Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery)

by Alexander Campion

  “When Mademoiselle Martin fell—went—overboard, she, Mademoiselle Maistre, and I were keeping watch on deck. There had been lightning in the distance, so all three of us had brought foul-weather gear up on deck. It was far too warm to wear the jackets, so we bundled them up on the cockpit sole, under our feet. Mademoiselle Martin got up to go forward and relieve herself. Apparently, she was experiencing some form of gastric distress. Just as she stood up, the storm broke. She grabbed a jacket and rushed to the bow. She must have picked up Mademoiselle Maistre’s by mistake.”

  The vice questore nodded repeatedly, looking a little like a Chinese porcelain sage with its head set on a spring. After a long pause—his interview technique really was very good—he went back and sat behind his desk, opened the center drawer and, with two long, almost skeletal fingers, extracted a plastic evidence bag as if it took a great effort to even touch something so filthy. He placed the bag on the desk. A Beretta Px4 Storm Type F Sub-Compact. The gun was smudged with white aluminum fingerprint powder.

  “The pistol is stamped to indicate that it is the property of the French government. The only French agency, military or civilian, that is issued the model Px4 is the Police Judiciaire. Would this pistol happen to be yours, Commissario?”

  “It could well be. It’s the standard Police Judiciaire off-duty sidearm.”

  “It was found in a drawer in your cabin.” He held the bag out imperially in the direction of Ispettore Manfredi, who approached the desk briskly. Manfredi removed the gun from its plastic envelope, pushed the button releasing the clip, caught it, and held it out to Capucine.

  “It would seem that there are only twelve cartridges in the clip. One is missing,” the vice questore said.

  Capucine said nothing. She knew she had a very bad, even dangerous, habit. Common sense and police regulations dictated that the chambers of automatic pistols be left empty. If a cartridge were left in the chamber, there was a risk that the gun could go off if dropped or if it was on the belt of an officer who was knocked down. Still, Capucine always left a cartridge in the chamber. A gun that required both hands to be armed struck her as imprudent no matter what the risk. She burned with desire to ask if there had been a cartridge in the chamber, meaning that two shots had been fired, but knew that silence was the order of the day.

  The vice questore said, “It’s very suggestive that a cartridge is missing.” He let one of his long silences do some more heavy lifting.

  At length, the vice questore opened the center drawer of his desk once again and extracted another, smaller, evidence bag. He zipped it open and let a small brass cartridge case, dusty with fingerprint powder, fall on the mahogany inlay of the desk. He slipped a wooden pencil in the shell and held it up for Capucine to see.

  Capucine was stunned. There had been a second shot. It took an effort to maintain her wooden face.

  “This was found on the bow of your boat. It is made for the French police by a company called Speer. They are not available to the public. The forensics experts will determine if the markings are from the firing pin of your gun, but I think we can assume they will be.”

  Very slowly, the vice questore tipped the shell casing back into its bag, opened the center drawer of the desk, swept the evidence bags into it with his arm, closed the drawer with an audible thwunk. There was a sense of finality to the gesture.

  He smiled conspiratorially at Capucine. “Commissario, as a police officer, I’m sure you will agree with me that—pending the results of the investigation, of course—you are the principal suspect. You were on deck in the middle of the night with the victim, and there is evidence that she was shot on deck, and that she was shot with your gun.” He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and frowned, as if to ask, “What more could you want?”

  Capucine had been over the facts many times in her head, but she was surprised and dismayed at how compelling the case against her was when it came out of the mouth of someone else.

  “Yes, Vice Questore, I agree there is some circumstantial evidence, but what possible motive could I have for murdering someone I had met for the first time only a few days before?”

  The vice questore snorted in laughter and turned to share the joke with his two officers, who chortled back politely.

  “Commissario, every police department on the entire coast of Sardinia deals with incidents on the yachts of the rich all summer long. Almost all of them involve young boat hands. They are invariably hippie types with very loose morals. The sea is nature’s most powerful aphrodisiac.

