Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) Read online

  Then there was her life to figure out, the direction she should take with her art. She’d done some charcoal sketches here and there during her travels, but she hadn’t painted at all.

  And don’t even get her started on her love life, which was nonexistent. There was a handsome Spanish fellow that had traveled with her and her friends for a month, but he had left as quickly as he appeared.

  She’d left home at 26, and she was 28 now. She’d grown up after all that she’d seen and done, but there was still a lot of growing up to do.

  After soaking for another half an hour, she felt a lot more refreshed. She combed out her black bob and put on skinny jeans, a silk lavender top, and penny loafers, which instantly transformed her into looking the part of a chic young bourgeoisie. It was amazing what a good scrubbing and some nice clothes could do for a woman, or anybody for that matter.

  Clémence spritzed on her favorite Chanel perfume and she was on her way. It was almost 4pm. She would take her mother’s advice about not napping. Plus she couldn’t wait to visit Damour. She was craving a good French macaron, something she’d been deprived of except when her family visited her on various occasions in different parts of the world. A good chocolate macaron could make her day.

  CHAPTER 3

  The staff at Damour hadn’t changed much except for three new hires, as her parents had informed her. The flagship patisserie was at 4 Place du Trocadéro, where it had to view of the Eiffel Tower. One door opened directly into the patisserie section, and the other into the tea salon, although both sections were connected on the inside. It just made it easier for the customers to get into two lineup, and at certain times, especially on Saturdays at lunchtime, people could line up for up to an hour to get a seat in the salon.

  It wasn’t so busy on a Thursday afternoon, except for the bakery, so Clémence went in through the salon door. The hostess, Celine, greeted her.

  “Clémence, c’est toi!”

  Celine gave her two kisses on the cheeks. They were around the same age and they had been pretty good friends ever since Celine started working there three years ago. They had kept in touch on Facebook while Clémence was away. Sometimes Celine would fill her in on funny anecdotes about store regulars or among the staff.

  After catching up a little, Celine introduced her to the wait staff who were there, Pierre and Christine. Then there were the cashiers in the patisserie section, Marie and Raoul. Caroline, the manager that day, who was a friendly middle-aged woman with dark blonde ringlets, came out to greet her.

  Pierre and Marie were new, but they all seemed very friendly. Clémence’s parents were very particular about who they hired—they only wanted people who were happy to work there. Paris had a bad reputation for poor customer service and they wanted no part in that at Damour, which was partly what made the place so popular.

  The inside of the place was the same aesthetic as her house: a mixture of classic baroque and modern contemporary. It had mother’s influence all over it. There were chandeliers and floral porcelain tea cups, with minimalistic and modern tables, and chairs cut from clear plastic. She had done a great job. The brand had lavender packaging and the place was painted in various shades of lavender and other pastel colors.

  The back kitchen was Clémence’s favorite place. She loved watching the pastries get made. She was a mean baker herself, but she was out of practice. The chefs and bakers greeted her kindly. Sebastien Soulier was their star baker. He had only been an apprentice when Clémence first met him, but he’d since been promoted to head baker.

  “Salut Sebastien. It’s been a while.”

  Clémence gave him two kiss on the cheeks. His younger sister Beatrice was there as well and she greeted Clémence warmly with bisous as well.

  He was making the shells for pistachio macarons, piping the pale green mix onto a baking tray in one-inch circles. In an American twist—her mother’s invention—this one had Oreo flavored cream filling. It was absolutely delectable.

  The Soulier brother and sister were both young and innovative as well. It was the reason why her parents hired them. The both had strawberry blonde hair that could be categorized as red under direct sunlight, and flawless skin. Sebastien’s eyes were hazel, while Berenice’s were green. Clémence liked them both a lot.

  “So glad you’re back,” said Berenice. “We’ll have an extra hand in the kitchen again.”

  “Plus an extra tongue,” said Sebastien. The girls gave him a funny look. “For taste testing. Get your minds out of the gutter. Clémence can help us with our new inventions.”

  Clémence picked a couple of fresh macarons from a tray and began munching. Miam. It was too good.

  “I have some ideas of my own,” said Clémence. “I’ve spent a good amount of time in Asia. How about an asian inspired line of macarons for this summer? I’m thinking green tea, red bean, lychee.”

  “Bon idée,” said Berenice. “Good idea. Maybe cherry blossom too.”

