Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery)

by Alexander Campion

  “For openers, your Nathalie was no saint. She was well known in the ports. Last summer she had been half of a skipper-cook combo on a crewed charter boat, a very froufrou fifty-foot catamaran. It was a sweet job. The kind of setup where you get a four-figure tip for two weeks’ work, in addition to your salary from the charter company. But one afternoon your girl decided to have a go with the charter customer while his wife was out shopping. The wife got wind of it and got so pissed off, she grabbed her husband by the ear and took off in a taxi. There were no tips that trip. Even worse for her, the skipper, with whom she was sharing a cabin, didn’t take kindly to her tryst and threw her off the boat. She hung around the clubs for a while but got warned off one by one. Her look was just too scruffy, and she liked to get sozzled and go in for heavy making out at the bar and then ask for ‘little loans’ from her marks.

  “That was the last anyone saw of her until she turned up again on your boat. The port captain noticed that she almost never went on shore. His guess was that was because she had too many enemies on the lookout for her.”

  “Serge,” David continued, “is also known down there. He bought the port captain drinks a couple of times. The port captain said he was a very nervous sailor, very unsure of himself. Probably shouldn’t have been skippering a boat the size of yours.”

  “He might be a weak sailor, but he’s not dumb one,” Capucine said. “He made a point of bringing along a crew member who had been a champion racer.”

  “Yeah, I heard about her, too. Seems there was this bizarro love-hate relationship between her and Serge. Much as he needed it, he couldn’t stand when she interfered. His hot button was that she would tie the boat too close to the dock for his taste. She didn’t want women to have to take a huge step off the stern to go ashore. And Serge was worried that the stern would bang against the dock if the wind picked up. They were always bickering about it on the dock, the stock joke.

  “When you guys went up the steps to the old town, Serge invited the port captain for a pastaga. The port captain tried to get out of it, but Serge was insistent. Serge was after him to check their mooring. The port captain couldn’t get over it. ‘The guy had so little control, he needed the port captain’s sign-off for the most trivial stuff,’ he said.”

  “Did the port captain go look at the boat?”

  “Of course not. But he said Serge did. After they finished their drinks, he made a big show of checking not only the stern lines but the bow line, as well. The mooring thing seemed to be a very big issue with Serge.

  “That’s pretty much it. The port captain said that as he was shutting down the capitainerie, he saw one of your crew, Dominique Berthier, rush down the quai in the direction of the boat, patting his pockets as if he’d forgotten something.”

  “Did they see him again?”

  “No. Because they went to a bar that was on a side street just off the quai that didn’t have a good view of the marina. The only other thing he saw was the boat girl struggling with a supermarket cart from the mini-market at the port.”

  “When was this?”

  “About twenty minutes into their second drink.”

  Capucine looked out the window of the kitchen and into the hills for a few beats.

  “When the port captain went back to his office, was the cart still there?”

  “No, he said it wasn’t. It was the sort of thing he’d notice. He’s an old lady about the neatness of the marina. But you can’t conclude it was your boat girl who took it back. I checked with the mini-market. It seems that a good number of their customers just leave the carts on the dock, so they have a boy who, in addition to helping out in the back of the store, goes up and down the dock every couple of hours, bringing in carts.”

  That evening, around six thirty, at the magic moment when the cicadas’ sawing quieted and the colors of the hills began to deepen, David, Capucine, and Alexandre sat on the terrace, sipping perroquets—apéros made with pastis and mint syrup. A black Mercedes with darkly tinted windows rolled up the road at speed and stopped abruptly in a shower of pebbles.

  Capucine felt her stomach twist more tightly than one of Serge’s over-convoluted sailor’s knots. She half rose, on the way to disappearing into the house.

  The door of the car opened.

  “What’s for dinner? I’m starved,” Jacques said.

  Capucine collapsed back in her chair with a thud.

  “What’s this?” Jacques asked as he arrived on the terrace. “I’m used to being greeted with rose-petal confetti and clanging cymbals, and all I see are dropped jaws dribbling drool. Have I come at an inopportune moment? There’s not enough dinner to go around? You were planning a quiet threesome?”

