“May I see the bullet?”
“See the bullet? Whatever for?” Dallemagne recoiled as if she had proposed they take their clothes off and perform an indecent act on the desk. “I’m sure the surgeon took it with him and filed it somewhere. No need for the bullet. It’s all right here in his report,” he said, picking up a sheet of paper and flicking it dismissively with the backs of his fingers. He read, “ ‘Bullet extracted. Caliber noted. Seven-point-eight-four-nine millimeters. Resulting in wound possibly perforating aorta, resulting in death.’ Voilà. Cut and dried. What else is there to say?” Dallemagne was very pleased with himself.
“ ‘Possibly perforating?’ And you’re still not tempted to perform an autopsy?”
“Of course not. You see crime everywhere. It’s a deformation of the Police Judiciaire. We are in the country here, madame, not Paris. These people are simple paysans, not master criminals. As I explained yesterday, we have shooting accidents all the time. If we were to autopsy each and every one of them, we would need a whole new budget. And there would be an outcry from the families. They certainly don’t want their loved ones mutilated.” He laughed dryly. “No, my report is written. Bellec, Lucien, died accidentally as a result of a stray bullet fired at a deer on the lake. Lamentable, but hardly a crime.”
“Does the surgeon describe the bullet at all? Does he make any mention of the slug being flattened from ricocheting off the ice?” Capucine asked.
Making a show of humoring her, Dallemagne studied the one-page report with exaggerated care. “No, madame, there is a description of the man’s identifying marks and that is all.” He leaned across the desk and said as sternly as if he were a high school teacher scolding a student for having failed to bring her homework, “Madame, it is highly irresponsible to attempt to create a crime where none exists.”
Capucine left the commissariat in a rage. It had been pointless to explain the realities of the situation to Dallemagne. At least twenty popular cartridges fired a bullet that was 7.849 millimeters in diameter, not the least of which were a current NATO round and the very common .30-06 big-game cartridge. In the real world of crime detection one called for a thorough forensics examination and ordered a full autopsy. One didn’t beg for crumbs from a pompous gendarme in an overstarched uniform who was counting the days until he could retire on his pension. She drove home twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit, hoping a roadside gendarme would pull her over and she could give him a piece of her mind.
Back at the château, Gauvin heard her arrive and opened the door gravely. “Madame La Comtesse has had another telephone call. This time from the Police Judiciaire,” he said as if they shared a deep secret. Capucine bridled. Alexandre was right. This country living was becoming too much. Gauvin incessantly calling her “Madame La Comtesse” was too much. His vicarious thrill with all these calls from the police was too much. Oncle Aymerie’s conspiracy suspicions and his resultant guilt were too much. Getting interested in a case that no one under the age of seventy wanted her to solve was too much.
She picked up the telephone. “Commissaire,” Isabelle said, a little more high-strung than usual, if that was possible, “I may have fucked up.”
Capucine sat down on a little stool Gauvin had placed next to the telephone table in the cloakroom. What was going to be next? A little vase of flowers? A picture of Alexandre in a silver frame? She forced her larynx to produce a gentle tone. “Tell me about it, Isabelle.”
“Well, two reporter types showed up at the commissariat this morning and asked for the officer in charge of the Belle au Marché case. The brigadier at the reception desk put them in the waiting area before calling me, so it was impossible to refuse to see them. Actually, it was a reporter and a photographer. The reporter was one of these guys who thinks he’s totally sexy in a way that just pissed me off. So he asks all these questions about the Belle and wants to know if we agree that all three incidents had been done by the same person. He gets me so cheesed off that I blurt out that there were four incidents, not three. Then I really lose my temper and this photographer guy is snapping pictures the whole time and the flashes are getting me even more pissed off. So there I am, about to have them thrown out, and David steps up and does his little number. You know, he gets all palsy and invites these guys into an interrogation room for coffee and acts like he’s having a fucking cocktail party. He says, yes, there might be a fourth case, but that we were looking into it and nothing was sure, but we’d be sure to keep them in the loop, and could he have their cards so he could call them when something happened? Anyhow, they wind up leaving, and I don’t think they’re going to write anything, but I sure got the impression they want to turn our Belle into some kind of folk heroine.”
“So let them. No problem there,” Capucine said.
“Yeah, but the other thing is that it would have been a disaster without David. You know how I get when I lose my temper.”
“Isabelle, it sounds to me like you showed good leadership. You left the stage to David when his skills were needed. Knowing how and when to delegate is the hardest part of responsibility.”
“Maybe,” Isabelle said in a sulk. “Anyway, I really want to get going on this case. What about if I get those two faggoty dancer guys down here to look at mug books? What would be even better would be rounding up some suspects and having a lineup. What do you think, Commissaire ?”
“Isabelle, if you’re going to advance in the force, you’re going to have to learn patience. Mug shots and lineups are going to get you nowhere except irritating a lot of people. Sit and wait and let it happen. I’ll be up there before the end of the week.”
Capucine rang off, none too delicately. In the ensuing quiet, the closeness of the cloakroom weighing on her like the claustrophobic sanctity of a church confessional, she realized that she had done more harm in the last few seconds of the call than whatever good she had achieved in the rest. Why? Because Isabelle had expressed exactly the same frustration Capucine was feeling? Or did she genuinely feel she needed to smooth out Isabelle’s rough spots to make her viable for the promotion? The only thing she was sure of was that her duty lay in Paris, not in the damned cloakroom.
