Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder (7 page)

The dining room had lots of high windows, allowing in plenty of light. In August, the sun set late in Paris, and the room was illuminated with the warm pink glow of the sunset. Madeleine sat beside Henri, while Clémence faced her. Charles sat beside Clémence. As the matriarch of the family, Madame Laberg sat at one end of the table, beside Clémence.
 

After making some small talk, Madame Laberg remarked to Clémence, “I hear you’re dating someone.”

Clémence turned to her in surprise. “Er, yes.”
 

“That’s too bad. You’re precisely the kind of the girl Charles should be dating. He told me he was going out with a
hostess
.”
 

“Mother, please,” Charles groaned.
 

Clémence smiled awkwardly. Madame Laberg was probably talking about Celine. Clémence didn’t know what to say. Celine was one of her best friends.

“I’m just saying,” Madame Laberg continued. “Those girls might be fun for the moment, but if you’re looking for someone to stay with for life, especially at your age, you need to start looking for quality. Henri found someone. Look at Madeleine: beautiful, educated, with a career, and she’s practically a fashion icon. So is Clémence. I heard about your kidnapping incident, dear. What a bother. You must’ve been traumatized.”
 

“It’s okay,” Clémence said. “I’ve recovered.”
 

“Clever girl, outsmarting your captors like that. You saved Madeleine’s sister’s life.”
 

“It was luck.” Clémence tried to brush it off.

“Modest too,” Madame Laberg commented.
 

As a server poured wine for everybody, Monsieur Laberg finally arrived at the table and greeted everyone tersely. He sat down opposite Madame Laberg at the other end of the table.

“
Bonsoir
,” Clémence said.
 

“This is Clémence Damour,” Madame Laberg introduced. “I’ve invited her to dinner,
chéri
.”
 

Monsieur Laberg’s mind seemed to be a million miles away as he turned to Clémence, and seemed to be looking through her. “
Bonsoir
. Are you a friend of Charles’s?”
 

“Yes,” Clémence said, hesitantly, because he probably meant the question to ask whether she was Charles’s new girlfriend.

“Clémence is great at solving mysteries,” Madame Laberg said. “That’s what Madeleine has been telling me. Clémence has been helping the Paris police with catching murderers.”
 

“Really?” Charles looked at Clémence with interest.
 

“Perhaps she can help us,” Madame Laberg said.

Monsieur Laberg’s expression turned even more grave. “Why? As we discussed, the recent incident wasn’t a murder.”

“That’s what you think,” Madame Laberg said. “Our son did not kill himself. I strongly believe he was murdered. It’s a mother’s intuition.”
 

Monsieur Laberg turned red, and he seemed to be holding back his anger in the presence of his guests.

“My condolences for your loss,” Clémence said.
 

This was turning out to be an awkward dinner indeed. Luckily, two servers came in with their entrées.

“One of our chefs is from Thailand,” Madame Laberg said. “So he experiments with Thai and French fusion.”
 

“Oh.” Clémence looked down at her small portion of pad Thai with peanuts sprinkled all over it. “This looks great, but I have a severe peanut allergy. I’m afraid I can’t eat this. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner.”
 

“That’s okay,” Madame Laberg said. “Of course, we wouldn’t want you to get sick. A peanut allergy—that’s a bother. How serious is it?”

“In high doses, it can kill me,” Clémence said. “But usually my throat clogs up a bit. This is why everything made at Damour is peanut free. My parents made sure of that growing up. Maybe it’s one of the reasons Damour is so popular. There are a lot of people with peanut allergies.”
 

“Maybe you can have a salad then?” Charles suggested, turning to the server. “Is that possible to get Clémence one of the chef’s mango salads?”
 

“That sounds quite good,” Clémence said.

“You have to try it. It’s amazing.”
 

“That was one of Cesar’s favorites,” Madame Laberg said sadly. “How could he have possibly…do that to himself? It’s just not plausible.”

“Accept it,” Monsieur Laberg said. “Our son committed suicide. It’s a fact. You found the suicide letter.”
 