  “Jacques, how did you find this place?” Capucine asked. “I never told you where we were.”

  “Little cousin, it may surprise you, but there are actually things I know that you’ve never told me. Granted, only a few, but there are still some.”

  “No, seriously. How did you find out where I was?”

  “Maybe it was the all-seeing eye of the DGSE’s drones in the sky, or maybe I just know how the mind of my little cousin works better than she knows it herself, and have a computer that can look up names and addresses and a GPS in my car that will take me anywhere. Choose whichever solution pleases you best.”

  Capucine scowled at him. Alexandre beamed.

  “We’re having a bouillabaisse,” Alexandre said. “David has the most extraordinary cook. You’ve come to the right place for dinner.”

  “And to stay for a while, I hope,” David said with his vote-winner’s smile.

  “Who could resist the invitation of a future president of the republic?” Jacques said through his Cheshire cat grin.

  A glass was produced for Jacques. By the time it was a third empty, the intimate circle had re-formed. Jacques teased Alexandre, finished Capucine’s sentences, and poked fun at David’s political aspirations. The strain of the circumstances retreated into the hills with the fading light of the day.

  The meal over, David and Alexandre cleared the table and could be heard chatting and washing dishes in the kitchen. Jacques and Capucine strolled through the grounds of the mas.

  “Lovely place,” Jacques said. “Good to see that David finally got over his thing for his boss, Isabelle—isn’t that her name?—and struck out on his own. He has far too much talent for the Police Judiciaire.”

  “His thing for his boss! Are you kidding? She’s definitely . . . And I think he may be, too.”

  “Little cousin. The things you don’t understand. So tell me, are you planning on spending the rest of your life here and becoming David’s campaign manager? Mind you, you could do worse.”

  Capucine laughed. “Quelle idée. No, I’ll be back at work in a week or two at the most. My greatest concern right now is finding enough pièces à conviction for a court case against the murderer.”

  “Whom you’ve identified, naturally.”

  “Of course. It wasn’t all that difficult.” She paused for a few seconds. “Jacques, it might help if you could tell me exactly what you saw the night of the murder.”

  “Nothing. I’m sure Alexandre has already told you. He and I were on the little settee in the salon, playing backgammon. The poor guy was so besotted, he couldn’t bear to think of himself snoring away while his dear wife was braving the elements on deck.”

  “He doesn’t snore,” Capucine lied defensively.

  “And when you came down,” Jacques continued, as if she had not spoken, “I saw what you saw. You banged on Serge’s cabin door, and he emerged, yawning and stretching, wearing his foulie pants and sea boots, the intrepid sailor, ready for the call of duty on deck.”

  “At the time, I thought his foul-weather pants were dry. Did you get that impression, too?”

  “They looked dry enough to me. Do you suspect him of having had wet dreams?” Jacques’s piercing bray shattered the calm of the night. “I hope you’re really sure you have the killer tagge
d. There are some nuances to the case that may have escaped you.”

  Rather than ask the question directly, Capucine queried with raised eyebrows.

  “Nothing so complicated it will give you headaches, ma belle. If you suspect whom I think you suspect, you’re right. But don’t ignore the fact that there are any number of eddies and whirlpools in this case. If you’re going to get your boat into port, you’re going to have to steer carefully around them, or you just might get sucked under. Don’t you just love nautical metaphors? They take me back to those delightful days on the briny.”

  Capucine could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  “And if my mentor will permit me the indulgence of giving her a spot of advice, don’t spend too much time skulking around this place. It’s lovely and all, but like everyone in our family except my father, you need to feel the pulse of urban living to get your cerebral juices flowing. If Paris is too intimidating, go walk around Bandol. You might see things in a different light. Yes, Bandol would do it. Definitely.” He smiled his all-knowing Cheshire cat grin.

