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 America. Thanks to her mother, Clémence’s English was nearly accentless. 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 and 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,” Clémence said.
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 espresso that the French preferred.
“That’s okay,” Ben said. “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 spent 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,” Ben said. “Naturally.”
She only hoped that they hadn’t said anything too embarrassing.
“They 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 will come 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,” Ben said. “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,” Ben said. “I can’t wash my hands anymore, so I need to do it in the shower.”
“Oh gosh, sure. Actually, let’s call him right now.”
Clémence had the plumber’s number on the home phone’s directory. Luckily, the plumber was able to come in that morning but was very vague about the time. She gave the plumber Ben’s cell phone number, as well as her own.
“Will you be at home all morning?” Clémence asked Ben when she hung up.
“Yes, I’ll be writing.”
“Great. Because I have to walk the dog, buy groceries, so I’ll be in and out all morning. He’ll call you when he’s around.”
“Thanks, Clémence,” Ben said. “I’ll see you soon. Oh, there’s a poetry slam tomorrow night, and I’ll be performing. Do you want to come? Bring some friends if you want.”
“That sounds like fun,” Clémence said. “Why not?”
“Great, I’ll text you the details.”
When Ben left, Clémence took Miffy out. She wanted to go all the way across the Seine to Champs de Mars, the park beneath the Eiffel Tower.
On her way out, she planned to tell la gardienne that a plumber was coming so that she wouldn’t give him any trouble. She had a reputation for treating any intruders with rudeness and suspicion.
Her door was slightly ajar, and the TV was off, so Clémence knocked. When her phone rang, Clémence reached into her purse, loosening her grasp on Miffy’s leash. Before she could get her phone, Miffy was off. She ran straight into la gardienne’s apartment, pushing the door wide open.
“Miffy, no!”
Clémence went in after her.
“I’m sorry, madame—”
Then Clémence saw her: la gardienne on the floor with a pool of blood pouring from underneath her head.
Clémence screamed.
Miffy was barking and running around.
“No, Miffy, let’s get out of here!”
Across from the apartment was a doctor’s office. After Clémence banged on the door, the receptionist and some of the people in the waiting room came out.
“What’s wrong?” asked the receptionist.
“Call the police!” Clémence exclaimed. “La gardienne is dead!”
