Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery)

by Alexander Campion

  “Oh, I’ve already started. Porto Cervo has great free Wi-Fi. I can’t wait to post some shots of the anchor dropping into the water. That’ll give the blog real local color.”

  Florence motored the boat over to an area on the other side of the cove, turned it into the wind, held it in position with the motor ticking over, and told Serge to drop the anchor.

  He squeezed a button on his TV remote and the anchor chain clanked through the fairlead. After a few seconds the chain turned into ordinary braided rope. Serge leaned far over the bow pulpit, engrossed. “Bottom,” he announced to Florence.

  Florence put the motor in neutral and let the wind push the boat away from the anchor, drawing out line. After about half a minute, Florence ordered, “Make fast” in a conversational tone. Serge squeezed a button on his remote. Very gently the boat came to a halt.

  “It’s a good one,” Florence said and switched the ignition off.

  There was no denying the cove had scenic appeal. They were surrounded by boats their size or a little smaller. The prosperous middle class cut off from the mega rich by the breakwater.

  The sun was still high in the sky. The group broke up, some going below to nap, others finding secluded corners of the deck to read or chat. Capucine went up to the bow and let her legs dangle over the side. She was unable to shake her frustration at the administrative indifference to Nathalie’s death. No one should be allowed to be erased from the face of the earth so completely, so unnoticed, so unmourned.

  “Serge,” she called out. “Do you have Nathalie’s passport?”

  Serge handed it to her. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “See if I can find some next of kin to notify.”

  “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Capucine clicked her iPhone on and pressed the speed-dial button for Brigadier-Chef Lemercier, the most proficient of her team with the police database.

  “Salut, Commissaire. Already bored hanging out on a yacht with the idle rich?”

  “Salut, Isabelle. Not quite, but getting there. Can you do something for me? We had a tragic accident. One of the crew went overboard. I need you to run her down and see if you can find any next of kin.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Martin, Nathalie,” Capucine said and read off the passport number.

  “I’ll have it for you in a few minutes. Call you back?”

  Capucine draped her arms over the top lifeline, holding the iPhone limply, rubbing her big toes together, emptying her mind. The phone vibrated in her hand.

  “Commissaire, there’s not much. She was born in nineteen seventy-eight in the Bagneux projects. Her mother deceased in two thousand one, and there’s no listing for a father. There’s a brother, Martin, Emile. He was convicted twice for auto theft but seems to have left the country. Last seen boarding a flight to Melbourne in nineteen ninety-eight. Want me to run him down?”

  “No. That one’s gone for good. And there’s nothing else on Nathalie Martin?”

  “Absolutely nothing. No marriages, no leases on apartments, no bank accounts, no credit cards. But I can dig deeper if you want.”

  “No thanks. She’s not a suspect, just a kid who fell off a boat. Thanks, Isabelle. I’ll see you in a week.”

  That was that. Capucine felt depression descend on her like a damp yellow fog. Behind her the group bustled. After a good bit of chatter, soundless in Capucine’s brume, the distaff side of the crew moved below to primp for dinner. The males remained in the cockpit, drinking beer, discussing the evening’s venues.

  Capucine dropped into the cockpit next to Alexandre. He handed her a bottle of Peroni beer, the sweat of condensation running down its sides. She put the bottle to her forehead and let the conversation wash over her, willing her brain to remain empty. There was already a consensus about the nightspots. The Billionaire was to be the first stop. It was world famous for its views from the tops of the cliffs of Porto Cervo and its wall-to-wall crush of stars, starlets, and the superrich. Even the parking lot packed with Ferraris was supposed to be worth the detour. There was some debate about the second stop, but the vox populi settled on the Ritual, housed in an ancient stone building made to look like a Stone Age ruin. The glitterati who weren’t at Billionaire were bound to be there.

  That was the easy part. Dinner was trickier. One choice was Porto Cervo’s most expensive spot, Ristorante Gianni Pedrinelli. Another was Cipriani, the restaurant in Billionaire.

  “We’d save on cab fare, and Lord knows that’s important in these troubled times,” Jacques said.