“But—”

“Just look at the facts. He was depressed. He was unhappy. He took the coward’s way out.” Monsieur Laberg shook his head. “I’m ashamed. I didn’t raise him like that.”
 

“You can’t always look at the facts,” Madame Laberg said. “Can you really think that your son, who has everything going for him, would just throw it all away? Is that really a fact to you?”

Her voice rose. She began to eat, chewing furiously. Clémence surmised that this had been an ongoing fight. The family seemed to be divided equally on this matter.
 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Monsieur Laberg said with control. “We all need to move on. Charles is going to be training to replace him. The company’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not about work,” Madame Laberg said with an exasperated sigh. “Not everything is
always
about work. Don’t you care about your son?”
 

“I don’t care to have this discussion in front of everyone.” He stood up and threw his napkin down on his plate. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire. I’ve lost my appetite.”
 

Monsieur Laberg left as Clémence’s salad arrived.

Chapter 10

While dinner had been delicious, Clémence could tell Monsieur Laberg wasn’t the only one who’d lost his appetite. The rest of the meal was eaten in awkward silence and half-hearted attempts at conversation. After dinner, they had coffee back in the salon.
 

As the other three were busy arguing over the vinyls they wanted to play on the sound system, Madame Laberg sat down next to Clémence on the couch. “I’m sorry for the evening, Clémence. I was trying not to lose my temper, but my eldest son is gone, and I’m going through a difficult time keeping things together.”

She looked so sad and withdrawn that Clémence thought it would be appropriate to put an arm around her. “It’s okay. It’s normal to be mourning your son.”
 

“It was embarrassing to fight with my husband in front of you and Madeleine. It’s not dignified, and I apologize.”
 

“It’s really okay. Every family fights. How are the funeral arrangements going?”
 

“We’re having problems with our priest. I insist that it’s not a suicide, but he doesn’t buy it, and he’s not allowing the funeral to be held in the church that we go to.”

“That’s terrible.”
 

“Yes, but what can we do?”
 

“Why do you think your son was murdered?” Clémence asked.

“A mother just knows. I guess it sounds pretty silly, huh?” She sighed. “Maybe I’m just delusional. Cesar was always a bright spot of sunshine in my life.”

“Is it true that he was prescribed pills for depression?”
 

“Yes. Cesar had been seeing a psychiatrist, but only recently. About two months ago. He’d been overworked. Being the heir of
Editions Laberg
, primed by your successful, workaholic father since birth to take over the company, can have its toll on you. As far as I know, it wasn’t serious. Sometimes, people need a bit of a boost—you know, to get them through the day? I personally take sleeping pills. He wasn’t really depressed. It doesn’t mean that he was suicidal.”

Clémence nodded.
 

“And my husband—I’m sorry about his outburst earlier. He’s just as upset.”
 

“No need to apologize. It’s not an easy time for either of you.”
 

She stood up. “Come on. Why don’t I give you a tour of the house?”
 

“I would love a tour.”
 

They left Madeleine and the Laberg brothers on the couch, chatting over coffee. Madame Laberg showed her the backyard. As Clémence expected, there was the pool Berenice had described to her from the photo spread she saw in
Elle Decor
. The Mediterranean mosaic tiles, with the juxtaposition of futuristic white lounge chairs and plants cut in the shape of globes, gave the grand backyard an ethereal feel.
 

“We got a famed Spanish architect to redo the backyard,” Madame Laberg said. “It’s quite something, especially compared to the classical interior of the house.”
 

“Which style do you prefer?” Clémence asked.
 

“Honestly, the outside, but my husband is traditional. He doesn’t see the artistry as I do, but then again, he doesn’t like to swim, either.”
 

They went up the stairs, and she led Clémence into Cesar’s room. It was more than just a bedroom. Double doors opened to a section that was more like an apartment. It was probably half the size of Clémence’s parents’ apartment. It contained a sizeable bathroom, a small salon that doubled as a library, and his bedroom.
 

