A Patisserie Mystery 7: Madeleine Murder

Clémence Damour didn’t know when she fell asleep on Arthur’s shoulder in the taxi. After three hours on a train that took them from Amsterdam Central Station to Gare du Nord Station in Paris, she had been exhausted. The slow journey from the station to her apartment in the 16th had a lulling effect on her. All the Parisians seem to be returning to Paris from their summer vacations at the same time.

When the taxi lurched to a stop, her eyes flew open, and she looked around in a daze.

“Enjoyed your nap?” Arthur shot her a cute smile. A lock of his chestnut brown hair fell over one eye. As sleepy as she felt, she couldn’t help but reach a hand up and brush the lock from his face in a sweet gesture.

“Looks like we’re back in Paris,” she said wryly.

It was car-to-car gridlock. August was almost over, and the city was back to being business as usual.

“The stresses of modern living,” Arthur mused. “It would probably be faster if we walked home.”

“We could if we didn’t have our luggage,” Clémence said with a voice still groggy with sleep.

Her whole body was feeling the effects of bicycling around the Netherlands for the last seven days. It wasn’t fair—since the Dutch begin cycling as soon as they learned to walk, they have had a whole lifetime to develop thighs of steel. Not only were Clémence’s legs sore, but her butt hurt, and even her arms and shoulders were recovering from gripping her handlebars for dear life while cycling in central Amsterdam.

The taxi started moving again at a snail’s pace. At least they were right along the Seine, and Clémence could enjoy the view of the famous river. The car inched up the street like a tortoise until they reached Pont des Alexandre III. There were thirty-seven bridges across the Seine, and Pont Alexandre III was her favorite. She wasn’t alone in that sentiment. It was by far the most extravagant, with ornate Art Nouveau lamps and massive sculptures of cherubs and winged horses guarding each end. At night, when all the bridges were lit up, it was such a pretty scene. The bridge was a frequent backdrop in films and ad campaigns.

“What’s going on up there?” Clémence poked her head out the window.

A crowd had gathered at the base of the bridge. She strained her neck and saw the ambulance truck and three police cars parked along the sidewalk.

“They’re probably filming something,” the gruff taxi driver said. “It’s been that way for weeks now, streets randomly being closed around the city for those Hollywood films.” He let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“I don’t think it’s a movie shoot, monsieur,” Clémence said.

There were no cameras or lighting equipment as far as she could see. Clémence had passed by plenty of television and film productions in Paris, especially since she lived and worked near Trocadéro, the area with the best view of the Eiffel Tower. She’d also seen crews filming in cafés, bookstores, and along the Seine. Once she saw Audrey Tautou in the Tuileries Gardens, filming a scene for a romantic comedy.

“Maybe there’s been an accident,” Arthur said.

The cab lurched closer to the scene, but it stalled again.

“Are you okay?” Arthur examined her.

“Fine. Why?”

“You look a bit too anxious.” He smiled wryly.

“It’s because I think you’re right. I bet there’s been an accident of some sort. But I’m not going to check it out.”

She sat on her hands, as if that would contain her curiosity. After their murder-free vacation, did she want to get herself involved in yet another gruesome murder case?

She bet Inspector Cyril St. Clair was down there right now, scratching his head in response to whatever had happened.

Arthur turned to her, the amused expression still on his face. “You know, if you want to go see what’s happening, you can. The car’s not really going anywhere.”

Clémence shook her head. “No. What good would it do? There’s already a whole crowd over there. What’s the point in joining that crazy mob?”

“Okay.” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “You just look like you’re dying to find out, that’s all.”

The corner of his mouth was twitching. Was he trying to suppress his laughter? Clémence scowled. Why did her boyfriend have to know her so well?

The taxi driver had the radio on. It had been playing frenetic jazz on low until a breaking-news segment came on. Clémence asked him to turn it up.

“We’ve just heard that a body has been found in the Seine River, near Pont Alexandre III. The body had been discovered by a local jogger around noon. The identity of the victim is still unknown, as is the cause of death.”

Clémence couldn’t stand it any longer—she got out of the car.

As she approached the crowd, she noticed some of the people were trying to film what was going on down at the Seine on their smartphones. Others were distraught, comforting each other. They were sectioned off by the police from the scene of the crime down by the riverbank.

Clémence stood on her tippy-toes to try to see, but she couldn’t push through the crowd.

“What happened down there?” Clémence asked a bespectacled man in his forties who was tall enough to see over the few heads before them.

“A woman drowned in the Seine,” he answered. “Apparently she’s an actress.”

A brunette teenage girl turned around. “Not just any actress. It’s Nicole Blake.”

“Nicole Blake?” Clémence exclaimed. “I didn’t even know she was in Paris.”

“Yeah, she was filming some sort of drama.”

“Are you sure it’s her?”

The girl shrugged. “Dunno. But that’s what some people are saying. They have her in a body bag now.”

Clémence clasped a hand over her mouth. She loved Nicole Blake’s films. The twenty-four-year-old had been acting since she was fifteen, and her star had been on the rise in the last few years, when she developed killer curves. Not only was she beautiful, but she was talented enough to be nominated for an Oscar for best supporting actress last year for her role as a president’s daughter in a political thriller.

“It’s a shame,” the teenaged boy beside the brunette girl commented. “She was hot.”

The girl rolled her eyes at him.

“What happened?” Clémence asked.

The girl shrugged. “Nobody knows. Maybe she fell in, maybe she was pushed.”

“So it might be murder,” Clémence muttered.

She quickly shook her head to clear away her thoughts. She wasn’t going back into investigative mode again, not when she’d barely returned home.

A few people in front of her left, and she was able to look down at the riverbank.

The ambulance workers were pushing a gurney into the back of the ambulance. The body bag on top of the gurney was closed.

Then she saw the slim figure of Inspector Cyril St. Clair. As she had imagined, he was stroking his chin, looking puzzled by the situation.