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Authors: Harper Lin
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mentioned it.
Clémence had read all the recent tabloid articles about Nicole Blake, and there was a rumor that she’d dated a man named Elon Marchese. Elon was a French businessman who owned a few luxury fashion companies. He didn’t work in the film industry, which would’ve made it easier for them to keep the relationship a secret if he and Nicole had been an item. Their relationship was never confirmed officially. There was only speculation in the media that came from anonymous sources. Clémence didn’t know how reliable that was.
The only proof she’d seen was a blurry photograph taken of them, presumably on a guest’s phone, at a charity event. They were only talking, but the source in the article claimed that they were hanging on to each other’s every word throughout the evening, and they got together because they bonded over their love of fashion. Elon was in his mid-forties. He was handsome and rich. Clémence could see the appeal. Whether the rumors were true or not was another story, but she made a mental note to investigate further into their relationship.
She hailed a cab back to her apartment in the 16th arrondissement. Miffy jumped on her as soon as she entered the apartment.
“I missed you too, girl.” Clémence kissed her then went into the kitchen to pour dog food in her dish.
She hadn’t heard from Cyril about the autopsies, but it wasn’t as if he’d always been forthcoming with information. He only agreed to work with her when he was stumped, and he was stumped often. However, his ego was big, so he wouldn’t ask for help. He was probably all too happy when Clémence helped, even if he would never admit it in a million years.
“Cyril,” she said when he picked up. “What’s the news?”
She could practically hear him roll his eyes on the other line. He sighed and resigned himself to telling her. “Rachel was strangled, and not by the belt around her neck. There were bruises on her neck, and in other areas on her body.”
“So I was right,” Clémence said. “She was murdered.”
“Yes, fine,” he said with exasperation. “She was. We did find traces of DNA around the room, but they could be from a number of people. The maids, guests she’d invited into the house, or even past guests. We’re in the middle of sorting that out right now.”
“What about Nicole Blake?” Clémence said.
“What about her? I already told you the results. Her head had injuries, but she could’ve hit her head on rocks and such in the river.”
“You didn’t do a full autopsy, did you? I mean, did you know that she was pregnant?”
Clémence wasn’t completely sure, but she had to sound certain.
“Pregnant?” Cyril exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”
“Do the autopsy and make sure. Call me back to confirm once you’ve done so.”
She hung up. Cyril was probably fuming, but no doubt he’d take her tip and do as she said. He had no choice because he was stumped.
She noticed that she’d received a text message from Ben asking her if he could come down to her place to do his laundry. The apartment that Clémence was living in actually belonged to her parents. They were in Asia for a few months, overseeing the operations of their new patisseries in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now Singapore.
They’d rented their chambre de bonne to Ben. Ever since Clémence had introduced him to Berenice, they’d been a couple. Clémence had also become close friends with Ben, especially since he came over to do his laundry every week.
From his room on the top floor, he could see into Clémence’s kitchen, so he’d probably seen that she was home. After she texted back that he could, he knocked on the kitchen door in no time.
“ Coucou, ” Clémence greeted him.
Lanky, dark-haired, pale-skinned Ben was always dressed in black. He was an aspiring novelist and Clémence assumed that was his writer’s uniform.
“How are you?” He grinned. There was a
Clémence had read all the recent tabloid articles about Nicole Blake, and there was a rumor that she’d dated a man named Elon Marchese. Elon was a French businessman who owned a few luxury fashion companies. He didn’t work in the film industry, which would’ve made it easier for them to keep the relationship a secret if he and Nicole had been an item. Their relationship was never confirmed officially. There was only speculation in the media that came from anonymous sources. Clémence didn’t know how reliable that was.
The only proof she’d seen was a blurry photograph taken of them, presumably on a guest’s phone, at a charity event. They were only talking, but the source in the article claimed that they were hanging on to each other’s every word throughout the evening, and they got together because they bonded over their love of fashion. Elon was in his mid-forties. He was handsome and rich. Clémence could see the appeal. Whether the rumors were true or not was another story, but she made a mental note to investigate further into their relationship.
She hailed a cab back to her apartment in the 16th arrondissement. Miffy jumped on her as soon as she entered the apartment.
“I missed you too, girl.” Clémence kissed her then went into the kitchen to pour dog food in her dish.
She hadn’t heard from Cyril about the autopsies, but it wasn’t as if he’d always been forthcoming with information. He only agreed to work with her when he was stumped, and he was stumped often. However, his ego was big, so he wouldn’t ask for help. He was probably all too happy when Clémence helped, even if he would never admit it in a million years.
“Cyril,” she said when he picked up. “What’s the news?”
She could practically hear him roll his eyes on the other line. He sighed and resigned himself to telling her. “Rachel was strangled, and not by the belt around her neck. There were bruises on her neck, and in other areas on her body.”
“So I was right,” Clémence said. “She was murdered.”
“Yes, fine,” he said with exasperation. “She was. We did find traces of DNA around the room, but they could be from a number of people. The maids, guests she’d invited into the house, or even past guests. We’re in the middle of sorting that out right now.”
“What about Nicole Blake?” Clémence said.
“What about her? I already told you the results. Her head had injuries, but she could’ve hit her head on rocks and such in the river.”
“You didn’t do a full autopsy, did you? I mean, did you know that she was pregnant?”
Clémence wasn’t completely sure, but she had to sound certain.
“Pregnant?” Cyril exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”
“Do the autopsy and make sure. Call me back to confirm once you’ve done so.”
She hung up. Cyril was probably fuming, but no doubt he’d take her tip and do as she said. He had no choice because he was stumped.
She noticed that she’d received a text message from Ben asking her if he could come down to her place to do his laundry. The apartment that Clémence was living in actually belonged to her parents. They were in Asia for a few months, overseeing the operations of their new patisseries in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now Singapore.
They’d rented their chambre de bonne to Ben. Ever since Clémence had introduced him to Berenice, they’d been a couple. Clémence had also become close friends with Ben, especially since he came over to do his laundry every week.
From his room on the top floor, he could see into Clémence’s kitchen, so he’d probably seen that she was home. After she texted back that he could, he knocked on the kitchen door in no time.
“ Coucou, ” Clémence greeted him.
Lanky, dark-haired, pale-skinned Ben was always dressed in black. He was an aspiring novelist and Clémence assumed that was his writer’s uniform.
“How are you?” He grinned. There was a
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