A Patisserie Mystery 2: Éclair Murder

Her family’s patisserie chain, Damour, made some of France’s most delicious desserts and pastries. Aside from the flagship store in the 16th arrondissement, there were two other locations in Paris that Clémence checked up on from time to time. Her parents were away in Asia for at least six months, and not only was she house-sitting and dog-sitting for them, but she got to take over in inventing new dessert flavors with the patisserie’s head baker, Sebastien Soulier.

She was heading across the Seine to the Champs de Mars, the park beneath the tower. She passed the thick aroma of crêpe and waffle stands, where Miffy was compelled to linger. The sun was still three hours away from setting, so they had plenty of time to enjoy the blue clouds and the light of day. One never knew when the sun was going to appear in Paris, and when it did, everybody was out to take advantage of it.

Clémence walked around, looking for other dogs so that Miffy could socialize. She spotted a fluffy Pomeranian dog on the other side of the field and wondered if the lady holding the leash would mind if Miffy interacted with the dog a bit. She made her way toward them, passing teenagers taking selfies and vendors selling illegal keychains and trinkets in the shape of the original tower.

As they walked, they were accosted by a Jack Russell terrier with a red bandana tied around the neck.

Arthur Dubois, her neighbor, greeted her with a strained smile. He was as handsome as always, dressed in a white dress shirt and crisp blue jeans. His chestnut brown hair was neatly combed, and his brown eyes seemed to examine her with curiosity.

They had been on the verge of some sort of friendship when Arthur had found her unconscious on the street last month and called for an ambulance when she had been investigating who had killed la gardienne, the caretaker of their building. Once in a while, she was able to discern a soft side from his snotty façade, but it was as rare to encounter as a French person who didn’t like cheese.

The Russell terrier and Miffy were wagging their tails happily and jumping up and down. The dogs were pals, since Arthur’s family had dog-sat Miffy before, and Clémence would’ve suggested walking the dogs together more often if Arthur wasn’t so downright rude sometimes.

After Clémence helped Inspector Cyril St. Clair find the killer, she had received a big bouquet of beautiful pink and red roses that had been left in front of her apartment door. No note came with it to say whom the bouquet was from, but she suspected that it had been from Arthur. The last time she’d run into Arthur, she’d asked whether the roses were from him, but he had vehemently denied it.

“Why would I give you flowers?” he asked, a bit nastily.

Clémence immediately felt stupid for asking. He probably thought she was insinuating that he had romantic interest in her. His family had been victims in the whole debacle, and Clémence had uncovered the truth. Plus she had been beaten and almost killed in the process. Didn’t that warrant flowers?

“Nobody in your family sent it either?” Clémence had asked.

“Not as far as I know,” he replied.

If the Dubois family didn’t send it, then who did? In any case, she didn’t appreciate Arthur’s attitude, and the whole exchange had made her apprehensive about him again.

But here he was with his dog. And he was walking next to her.

“Hey, what is your dog’s name?” she asked.

“You mean after all these years, you never knew his name?”

Clémence fumed. She was trying to be polite, but he was making it difficult, as usual.

“I was away for two years,” she said. “And this is maybe one of the few times I have seen your dog.”

“It’s Youki,” he replied.

“Oh.”

Clémence wanted their walk to be over, but Miffy was really enjoying herself with Youki. She had come to the park to socialize Miffy, after all.

“How’s the PhD going?” she asked, to dispel the uncomfortable silence between them.

“Well,” he said.

“What’s it about, anyway?”

“Macroeconomics,” he said. “But nothing you would understand because it’s quite complicated.”

Clémence silently called him a few names. Did he realize how rude he was being, or was it just a part of his personality?

She decided not to react, but she wouldn’t make the effort to make any more conversation. As soon as Miffy received sufficient time with Youki, she would make her excuses and walk the other way.

After another bout of awkward silence, Arthur finally spoke up. “Any new macaron flavors at Damour?”

“Yes,” Clémence said. “We’ve just launched a cherry blossom flavor, and—”

She was interrupted by Youki running off in the park, toward two guys who were throwing a Frisbee around. Arthur must’ve had a loose grasp of the leash, and he chased after Youki.

Miffy wanted to go after them, too. She barked excitedly, but Clémence held the leash tight.

“Stay here, Miffy. I guess we’ll wait for them.”

After all, she couldn’t just go home now. It was amusing to watch Arthur chasing after Youki and looking frazzled.

Clémence laughed as she watched them, but when she looked down at Miffy few minutes later, she realized that the dog had stretched the extended leash all the way to a bush.

“Miffy?”

Her dog was sniffing an éclair on the ground near the bush. Sticking out of the bush were shoes. Men’s shiny brown shoes.

“What the…?”

Clémence pulled Miffy back and looked into the bush. The pants seemed to be made of expensive fabric, and the shoes were high-end as well; it couldn’t have been a homeless man.

The man didn’t answer.

Miffy was still sniffing the piece of éclair on the ground, but she wasn’t licking it.

“Okay, Miffy, stop.”

Clémence looked back at Arthur, who was walking toward them with Youki.

“I think this man needs help!” Clémence said to Arthur.

Arthur ran to them, and he parted the bush. The man lying in it was in his mid to late forties, with dark brown hair and tortoiseshell spectacles. He wore a business suit and tie, like a typical Parisian man working in the area.

Arthur checked for a pulse. He grimaced and stepped back.

“I think he’s dead,” Arthur said weakly.