  “And don’t waste too much time with me. I know it’s almost a lost cause, but you could have a crack at squeezing some juices, cerebral or whatever you can make work, out of Tubby Hubby. Off to bed with you. I have a little errand to accomplish.”

  Jacques produced a long, thin panatela, the sort of cigar an evil Latin villain smokes in a thriller, and wandered down the hill to his car. In the darkness of the night the pulsing red glow of the cigar looked like a malevolent red firefly as he talked endlessly into his telephone.

  CHAPTER 33

  In the morning Jacques was gone. His bed had been slept in, he had left a wry thank-you note for David on the kitchen table, but when Capucine rose at seven, his bed was already cold to the touch. Capucine had an intuition, she had no idea why, that he had been out the evening before, returning only early in the morning.

  Capucine accepted a bowl of café au lait from Magali and drank it on the steps of the terrace, watching the colors of the hills lighten as the sun rose.

  David dashed out of the house wearing a necktie and a well-pressed tan linen suit.

  “Town council. You’d think we’d knock off for August, but we don’t. I’ll be back for lunch.”

  Before the rattle of his car had faded, the rasping violins of the cicadas had taken over again. Capucine’s thoughts wandered. Jacques had been right. He always was. She had grown away from Paris and the Police Judiciaire. She wasn’t altogether sure it was such a bad thing.

  This was the kind of woolgathering she loathed. The only way forward was to keep working. And she desperately needed to go forward.

  Still, what was the point of Jacques’s insistence about the urban experience? Had he been telling her to leave the mas and go back to Paris, or did he want her to go to Bandol? Could it have anything to do with where he had gone last night? If, indeed, he had gone anywhere.

  Irritated, Capucine stood up. She needed action, motion, anything but sitting, staring at the hills. She went to the bedroom, dressed in white harem pants, a long-sleeved white linen blouse, which she left unbuttoned to just below the level of her breasts, and white espadrilles with long satin ribbons for laces. It was a look she loved. A look she wouldn’t be wearing if she were back in Paris.

  Within twenty minutes Capucine was striding down the quai des Baux in Bandol, buoyant with the intention of buying the morning papers, sitting on a terrace overlooking the boats, letting a bain de foule—a “people bath”—wash over her.

  By the time she was halfway down the quai, she had acquired a large plastic bag filled with four newspapers, three newsmagazines, and a softcover edition of the latest Fred Vargas, but she had yet to find a satisfactory café.

  She reached the Bar de la Marine, a broad café with a terrace consisting of four rows of tables surrounded by navy blue canvas director’s chairs under a broad white-and blue-striped awning. Perfect. As she was about to sit down at a table front and center, she noticed Aude sitting one row back at the opposite end. Aude seemed to be looking at her, at least the infinite depth of her butterfly-wing powdery blue eyes were aimed in Capucine’s direction. Capucine smiled and thought—or was it her imagination?—that she received a smile in return.

  Capucine crossed the distance between them. When she reached the table, Aude’s eyes softened in a complicit look. Capucine pulled out one of the director’s chairs and unfolded herself into it. A waiter rushed up with zeal uncharacteristic of cafés on touristy quais. Capucine gave her order for an express. Aude shook her head at the invitation to more Perrier.

  “Régis told me you’d already left for the States.”

  “No. I had to finish an assignment for my boss. I’m going tomorrow.”

  “Your boss at Lévêque, Fourcade, and Levy?”

  Aude nodded fractionally. “I work for Maître Lévêque.”

  Capucine kicked herself internally. How could Isabelle have missed that? It was exasperating to have to conduct a case at a distance.

  “I didn’t know you worked for him personally.”

  “There are six lawyers on his team who do the legwork for him.” Aude smiled thinly. This time Capucine was almost sure it really was a smile.

  “It’s a very fulfilling job. And very gratifying, too. My office is two doors down from my mother’s.”

  “Your mother?” Capucine was aware that the repetition made her sound like a half-wit.

  “Yes. My mother is Maître Lévêque’s personal assistant. Now that the firm has become so big, it’s a very grand job. She even has two secretaries of her own.” Aude smiled thinly again.

