Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (2 page)

F
ive miles away in Saint-Tropez, Alexandre also sat at a restaurant table overlooking the inimitable azure of the Mediterranean. He had asked for the check, and the maître d’ had arrived with thimble-size glasses of
liqueur de framboise
and the assurance that the honor of Monsieur de Huguelet’s presence at the restaurant Pétrus was far more compensation than the establishment deserved. He was, after all, the undisputed doyen of restaurant critics.

“When was the last time you actually paid for a meal in a restaurant,
mon cousin?
” Jacques asked with a smirk.

Despite himself, Alexandre was invariably amused by Jacques, the son of Capucine’s father’s brother. The two had grown up together as brother and sister. Jacques never tired of hinting that there might have been something a bit more than purely fraternal to the relationship. Jacques also took unrestrained joy in the fact that he held an ill-defined, but apparently exalted, post with the DGSE, France’s intelligence service, which occasionally cast him in the role of éminence grise in Capucine’s cases.

Alexandre sipped his bone-chilling
alcool.
He would not allow himself to be baited. The meal had been excellent. They had both had Mediterranean spiny lobster. Jacques had chosen less well and had ordered his sautéed on a door-size teppanyaki grill, while Alexandre had chosen his presented in delicate fresh pasta
ravioles
with a creamy sauce of liquefied fennel bulbs, shallots, mustard, and just a hint of orange juice. Far more than satisfactory.

The restaurant Pétrus had recently opened at the north end of Saint-Tropez’s fabled quai Jean Jaurès and was fast making a name for itself not only as a fashionable,
dans le vent
restaurant
,
but also as the purveyor of reference of prepared meals to the mega yachts that populated the quai. Alexandre decided he would write something upbeat about the Pétrus in his blog on
Le Figaro’
s website.

The framboise downed, hands shaken, promises to return made, favorable mentions in the press hinted at, Alexandre and Jacques set out on their postprandial stroll down the quai Jean Jaurès.

The Saint-Tropez port was immutable, crammed with wide, porch-size fantail decks of gigantic yachts berthed stern to quai, invariably decorated with an ornate vase of flowers on a table, swarming with young, tanned, obsequious, athletic crew in shorts and T-shirt uniforms.

“We have only one boat slave, it seems,” Jacques said languidly, aping a disappointed moue. “I hope she makes up in pulchritude what we lack in quantity.”

Alexandre harrumphed. “The last thing we need on this cruise is a boat girl. Florence is a world-champion sailor. Serge is very competent. Capucine knows her way around boats. If you ask me, Serge took one look at that coffin-size forepeak cabin and decided it would be perfect for some minion he could boss around like Captain Bligh.”

At this point in their
flânocherie,
as Alexandre called it, they reached Sénéquier, the fabled café epicenter of the Riviera. Considering that the vacation ideal of every French person under the age of thirty-five was to spend the month of August with elbows propped up on one of Sénéquier’s red, triangular tables, it was not surprising that there were no seats available on the terrace.

Two girls, their long legs at the apricot beginnings of their summer tans, stood up to leave. Jacques pirouetted into a canvas director’s chair with the finesse of a dancer, and Alexandre followed suit by spilling into his. A waiter arrived, imperiously flicking his side towel in irritation. There was a queue inside, and he had already received copious tips in exchange for a table. Jacques looked blandly at the man, straightening the crease in his Lanvin white-linen trousers, revealing creamy soft, baby-blue suede Tod’s driving shoes. The waiter checked and respectfully stood up straight. Then he caught sight of Alexandre, felt he should recognize him, stood up straighter still.

“Messieurs?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

“Pastis,” Alexandre ordered, glancing at Jacques, who nodded.

When the drinks came, they both fell silent, admiring the high-school chemistry trick of the clear golden pastis turning milky white when water was added.