“My husband wants to renovate this room right away.” Madame Laberg shook her head. “Expand it into a guest room.”
 

“He seems especially upset.” Clémence examined the contents of Cesar’s library, which doubled as his office. His work files were still on the table in ominous piles.
 

“Yes, I think he cares more—a lot more than he lets on,” Madame Laberg said, looking sadly at Cesar’s things. “That’s always been his trouble. He doesn’t know how to express any emotion except anger. Even that he tries to suppress. Personally, I think he feels guilty.”
 

“How come?”
 

“He has always put a lot of pressure on his sons, particularly Cesar, because he was the oldest. And Cesar always complied. He was the top of his class, and he moved up the ranks of the company in a short amount of time. Cesar was working long hours, and he was good at it. But was he happy? He never had a say in his future, but he never complained about it. Cesar really wanted to please his father, but my husband is not the kind to dole out compliments easily. My husband works too much. Tonight, I had to go pick him up and drag him out of the office because you and Madeleine were over.”
 

Clémence nodded. It was understandable that Monsieur Laberg would feel guilty if he felt that his actions had drove his son to suicide. He might have felt he’d pushed his son over the edge. But was Madame Laberg right? Had it been murder?

“Did Cesar have any enemies?”
 

“Enemies? Well that’s something I’ve been wondering. Honestly, I’m sure there were many senior execs that were jealous and resentful that a young man would soon be their boss. It came with the territory. To think one of them would be responsible for his death…” She sat down, unable to bear the weight of her distress.

“So you really don’t think Cesar could have taken his own life?” Clémence asked.
 

“Do you think I’m fooling myself?” she asked Clémence weakly. “Maybe I’m in denial, too. I just can’t accept that my son would kill himself, like the way my husband can’t believe that someone would kill him.”
 

“Did you say you found Cesar’s letter?”
 

“Yes. I was in his room, and I found it tucked under this pile of files.” She pointed to the brown folders that were in a stack on the left of the table.
 

“I know the police have it now,” Clémence said. “But do you happen to remember what it said?”
 

“I have a copy, as a matter of fact,” Madame Laberg said.

“Oh, really?” Clémence tried to contain the excitement in her voice.

“Yes. It’s in my study. My husband doesn’t know I have it. I took a picture of it before the police came.”
 

“Are you sure it was written by Cesar? Are you sure it was his handwriting?”
 

“Unfortunately, yes. The police informed us yesterday that the graphologist confirmed it. It was undoubtedly Cesar’s writing, I’m sure of that. What I’m not sure of, however, is if it’s a will, as the police seem to believe.”

They walked to up the stairs to the third floor, where the entire floor belonged to the Monsieur and Madame Laberg. She opened one set of doors to her library. Three walls of the shelf were filled with books, and two of them were specially dedicated to books and magazines from
Editions Laberg
.

Madame Laberg looked through the bottom drawer of her desk in her study. “Here it is.” She gave Clémence the printed photograph of the letter.

Clémence took it and read it silently to herself.
 

I leave my entire fortune, minus 10%, to be split equally among my father, mother, and brothers, Charles and Henri. The 10% goes to charity, for Mothers Against Drunk Driving. My apartment in the 2nd arrondissement goes to Charles, and my Lamborghini goes to Henri.

Cesar dated and signed the bottom of the letter. It was the same night as the party.
 

“This is the suicide letter?” Clémence asked.
 

“That’s what they’re calling it. Don’t you think it’s just a will? Perhaps Cesar wrote it to be practical. He was the most practical of all my sons. Just because he was thoughtful enough to write a will, it doesn’t mean that he meant to kill himself.”
 

She could see Madame Laberg’s point. The letter made no mention of hurting himself or why he would commit suicide.

Then again, why would Cesar write it and sign it on the night of the party? He might’ve been in a rush to get things taken care of. But the suicide would then be the clear-headed calculation of someone who’d planned out the evening.

Why would he kill himself? And why would he do it at the party, of all places? Was it really for attention? What point could he possibly have wanted to make by a public suicide? Something still didn’t add up for Clémence.