A Patisserie Mystery 1: Macaron Murder

Clémence Damour carried her travel backpack up the exit staircase of Métro Trocadéro. She faced the familiar bustle of the Parisian cafés brimming with locals and tourists alike while lanky waiters in white dress shirts and black vests served them with grim politeness. After spending more than twenty-one hours on a flight from Melbourne then riding the RER B train from Charles de Gaulle Airport, she felt exhausted and more than a little gross. She hadn’t showered in two days and had slept terribly on the plane.

Australia had been her last stop after traveling the world for two years, and now she was back in her hometown of Paris, France. The posh sixteenth arrondissement hadn’t always been her neighborhood. Her parents acquired their luxury three-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a Haussmannian building in one of Paris’s most exclusive neighborhoods after she had graduated lycée, the French equivalent of high school. She had actually grown up in a humble house in the suburbs and wasn’t used to the chic ladies in Chanel jackets with their Hermès bags and the dashing men in well-cut Armani suits.

Among the well coiffed and the well dressed now, she felt like a hobo with her unwashed hair, her grubby travel clothes, and her unfashionable backpack. People-watching was a popular Parisian pastime, and she could feel the eyes on her as she walked from the Métro exit to a nearby bench. They didn’t know that she was the heiress to one of the country’s most popular dessert and pastry chains.

It was strange to be back in Paris after all that she’d seen and experienced on her travels. She saw her surroundings with fresh eyes, as the snap-happy tourists would: the beautiful, uniform architecture; the cafés with the tiny tables barely big enough for one person, let alone two; the grand museums of the Palais de Chaillot etched with lines of poetry by Paul Valéry; the trees just beginning to bloom in the onset of spring. But her favorite view was the one directly across from Café du Trocadéro.

Her old friend, the iconic Eiffel Tower, stood strong and confident across the Seine River. Place du Trocadéro had the best viewing platform facing the tower, where ecstatic tourists gathered to pose for photos.

Clémence sat down on the bench to admire the view. Even though she was a French native, she never got tired of staring at her. The tower was female, as La Tour Eiffel used a feminine article. La Tour stood so boldly, with such strength and conviction of her own beauty and power, that Clémence was inspired by her mere presence.

Whenever Clémence used to visit her parents’ apartment, she would sit on the balcony, which also had a great view of La Tour, with a cup of tea. She could easily spend an afternoon staring and meditating as a way of unwinding.

She had really lived in the last two years of her life, but now that she was back, her travels felt like a long distraction from her Parisian life.

She sighed as she looked at her old friend now and spoke to her silently. I’m back. Did you miss me? I guess it was time to come back to reality.