their guests here.”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Wasn’t working yesterday.”

“I was,” the other security guard piped up. He looked young enough to be a high school senior. “I don’t usually work here, by the way. Usually there is little or no security here, but since there was a fashion show, I was hired. And of course, today, because, ahem, you know, the incident.”

Clémence nodded. She was right about the increase in security. “So you know anyone who was working yesterday that you recognized today?”

“Yes. A redhead. She’s beautiful.” The man had a dreamy look on his face. “She’s wearing a red business suit today and glasses. I didn’t get a chance to catch her name, though.”

“Maybe if you’re brave enough, you’ll ask for it next time,” the first guard teased.

“Merci.”
Clémence said.

Sebastien followed Clémence into the building. The place definitely had more of a work atmosphere than it had during the glamor of the fashion show the day before. Men and women in somber suits walked by with tense, pensive expressions. They didn’t seem to pay attention to Clémence and Sebastien at all.

They climbed the grand marbled staircase to the second floor. Clémence found the staff room at the end of the hall. The door was closed, so she knocked.

“Come in,” came a man’s voice. “It’s open.”

She opened the door to find a middle-aged, bespectacled man eating a baguette sandwich at one of the tables.

“Sorry for disturbing your lunch,” Clémence said. “We’re here to pick up a cake.”

“Oh.” There was a slightly guilty expression on the man’s face.

Sebastien went over to the fridge and opened it. He frowned. His face turned red, and he pressed his lips together.

“What is it?” Clémence looked into the fridge.

More than half the cake was already gone.

“Who ate the cake?” Clémence asked the man.

“Everybody,” the man said sheepishly.

“But…it’s not yours,” Sebastien replied.

“I came in during a coffee break this morning, and people were already eating the cake.”

“It’s not right,” Sebastien said. “Someone else’s name is on the cake. Marcus Savin.”

“Right.” The man couldn’t disagree with that. “They probably thought he wouldn’t want it after the incident.”

“So you guys just ate it? Without telling us?”

“We didn’t know you would come in today,” the man said. “But hey, don’t blame me. It wasn’t my idea.”

“But you ate it, too.” Sebastien fumed.

“Yeah. You can’t say no to a cake.”

Sebastien was about to give him a piece of his mind when Clémence cut in. “Let’s all calm down.” She turned to the man. “Were you working here yesterday,
Monsieur
?”

“On a Sunday? No. Of course not.”

“Do you know who was?”

“Nope.”

“Do you happen to have a coworker here who has red hair and is wearing a red suit today?”

“Oh. Veronique. Sure. She’s the manager of the family archives.”

“Where is she?” Sebastien demanded.

“She’s on the third floor. On the right wing. Her door has her name on it.”

“Merci,”
Clémence said.

Sebastien threw his hands in the air as he followed her to the door. “What are we going to do?” He shot the man one last dirty look. “Marcus’s assistant was murdered. Now somebody eats his cake, too?”

Clémence grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door. “Come on, Seb, let’s go.”

When they were back in the hall, Sebastien was still fuming. “Can you believe these people? They just assumed that the cake was for the taking.”

“Oh, let’s calm down. I know you worked really hard on that cake, but a cake is meant to be eaten. At least some people enjoyed it. I’m not sure Marcus would actually want to eat much of it anyhow, especially since he’s always on one diet or another.”

“Fine.” Sebastien sighed. “I just don’t think it’s right. Morally.”

“Stop pouting. At least we don’t have to carry the cake back across the garden and down the street. We didn’t even bring a cart. How dumb are we?”

“That’s true. Fine. You’re right.”

They went up to the third floor. It took them a while to find the right door after checking all the names on them.

Clémence knocked.

“
Oui?
Come in.”

Clémence opened the door. When she saw the redheaded woman, she stepped in.

Veronique was in her early forties. She was well kept in a classy tailored suit and black heels, and she reminded Clémence of a femme fatale in a film noir.

