Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery)

by Campion, Alexander

  Capucine gripped the long, thin stem of her glass so hard, it snapped. A waiter rushed up to give her a new one and pour more wine.

  “I sent the INPS out there this morning. No useful prints were found, but the back door had been jimmied open, probably with a credit card. The marks in the wood were fresh. They have also identified the conductive substance on the fuse—a gel made by a company called Slendertone for some sort of machine that uses an electronic current to contract muscles to make women thinner.” Tallon shook his head in disbelief. “Not surprisingly, Madame Roque doesn’t possess such a machine. And they’re American, relatively rare in France.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We follow orders. We hold their goddamn press conference. We supply what’s wanted—a very high-level conversation with the press where the message is delivered in subtext,” Tallon said sarcastically, looking at Capucine with hard eyes. “Oh, yes, one other thing,” he said from the depths of his enormous wineglass as he took a deep sip. “Your name did not come up at this meeting.”

  That meant that Tallon had covered for her, absolving her of the unauthorized involvement of the gendarmerie and the INPS. Capucine’s cheeks burned.

  When it was all over, Capucine was gratified that it had been Isabelle who had saved the day. Isabelle’s track record at press conferences was so dismal, Capucine had been half tempted to bring David back for the event. After all, he was the past master at dealing with the press, and he was only a few hours away on the high-speed TGV. But in the end she had decided against it.

  The press conference was held in a large salon in the Hôtel de Beauvau, soothing with its delicately carved paneling gleaming with gold leaf and its French windows overlooking an autumn-tinted five-acre formal garden. One of the minister’s cabinet members kicked off the conference and quickly handed it over to Tallon, who came across as the perfectly gruff, ruthlessly efficient senior police officer, which was exactly what he was. The bulk of the presentation was made by Capucine, who, after she introduced her as leader of the investigative team, had relegated Isabelle to the task of hitting the ENTER key on the laptop to advance the PowerPoint screens.

  Isabelle, even though her back was to the audience, was nonetheless cataleptic with stage fright. In the past she had systematically frozen up during press conferences, taken it out in anger at the journalists, and invariably had to be bailed out by David’s charm.

  The public relations department of the Police Judiciaire had also outdone themselves. Normally incapable of nuance, they had elected to convey their poisonous message through innuendo. Three screens from the end, a police psychologist was quoted as stating that as a true hero of French history, Roque was a man of heroic appetites, a fact that might have some bearing on the case. The allusion was plain enough, but not so plain it could be used as fuel for a newspaper story. It was obvious the PR department intended the inference to be given arms and legs during the question-and-answer period after the presentation.

  Capucine had rushed through the offensive page as quickly as possible and had lingered over the subsequent one, a list of next steps so inflated, it bordered on complete fiction.

  A door in the back of the room opened, and the minister slipped in, made for the raised dais, and sat next to his cabinet member and Tallon. The press reacted as if an electric current had been applied. A minister was real news.

  Sensing the change in mood of the audience, Isabelle quivered, sure she should do something but with no idea what it might be. In order to prevent her from making one of her press-conference gaffs, Capucine made an impatient gesture at the laptop, indicating Isabelle should keep going with the presentation. Confused, Isabelle grabbed the pile of press kits next to the computer and stood up. Everyone in the room assumed the conference had come to an end. One of the reporters raised his hand to ask a question.

  With as much deference as she could muster, Capucine walked over to the minister and suggested he say a few closing words.

  The minister perked up like a trained bird dog, strode to the podium, and, in a resonating, authoritative voice, proclaimed thirty seconds of substanceless platitudes to the effect that the police, as agents of his ministry, would leave no stone—absolutely no stone at all—unturned to apprehend the vile miscreant, ensure that justice was served, and continue to keep France the safest country in the world.

  Fully aware that he was about to be barraged with questions, the minister made an imperious gesture with his hand, indicating that the press kits were to be handed out. Capucine snatched the pile from Isabelle and walked out into the middle of the floor. The journalists clustered tightly around her like chickens clucking for their feed, anxious not to be left out of the distribution.

