Rose leaned back against the wall and began to hyperventilate as Clémence called the police. When she hung up, she took Rose out into the hallway. She wanted to say something comforting, but she was at a loss for words. What could you say to a friend whose boyfriend’s dead body had just been found in the apartment that they shared?
Rose slumped down to the floor and buried her face in her palms. Clémence let her cry, putting an arm around her to comfort her. After a few minutes, Clémence decided that she would go back into the kitchen for clues before the police came.
There was no blood on Pierre that she could see. It could’ve been a medical condition. Sudden death did happen to young people. He could’ve had a heart defect, for example. Since he was wearing a gray T-shirt and pajama bottoms, and he’d been eating what looked like breakfast, he was probably starting his day before he fell dead somehow.
On the plate, where his head rested, were three pieces of buttered baguette bread. The rest of the baguette was beside the plate, still in the long and fitted paper bag that it came in.
Clémence sighed. The bag was lavender, with the company logo embossed on it in gold; the baguette came from Damour. Not again.
There was a Damour in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which was smaller than the location in the 16th, but it was popular, nonetheless. As nice as it was that Pierre was loyal to her family’s company to buy his baguettes from their store, this was the third death that Clémence had encountered that involved a product from Damour. If that insolent Inspector St. Clair was on this case again, he would harass her to no end about this coincidence.
What could she do? She couldn’t get rid of the baguette and mess with the evidence. But she couldn’t resist the urge to feel the baguette. She had already touched the dead body anyway.
The baguette felt as hard as a baseball bat. Clémence had eaten Damour baguettes for most of her life. She knew exactly how long they lasted before they hardened. From the state of the baguette on the table, she knew that it meant Pierre had been dead since Saturday morning.
However, she still couldn’t let go of the idea that there had been foul play. She looked around the rest of the apartment. Everything looked fairly normal. The TV and stereo were still in the living room. The valuable art was still on the walls, and Rose’s designer clothes and purses were untouched in the closet. There didn’t appear to be any signs of a break-in on the locks of the front door.
To be sure, she asked Rose, “Do you have anything valuable here that could be missing?”
Rose looked up at her with tear-stained eyes. All that relaxation at the spa had been undone in a matter of minutes.
“I-I don’t think so. I have some jewelry on my dresser. It’s in a box. Why? Do you think someone robbed us and then killed him?”
Her lips trembled as she spoke, and Clémence kneeled down in front of her.
“It doesn’t look like it, but I just want to make sure before the police gets here.”
“Is this really happening?” Rose whispered.
“You’re in shock.” Clémence hugged her. “I’m so sorry this happened. Do you want me to call your parents?”
“No. I can’t talk to anyone right now.”
Clémence nodded. “I understand. You’re more than welcome to stay with me tonight.”
She checked the jewelry box in Rose’s room. It was full, and it didn’t look as if it had been touched, either. She would’ve asked Rose to check the rest of the apartment if her friend wasn’t in such a state of emotional shock.
It was the police’s job to do the investigating, anyhow, no matter how incompetent they were at it. Clémence wasn’t sure that it was a murder yet. It was unfortunate that Pierre had died, but there was nothing she could do for him now. She just wanted to know why, and only an autopsy would tell them.
Ten minutes after the police arrived, so did the hawk-nosed Cyril St. Clair. Clémence braced herself for St. Clair’s snide remarks. Sure enough, he noted the baguette bag as soon as he set foot in the kitchen.
“When there’s a murder, there’s the color lavender,” he said. “Does everybody eat something from Damour before they die?”
“Excuse me, but it’s my friend’s boyfriend who just died. She might hear you from the hallway, so I ask that you remain professional.”
Rose shook Cyril’s hand feebly when he introduced himself, but she didn’t get up from her spot on the floor.
“You said that you found him like this?” Cyril asked.
“Yes,” Rose said slowly. “We didn’t know whether he was asleep or what, so Clémence checked his pulse.”
Cyril glared at Clémence. “So you touched him?”
“I had to,” Clémence said. “To know what was wrong with him.”
Clémence turned red. Anger was a reflex with Cyril. For Rose’s sake, she swallowed all the biting insults on the tip of her tongue and took a few deep breaths instead.
“Look,” she said. “We found Pierre dead, and we don’t know why. As far as I can tell, he died of natural causes.”
Pierre sneered. “How do I know you didn’t have anything to do with this? He was eating a baguette from your store before he died. How would I know it’s not another incident, like with those pistachio éclairs of yours? I wouldn’t be surprised if the baguette was poisoned this time, too.”
Clémence rolled her eyes. She couldn’t hold her hostility back any longer. “Are you still bitter that I was the one to solve the last murder case? I’m sorry that an amateur like me could crack something faster than you could, with your hundred years of experience.”
“Hardly, Damour. You just got lucky. And isn’t it a coincidence that you are always the one finding the dead bodies? Maybe you’re cursed, and so is your little patisserie.”
“Maybe you’re cursed with the inability to do your job,” Clémence shot back.
She must’ve sounded angry enough to kill because Rose stood up and came between them.
Cyril was taken aback. It took a second for him to recompose himself. “We’ll do what we can, of course,” he replied haughtily.
“Clémence said that it didn’t seem like anybody had broken in or taken anything,” Rose continued, poking her head into the apartment. “It doesn’t seem that way to me, either.”
“You should know that he’s been dead since Saturday,” said Clémence.
“And how do you know that?” Cyril asked.
“The hardness of the baguette. Plus, Rose was here with him Friday evening before she left. She left the apartment at around seven thirty p.m.—right, Rose?”
“Right,” said Rose. “Because Clémence picked me up in a taxi at that time. Pierre must’ve bought the baguette early Saturday morning.”
“No, I doubt that,” Clémence said. “He’s wearing his pajamas. He bought it at night. He wouldn’t go out in the morning in his pajamas.”
“Hmm, you’re right.”
“Well, thank you, ladies, for the valuable information,” Cyril said sarcastically. “Now I know who to ask if I ever need to know Damour’s store hours or how long one of your baguettes lasts.”
Something dawned on Rose. “Oh god, we have to inform Pierre’s family, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Cyril.
“I can’t talk to them about this,” she said, slumping back against the wall again.
“We’ll call them, of course,” a kind-looking police officer piped up. “Give us their names and numbers.”
Rose reached for the phone in her purse and did as she was asked. “They’re in Sydney, Australia, right now. I’m not sure if their cell phones are working there.”
“Come on, Rose,” said Clémence. “Let’s go to my place.”
“I need to gather some of my things,” Rose said.
“No,” said Cyril. “Nothing else gets touched. This is still a murder investigation.”
“Fine,” Clémence said. “I can lend you some things, Rose.”
“I have some clothes in my carryall,” Rose muttered.
“Let’s just go.” Clémence led the way down the hall.