  “We can get started right away,” said Clémence. “Tomorrow that is. I’m still not in the headspace.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Sebastien. “You have plenty of time.”

  Clémence stifled a yawn. “Suddenly I’m feeling so drowsy. Maybe I should take a nap.”

  “Maybe you can sleep really early and wake up early,” said Berenice.

  “I’ve never been a morning person,” said Clémence. “But maybe this is a perfect time to start.”

  Before she left, she got a box of 16 macarons for la gardienne. Her mother had mentioned that she liked the pistachio and chocolate ones the most, so she selected four of them, along with the usual chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, an some Damour inventions, such a cheesecake flavored one, a S’mores macaron, and even an olive oil and mint combo, which tasted better than it sounded.

  She also got a box for the Dubois family, as they had taken care of Miffy for the past week.

  The macarons were packaged in special collector’s item boxes. She chose a chic zebra patterned one for la gardienne and one patterned with little lipstick kisses for the Dubois family. They each came with a lavender bag with the store’s gold logo.

  She felt a lot better after reconnecting with her staff. Her parents were away, and the staff were the closest thing to family. She did have an aunt and uncle who lived in Montmartre, but they were also away for vacation. May was a month where many Parisians went away due to the various religious holidays. It was why some of the staff were away and the shop wasn’t as bustling as it was normally.

  La gardienne was inside her apartment when Clémence went home. She could hear her TV through the door.

  “Madame?” Clémence knocked.

  There was no response and Clémence tried again, knocking harder.

  “Oui?” La gardienne opened the door so suddenly that Clémence almost jumped back.

  La gardienne wore a sour expression and the nostrils of her bulbous nose flared.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Clémence said. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me the keys. Maman told me how much you love our macarons.”

  Clémence handed her the bag. La gardienne’s expression seemed to soften, just a little.

  “Merci,” she said.

  Clémence could tell that she still wasn’t thrilled about her. She tried not to take it personally as la gardienne apparently didn’t like anyone at all. When she slammed the door shut, a dismissed Clémence went to the third floor.

  A housekeeper opened the door. She showed her into the living room, where Madame Dubois was sitting with a café and a copy of L’Officiel magazine. She was an elegant Brunette in her late fifties with tanned, leathery skin and a thin frame. She wore a navy blue pencil skirt, a pink cardigan and pearls around her neck.

  “Ah, Clémence. Nice to see you again. Would you like something to drink?”

  They gave each other bisous on the cheeks. Only a few hours back in Paris and she’d kissed more people than she had in the two years she’d spend traveling. She
had mostly traveled with American friends, who were accustomed to shaking hands, hugging, or nothing at all.

  A little white dog, a West Highland terrier, came running up to her. Miffy! She jumped up Clémence’s legs, her tongue out and tail wagging.

  “I’ve missed you too, girl!” Clémence kissed the Miffy.

  A couple of boy ran into the living room as well. The Dubois had a large family. There were seven kids in all, the oldest son being Clémence’s age and the youngest son being seven. There were four boys and three girls in the family. The younger sets seemed to be trouble makers and the older ones were taciturn and snotty. Clémence had only ever talked to Madame Dubois, as she was the most friendly out of the whole bunch.

  The oldest son, Arthur, poked his head in. He had his own dog on a leash, a Jack Russell terrier with a red handkerchief tied around its neck.

  “Salut,” said Clémence.

  Arthur gave her a stiff “Bonjour”.

  “Clémence is housesitting for the year,” Madame Dubois said to his son. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of her. Arthur has been the one walking the dogs this week.”

  “Thanks so much,” Clémence said.

  “No problem.” Arthur backing away. “Well I’m off.”

  Arthur was tall and dark haired. He would’ve been handsome if he smiled more and wasn’t a complete snob. He had always rubbed Clémence the wrong way, and she hated his preppy cashmere sweaters that her American friends would’ve probably ridiculed. He wore the sweaters tied around his neck at times like your typical bourgeois guy.

  A couple of times when Clémence had come to visit her parents for Sunday brunch, she’d seen Arthur coming out the side of the building with a different girl each time. Good looking girls in tight clothes and heels, doing the walk of shame.

  Arthur didn’t bring them home to his parents’ house with all his siblings, of course. He had his own room on the top floor. In these Haussmanian buildings, the servants used to live on the top floor because back then, there were no elevators. The servant rooms had a separate staircase, a harrowing dingy one next to the entrance of the “real” apartments. The staircase took you directly to the top floor, although on each floor, it was connected to the kitchens of the main apartments.