  While the press was distracted, the minister disappeared through a small door in the paneling. A few seconds later, the cabinet advisor followed and held the door open for Tallon, who squinched his eyebrows together, pursed his lips in a moue, nodded at Capucine, and joined the other two, no doubt for another high-level meeting. Capucine assumed Tallon’s equivocal expression was some form of approval, but it brought her no joy. She felt sweaty, debased, and demoralized.

  She decided to take the afternoon off and soak in a tub full of Guerlain’s Shalimar Bain Moussant. That might get rid of the slimy feeling, but she also needed something to take away the bad taste in her mouth. A large glass of vodka with a big handful of ice cubes might just do the trick. Yes, a quarter bottle of tooth-cracking cold vodka and an afternoon-long soak just might tide her over until Alexandre came home to provide his solace.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Madame,” David said, “your fougasse is a work of art. I used to think the fougasse of my village’s boulangerie was the best in the world, but compared to yours, it’s no better than fast-food pizza.” David thought he might have gone too far, but Angèle Folon swelled visibly at the flattery. She smiled at him, propped her head up on her hand, and inserted the tip of her pinkie between her full lips. Encouraged, he continued. “Seriously, your fougasse is a poem written in dough. The slashes sculpt the windswept branches of a maritime pine, the virgin olive oil gives it the luster of a monkfish fresh from the sea, and it’s punctuated with commas of black olive slivers and periods of wild herbs collected in the hills. In a word, your fougasse is as delectable as you are.”

  Angèle thrummed and ran her tongue over her lips. Even though David had no doubt she had put on more than a pound or two since the birth of her children, her sexual magnetism remained vibrant.

  “Are all the Cannois as gallant as you are?” she asked coquettishly, pivoting her body into a three-quarter profile, putting her ample bosom to its best advantage.

  “Madame, I’m sure your charms make all men gallant.”

  She rewarded David with a broad smile. “In the village they say you’re an author writing a biography about poor Jean-Lu. I knew him very well when he was a boy. He was my son’s best friend. He was very close to our whole family. My husband adored him.”

  “Really, madame? I had no idea. If you could find the time, any stories you could tell me about Chef Brault when he was a child would be invaluable. That’s exactly the sort of thing I need to give my book color and depth.”

  “I can tell you plenty,” she said from behind slightly lowered eyelids.

  The noon Angelus slowly clanged out its hollow notes.

  “I’m going to close the boulangerie for lunch. Why don’t you stay and have a bite with me? I can promise you a fougasse aux lardons et au vieux Comté—you know, stuffed with bacon and aged Comté cheese—that’s really going to get you going.” As an afterthought she made a moue, forcing her lips into a perfect circle. “My husband will be sound asleep. Bakers never get up before five in the afternoon.”

  Angèle shot the bolt in the door, turned the little sign hanging from a suction cup in the glass panel so it read Fermé in an elaborate calligraphic script, and pulled down a green shade decisively. David felt slightly trapped.

&n
bsp; “Voilà. We’re on our own. No interruptions for two hours.”

  She led David into the kitchen, put two glasses on the table, and produced a bottle of almost pink wine from the refrigerator. Château Pradeaux, one of the cheaper rosés of Bandol, but pleasant enough when sipped in the baking sun on a café terrace, David told himself.

  The cheese and bacon fougasse more than lived up to its promise. Between the wine and the olivy, spicy pastry David floated on a cloud of home love. With an effort he hauled himself back. He had a job to do, after all. He needed to retain control of the conversation.

  Scrabbling for a topic, he said, “Your husband has no trouble sleeping all day?”

  Angèle misunderstood. She stared at him with an enigmatic smile and put a shapely finger across her lips.

  “We have nothing at all to worry about. You could shoot off a cannon down here, and he wouldn’t notice.” Her smile morphed into the merest hint of a leer to make sure the double entendre was not lost on him.