“Actually,” Alexandre said after his first sip, “I really am in a pet about this boat girl of Serge’s. I’d planned on doing the cooking myself. Working on those tiny boat stoves is an exciting challenge. I have a whole folder of recipes and a carrier bag filled with basic necessities . . . tins of pâté de foie gras and a few jars of truffles and . . .”

Alexandre had failed to attract Jacques’s attention. Alexandre searched the terrace for the source of Jacques’s fascination. Jacques seemed captivated by some creature in the very depths of the terrace. This was unexpected, since Jacques never looked at women. A fact that, when combined with his immoderate interest in clothes, made the family wonder if he wasn’t, well, just possibly a soupçon fey. Then Alexandre focused on the woman, a translucent beauty with alabaster skin, silken pale blond hair, and ice-blue eyes. Even a woolly mammoth would have stared.

Alexandre caught sight of her companion and jumped up.

“Régis!” he exclaimed happily. “
Toi ici!
You’re the very last person I expected to run into in this crass temple of see and be seen. What on earth are you doing here?”

It was the work of a moment to whisk two chairs away from an adjoining table and make introductions. Régis de la Rochelle was a food photographer, well known for his commercials and his illustrations of pricey coffee-table cookbooks; the seraphic creature was called Aude Theve-noux and was, apparently, some sort of lawyer.

“Having an absolutely miserable time,” Aude answered for him. Her face revealed not the slightest trace of expression when she spoke. It was almost as if she were a life-size porcelain doll of exquisite delicacy equipped with a sound system operated by a third party.

“The plan was to come down here and charter a boat and go somewhere,” Régis said, “but everything is rented, so we’re stuck in our drab little hotel room up in the hills.”

“And the traffic jams are so bad, it’s an hour cab ride to drive the two miles into town,” Aude contributed with no more than a ventriloquist’s movement of her lips.

“I have the perfect solution,” Jacques said. “We have a boat chartered in Port Grimaud. We’re leaving for Corsica in the morning. Why don’t you come with us? We have plenty of room.”

Alexandre hiked his eyebrows. This was a whole new Jacques.

“We could put you up on the settee in the main salon,” Jacques said. “It can turn into a double bed. We’re going to do an overnight crossing straight to Bonifacio. We could drop you off there, and you could have your vacation away from the crowds, or at least the worst of them.”

Aude looked into Jacques’s eyes, mute. Even though not a word had been exchanged, the bargain was sealed.

More pastis was ordered.

Régis chatted at Alexandre about his current project as one of the photographers on Alain Ducasse’s latest tome. Jacques and Aude looked into each other’s eyes.

Lubricated by a series of pastises, they became steeped in conversations as the radiant sunshine bore through the umbrella over the table and the afternoon wore on. When the shadows lengthened, Alexandre’s thoughts turned to dinner. It was high time to find a cab and make their way back to Port Grimaud to hatch a plan for the evening meal with Capucine and that odd juge d’instruction friend of hers. He called for the bill, waving away any attempt from Régis to share. As they rose, Aude looked into Jacques’s eyes.

“
A demain,
” she said. Alexandre had a strong sense of their complicity.

“We’re at the Mediterranean Anchorage Yachts Marina in Port Grimaud,” Jacques said. “Our skipper wants to get going by ten tomorrow morning.”

Aude said nothing. She shook Alexandre’s hand and leaned forward to allow Jacques to kiss her cheeks.

“Y
ou let Jacques do
what?
” Capucine glared at Alexandre, her spoon dinging loudly as she stirred her café au lait on the tiny terrace of their hotel room overlooking one of the myriad canals that had been constructed to provide Port Grimaud with a veneer of antiquity. The contrived mix of burnt siennas and red ochers intending to create the look of “the Venice of France” exacerbated Capucine’s irritation.

Alexandre was still partially enveloped in the arms of Morpheus. For him, seven thirty was hardly the hour for a levee. Left to his own devices, he would have begun his day at ten at the earliest. He looked balefully at Capucine from under lids three-quarters closed. It was clear that he would remain mute until he had taken the first sip from the split of champagne he had ordered, further escalating Capucine’s ire.