  “It could easily be argued that you discovered your husband with the girl. Later, in the middle of the night, you shot her under the cover of the storm. No jury in the world would refuse that as a motive.” Elbows on the desk, he spread his hands palms upward in a papal gesture, underscoring the strength of the argument.

  There was another long moment of silence. Capucine was certain that in the next few minutes she would find herself in a detention cell.

  “That is why my men and I have spent a good part of the night working together and conferring with our superiors to find a solution. Happily, I have just received confirmation from my superiors that we have succeeded.

  “Part of our inquiry involved consulting the marine-current expert of the guardia costiera. He produced some extremely good news. It seems that the currents that flow through the Strait of Bonifacio, the body of water separating Corsica and Sardinia, are extremely complex.” This said in an almost jovial, dinner party tone. “There is some sort of compression phenomenon due to the funnel made by the two landmasses. There are vortices and whorls and all sorts of complicated little tricks created by all the little islands.” He paused dramatically, setting up his punch line.

  “The expert concluded, without the slightest possible shadow of a doubt, that your boat was in French waters when the tragic incident occurred. I had a lengthy meeting with the magistrate this morning, and he agrees with me that you are free to leave, at your entire convenience, of course.”

  “So you’re dropping the case?”

  “Hardly. We’re merely referring it to the proper authorities. Rendering to Caesar what is Caesar’s, as it were. The evidence”—he rapped the desk with his knuckles—“will be sent to France. It is up to the French to decide what to do with it.”

  Capucine had always heard that vice questori were more politicians than policemen. Now she understood why.

  “And so the French are to investigate the case?”

  “Ah, Commissario, how can I possibly tell you, of all people, anything about the workings of the French police?” He made a curious wringing motion with his hands, which, Capucine guessed, was a subconscious expression of his washing his hands of the whole business.

  “But I will offer you a personal consideration, an observation from one colleague to another. Your boat is no longer sequestered. It would be in your interest to depart quickly. You know the vagaries of politics. Who knows when someone may change his mind? I have been ordered to release you with the presumed assumption that you will return to France to assist with the investigation. But, of course, I have no means to determine your final destination. I understand Brazil is a charming country with no extradition treaties of any kind. And the yacht club in Rio is said to be one of the most beautiful in the world.”

  He stood up and, with fluid courtesy, escorted Capucine to the front door of the questura.

  Capucine was returned to the villa by the same squad car. She found everyone at lunch on the terrace. Capucine slid into a chair that had been left vacant for her next to Alexandre.

  “Well, what did the police sa—” Serge started to ask eagerly but was cut off by Alexandre’s raised hand.

  “Ma chérie, do you have any appetite at all?”

  Capucine kissed his cheek. Bless his sense of priorities.

  “No. I couldn’t eat a thing. Maybe a glass of wine, though. We’re free to go. In fact, we’re encouraged to go quickly. Their marine-current expert has deci
ded that poor Nathalie went overboard in French waters, and they’re sticking with their original decision to wash their hands of the whole business.”

  “Fabulous,” Serge replied, jumping up. “Best news I’ve ever heard. I need to get back to my boat and see if those awful policemen have drilled holes in the hull or something. We can provision up and get the hell out of here in an hour.”

  “But where will we go?” Aude asked, her glacial eyes deeper and more impenetrable than ever.

  Serge sat back down in his chair with a thump.

  It took less than a minute to resolve the question. Enough was enough. Saint-Tropez was fifteen hours away under sail. Back in France they could finish their vacations on their own, happy on dry land. There was not a single demurring murmur. Taxis were called. A rapid note was written by Serge to Tommasso. They all scribbled their initials on the bottom.

  In the confusion they had called too many cabs. Alexandre and Régis commandeered one and made off for downtown Tortoli to buy provisions. Capucine and Inès found themselves in another. The others took the third.

  “So what did the vice questore really say?” Inès asked Capucine.

  Capucine gave Inès a summary, not omitting the comment about Brazil.