  Angèle cut David a second piece of fougasse. As she put it on his plate, her arm brushed his. David pretended not to notice. She sipped her rosé and watched him eat, her eyes not leaving his face.

  “You said your husband was close to Jean-Louis Brault when he was a child.”

  “That he was. I always thought it was because both of them were estrangers in the village they lived in. My husband was a creature of the night, and the Brault family members were the village freaks.” She paused, brought to earth by her memories. “But actually, in a way, it was that Jean-Lu was the son my husband always wanted to have.”

  “But you have a son, don’t you?”

  “Lucien. He was a difficult child. Moody and unhappy. Very mocking and sarcastic with everybody. The other children in the village didn’t like him. Jean-Lu was his only friend.” Her eyes lost their focus as she stared down the road into the past. “It’s funny. My husband was convinced Lucien didn’t like food. He hated everything we made in the bakery. But you never know what your children will become, do you? Lucien wound up as a food critic for a newspaper in Paris. Can you imagine that?

  “Jean-Lu was just the opposite. He loved everything that had to do with cooking. He’d stay late after dinner so he could see my husband make the dough and shape his loaves. Sometimes he came back in the morning, before school, and watched us make the fougasse. He was the perfect little boy. Often he would bring a crate of his father’s vegetables and make dishes with them for our dinner. Even when he was ten, he made the best tian I’ve ever eaten before or since—sliced zucchini, eggplant, and tomatoes on a bed of onion and garlic, topped with wild herbs and chopped olives, sprinkled with a trickle of olive oil, and baked in the oven for half an hour.” She smiled at the wall. “Even at that age he had a feeling for herbs I’ll never have.

  “Of course Jean-Lu got his love for vegetables from his father. The baron was just as cracked about his vegetables as he was about everything else,” she said, returning her gaze to David. “He had these crazy theories. He wouldn’t let his boys pee outside so he could treat his vegetables with what they left in their chamber pots. It worked, though. His zucchinis were by far the largest in the village. My daughter Fanny wouldn’t touch them until they were washed and cooked, and she was a girl that size never frightened.” She chuckled and gave David a sideways glance. David smiled back with wide-eyed innocence, ostensibly oblivious to the decidedly un-motherly double entendre.

  “Fanny was Jean-Lu’s favorite in our family. He loved to follow her around the house when he came over. Girls that age usually have no patience for twelve-year-old boys, but she was very fond of Jean-Lu. Fanny had no time for Lucien. They were always fighting, but she always had a little kiss for Jean-Lu. I think it was because she felt sorry for him with no mother and being brought up by that cracked father and juvenile-delinquent brother. Every time Fanny said something nice to Jean-Lu, Lucien would pout. It was adorable.”

  “Fanny left the village?”

  “Oh, yes. She really had to.” Angèle stopped awkwardly. Before David could ask the obvious question, she continued on in a rush. “She has her own boulangerie now in Cassis. I got her a job working with a boulanger there, and his son had muscles that still keep me awake at night thinking about them, so one thing led to another, as you can imagine, and they got married.” She paused to catch her breath. “They have seven children and four grandchildren. Fanny runs the boulangerie now. Her fougasse is not as good as mine, but almost. So you see, everything worked out for the best,” she said with an air of finality.

  The sparkle had gone out of the mood. Angèle got up and put their dishes loudly in the sink. She smiled politely at David.

  “I have to open up again in twenty minutes. But please come back. I’d love to . . . well, you know, talk some more.” This was said with a suggestive smile that seemed to require a bit of an effort. David suspected the innuendo was intended to take his mind off the dialogue.

  CHAPTER 21

  Capucine’s first stop in Châteauneuf was Madame Roque, who had become garrulous once in the press’s limelight. Flanked in protective custody by her two daughters, sharp-eyed recent university graduates, she embellished what she had already told Capucine with a wealth of detail, none of it useful.

