Free Macaron Murder (with Recipes) (A Patisserie Mystery) by Harper Lin Page A

days off, they were exploring the exciting city. Hong Kong was formerly a British colony so the city was a mix of East and West.

    “The shopping here is amazing,” her mother piped up. “I found a nice cashmere shawl for you. It’s pink, your favorite color.”  

    “Merci maman, I’m sure I’ll love it. By the way, I was just wondering, have you ever seen Monsieur Dubois on the third floor wear a Burberry jacket before?”  

    “What kind of Burberry jacket? The classic trench?”  

    “Sure,” said Clémence. “Any Burberry jacket.”  

    “Well, I suppose so. Why?”  

    “Nothing. I just found this button and thought it might belong to him.”  

    “Yes,” said her mother. “I’m sure he has at least one jacket from Burberry. He’s very fashionable.”  

CHAPTER 14
    The basement of the bar was boiling hot. The sweaty audience sat on short benches. They were squeezed around a little stage with a single bright spotlight shining down on it. Glasses of wine and pints of beer were flowing freely to distract the people from the heat.

    Clémence bought a glass of rosé and went down to la cave. The event was running late and people were still chatting. She found her girlfriends sitting on a bench near the front and she went over to greet them.

    “Hey, stranger.” A pretty brunette with bright blue eyes greeted her with bisous.

    Rose had been friends with Clémence since they were thirteen. They had spoken on the phone when she came back, and Rose had even joined her in Australia for a week a month ago. Rose was now working in a PR firm and living in Belleville with her boyfriend.

    “Where is Pierre anyway?”  

    “He’s too tired to come out,” Rose said.  

    “Have you met Ben yet?” Clémence asked her friends.

    “No,” said Berenice. “We don’t know what he looks like.”  

    Clémence looked around and found him in the back corner chatting with a guy wearing a fedora and a tank top.

    “Ben!” she called and waved.  

    He came over with his friend and Clémence made the introductions.  

    “This is my friend Sam,” Ben said. “He’s from Manchester.”  

    Sam had a dirty blonde shag and a dimpled grin. He was a little on the short side, but he seemed to possess plenty of charm. The boys chatted with the girls for few minutes before the room darkened and the MC announced that the night of poetry and debauchery was about to begin.  

    The first couple of acts were forgettable. Clémence realized that she didn’t exactly like spoken poetry. She preferred to read poems and devour each word to reflect on their meaning. Poetry read out loud was more like a performance that she didn’t quite understand.

    One girl read a poem complaining about being seen and treated as a sexual object. Clémence couldn’t help but interpret her poem as a long brag about how beautiful she was. Then another performer sang on his guitar. He was French and sang English in a thick French accent and she had no idea what he was singing about at all.

    About eight acts in, Clémence was thinking that the whole thing was kind of lame. Then Ben stepped on the stage.  

    He looked strong underneath the spotlight. Dressed in his signature black clothes with his nearly black hair and paper white skin, he looked like a haunted figure in one of those Gothic Victorian novels, like Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre.  

    His voice had a lovely cadence when he read, and Clémence quickly got absorbed in his poem, “The Black Cat”. It was about a lonely cat walking along Parisian rooftops spying on neighbors through their windows: families arguing, children playing, happy singles, lonely souls. The Black Cat finally goes into the apartment of an old bachelor and curls up at his feet.

    What Clémence liked about his poem was that he was telling a story, and it completely pulled her in. She felt a little like the black cat, trying to spy on her neighbors. It got her thinking about the case again. She wondered