  Alexandre put the kibosh on both by pronouncing that he had it on excellent authority that the food was execrable at both establishments. Even though no one would think of questioning even his most casual statement about a restaurant, Alexandre hammered home his veto by explaining that restaurants that catered to the fast set were invariably indifferent to restaurant critics since their clientele came to be seen, not to eat. He was certain he wouldn’t have the clout to obtain a same-day reservation for a ten-top.

  As an alternative, Alexandre suggested a restaurant high in the hills just out of town named Tamarind after the owner, an English chef who had left her London starred kitchen to bask in the Costa Smeralda sun. Apparently, the food was “adequate,” which in Alexander’s lexicon was high praise indeed.

  Alexandre made a call to Paris. In a few minutes his cell phone buzzed. He cooed in French gallantly into the device, chortled, rang off.

  “That was Tamarind in person. We’re on for eight.”

  Angélique appeared on deck, scowling. “Dominique, I need you to help me pick out my dress for this evening. And I don’t want you sloshed on beer, nodding off at the dinner table. Come with me!”

  When Dominique rose, Angélique zeroed in on Serge.

  “The plan is lovely, but what are we supposed to do? Slip on our little black dresses and our Manolos and glide across the water?”

  Serge grinned at her. “There’s an inflatable dinghy with a little motor in a cuddy in the transom. I’m going to take you ashore in groups of three. It’ll be great fun.”

  The prospect of an elegant meal was a tonic to the women, who all spent the latter half of the afternoon showering, blow-drying their hair, trying on outfits, and flitting from one cabin to another to borrow and exchange accessories.

  At seven, despite the mood of the past few days, the ten passengers gathered on deck, shoes in hand, in wonderful spirits, already in the high of an upcoming adventuresome evening.

  The crossing to shore in the dinghy proved to be more challenging than expected. The little rubber Zodiac was no more than seven feet long and looked more like a beach toy than a motorized craft. It was powered by a kitchen appliance–size, two-horsepower outboard fastened to a wooden transom.

  Boarding was an adventure. There was a ladder that clipped onto Diomede’s stern that was easy enough to descend, but when the last step was reached, the little dinghy had a nasty habit of sliding away, leaving passengers stretched out at a forty-five-degree angle, worthy of a Mack Sennett comedy.

  With four passengers the dinghy sank so deeply into the water, it would have been swamped by anything more than a six-inch wave. Serge made five trips with only two passengers for each crossing, and they arrived at the restaurant half an hour late.

  They were a little disappointed. The view was as breathtaking as promised, but the décor, with strings of paper lanterns hanging from a rickety wood trellis, evoked a friendly local taverna far more than the sort of place that required an afternoon’s primping. Worse even, most of the patrons were youngsters in jeans and fifteen-euro T-shirts. But as the group settled in, they spotted seams of the debonair in Prada and Gianfranco Ferré marbling the dining room like fat running through the choicest sirloin. It was obvious that Tamarind was the venue of preference for the hyper-cool on relaxed evenings.

  The food fully lived up to expectations. The special of the day, crispy duck on deep-fried risotto supplì
, was good enough to brighten Alexandre’s eyes with the epiphany Capucine usually saw only in three-star restaurants.

  The evening unwound pleasantly. First, the familiar purple pyrotechnics of a Mediterranean sunset, then the faint glow of a string of paper lanterns, and after, the glory of the main course with Tamarind emerging from the kitchen halfway through to greet Alexandre.

  “What did you think?” she asked with a disarming smile.

  “That London suffered a great loss with your departure and you enjoyed a great gain. I ate twice at the Hornbill and Continent while you were still there. You’ve become transcendent here. Your happiness radiates in your dishes.”

  “I think that’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever been paid. Are you going to write that?”

  “Only if you’d like. I’m just here to eat with my friends.”

  “Then don’t write anything. I have enough golden youths in here already. I like to cook for people who have to work all day and don’t give a hoot if they’re being seen or not.”