  She and her husband had gone out to dinner at a workers’ café. That was where they always went. Of course, there were real restaurants in the village, but her husband refused to go where workers didn’t eat. Even though he was now “leader” of the company, he would not spend “one single sou” more than the foreman’s salary, which was all he would accept. That suited Madame Roque just fine. The description of their meal of steak frites and of the conversations with the friends they ran into was interminable.

  When they had come home, the lights wouldn’t go on, and so her husband had gone down to the basement to see what was the matter. She was terrified when he did not come up or answer her shouts. At this point the two daughters put their hands around her waist and hugged her. She then explained that she eventually found the courage to look for a flashlight in the kitchen drawers and creep down into the dark basement. When she got to the part about what she had discovered, she dissolved into damp tears but recovered enough to provide a long, humid dithyramb about the agony of the wait for the SAMU.

  The daughters, cooingly overprotective, made her sit down at the kitchen table. Capucine took English leave, as the French insisted on calling it. None of the three noticed.

  Capucine’s next stop was the office of Alfred Durand, the faïence’s directeur des opérations, the chief of operations, who was now also in charge of the company until a decision on Roque’s successor could be reached. Durand projected such a perfect ouvrier image that Capucine almost suspected it had been partially assumed. He wore the caricature of a blue-collar worker’s Sunday best: baggy gray suit, shiny from use, over an ancient, thick, gray, coarse-wool cardigan zipped up to the neck. The knot of a frayed dark crimson tie peeped out over the top of the sweater.

  Wardrobe aside, there was no doubt at all about either Durand’s competence as a senior executive of a good-sized corporation or his intellectual baggage.

  “Firmin—Monsieur Roque—was far more than a friend. We were comadres de barricades.”

  “Barricade comrades?”

  “I was at his right hand when we liberated the company.”

  There was a slight pause as Durand waited for Capucine to rise to the bait of the notion of “liberating the company.” In his world the police were arch-villains.

  “Politics have become trivialized in our country,” he continued. “Political demonstrations are now a rite of passage in France. American students go to Fort Lauderdale and get drunk during spring break. French students go out on the street and amuse themselves by kicking tear-gas grenades back at the police. It’s a game for them. It has no meaning. That’s why the sustained political manifestation that resulted in the liberation of the Faïence de Châteauneuf-sur-Loire is such an importa
nt milestone of our era.”

  “Of course it is. We even studied it in depth at Sciences Po. You and Monsieur Roque were cast as true heroes.”

  “You went to Sciences Po?” he said with the hint of a sneer. Intellectuals had their place in the Communist world. But university students who turned into flics very definitely did not.

  “Did Monsieur Roque have any enemies that you knew of?”

  “Only the entire right-wing population of France, and that would include the government. That would make it about thirty-five million people. And their animosity increased every day the Faïence thrived under our management. What they hate most about us is that we succeeded where the capitalists failed, and we are empirical proof that the capitalist model is not the only viable game in town.”

  Capucine smiled.

  “I’m not joking. The success of the Faïence is a thorn in the side of the right. The cornerstone of the capitalist industrial paradigm is the mindless quest for lebensraum—endless growth, ever-increasing market share, squeezing your competitors to death so you can capture their markets. Do you remember the strategy of the capitalists we threw out of here on their ear?”

  “Only vaguely.”

  “They wanted to trash our artisanal skills that had been honed over centuries and make cheap, ugly products that would be sold in large volumes in supermarkets. They were going to gut our plant of its ancient kiln and replace it with automated, high-flow-through machines. And they were going to fire close to fifty percent of the workforce—with no compensation, I might add—and destroy the lives of those who remained, because they would have lost the joy of expressing themselves with their artistic talent.”

  Despite herself, Capucine was captivated. “So how did you succeed where they failed?”

  “Simple. We’re not motivated by greed. We don’t need to compensate capital. We just need to pay ourselves an honest wage for an honest day’s work. Our shareholders, who happen to be our workers, don’t expect dividends. Their fulfillment is what they can achieve with their hands.” To illustrate, Durand raised his thickened, calloused hands in an almost papal gesture of benediction.