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Authors: Harper Lin
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else she could do. It wasn’t as if any of the employees from Laberg, the colleagues who were jealous of him, had been invited to the party. And the pills had been found in Cesar’s jacket pocket.
Clémence just had to accept that it was suicide. Perhaps she’d just been used to the murders that’d taken place in Paris for the past few months—and solving them. She just had to accept that this instance wasn’t a murder and to leave it alone.
She sipped her espresso in Damour’s employee break room. She was the only one on break—not that she’d been working, really. She had been too busy mulling over the case to work properly in the kitchen, and she excused herself altogether after making a mediocre batch of mango macarons. Whenever she was in detective mode, she found it a challenge to get creative in the kitchen. She was a believer that your mood got transferred into whatever you were making, and her desserts could be sweeter if she baked on a day she was happy. She’d been in the break room since lunch, going over everything she knew about the case that she’d written down in her notebook.
Even with the new conclusion that she forced herself to accept, the case didn’t feel quite closed. Was it because she, like Madame Laberg and Henri, just couldn’t accept the fact that Cesar was dead?
Celine came in, dressed in her usual hostess uniform of black pants and a light lavender dress shirt.
“ Ça va , Clémence? You’re looking especially pensive today. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just trying to digest how and why Cesar committed suicide.”
“Oh. Right. So you confirmed it’s not a murder?”
“Well, I don’t know if ‘confirmed’ is the right word, since nobody can confirm anything. But the facts definitely point to suicide.”
“That’s a shame.” Celine pulled up the chair beside her. “Charles must be going through hell right now. Didn’t you say you were going to their house? Did you have dinner with them last night?”
“Yes.” Clémence recalled how Madame Laberg had spoken about Celine. Just a hostess . Clémence wanted to change the subject.
“So how was it?” Celine asked. “Was their house as nice as Berenice kept going on about?”
“It was pretty cool, I mean, just as nice as the other mansions in Neuilly,” Clémence said.
“How was Charles? Did he ask about me?”
“Oh, are you still going out with Charles?” Clémence asked.
She shrugged. “I have to say, I’m liking him a lot.”
“But you always say that about every guy you go out with. You like them for a week, then you totally get over it as soon as you meet someone cuter.”
“I know, but he’s different. What’s not to like? He’s so smart, and he makes me feel, well, sexy and beautiful, you know? And he’s sexy and beautiful, not to mention rich. I don’t know what else I would want.”
Clémence smiled politely. Charles hadn’t mentioned Celine at all—but then again, he wouldn’t, in the presence of his disapproving mother. “I didn’t talk to Charles that much. My objective was to get more information on Cesar. If you had asked me, I would’ve grilled Charles about you.”
“Oh, no!” Celine exclaimed in horror. “Don’t do that. I want to play it cool. He hasn’t called or texted recently, but I want to be patient and not mess this up. He’s probably going through a lot right now, helping out with funeral arrangements, so it makes sense that he’d be too busy to do something again so soon.”
“Yes, it’s been messed up for the Labergs, and I think Charles is dropping out of law school so he could start working at Editions Laberg with his father.”
“Right, and that’s eating up his time.”
Clémence wanted to warn Celine that Charles was a bit of a flirt, but she bit her tongue. What if he agreed with his mother that Celine was simply someone to fool around with, but not
Clémence just had to accept that it was suicide. Perhaps she’d just been used to the murders that’d taken place in Paris for the past few months—and solving them. She just had to accept that this instance wasn’t a murder and to leave it alone.
She sipped her espresso in Damour’s employee break room. She was the only one on break—not that she’d been working, really. She had been too busy mulling over the case to work properly in the kitchen, and she excused herself altogether after making a mediocre batch of mango macarons. Whenever she was in detective mode, she found it a challenge to get creative in the kitchen. She was a believer that your mood got transferred into whatever you were making, and her desserts could be sweeter if she baked on a day she was happy. She’d been in the break room since lunch, going over everything she knew about the case that she’d written down in her notebook.
Even with the new conclusion that she forced herself to accept, the case didn’t feel quite closed. Was it because she, like Madame Laberg and Henri, just couldn’t accept the fact that Cesar was dead?
Celine came in, dressed in her usual hostess uniform of black pants and a light lavender dress shirt.
“ Ça va , Clémence? You’re looking especially pensive today. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just trying to digest how and why Cesar committed suicide.”
“Oh. Right. So you confirmed it’s not a murder?”
“Well, I don’t know if ‘confirmed’ is the right word, since nobody can confirm anything. But the facts definitely point to suicide.”
“That’s a shame.” Celine pulled up the chair beside her. “Charles must be going through hell right now. Didn’t you say you were going to their house? Did you have dinner with them last night?”
“Yes.” Clémence recalled how Madame Laberg had spoken about Celine. Just a hostess . Clémence wanted to change the subject.
“So how was it?” Celine asked. “Was their house as nice as Berenice kept going on about?”
“It was pretty cool, I mean, just as nice as the other mansions in Neuilly,” Clémence said.
“How was Charles? Did he ask about me?”
“Oh, are you still going out with Charles?” Clémence asked.
She shrugged. “I have to say, I’m liking him a lot.”
“But you always say that about every guy you go out with. You like them for a week, then you totally get over it as soon as you meet someone cuter.”
“I know, but he’s different. What’s not to like? He’s so smart, and he makes me feel, well, sexy and beautiful, you know? And he’s sexy and beautiful, not to mention rich. I don’t know what else I would want.”
Clémence smiled politely. Charles hadn’t mentioned Celine at all—but then again, he wouldn’t, in the presence of his disapproving mother. “I didn’t talk to Charles that much. My objective was to get more information on Cesar. If you had asked me, I would’ve grilled Charles about you.”
“Oh, no!” Celine exclaimed in horror. “Don’t do that. I want to play it cool. He hasn’t called or texted recently, but I want to be patient and not mess this up. He’s probably going through a lot right now, helping out with funeral arrangements, so it makes sense that he’d be too busy to do something again so soon.”
“Yes, it’s been messed up for the Labergs, and I think Charles is dropping out of law school so he could start working at Editions Laberg with his father.”
“Right, and that’s eating up his time.”
Clémence wanted to warn Celine that Charles was a bit of a flirt, but she bit her tongue. What if he agreed with his mother that Celine was simply someone to fool around with, but not
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