the hot spring?”
“Yes, but I had the murder on my mind. I know the store is up and running now, but I worried that there might be something in the papers?”
“Well, I didn’t see anything in the papers this morning,” said Clémence. In fact, she did see something on a gossip blog, but she didn’t mention it to her. The blogger didn’t seem to know much anyway. The post had just mentioned that Damour was abruptly closed that morning and police had been spotted. It speculated theft, but not murder. They were lucky.
“Good,” said her mother.
“I think we’re fine for now. I’m working on it. I think there is someone else in connection with Dupont, but I have to find out more.”
“I trust you, Clémence. You did figure out who killed la gardienne. Just be careful.”
“Thanks, maman.”
Her mother didn’t know how much danger Clémence had been in before she solved la gardienne ’s murder last month. And she wasn’t going to tell her. If she did, her parents would fly back right away and be worried for no reason.
So last time Clémence had been careless, but this time, she would definitely be more on guard. Be in public places and not alone with potential suspects. She should also probably take some more self-defence classes.
At home, she played with Miffy a bit. Miffy’s portrait was still in the kitchen, drying on the dishrags. She propped it up against the wall and stepped back to look it at from different angles. It wasn’t half bad. Miffy’s face was mostly still intact and detailed.
She snacked on some madeleines and did some research on her laptop. She searched for John Christopher. There were several John Christophers on LinkedIn, but she found the right one fairly quickly since she knew where he worked.
John Christopher had an MBA from Stanford University. He spoke Fluent English and French, and an adequate level of Spanish. He even put in the hobbies he enjoyed: swimming, tennis, and running. A normal guy—if normal meant a superior education on top of being athletic and generally good-looking. No wonder the other girls were crazy about him.
She wondered if other girls had been as forward she had been, asking him out point blank. Maybe he was used to girls hitting on him and giving him their phone numbers. He had been right—French girls were never forward. They were coy and coquettish. American girls were probably more blunt.
Clémence stopped her line of thinking. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation. She had to get focused.
She searched next for Alexandre Dupont on LinkedIn. Perhaps they’d worked together. However, the search came back with more than a dozen hits, and none of them seemed to be the right guy. Maybe Dupont didn’t have LinkedIn. A broad internet search didn’t show what she wanted either. It would’ve been easier if she knew more about Dupont, like where he worked. That way she would be able to narrow down her search.
***
Clémence met the lawyer outside of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. Michel Martinez was a kind-looking man in his late fifties with a friendly smile and salt and pepper hair. He wore round spectacles and carried a black briefcase.
They introduced themselves and shook hands. Michel came recommended by his parent’s lawyers.
Her parents had known Raoul for over two years and didn’t doubt his upstanding character. The police however, was taking forever to figure this out. Cyril didn’t like to be wrong and Clémence knew that it would take some convincing for him to let Raoul off the hook.
Clémence was dressed in a black pantsuit. She hoped to pass as Michel’s associate so they would let him speak to Raoul.
On the third floor, Clémence and Michel waited to be called in. After twenty minutes, hey were shown in to a room where Raoul was sitting at a small table.
“Clémence.” Raoul had a shaved head and deep brown eyes. He stood up. “I really hope I don’t
“Yes, but I had the murder on my mind. I know the store is up and running now, but I worried that there might be something in the papers?”
“Well, I didn’t see anything in the papers this morning,” said Clémence. In fact, she did see something on a gossip blog, but she didn’t mention it to her. The blogger didn’t seem to know much anyway. The post had just mentioned that Damour was abruptly closed that morning and police had been spotted. It speculated theft, but not murder. They were lucky.
“Good,” said her mother.
“I think we’re fine for now. I’m working on it. I think there is someone else in connection with Dupont, but I have to find out more.”
“I trust you, Clémence. You did figure out who killed la gardienne. Just be careful.”
“Thanks, maman.”
Her mother didn’t know how much danger Clémence had been in before she solved la gardienne ’s murder last month. And she wasn’t going to tell her. If she did, her parents would fly back right away and be worried for no reason.
So last time Clémence had been careless, but this time, she would definitely be more on guard. Be in public places and not alone with potential suspects. She should also probably take some more self-defence classes.
At home, she played with Miffy a bit. Miffy’s portrait was still in the kitchen, drying on the dishrags. She propped it up against the wall and stepped back to look it at from different angles. It wasn’t half bad. Miffy’s face was mostly still intact and detailed.
She snacked on some madeleines and did some research on her laptop. She searched for John Christopher. There were several John Christophers on LinkedIn, but she found the right one fairly quickly since she knew where he worked.
John Christopher had an MBA from Stanford University. He spoke Fluent English and French, and an adequate level of Spanish. He even put in the hobbies he enjoyed: swimming, tennis, and running. A normal guy—if normal meant a superior education on top of being athletic and generally good-looking. No wonder the other girls were crazy about him.
She wondered if other girls had been as forward she had been, asking him out point blank. Maybe he was used to girls hitting on him and giving him their phone numbers. He had been right—French girls were never forward. They were coy and coquettish. American girls were probably more blunt.
Clémence stopped her line of thinking. What was she doing? This was a murder investigation. She had to get focused.
She searched next for Alexandre Dupont on LinkedIn. Perhaps they’d worked together. However, the search came back with more than a dozen hits, and none of them seemed to be the right guy. Maybe Dupont didn’t have LinkedIn. A broad internet search didn’t show what she wanted either. It would’ve been easier if she knew more about Dupont, like where he worked. That way she would be able to narrow down her search.
***
Clémence met the lawyer outside of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. Michel Martinez was a kind-looking man in his late fifties with a friendly smile and salt and pepper hair. He wore round spectacles and carried a black briefcase.
They introduced themselves and shook hands. Michel came recommended by his parent’s lawyers.
Her parents had known Raoul for over two years and didn’t doubt his upstanding character. The police however, was taking forever to figure this out. Cyril didn’t like to be wrong and Clémence knew that it would take some convincing for him to let Raoul off the hook.
Clémence was dressed in a black pantsuit. She hoped to pass as Michel’s associate so they would let him speak to Raoul.
On the third floor, Clémence and Michel waited to be called in. After twenty minutes, hey were shown in to a room where Raoul was sitting at a small table.
“Clémence.” Raoul had a shaved head and deep brown eyes. He stood up. “I really hope I don’t
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