Free Harper Lin - Patisserie 06 - Crème Brûlée Murder by Harper Lin

to be with long term? She didn’t want to see her friend get hurt.

    Clémence’s cell phone rang. It was from an unknown number. She thought about not answering it. Not long ago, she’d been harassed by reporters grilling her about her kidnapping incident, so much that she almost changed her number, but they’d cooled off lately.

    Her curiosity got the better of her, and she answered it. “ Allô? ”  

    “Clémence Damour?” A male voice, low and muffled came from the other line.

    “ Oui. Who is this?”  

    “I have information on Cesar Laberg’s murder.”  

    “What? Really, who is this?” Clémence demanded.  

    “Meet me at Chez Georgina in fifteen minutes, and I’ll tell you everything.”  

    Click.  

Chapter 12
    She hadn’t recognized the voice at all. While it was distinctly male, she got the impression that it had been distorted to be indistinguishable.

    Whoever it was claimed that Cesar was indeed murdered. Clémence couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet this person and find out what kind of info he had. How did he know she was looking?

    At first she thought about calling the police, but she quickly reconsidered. She didn’t have time for that, and it might even be a hindrance to have them there. It would be safe to go on her own, since Chez Georgina was a wine bar in the 6th arrondissement and there would be other patrons around.  

    After she retrieved her purse, she went and flagged down a taxi. She was dying of curiosity. Was it somebody from the party? One of Cesar’s coworkers? And how did this person know she was investigating?

    Since many Parisians were away on vacation during this month, the streets were calm, without any heavy traffic. The taxi was able to pull up to Chez Georgina in ten minutes. The place was on a small side street, near Jardin du Luxembourg. It was a place that could’ve been easily missed, given the inconspicuous nature of the signage, or lack thereof. It was a hidden gem for locals, however, given their quality wine selection and lack of tourists.
     
    Clémence had been at Chez Georgina a few times before. The place could get especially rowdy on Friday and Saturday nights, where the bar would be crowded with red-faced Parisians and the tables were cramped with wine lovers who could barely hold conversations over the noise.  

    Clémence entered through the maroon door. A doughy, balding bartender in his sixties greeted her as he polished wineglasses with a towel. She smiled and looked around to see if she recognized anyone. A couple chatting at the bar was so enraptured in their own conversation that they didn’t even notice when she stared at their profiles. There was a young man with glasses, a scholar or writer type, sitting at a small table by the window, scribbling away in his notebook. He didn’t glance up at her either. There were quite a few other people there, too, eating a late lunch, and nobody seemed to pay her any mind.  

    Her man wasn’t there yet, it seemed. Clémence was a few minutes early, after all. She sat down at the only free table in the corner in the back of the place and waited while keeping an eye on the door. She was near the unisex toilet, and as she mulled over the menu, it was quite unpleasant to hear the toilet flush and the customers going in and out through the beads hanging over the wall opening that led to the restroom.  

    Another five minutes passed. The waiter came by and asked her what she wanted. He was tall and stiff, looking vaguely familiar, but it was probably because Clémence had been served by him before. Clémence was torn between two types of red wines.

    “They’re both excellent,” the tall waiter said. “But if you want, I’ll make the choice for you.”  

    “Okay. That way it’s your fault if I don’t like it,” Clémence joked.

    He came back a minute later and put the wineglass on the table, telling her that he went with the glass of Côtes-du-Rhône . Clémence smiled up at