“All right, I admit I made a mistake, too,” Capucine said. “Inviting Inès was an impulse. I confess she intimidates me. And, yes, she may be a little too, well, intense, and, well . . .” Capucine lowered her voice. “Maybe just a bit too plebeian for this crowd.” Her volume returned to normal. “But still, we talked it over with Serge, and he had absolutely no problems with her. Remember? But inviting on the spur of the moment not one, but two, people you ran into at a café, and proposing that they sleep on the sofa of an already overcrowded boat, without even thinking of consulting anyone, well, my dear, that’s frankly quite over the top.”

Capucine’s tirade was interrupted by the arrival of room service.

The restorative power of the good monk Dom Pérignon’s sparkling wine on Alexandre was never anything less than astonishing. Halfway through his flute Alexandre’s ebullient bonhomie was fully restored.

He favored Capucine with his most fulsome smile. Capucine thawed, but only around the edges.

“Serge will be over the moon when he sees Aude. Trust me. And Régis is a good buddy and an excellent cook. Between the two of us our victuals alone will make the trip worthwhile.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Nearly an hour late—after all, the physical elements of post-squabble reconciliations are not to be rushed—Capucine and Alexandre stood at the end of a long floating dock, facing the ample stern of a generously proportioned sailboat. Their friend Serge, transformed from his Paris persona, stood sixty-five feet away at the bow of the boat. In the City of Light, in trim Italian suits worn tieless, with the top two buttons of his silk shirts left undone, he seemed always prepared for a paparazzo to snap him for the lifestyle pages of the glossies, which seemed never to tire of him. Now he had recast himself into a Mediterranean sailing bum. Clad only in shorts and boat shoes, he was already deeply tanned, his cheeks stubbled, his hard, flat chest adorned with a luminescent jade juju hanging from his neck on a leather thong. He stood next to a fresh-faced young man in a blue polo shirt marked
MEDITERRANEAN ANCHORAGE YACHTS.
Both peered intently at a clipboard, checking off the boat’s inventory. Serge’s bubble of self-importance was palpable even from the dock.

Capucine and Alexandre greeted Inès, who hovered twenty feet from the stern. Exchanging inanities about the glory of the weather, the trio waited to be invited on board once the inventory was complete. A couple clanked down the aluminum ramp leading to the dock, their shrill argument far louder than the ringing of the metal plates under their feet.

“I saw the way you were hitting on that waitress! You’ve reached the point where you don’t even wait for lunch. You’re on the prowl even at breakfast. And you have the effrontery to do it right in front of me!”

It was hard to detect even a vestige of the sensitive Sciences Po Angélique in her current headhunter manifestation. The Modigliani face and shock of chestnut hair were still there, but her earlier delicacy had been overlaid by the intransient hardness of a top-of-the-line headhunter. On the other hand, Dominique, dreamy and placid in the storm of the harangue, remained the quintessential artist, concerned only with adjusting the knot of his fuchsia Liberty Print neck scarf.

Catching sight of Capucine, Angélique doused her rage. The females air kissed loudly, while the males thumped backs robustly. As this display of affection went on, a tall, wiry woman, face sunbaked brown as a saddle, clanked down the ramp with no more luggage than a diminutive backpack slung over one shoulder. Florence Henriot’s face was unforgettable. It had been plastered over every Saturday supplement for decades when she was the queen of the daring single-handed transoceanic yacht races that so captivated the imagination of the country. She seemed not to have aged a bit. Capucine supposed that was the result of having had her face embalmed by the sun as a teenager.

Puffed up as a blowfish, Serge appeared at the head of two-foot gangway connecting the boat to the dock.

“Hey, there’s no need to hang out down there. Come on board. I was just signing the inventory with the man from the charter company. Skipper stuff. You’re going to love this boat. She’s a total honey.”