  Each apartment came with two or three servants rooms—chambre de bonne as they were called. Some were bigger than others. Most were just a bedroom with a kitchenette. Two toilets were shared between the tenants on the floor, as well as a shower. Some rooms already had a toilet, a shower, or both. It was odd, but that was the way things worked.

  Arthur was too old to be living at home, but didn’t want to part with the luxuries of doing so. He and his brother each took a servant’s room, where they were free to commit whatever debauchery they wanted.

  The Damours also owned two servant rooms. One was so small and windowless that they thought it was inhuman to allow anyone to live in it, so they used it for storage. Another room was spacious, had a window of the beautiful rooftops of Paris and a tiny shower next to the tiny kitchenette. Tenants changed from time to time, but right now, they had a British guy living there who Clémence hadn’t met yet.

  The rent for the rooms were extremely cheap compared to the rent for a proper apartment. The other tenants were nannies, cleaners, or students. The rooms were practically dorm rooms. Arthur, however, had a housekeeper to clean up after him.

  Clémence could tell that Madame Dubois wanted Arthur to pay more attention to Clémence. In the past, she had tried to coax Clémence’s mother to set them up, but it wasn’t happening. Clémence and Arthur were like oil and water. She just hoped that he had been good to Miffy while they were away.

  “So glad to have you back, girl.” Clémence stroked her ears. She was beyond happy. With Miffy, the big apartment wouldn’t feel so empty.

  CHAPTER 4

  Somebody was knocking on the kitchen door of the apartment. Clémence had been on the balcony, drinking her tea and having a silent chat with La Tour, when she went back inside the kitchen and heard it.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ben. From upstairs?”

  He spoke English with a British accent. Clémence could tell the difference between British and American accents because she’d gone to university in the states and her English was nearly accent-less. Sometimes however, when she was tired, the French accent slipped through a little.

  Clémence unlocked the door and opened up. A lanky guy with dark hair dressed all in black—black v-neck tee and black jeans—stood in the staircase with a mischievous smile.

  “You’re Clémence, right? Hi, I’m Ben Mason. I wouldn’t be bothering you this early except that I saw you from my window.”

  His room on the roof could see down into part of the kitchen.

  “I’ll be sure to wave next time I see you at the window,” said Clémence.

  They made their introductions and Clémence let him in. Her parents liked Ben. He had finished his studies in English lit in Cambridge and was in Paris for the year to finish writing his novel. He also wrote poetry and went to open mics and writing workshops at the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. Living in Paris was every writer’s dream.

  “Would you like a café?” Clémence asked, referring to the shots of expresso that the French preferred.

  “That’s okay,” said Ben. “I’ve already had two cups.”

  “You’re an early riser.”

  “I’m also a night owl. So I’m really an insomniac,” he joked. “You rise pretty early yourself.”

  “I’m just jet-lagged actually. Not really a natural early riser, but I’m hoping to stick with this schedule.”

  He peered at Clémence more closely. She blushed, wondering what the heck he was staring at.

  “This is incredibly odd,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve spend so much time looking at your parents, and you look like an exact combination of the both of them.”

  Clémence laughed.

  It was true that Clémence had her mother’s dark hair and bone structure and her father’s blue eyes and full lips.

  “They talk about you a lot,” said Ben. “Naturally.”

  She only hoped that they hadn’t said anything too embarrassing.

  “They’d told me about you too,” she said. “You’re writing a novel? That’s interesting. What’s it about?”

  “Well, I hate to call it a crime novel, because it’s more literary. So it’s a literary crime novel then. A man gets killed in the Tuileries and he has a suitcase full of codes. The Inspector has to figure out what it all means.”

  “Well, are you going to tell me?” Clémence asked.

  “Actually, that’s all I have so far. I’m hoping the rest of the plot comes to me soon.”

  Clémence laughed again. With Miffy and Ben around, she was feeling more at ease at home now. She had hoped that she and Ben could be friends, and things were looking good.

  “Hey, I was wondering if I could get the number of your plumber,” said Ben. “You see, my tiny sink is clogged. It’s my fault for not pouring those chemicals as often as I probably should have. I should’ve listened to your mother.”

  “Please don’t tell her that,” Clémence joked. “So it’s completely blocked?”

  “Yes,” said Ben. “I can’t wash my hands anymore, so I need to do it in the shower.”