  There was an awkward silence. Or, at least, awkward for Capucine. Aude seemed to be serenely biding her time.

  “I’ll be on leave while I’m at Harvard. Actually, going there was Maître Lévêque’s idea. He made sure I got in. My job will be waiting for me when I get back.” She paused, her unblinking eyes fixed on Capucine’s for several long beats. “But I’m thinking of leaving private practice and becoming a juge d’instruction when I return. I think that’s something that suits my talents far better.” Her eyes seemed to demand Capucine’s opinion.

  “Wouldn’t it be a different world without having your mother so close at hand?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll always be close at hand, as will Maître Lévêque. They’ve both always been the central elements in my life.”

  “Does that mean you knew Maître Lévêque as a child?”

  “Oh, yes. My mother has always worked for him, as far back as I can remember. And he’s always been my mentor.” There was an odd emphasis on the word mentor.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You see, my mother was a single mother. She never told me who my father was. I sometimes wonder if she even knows. She has always been completely devoted to Maître Lévêque. He was the cornerstone of our lives even when I was a child. Every summer he’d take two months off to go to his house in Brittany and take us with him. He still does. That was where I just completed my recent assignment for him. He never stops working.... Those summers were wonderful.” For once, Aude’s face reflected an emotion, a deep wistfulness.

  “He would dictate letters and memos to my mother and make telephone calls from dawn to lunch. Then he would take me sailing all afternoon. He had—he still does—a wonderful old Brittany sloop with brick-red sails. From when I turned ten, he let me skipper it all by myself while he napped in the cabin.”

  Aude smiled a hint of a smile, parting her lips slightly, revealing a line of flawless teeth. She leaned back in her director’s chair, crossed one slim leg over the other, wagged her perfect foot. Capucine’s eye was drawn by the motion. The foot was as shapely as a magazine advertisement, with long, fingerlike toes, the nails made lustrous with clear matt lacquer. She wore stylish Gucci leather flip-flops with a black enamel G at the intersection of the toe and instep straps. She flapped the sandal on the raised foot, making a barely audible slap against her heel. Af
ter a few taps the sandal fell off. For a few seconds Aude languidly caressed the alabaster sole of her foot with the strap of the sandal and then picked it up with her prehensile toes and slipped it on. Capucine was mesmerized by the gesture.

  “I think that was the best part of my life. Between the ages of twelve—no, thirteen—and seventeen. Yes, I was happiest then.”

  Capucine understood the allusion as clearly as if it had been expressed in full.

  “Did he abuse you?”

  “What a term.” She placed two long fingers on the back of Capucine’s wrist so delicately that Capucine felt only a tingle in the fuzz on her skin. “Police terminology is an open door to a world of vulgarity. There was no abuse of any sort.”

  Capucine invited the rest with raised eyebrows.

  “It began as slowly as the shore grasses swaying in first breaths of the morning sea breeze. We would sail every afternoon and drop anchor in a secluded bay to have what Maître Lévêque called ‘our afternoon tea,’ a glass of rosé for him and a Coca-Cola and some cookies for me. Of course, when I was older, I was allowed a glass of rosé diluted with water and there were no more cookies. Usually, we were very tired. Those ancient Brittany boats are hard work to sail. Everything is so heavy.

  “That particular afternoon . . . the first afternoon . . .” Aude looked deeply into Capucine’s eyes to make sure she was understanding. “Is etched in my brain forever.”

  Her sandal had slipped off again. She stroked it with her long toes. Slipped it on. “The light came off the ripple of the bay like shards of glass. I had a small splinter in my foot from the rough wood of the boat. He wanted to take it out. It was too small to remove with his finger, so he put my foot in his mouth and drew out the splinter with his teeth. He kept my foot in his mouth and very gently sucked my toes. I couldn’t help but notice what was happening to him. I was profoundly affected. Remember, I was thirteen and had, quite by accident, enslaved my and my mother’s god.