  “They’ll send the evidence on the diplomatic pouch,” Inès said. “Your vice questore is convinced you’ll be arrested the minute you set foot on French soil. But he’s wrong. Even if the evidence and the vice questore’s explanatory memorandum arrive tomorrow morning, it will still take the magistrates a week, or even more, to sort out the jurisdictional issues. But sooner or later, the case will be handed over to the police. There’s no doubt about that.”

  Capucine said nothing for the rest of the ride down to the marina. There was a flaw in Inès’s logic. The police couldn’t be suspected. It wasn’t that they were above suspicion. It was that they weren’t in the game. You could hardly give a referee a red card, now could you? Those were only for the players.

  Once again, Serge fretted on deck waiting for Alexandre and Régis to arrive with groceries. Once again, a good hour and a half late, they appeared, struggling with an overladen shopping cart, both of them serene despite Serge’s choler.

  “Are you two crazy? We’re not sailing to Latin America. We’ll be home tomorrow,” Serge said.

  Inès shot him a sharp look.

  But Serge’s rage hit its acme when he noticed that—in addition to a full larder of vegetables, Italian charcuterie, cheeses, meats in brown wrapping, dairy products, and an abundance of eggs—they had acquired a family-size pasta-making machine.

  “Do you think you’re going to open a restaurant on my boat?”

  “Hardly,” Alexandre said. “But we’re not going to leave Italy without eating some proper pasta, and Régis and I are going to make it. Voilà, c’est comme ça.”

  Getting out of Arbatax was the work of ten minutes. Docile under Florence’s hand, Diomede set off on a northerly course toward the Strait of Bonifacio. The afternoon wore on as peacefully as on the most halcyon of sea cruises. Alexandre and Régis joyfully stretched long ribbons of pasta across the salon, some read, and Jacques and Aude communed silently, their legs over the boat’s side. The mood had crossed back over its watershed.

  Alexandre, in honor of the traditions of final-night dinners laid down by prewar luxury liners, prepared his most sumptuous meal of the trip. Given the fineness of the evening, they ate in the cockpit. He announced the meal would his version of cuisine sarde—Sardinian cooking. The meal started out simply enough with an antipasto dish of thin slices of melon topped with slices of Parma ham. The melon’s flesh was so pale, it was almost blue, and as sweet as if sugar had been added. The Sardinian note appeared in the pasta dish, ceci e fregola—a stew made with chickpeas and semolina pasta balls, unique to Sardinia. The pasta balls and the chickpeas were exactly the same size. Alexandre had decorated the dish with pecorino wafers made by grating a slice of the cheese from the huge wedge he had brought on board onto a baking sheet and grilling it in the oven until the pieces fused.

  The secundo piatto—the first course—was cefalo arrostito—grilled fillets of Sardinian gray mullet. Régis ceremoniously brought the platter up through the hatch, placed it on the cockpit table, then served it on the boat’s plastic dishes. Only four people sat round the table. The others had spread out around the deck. The mullets were light, flaky, delicately seasoned with a hint of garlic and caraway thyme, a variety that grew wild only in Corsica and Sardinia.

  Next came Alexandre’s pièce de résistance, the secondo piatto—the second course Régis brought up a large casserole and placed it gingerly on the table.

  “This is a great Sardinian classic, coniglio alla sarda,” Alexandre announced. “A stew made of the cousin of the hare and local vegetables, seasoned mainly with tamarind.”

  There was happy chuckling at the name of the dish. Inès, who was sitting with Capucine just above the hatch opening, said, “What do you mean ‘cousin of the hare’? Is that a ra—”

  Capucine put her hand over Inès’s mouth.

  She shook it off, furious. “What are you doing!” Her anger increased as the laughter rose to a peak.

  “There’s a certain animal that can never be named on ships or boats. It’s believed it will bring catastrophic luck. Of course, Alexandre’s provoked the ire of the gods by actually bringing the animal on board, but there’s no point in adding insult to injury,” Serge said, shooting Alexandre a poisonous look.