Veronique took off her oversized black-rimmed glasses and looked at Clémence and Sebastien curiously.

“May I help you?”

“We’re from the Damour Patisserie,” Clémence said.

“We came here to pick up our cake,” Sebastien added, “but it seems like a bunch of people have already gotten to it.”

Clémence nudged him in the gut to tell him to can it.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Veronique said. “I was going to find out who to call to take the cake back after what happened to Natalie, but by the time I got to the kitchen this morning, some of my colleagues had already eaten the cake.”

“Likely story,” Sebastien muttered under his breath.

Clémence elbowed him in the ribs, harder this time. He stifled a groan.

“When was the last time you saw Natalie?” Clémence asked.

“Before the fashion show started. I was helping out, making sure that nobody was damaging anything, and then I took a seat in the audience when the show was ready to start.”

“Did you help her hide the cake?”

“Yes. I helped her roll the cake on a cart into the elevator and then into the fridge. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a smart, determined girl. I’m sorry to hear that life was cut so short.”

“Did you work a lot with her yesterday?” Clémence asked.

“I mostly worked with other members of Marcus’s team on the set to coordinate the space, to make sure everything was going smoothly.”

“I see. Did you hear about the model’s arrest?”

“Yes. I was quite shocked.”

“Really? Why?”

“That model looked like the sweetest girl,” Veronique said. “Why would she want to kill Natalie?”

“Why would
anyone
want to kill Natalie?” Clémence said. “Did you think there was anyone who didn’t get along with her?”

“I don’t know. She seemed…not the friendliest girl, but a hard worker.”

“Why would you say that she wasn’t friendly?” Sebastien probed.

“I was backstage a few times, and I could tell some of the models didn’t like the way she was talking to them. Just a bit bossy and rude. I suppose Natalie didn’t have the best people skills. She’s quite young. Then she got yelled at by Marcus, and she was so embarrassed that she fled. At that point, I went out to watch the show.”

“Who in particular seemed pleased about Natalie’s embarrassment?” Clémence asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Veronique thought about it. “A few of the models. I can’t speculate. I’m sure they were all quite content about that, especially after the way Natalie was talking to them.”

“So Natalie’s not popular with the models,” Clémence mused. “They probably had to work with Natalie quite a bit, huh?”

“Yes.” Veronique nodded. “I guess it is possible that a model would kill her. Some of them are so skinny. Models have a reputation of having health and drug problems. Who knows what kind of drugs they’re on that would enable them to do such a thing.”

“
W
hat do you think
?” Clémence asked Sebastien when they were outside.

“I dated a model once,” Sebastien stated.

“It sounds like everyone has,” Clémence muttered.

“We broke up because she travelled a lot, always flying off to Japan to work. She didn’t do drugs, but she knew plenty of other models who did. Maybe there’s some truth to that.”

“So the arrested model, Karmen, maybe she was crazy or was on drugs or hungry or angry, or a big, messy combination of all of those things.”

“I met some of my ex’s model friends, too. Wouldn’t put it past one of them to do something crazy. They’re pretty competitive and catty. I once heard them talking about my ex behind her back.”

“But even if Natalie is mean, would she be so annoying as to drive one of them to kill her?” Clémence asked. “I don’t think someone like Karmen would unless there was a deeper issue at hand.”

Sebastien yawned again.

Clémence smiled. “Solving crime is not as interesting as you thought, huh?”

“No, no, I’m just really sleepy. I should go home.”

“Come on, let’s split a cab. Maybe we should just forget about this. I mean, like I said, the police have this one. They arrested someone out of only three suspects. They can’t get it wrong this time, can they?”

“Let’s hope not,” Sebastien said, flagging down a taxi. “I’m still really upset about the cake, by the way.”

“I know you are.”

“Are you going home, too?” He opened the door for her, and she got in.

“No. Even though I have to go empty-handed, I’m going to go pay Marcus a visit.”