  Much, much later, after numerous ear-numbing hours in clubs, they returned to the marina. Capucine was relieved that both the dinghy and the motor were still there. She had had misgivings about leaving them without padlocks. The trip back was far rougher than the way in, and they arrived at the boat drenched. A mood of joyous hysteria took over, and they all rushed below, changed into bathing suits, and jumped over the side with loud shrieks and yells. Later, they dried off on deck and sat huddled in thick towels as Serge motored them out of the bay. It was the first evening on the good yacht Diomede that was genuinely carefree.

  Capucine marveled at the psychology. Did it really take violent death to bring home the sweetness of life?

  CHAPTER 12

  By one thirty in the morning the club buzz was long gone, replaced by a soggy dampness that even the golden swath from a full moon wouldn’t dispel. Serge had the helm. In the distance, the rocky face of an island was outlined in a faint glow.

  “We’re off the coast of Li Nibani Island,” Florence said. “Time to start heading south.”

  Serge spun the wheel, his eyes locked on the binnacle. Florence winched in the sheets. The boat heeled slightly and picked up speed on a beam reach. The wake gave off faint sparkles in the moonlight.

  Capucine sat in the bow pulpit with Alexandre, who puffed the remains of a once substantial cigar. One by one, the passengers drifted below silently. Capucine nuzzled her head against Alexandre’s neck. Neither spoke. Capucine noticed that Florence had replaced Serge at the helm and he had apparently gone below. Alexandre tossed the stub into the sea and went below with Capucine. At the foot of the companionway they encountered Serge.

  “She insists on staying all alone all night at the helm. I’m letting her do it. I think it takes her back to her racing days. It’s a calm night, and if anything happens, I can be on deck in a flash.”

  Capucine had no doubt that even in a full gale the boat would be safe in Florence’s hands, and she wondered if she really wanted to remind herself of her racing days or if she was creating insurance against another incident.

  But instead of incidents, the night proved as blissful as only summer nights on calm seas could be. Capucine and Alexandre held each other, giddy in the cocoon-like confines of the bunk. They fell asleep. Capucine turned to face the moon shining through the hazy port, nestling into Alexandre’s welcoming, pillow-like embonpoint. Twice during the night Florence made course changes, easing the boat progressively south. At each change the boat came up a few degrees into the wind and its angle of heel increased. The bunk tilted more and more. Capucine snuggled deeper and deeper into Alexandre.

  Just before four in the morning they passed Capo Comino, the easternmost tip of Sardinia. Florence altered course to five degrees beyond dead south, the sails close-hauled, as tight into the wind as the boat could go. Diomede heeled well over. Alexandre slid across the bunk until he came to rest against the bulkhead. Capucine slid after him and nestled in. When she woke, it was bright daylight, the keel was even, and the motor was throbbing.

  She looked at her watch. Eight o’clock. She never got up that late. She slipped on T-shirt and shorts and went up on deck. This must be the port of Arbatax, adjacent to the slightly inland town of Tortoli. It had nothing of a tourist attraction. A long, industrial-looking cement breakwater had been built to create an artificial harbor. At the far end a small yacht marina was only half full.

  Florence, even more rested looking than when they had left Porto Cervo, steered the boat into the marina and cruised briskly up and down, looking for a suitable berth. Florence stopped the boat, effortlessly performed her engine-gunning pivoting maneuver, and eased gently into a slip, stern first, tying off the bow line. She jumped onto the dock and made the two stern lines fast. Rubbing his eyes and stretching, Serge appeared on deck. Two men in the white uniforms of the guardia costiera clattered down the aluminum dock.

  “Commissario Le Tellier?” one man asked Florence from under a snappy salute.

  “I’m Commissaire Le Tellier,” Capucine said from the deck.

  “Bene. Can you please get your papers and come with us?”

  “I should come, too. I’m the skipper.”

  “No, no, va bene, you stay.”

  Inside the port captain’s offices Capucine was shown into a small, dusty room lined with old files in white cardboard boxes. A portly man with a closely trimmed beard stood up to greet her. Capucine divined he was a policeman, not a port official. She wondered how long she could succeed in staving off the plainclothes miasma, if it hadn’t stamped her already. She would have to ask Alexandre.

