Crêpe Murder: Book 4 (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (2 page)

She told him that she was an artist, but that she was traveling around the world to gain some real-life experience and to find inspiration. She left out the part about being the heiress of
Damour
, a multi-million dollar company. Had she told him her real last name, and not her mother’s maiden name, Fontaine, he would’ve found pictures of her online, since she used to be part of the Paris socialite scene with Mathieu.
 

Part of the reason Clémence was traveling was to escape from that life she shared with her ex. Plus she figured if Carlos was going to be secretive, she didn’t want to lay all her cards out on the table either.
 

Carlos and the girls all had innocent fun together, visiting tourist attractions and hitting the bars and restaurants, while meeting other travelers along the way. He taught them some Spanish, and they teased him for his accent while gushing about how sexy it was behind his back.

Clémence was starting to fall for Carlos by the end of their second week traveling together. In Budapest, he kissed her in a nightclub after they escaped out to the terrace alone while they were both drunk and more uninhibited. Carlos asked her more questions about herself, and Clémence revealed that she’d grown up in Romainville, a suburb of Paris. When she pressed him for more details about who he was, he remained vague, saying he was a real nobody, nobody she’d care to know.
 

Clémence laughed, thinking it was a funny joke at the time because he’d just paid a grand for their private table in the V.I.P. section of the club, which included two bottles of outrageously expensive champagne.

The next morning, something strange happened. Carlos vanished. He simply checked out. That was what the concierge at the hotel told them. He was gone, just like that. Clémence didn’t even get his email address, last name, or anything.

It turned out that he had also kissed Emily on the same night. When the two girls compared notes, they all thought it was odd. What did Carlos want with them really? He had not tried to sleep with them; he seemed more interested in chatting than anything else.
 

It took a couple of weeks for Clémence to get over the disappointment and to forget about him. At least she had not gone to bed with the guy, which would’ve made her feel much worse.

Jessica and Emily were still convinced he was a Spanish royal out for some anonymous fun, and they tried to find proof on the internet. They examined pictures of the royal family, and searched for extended family members in the backgrounds of weddings and royal events. There were a couple of princes who did look like Carlos, but they couldn’t find Carlos himself.
 

Clémence wasn’t so convinced. While it wasn’t impossible, she thought he was probably a normal guy. A normal guy with a lot of money to throw around.

Maybe he’d fallen for both her and Emily, and didn’t want to come between the two friends, so he left. That was a generous explanation.
 

In any case, Clémence vowed after that to be more cautious with guys. At the time, it had seemed fun and carefree to be out and about with a rich, handsome stranger, but the experience taught her to find out more about guys before she fell for them.

When Clémence reached the front door of
Damour
, she took Celine aside to ask her about Carlos.

“There’s a guy sitting in table five,” said Clémence. “I sort of know him, but not really. Anyway, long story short, I want to find out more about him. What do you know about this guy?”
 

“I don’t know much,” said Celine. “This is the first time I’ve seen him here too, although Sophie Seydoux has been here plenty of times.”
 

“Sophie Seydoux? I know that name, I think.”
 

“She’s a socialite. I thought you knew who she was. Her family owns the
Chateau du Chocolat
chain.”

“A chocolate heiress?” Clémence said, amused. “She does look familiar.”

“She’s in the tabloids all the time. I love her new haircut.”

“Yes, she’s pretty. I thought she was an actress or something.”
 

“I suppose she’s going out with this guy. He’s gorgeous too. He spoke with a Spanish accent, but I didn’t get his name, since they didn’t make a reservation.” Celine paused and cocked her head at her. “You’re not investigating a murder case or something, are you?”
 

“God no,” said Clémence. “We’ve gone a few weeks without a murder now, and I’m still recovering. I just know this guy, sort of, and I want to find out who he is. I’ll tell you the full story later because I have to run, but can you try to find out his last name at least?”
 

“Sure. Maybe he’ll pay by credit card and we’ll find out without much hassle.”
 

“Great,” said Clémence. “Thanks a million.
A plus
.”
 

CHAPTER 3

Clémence’s art class was in the 9
^th
arrondissement near Rue des Martyr. When she found the address, she looked through the window and saw sewing machines on work tables and half-finished dresses on mannequins. It was a sewing workshop, not a painting class. She tapped on the window to get the attention of the sole person inside.
 

A woman with dyed orange hair wearing a red and white striped Rockabilly-style dress opened the door with a smile.

“
Bonjour. Est-ce que je peux vous aider?
Can I help you?”
 

“
Oui, Bonjour
. I’m looking for Madame Amaro’s painting class. Am I at the right address?”
 

“You’ll have to go through the gate, but you need a code. I’ll come out and help you.”
 

The gate was next to the sewing classroom, and the woman punched in the code. “Go on in.”
 

“
Merci.
”
 

Clémence passed through the small garden of the front entrance. Wild flowers grew and so did the weeds. It was a bit untamed, imperfect, but maybe it was symbolic of what she wanted to accomplish there.
 

The receptionist at the front desk, a bespectacled woman in her late fifties who was more sensibly dressed, was on the phone when Clémence
 
came in. When she hung up, she looked up at Clémence.

“Welcome to the Spinoza Atelier,” she said. “Are you here for a class?”
 

“Catia Amaro told me that it was okay to drop in and check out her art class. Is it in this building?”
 

“Certainly. It’s on the second floor. Room 5.
 
This is your first time here?”
 

“
Oui.
”
 

“We have all sorts of classes here for people of all ages. Pottery, dance, sculpting, jewelry making, you name it.” The woman gave her a pamphlet. “Here are all the classes listed and our spring and summer schedule, including the painting class for Madame Amaro. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
 

“Thanks so much.”
 