  “What animal? What are you talking about?” Inès asked. “A rab—”

  Capucine clapped her hand back on Inès’s mouth before the word escaped. There were roars of laughter.

  Despite the risk of bad luck, everyone had seconds of the stew and ate so much that Alexandre’s platter of Sardinian cheeses was deferred to snacks for the watches during the night and people only pecked at dessert, which was pardulas, pastry tarts filled with soft cheese and sprinkled with powdered sugar.

  Grappa and coffee were served below. The bittersweet parting mood became so pronounced, Jacques broke into a satirical chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” The group laughed uproariously, but the sadness remained.

  Much, much later, as most of the group staggered off to their cabins, Jacques, Capucine, and Alexandre made for the bow pulpit for more grappa, with a final cigar for Jacques and Alexandre.

  “You need another lifeline out of the bouillabaisse, don’t you, petite cousine?” Jacques asked.

  Capucine smiled a long-suffering smile at him. “I probably do, but you can’t work your celestial Rolodex in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea, can you?”

  “You’re just miffed I didn’t throw your little popgun into the sea when I had the chance. But that’s my profound sense of allegiance to la patrie. Government property is sacred.”

  “Actually,” Alexandre said, “I think she’s disappointed you didn’t intercept the second shell casing.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. She’ll figure out that part of it in the end. You have to be patient with the poor dear. She’s not as quick as the rest of us, but she’s much better looking.”

  “Inès seems to want me to believe I’ll get arrested the second I set foot in Port Grimaud. That’s ridiculous. I’m a commissaire in the Police Judiciaire, after all.” She was crestfallen when the comment didn’t draw a corroborating snigger.

  “Cousine, I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept that that’s a fairly accurate assessment of the situation,” Jacques said.

  Capucine pouted. “I can hardly jump overboard and swim to the isle of Elba, now can I?” she asked.

  “Even if you could, it would be subpar as an idea. I understand Napoleon didn’t have all that much to say for the place.”

  “So I’m foutu,” Capucine said, accepting another shot glass of grappa from the bottle Alexandre had brought on deck.

  “Cannes, little cousine. Think Cannes. The film festival is over. It’s possible once again to get into restaurants, and the
beaches will be free of those dreary paparazzi.”

  “Jacques, don’t joke. How would we get to Cannes? I can hardly suggest to seven people, one of whom is a juge d’instruction, to make a detour to Cannes and keep it a secret.”

  Jacques smiled at her with his all-knowing Cheshire cat smile.

  “Well, there’s always the dinghy.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not at all. Bligh covered thousands of nautical miles in a leaky rowboat. And you have a high-tech craft with a state-of-the-art internal combustion engine at your disposal. All you have to do is pitch it into the sea, hop in, and putt-putt your way into Cannes. What could be more simple?”

  Capucine furrowed her brow.

  “It’ll be as easy as taking a sucette from a toddler in a stroller. And I’ll create a smoke screen so dense, no one will notice that you two weren’t there for the arrival in Port Grimaud.”

  Lightning flickered soundlessly in the distance, lighting up a small segment of the horizon. Sensing her concern, Alexandre shook his head. “Probably just a local storm. Nothing to worry about. Let’s go to bed. I’m thinking we’re not going to get much sleep tonight.”

  An hour later Capucine was jolted awake by a clap of thunder. Eyes open, she lay in the bunk, Alexandre’s arm across her torso and the slight roundness of his stomach pressed into her back. Like a child at camp, she counted the seconds between the cracks of thunder and the flashes. Three miles away. Despite the fact that Florence was at the helm, Capucine fidgeted, on edge, a poker player about to slap her last card on the table, a card she didn’t like very much when you got right down to it.

  Taking to the open sea in the tiny dinghy with a storm coming on was lunacy. But there was no alternative. It was the damned rabbits. What had Alexandre been thinking? She sank into an uneasy doze with a vision of a sinister rabbit twitching his nose at her, laughing maliciously.

  CHAPTER 15