  “Commissaire Le Tellier?” the police officer asked in heavily accented French. “Please sit down. May I look at your ID?” For a long moment he held up her ID wallet at eye level, keeping both the card and Capucine’s face in his view. He appeared to make up his mind about something. He smiled thinly.

  “I’m Ispettore Manfredi from the Tortoli Vice Questura There has been a complicazione with your case of the missing servant that we must speak about.”

  “Of course,” Capucine said. “But is there any way I could get a coffee? I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  “Mi dispiace tanto. Prego, mi scusi. I forget my manners. Of course. These sailors make excellent caffè.” He opened the door and spoke to a uniformed police officer who stood almost at the threshold. Capucine was surprised to see that a guard had been posted.

  As she stirred the half-filled demitasse of coffee, so strong it was almost sludge, Capucine asked, “What sort of complication? We were told yesterday in Porto Cervo that the opinion of the authorities was that Nathalie Martin had gone overboard in French waters and was no concern of the Italian authorities.”

  “Ah, but something has happened,” Manfredi said, wagging his index finger as if about to score a central academic point in a university debate. “You see, what may be a vital piece of evidence has been found.”

  “What sort of evidence?”

  “A sailor’s foul-weather jacket.” Manfredi raised his eyebrows and leaned back slightly as if he expected Capucine to be stunned by the revelation.

  She looked at him, stone-faced.

  “You see, Commissaire, there is a hole in the jacket that looks very much like a bullet hole. And what makes it even more interesting is that it was found on a deserted beach on Isola Caprera. In other words, almost at the mouth of the Porto Cervo bay, not far from where you reported Signorina Martin falling overboard. Surely you see the import of the situation.”

  “I do. Entirely.” Had they been in France, she would be slamming the door of a Police Judiciaire van that would be taking the nine crew members to the nearest brigade to be interviewed.

  “It is helpful that you understand,” Manfredi said with a thin smile. “We are still conducting our investigation. Normally, your boat’s crew would be detained for questioning. But since you are a senior police officer of a country with very close ties to Italy, I see
no need for sequestration. But I’m afraid I must require you all not to leave Arbatax. And I’m going to ask you to take responsibility personally for the compliance of your companions.”

  “We had planned on having dinner at a friend’s house in Tortoli.”

  “Yes, certo. Arbatax is administratively a part of Tortoli. May I ask who your friend in Tortoli is?”

  “Actually, he’s the friend of our skipper, a Signore Cardorna. He apparently has a villa in the hills on the outskirts of Tortoli.”

  The ispettore arched his eyebrows and flattened his lips. “Tommasso Cardorna. Yes, he does possess an imposing villa.”

  In the middle of the afternoon they arrived in taxis at the sprawling hillside villa of Serge’s friend. They had been invited to bring bathing suits and enjoy his three swimming pools, which cascaded one into another down the side of the hill.

  In the taxi, Serge had explained to Capucine that Tommasso was one of the investors in his restaurants, and Serge was hoping he would assume some of the financing of a new bar Serge wanted to buy. The visit was more than just a social call.

  Tommasso turned out to be a large man made more corpulent by his billowing Hawaiian shirt. He wore the close-cropped full beard so loved by Italian men. As he cheerfully distributed glasses of Prosecco and made small talk, he explained that he was anything but Sardinian. He was proud to be a Sicilian taking a vacation from his homeland “for his health” and had been in Sardinia only for the past three years. Waving his hand at the spectacular view of the bay and the endless emerald sea, which faded into a purple nimbus on the horizon, he conceded that even though nothing could approach the perfection of Sicily, Sardinia was pleasant enough.

  A bronzed pool boy in shorts and a T-shirt of brilliant white arrived to take them down the hill to the poolside changing room, while Serge and Tommasso—with faces so serious, they could be on their way to a funeral—disappeared into the house.

  As Capucine was about to enter the cabana at the edge of the pool, Jacques hooked his finger into the top of her shorts and held her back. For several long beats his finger explored the cleft between her buttocks. He had something on his mind that had nothing to do with her posterior, but he wasn’t sure if he should articulate it. Abandoning the thought, Jacques snatched his finger out of Capucine’s shorts.