M
arcus Savin’s
atelier was in the 2nd arrondissement. The entrance was off a little alley near Rue Saint-Honoré. From ground level, Clémence could see the mannequins and the seamstresses working through the sheer curtains.

She buzzed, and someone let her in.

Clémence took the narrow elevator up to the top floor, which was occupied entirely by Marcus Savin’s studio.

The door was half open when she got out of the elevator, so she let herself in.

“Hello? Marcus?”

Usually there were at least a dozen people milling around, but aside from the two seamstresses working on couture dresses near the window, Marcus was alone. He stepped out from the kitchen area with a glass of whiskey on the rocks.

He greeted her with kisses on the cheeks. “Whiskey?”

His breath certainly smelled like it. He also hadn’t shaved that morning, and there was not a drop of gel in his hair.

“No thanks,” Clémence said. “So how are you after last night?”

“Dreadful.” He was more melodramatic than usual. “Ugh. Being interrogated by the police is not something I wish upon anyone.”

He waved her into the little kitchen, where they had a bit more privacy. On the way, she passed by the pencil sketches of new dresses on his work table, which was a mess. Everything in the studio was always very neat except for his table.

“I wasn’t going to go in to work today,” Marcus said, “but my boyfriend’s out of town, and what else am I supposed to do to stay sane? I made everyone stay home—I didn’t want to talk about the incident or have employees whispering, but the seamstresses had to come in to get some dresses done for a movie.”

“Marcus, I’m sorry. Were you and Natalie close outside of work?”

“We didn’t exactly go out for drinks after work, but even though she messed up a lot, she was a hard worker. I feel so guilty for yelling at her. That was the last thing I said to her before she died.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. They’ve arrested the culprit.”

Marcus blinked. “They did?”

“Yes. I saw it on the news hours ago. Karmen Meri, one of your models.”

“What? What do you mean? They think
she’s
the murderer?”

“Yes.”

“Are they utterly
insane
?”

“So you don’t think she could’ve done it?”

“No way. I’ve worked with Karmen a couple times. She’s new, very green, and the sweetest girl. When she found out she was going to be in my show, she came by with cookies during one of her fittings. Home-baked cookies. A murderer wouldn’t bake cookies, would she?”

“I don’t know,” Clémence said. “I suppose not, but you never know. What was her relationship with Natalie like?”

“Civil, as far as I could tell.”

“I do hear that some of the models didn’t like Natalie.”

“
Nobody
really liked her, but they listened to her. There are plenty of people in the industry who are tough, but they don’t get murdered backstage.”

“Hmm, right. Especially by models who are happy to be working. But what do you know about Karmen’s background?”

“I know she moved to Paris just to model. She just graduated from high school—I always check because I like to hire models who are of legal age. She lives in an apartment with other models, but last I heard, she was going to move into her own apartment, since she was starting to get more high-profile jobs.”

“Does she like to party at all?”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know much about her personal life, but I doubt it. Especially recently, during Fashion Week, models work nonstop. They don’t have time to party. Karmen doesn’t seem like the party-girl type. She’s too sweet. Like I said, she’s very new. I wonder what the police could possibly have against her.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out soon. So you think you’re going to be okay?”

Marcus held up his glass of whiskey. “Sure. It was just a huge shock. The show went so well, and then
that
happened. If Karmen did it, then I must be really bad at reading people. I just don’t think she could do something like this. There’s no reason for her to kill Natalie.”

“Unless it was an accident,” Clémence said.

“Driving a knife into someone’s back takes force. It doesn’t seem like an accident.”

“True. I’ve heard that models often take drugs. That could drive one of them to do something crazy.”

Marcus gasped. “Never my models. I hire ethically. If I ever get the sense that a model has some kind of problem—whether it’s bulimia or drugs—we don’t work with them. Once I even forced a model to go to rehab, and I paid for it. Having been in this industry for fifteen years now, I can spot these things a mile away.”

“I believe you. I don’t think that Karmen did it either.”

“Then who did?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”