On board there was a cocktail party scurry of introductions. As the commotion died down, all eyes turned to the dock, where Régis and Aude had arrived, Régis wreathed in winsome smiles, an expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck, Aude statuesque, her beauty even more ethereal than the day before.

Beaming, Alexandre waved them on board. The second round of introductions was interrupted by yet another loud clattering down the ramp. A muscular young woman in very abbreviated, oil-stained cutoff jean shorts, a man’s denim shirt tied in a loose knot under her breasts, and none-too-clean bare feet struggled with a grocery cart brimming with primary-colored packaged food products. Régis went to the rail and busily snapped pictures.

“That’s our
marin,
Nathalie,” Serge said. “I sent her out to buy provisions.”

Solicitous of all matters comestible, Alexandre hurtled down the dock to help Nathalie.

Capucine’s cousin Jacques had been one the first to arrive on the boat. As Capucine eyed the recent arrival with misgivings, Jacques whispered in her ear, “Not to worry. I understand that she’s to be chained in her forepeak dungeon, gnawing on bones, until she’s needed. Serge felt that the clanking of her fetters would add an erotic piquantness to the trip.”

By their side Dominique examined Nathalie with a knowing eye, clearly mentally removing her few garments. Angélique scowled and spat out an inaudible comment. Serge’s lips tightened. Capucine wondered if it was dismay at strife among his crew even before they set off or if he was jealous.

With a shrug of irritation Serge led the group below deck for a tour, leaving Nathalie to cope with her groceries as best she could. Régis brought up the rear guard, the clunk of his camera continuous.

“Do you always take pictures of everything?” Florence asked him.

“Good lord, no. This is for my blog. I’m avid blogger. I usually just post food pictures—I’m a food photographer by trade—but I have a special section for our summer vacation. I’m going to cover our progress day by day. It’s my summer treat to myself.”

He took a quick snap of Florence, who smiled tolerantly at him, and then wheeled and took one of Aude, hoping to catch her off guard. But she was as composed and expressionless as ever.

The boat’s salon was as large as a small living room. There was a sofa to port and a banquette wrapped around a table and two chairs screwed into the floor to starboard. Toward the stern was a large, well-equipped galley screened off from the main area by a long counter. Opposite was a navigation desk flanked by a row of switches and screens that would have been at home on a jumbo jet.

Serge explained it all in enough detail to make their eyes glaze over.

Next, they trooped single file to visit each of the four cabins, all roughly the same size and each with a tiny bathroom, which Serge made a point of calling a head. Once the stateroom doors were closed, the units became cozy dollhouse-size flats.

Back in the salon, they spread out, steeling themselves for Serge’s inevitable lecture. He boosted himself up on the galley counter, took a deep breath, and looked around the room to make sure all eyes were on him.

“Before we shove off, I want to lay out some ground rules,” Serge said in an authoritarian tone. Sensing that he had started out on the wrong foot, he attempted a charming smile, which came out as a forced rictus.

Still pedaling for the right note, he asked, “How many of you have been on a long cruise before?” All the hands went up with the exception of Aude’s, Inès’s, and Florence’s. They clearly felt the question was not worth dignifying with a reply.

“Great. We have lots of experienced talent. Let me tell you how I’ve allocated the cabins.” He checked himself again. “I mean, how I’d suggest we divvy them up.”

A frost settled over the group.

“I thought we could put Angélique and Dominique and Capucine and Alexandre in the two stern cabins, which have double beds, while Florence and Inès and Jacques and I can bunk down in the two forward cabins, which have two single bunks. Régis and Aude will bunk in the salon. Does that work for everyone?”

There were nods and murmurs of lukewarm assent. Capucine noticed that Angélique and Dominique held hands and winked at each other as their cabin was mentioned.

“Good. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about our cruise. We’re going to put to sea in an hour and head straight for Bonifacio. We will have a good, solid twenty-knot westerly all the way down and should make landfall in the early morning, by lunchtime at the latest. We’ll spend a day or two there, and when we’ve had enough of it, we’ll head south to Sardinia. We’ll map out our plan of attack for Sardinia while we’re in Bonifacio. How does that sound?” Serge asked with the enthusiasm of someone who expected a round of applause.

