Crêpe Murder: Book 4 (A Patisserie Mystery with Recipes) (5 page)

“It’s only my first class.” Clémence laughed. “Soon, I promise.”
 

“I’ll hold you to that.”
 

“I know I haven’t been painting as much as I should, but there has been a lot going on. Now that all the drama seems to have stopped, I can finally take it easy and get some work done.”
 

“Amen.” Ben held up his wine glass, and they all clinked glasses, then drank up. “Berenice has been helping me with the second draft of my mystery novel.”
 

“It’s really quite good,” said Berenice, “especially now that I’ve fixed it.”

“When do I get to read it?” Clémence asked.

“I’ll let you read it when you show me your paintings,” said Ben.

“So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh? Fine. It could be as early as next week. I’ll have a couple to show you by then at least. I’m so glad that the string of murders in this city is over and I can get some work done.”
 

Little did Clémence know that another catastrophe would require her amateur sleuthing skills by the end of the weekend.
 

CHAPTER 7

As a new personal rule, Clémence forced herself to take the weekends off from working at
Damour
. While she loved being in the kitchen—the sweet smells, the
 
friendly staff, the delicious food, the excitement of creation, not to mention working with some of her best friends—she had workaholic tendencies to break.

Unlike most jobs, creating new dessert flavors didn’t feel like work. The flagship store at 2 Place du Trocadero was only a couple of minute’s walk from her apartment, so it was only natural for Clémence to drop in whenever she wanted. She hadn’t taken Arthur in to meet the staff yet. If the staff and some of the regular customers started talking, it wouldn’t be long before their parents found out.
 

Aside from dropping in on Saturday morning to check on what was happening at
Damour
, Clémence spent the rest of her weekend with Arthur and Miffy, and worked on her paintings.

On Monday morning, Clémence returned to work early, as if to compensate for all the fun she had during the weekend loafing around the city and enjoying its beauty while hand-in-hand with her new love. As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, however, the sight of one man drained the joy right out of her.
 

Standing by Sebastien and Berenice’s work table was Inspector Cyril St. Clair. His tall, thin frame loomed over her, and his green eyes dimmed as they met hers. Clémence and Cyril were mostly archnemeses. Although they had shown cooperation in the past when they were forced to work together to solve a murder case, the peace never lasted for long.
 

“
Bonjour
,” Clémence greeted him tersely. Cyril’s presence was never a good sign. He usually showed up to accuse her of murder or something equally insulting.

“I’m thrilled to see you too.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, as Clémence was used to by now.
 

Clémence ushered him to a corner. “What is it this time? Don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”
 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Cyril’s lips curled into a cruel smile, framed by the appearance of deep lines in the shape of parentheses. “It would give
Damour
an edge: the patisserie for murderers and psychopaths.”

Clémence sighed. “It’s early Monday morning. I don’t have time for patisserie murder jokes. Do you want something?”
 

“As a matter of fact, I’m on a missing person’s case. Sophie Seydoux, do you know her?”
 

Her face fell. “Sophie is missing?”
 

“Yes. Now answer the question.”
 

“Well, not directly, but I know people who do. We’re in the same social circle. What happened?”
 

“She has been missing since Friday. She missed a family dinner yesterday and her family thought perhaps she’d gone on a trip with her boyfriend for the weekend.”
 

“How do you know she’s not?”
 

“She’s unreachable. Her phone is now shut off. However, her sister Madeleine received a text message from her boyfriend’s cell phone yesterday evening. We have reason to believe that Sophie has been kidnapped.”
 

“
Kidnapped?
What did the message say?”
 

“It was an incomplete message.” He showed her a printout.
 

Help M, It’s S. I’ve been taken. Dunno where I am. I’m all alone—

“She hasn’t sent another message since,” said Cyril. “It’s highly probable that her kidnappers caught her sending the message and took the phone away.”
 