Clémence passed by a sculpting class before she came to the staircase. The class was for children around twelve and they seemed to be making a mess of the clay, but most of them were very concentrated on their work. On the second floor, she passed by a hip hop dance class and a printmaking class. When she found room 5, she poked her head in through the crack of the door.

A woman in her forties with long curly black hair and silver bangles piled on both wrists was walking from easel to easel, critiquing the painters. Although she’d only spoken to Catia Amaro on the phone, Clémence could tell it was her by the commanding way she moved and gestured the canvases, and how the students listened to her attentively.
 

Catia had plenty of meat on her bones. She was dressed in a leopard-print maxi dress and wore more necklaces than she had on bangles. Clémence tried to imagine wearing that much jewelry herself. She’d probably fall over by the sheer weight.
 

“Clémence, is that you?” Catia called out to her. “Come on in, don’t be shy.”
 

Clémence stepped in. “
Bonjour à tous
. Hi everyone.
Je suis Clémence
.”
 

The six students smiled and greeted her back. They were of all different ages. The closest person to her age was a girl who looked to be in her early twenties.

“Here to critique our work?” joked a man in his sixties wearing suspenders over his blue plaid shirt.

“More like to admire your work,” said Clémence said. “That’s beautiful.”
 

She referred to the man’s dreamy shades of blue on a square canvas, and the gray strokes which formed what looked like a boat.
 

“Clémence might be joining our class,” said Catia. “So be on your best behavior. Butter her up a bit.”
 

The class laughed.

“We have students of all levels,” Catia continued. “Albert here has been painting for years.”
 

“Longer than you’ve lived,” the senior joked again.
 

“His wife Rita just started,” said Catia.

“You can probably tell, right?” Rita gave an apologetic look. Her painting was full of squares in primary colors.

“No,” Clémence protested. “That looks very Mondriaan.”
 

Rita beamed. “Why, thank you, dear.”
 

“And Amelie started painting a year ago,” Catia said, walking towards the young woman. “She’s studying Art Restoration.”
 

“Amazing work,” said Clémence.
 

Amelie’s painting was of a small cabin in a forest during the night. The moon was out and the cabin’s light was on. It was one of the more conventional paintings, but Clémence recognized the skill.

“You’ve only been painting for a year?” Clémence asked. “Are you sure?”
 

“Yes, I’m just doing this for fun, really. I’d like to work for Le Louvre in their restoration department someday.”
 

“Cool.”
 

The work of the other three students were quite interesting as well. One abstract painting in shades of red depicted anger and confusion. Another was an experimental still life of a chair in double vision. The third was of a mouth and a train track going down into the throat.

“An exploration of the body’s journey,” explained a rail-thin man with an Irish accent.
 

Clémence nodded and smiled. “Can’t wait to see it completed.”
 

“I wanted to keep the class small,” Catia said to Clémence. “So I can work with each artist individually as the class time permits. The class is two times a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Bring your own canvas, but we have easels, paints and brushes at your disposal, unless you want to bring your own. My philosophy is that everyone can paint. Art is an exploration of the soul, and I want to bring out each person’s talents, at whatever level they’re at. If I see that they need to develop certain techniques, I give them certain exercises.”
 

“Sounds good,” said Clémence. “I’d love to join you for the next class.”
 

“Great! Have you decided what subject matter you’d like to tackle first?”

Clémence grinned. She’d been thinking about this for a while, but hadn’t had time with all the murder investigations. Ben had been bugging her about painting more, and Clémence figured that classes would help her stick to a schedule. It would also help to get perspective from a teacher and inspiration from fellow students. Catia’s class seemed like the perfect place to start.
 

“I was thinking about doing a series of paintings of desserts,” Clémence said. “I want to call it
The Sweet Life
.”
 

***

Clémence met Arthur at Île de la Cité, where they had a rendezvous to picnic. It was June and the day had been sunny so far. She crossed her fingers that the sun would stay out. There had been a lot of rainy days in the past few weeks, so as soon as the clouds parted, the entire city came out to make the most of it.
 

Île de la Cité was a sizeable island on the Seine in central Paris, where the Notre Dame Cathedral was also located. The island was easily accessible by bridges connecting to both the left bank and the right bank. Arthur and Clémence had agreed to meet at the tip of the island, a popular picnic spot with shady trees and a magnificent view of the city and the Seine river.

Arthur had come from the library, having spent the day at the university library working on his Ph.D. in macroeconomics. He already had a blanket spread out and was lying down with his hands supporting the back of his head.

With his sunglasses on and a 5 o’clock shadow, Arthur looked more ruggedly handsome than usual. Clémence sat down and leaned over him to give him a kiss, which woke him up.
 

“That tired?” Clémence laughed.
 

“Clémence. Thank god it’s you. For a moment I thought it was some other gorgeous girl kissing me.”
 

She smacked him playfully on the chest. “What you got there? Champagne and strawberries?”
 

“That and more.” Arthur sat up, pushing his sunglasses up to his chestnut brown hair. His warm brown eyes shone with joy as he reached into the grocery bag from
La Grande Épicerie
, a gourmet supermarket that Clémence adored. He pulled out a fresh baguette, black caviar, Camembert cheese, cream cheese, sliced sausages, and the strawberries and champagne.
 

“Oh, we did some experimenting at work today.” She gave him the apple pie croissants. “Eat them later, or give them to your family.”
 

“Where would I say I got them from?”
 

“Just say a friend made them. It’s the truth. I’m starved. Where’s the cutlery? I want to start eating right away.”
 

Arthur’s face fell. “Oh the cutlery. I totally forgot. And the cups too. We’ll have to take swigs out of the bottle.”