“Does that mean we’ll be sailing all night, in the dark?” Inès asked.

“Of course. It’s a straight shot from here. We crank in one fifty on the autopilot and tool on down. No problem.” He shot Florence a slightly nervous look, searching for approval.

This time the murmurs of agreement were more animated. The prospect of being in Bonifacio the next day was a pleasant one.

Reassured, Serge went on. “Good. We’re going to have watches of three hours each all the way down. The wind isn’t expected to change direction, so we won’t even have to tack and the boat will sail itself on autopilot. If we have to trim the sails at any point, Nathalie and I will handle it. It’ll be a piece of cake.” Serge smiled condescendingly at Inès.

“Now let’s get to the ticklish subject of the Achilles heel of all boats, the heads.” Looking at Aude, he explained, “This boat has the latest technology. The head and the shower are in the same cubicle. Make sure you flip the toilet seat down when you use the shower. Otherwise, you could fill up the holding tank. The heads themselves have two cycles. You pump water, throw a lever, and pump it out. There is a plate screwed to the bulkhead with very clear instructions. But the system can be a bit temperamental, and our rule is going to be ‘Never put anything in the head that you haven’t eaten first.’ ” Serge gave a snort of TV comedian’s laughter that invited the audience to join in. All he got was polite smiles and shuffling feet. It was a beautiful morning, and they were about to embark on an adventure. No one wanted to be cooped up below deck, listening to a pep talk about sewage.

The mood was broken when Nathalie thumped down the four steps of the companionway in her grubby bare feet with an armload of groceries. Alexandre and Régis jumped to help.

“Ah, yes,” Serge said. “Let me introduce Nathalie. She’s going to be our best friend for the next ten days, cooking our meals, cleaning up our boat, and giving me a hand on deck if she has any spare time.” He smiled at her with the tolerant affection people gave to scruffy old family dogs that had just wandered in with muddy paws. Nathalie ignored him.

“Nathalie bunks down in the forepeak cabin. The only way you can get to it is through the glass hatch at the bow.” He smiled at Nathalie again. Capucine was sure she saw a healthy dollop of lust folded into his patronizing smile.

The group dispersed, Serge and Florence to examine the rigging and the working of the sails, while the others chatted in the sunshine on deck.

Ten minutes later Serge was engrossed in explaining the complexities of the self-furling jib to Capucine, Inès, and Aude. Alexandre, with Régis in his wake, approached Serge with the grim solemnity of a parent about to tell his spouse that he has discovered their child engaged in an act of particularly bizarre self-abuse. Serge looked up in alarm.

“Your boat girl is depraved,” Alexandre said.

“Depraved?”

“Either that or she owns stock in the Panzani corporation. In any event, she plans to feed us the full range of their canned pastas.” Alexandre paused to let the full gravity of his statement sink in. Serge stared at him, slightly openmouthed. Capucine looked out over the bow pulpit, her back twitching from suppressed giggles.

“Canned pasta every day?” Serge asked lamely.

Régis chimed in. “Worse. Her menus are brightened up with Bolinos.” A guffaw eructed from between Capucine’s lips.

“Bolinos?”

“They’re little plastic cups,” Régis explained. “You pull the foil lid halfway back, fill the cup up to the mark with boiling water, wait three minutes, and stir with a spoon. Your dinner is ready. They come in four varieties.”

The explanation was greeted with silence.

“We just tried the shepherd’s pie. It was far worse than you can imagine,” Régis said.

“But there’s good news. Nathalie hung on to the receipt. Régis and I are going to the supermarket to return all that swill. We’ll be back in an hour. An hour and a half at the most. Since it will be lunchtime by the time we return, we’ll serve a light collation, and then you can shove off,” Alexandre said.

Serge nodded meekly, his skipper persona usurped in a bloodless palace revolution.