“Or maybe they let her send the message on purpose. Kidnappers wouldn’t let their victims play around with a phone, unless they were really careless and inexperienced.”
 

“Are you a kidnapping expert now?” Cyril sneered.

“Why are you here?” she demand.
 

“Take a wild guess.”
 

“I don’t have time for games.”
 

“I hear you know Sophie’s boyfriend, Juan Camondo.”
 

“Sort of. I just saw him last week.” She told him everything she knew about Juan/Carlos, from how they met two years ago, to the conversation she had with him on the bench at Place d’Iena.
 

“We don’t have any pictures of this guy. Sophie’s sister says his name is Juan Camondo, but so far we haven’t been able to match anybody by that name to how they’ve described him. There are plenty of Juan Camondos, but none with a face that any of her friends or family members recognize. The guy doesn’t exist on record. The name is fake. He’s a professional liar and he’s good. He must be dangerous.”
 

Clémence gulped. Theo was right. There was something strange about Juan, but she never expected him to be a kidnapper. She had wanted to believe Juan/Carlos and all the excuses he gave about ditching her two years ago, but it seemed obvious now that he’d given Sophie and Clémence different fake names, and he only came to her to explain himself because he didn’t want Clémence messing up his web of lies.

“He claims that his uncle is the founder of Rojas Wine,” she said.

“We looked into that. The company was founded by an Australian couple who are expats in Spain. Another blatant lie. Do you know anything else about him?”
 

“Other than what I already’ve told you?” She racked her brain. “Well, he and Sophie were here at
Damour
eating crêpes last Tuesday afternoon, around 4pm. He paid by cash though, so we couldn’t trace his identity through a credit card, unfortunately. But we do have video surveillance at the store.”
 

“You do? I never noticed any cameras.”
 

Clémence walked him out to the salon, which was only half full since it was still early. Customers were drinking coffee, reading the papers and eating breakfast.
 

“You see those chandeliers?” she pointed up at the two crystal chandeliers hanging from the lavender and gold trimmed ceiling. “The cameras are hidden in there. Our surveillance company is located in the 15
^th
.”
 

“Where were Sophie and Juan sitting at the time?”
 

Clémence walked over to the free table that the young couple had occupied. She sat in Juan’s spot.

“You’re lucky,” she said to Cyril. “He’s directly facing one of the cameras. I’d say it’s more than likely that he’d been clearly captured on video.”
 

“Good. For the first time I’m glad to step foot in this place. This guy slithers like a snake. He’s extra good at avoiding video surveillance. None of Sophie’s friends or family members have a picture of this guy. Since he thought this salon was surveillance-free, he might’ve felt safe enough to take one of his victims here.”
 

“
One
of his victims?” Clémence whirred her head at him in shock. “He did this to others?”
 

“I have a theory,” he said in his pompous voice. “Before I confirm it, I want to see his face. Where is this surveillance company?”
 

“I’ll go with you,” Clémence offered.
 

“I don’t think it’s necessary, Damour.”
 

“I insist.”
 

“
Absolument pas.
”
 

“Look, if this Juan guy is as serious of a threat as you claim he is, I can help, since I’ve met him.”
 

“Fine,” Cyril said. “If I take you, you need to get me in touch with your friend Emily to hear her side of the story.”
 

“Sure. It’s a deal. Let’s go.”
 

“I’m parked outside.”
 

Cyril’s tiny car was parked right in front of the store, but since the street was a busy roundabout, he had trouble getting out of his spot.

“
Merde
,” he exclaimed. “Driving in this city,
c’est impossible
.”
 

Clémence had ridden in Cyril’s car once so she knew what she was in for. He was not only a horrible driver, but an aggressive one too. Drivers like him were the reason why Clémence never ever drove in the city. The Métro, as cramped and full of pickpockets as it was, or the odd taxi in dire situations, suited her just fine.
 

“
T’es con, hein?
” Cyril shouted at one driver who cut in front of him.
 

“Calm down!” Clémence exclaimed. “You’re gonna get us killed!”
 

“This is how we drive,
mademoiselle
. If you don’t fight for your place on the road, you get slaughtered.”
 

Clémence sighed. Even though he’d been relatively friendlier during this visit, she simply didn’t think much of Cyril St. Clair as a person. How he ever got to be a top inspector was a total mystery. The only thing he was ever right about was how driving in Paris was impossible. Some of the streets were simply too narrow, and there were other vehicles crowding the streets: motorcycles, mopeds, bikes—and those inexperienced tourist bikers on Vélibs, the rental bikes readily available around the city that merely cost a few euros to rent.
 

Fortunately, they only had to go one arrondissement over, to the 15
^th
. Clémence directed him to the right address, and they found themselves in front of an inconspicuous storefront with no signage and darkly tinted windows.

Clémence knocked. “Ralph?” Nobody answered.

She tried the doorbell, which did the trick.

A scruffy-haired, scruffy-faced guy in his early thirties poked his head out.
 

“Oh.
Bonjour
,” he said sheepishly. “Clémence. It’s been a while.”

Cyril introduced himself with so much self-importance that Clémence couldn’t suppress rolling her eyes. Realizing he was in the presence of an inspector, Ralph Lemoine looked a bit nervous. He apologized for his attire, which was a Sex Pistols t-shirt, ripped jeans, and black Converse sneakers. Since he worked with a team of equally schlubby-looking guys, the work place didn’t have a dress code. The office itself was really a converted apartment. Upon entering, they were in the kitchen, the sink of which was already piled with dirty dishes and espresso cups.
 

The rest of the team worked on the second floor, accessible by the staircase behind the wall where the fridge was. Ralph asked them whether they wanted anything to drink, which they both politely declined.
 

“We’re looking for footage of a man in the
Damour
salon de thé
 
in the 16
^th
,” Cyril said.

“Of course,” said Ralph. He sat down in front of one of the many monitors crowding a long work table, and punched on a keyboard. “For what date and time?”
 

“Tuesday at around 4pm,” said Clémence.
 

Ralph typed again. Two screens from the salon de thé’s chandelier cameras showed what was happening at the moment in real time. Clémence saw the waiters, some regular customers, and Caroline, the manager that day, on the screens.
 

“Do you know which camera you want to find the footage from?” Ralph asked.

“This guy was sitting here.” Clémence pointed to one table shown on the left screen.

“That’s camera two,” said Ralph.

After a moment of fiddling, he retrieved the footage from the date and time Clémence requested.
 

“There he is,” said Clémence.

Although the camera caught him from a high angle and his chin was cut off by the top of Sophie’s head, they were able to see his face clearly.

Cyril smiled triumphantly. “
Bien
.”
 

“Is he a criminal?” Ralph asked.

“A kidnapper,” said Cyril. “I suspect he’s the guy who attempted to kidnap an heiress in Austria almost two years ago. A year later, he succeeded in kidnapping a Swiss heiress. This Juan guy certainly fits the description from these two other cases. We have a blurry picture of him from street surveillance in Zurich, but nobody ever managed to pin anything on him. He’s good. He’s probably working with a skilled team. Now that we have his picture, and proof of his connection with Sophie, plus witnesses, including you, Clémence, once we get this guy, we’ll cream him.”
 

“How are you going to catch him?” said Clémence. “Any clue where he is?”
 

“I’ll be working with top investigators from Austria and Switzerland, and together, we’ll find out this guy’s real identity. I’m confident we’ll get him.”
 

“Fine, but what about Sophie?” she asked. “What are they going to do with her? What about the previous victims? Were they okay?”
 

“They’re alive,” said Cyril. “The Swiss heiress had been beaten, and bruises were found on her body.”
 

“Geez.” Ralph shook his head. “When did all these kidnappings start happening?”