CHAPTER 16
That night Capucine slept badly. Exceedingly badly. At two in the morning she woke with a start, fleeing a nightmare. She had been dating two boys who were identical twins. She thought neither knew she was seeing his brother but wasn’t entirely sure. Even though she couldn’t tell them apart physically, their personalities were entirely different: one was a spendthrift party boy and the other was serious and committed to a meaningful life. Every time she would go out with one of them, she writhed in fear that it was actually the sibling, who had been sent as a joke. But when her father opened the door to let the boy in, he immediately knew which one it was and greeted him by name without the slightest hesitation. Her father became her main anxiety. She suspected he was in on the game and it was part of his plan to control her life. She detested his obsession with appearances, good taste, and manners, but both her beaux told her she was even more obsessed with superficialities than her father. She wanted desperately to explain they were wrong but didn’t dare, because she was terrified of being caught out not knowing which twin she was speaking to.
Capucine huddled up next to Alexandre and put her hand on the roundness of his stomach. The world fell back into focus. She was on vacation. It was not as relaxing as it was supposed to be, true, but she was still on vacation. It was important that she make that vacation a success. That was an important goal. A responsibility, in fact. She decided the next day they would do something fun. Something really fun. Not necessarily fun for her but fun for Alexandre. He was the center of her life, after all. She would focus on him and stop fussing. She settled into a deep, untroubled sleep.
She came down early and breakfasted in the petit salon with Oncle Aymerie, leaving Alexandre to complete his grasse matinée—his lazy morning in bed. The torment of the night was long gone. Rosy fle
cks of early morning sun danced on the moat. Bone china and silver flatware tinkled cheerfully like oriental prayer bells. Neither spoke. Oncle Aymerie had never tolerated chatter at his breakfast table, unless, of course, he initiated it.
When he had finished his second piece of toast and was adding milk to his third cup of coffee, Oncle Aymerie looked critically at his niece.
“You don’t seem to have slept well, ma nièce. Is something bothering you?”
Capucine constructed what she hoped was a radiant smile. “Au contraire, mon oncle, I’m delighted to be back at the château. And I’m so glad you’re getting to know Alexandre. We’re having a wonderful time. We really are.”
Oncle Aymerie scowled at her, lips pursed and brow wrinkled. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. I’ve turned your needed rest into a busman’s holiday,” he said.
Capucine put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t think that, mon oncle. We really are having a wonderful time. And I had a brainstorm this morning,” Capucine said, encouraging her enthusiasm into a trot with spur and whip. “I thought I’d take Alexandre on a tour of local producers of the three famous Norman cheeses and, of course, Calvados and that stuff, you know—what’s it called?—when it’s part Calvados and part pear alcool.”
“Domfrontais,” Alexandre said, striding into the petit salon. “Now, this is the sort of conversation that makes for a healthy breakfast.”
“Bonjour, Alexandre. You’ve come at exactly the right moment. Capucine is planning a gastronomic tour of a Normandy that I’m sad to say no longer exists,” Oncle Aymerie said.
“A tour of a Normandy that no longer exists? That sounds like something out of a science fiction novel.”
Oncle Aymerie chuckled happily. He had finally tuned in to the wavelength of Alexandre’s humor.
“She has a notion of taking you to see the producteurs fermiers of Pont l’Evêque, Camembert, and Livarot. I think she has visions of cheerful paysans and their round wives making cheese in their barns. Sadly, that ended in the fifties, when the industrial producers took over.” He paused and took a reflective bite of toast.
Alexandre knew better than to interrupt.
“Look at what’s happened to our Camembert, once the pride of Normandy. Now it’s all made in giant factories that also make Pont l’Evêque and Lord knows what else. The artisanal producers and their beautiful cheeses are long gone.” He shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid you’re all too right,” Alexandre said. “I wrote a piece last year about industrial Camembert. The decisive buying factor in supermarkets is the feel of the cheese. The little boxes are made to be easy to open to encourage customers to squeeze. Of course, the cheese is adjusted chemically for perfect squeezability, same way car doors are made to sound solid when slammed in the showroom. No artisanal producer can compete with that.”
Alexandre buttered a huge piece of country-bread toast and slathered it with acacia honey.
“But in France there will always be a culinary underground,” he continued. “It just so happens I know a man who really does make artisanal Livarot. He made a killing in the dot-com bubble and retired when he was thirty, just before it burst. His parents had been artisanal producers before industrial production took over, and he was so sick of life in the fast lane, he moved back in with them and refinanced their little business, with him doing all the hard work, of course. Now he’s making another fortune selling his cheese at fabulous prices to the Paris restaurants. I’d love to pay him a visit,” he said, smiling at Capucine.
“And there’s a family just outside of Domfront who have been in business for six generations, working their seven acres of orchard. They refuse to grow, even though some of their older bottles now sell for prices well into the five figures at auction. While we’re down there, we could pay a call on them as well. Darling, your idea is absolutely épatant. You’re a genius! But we need to get a move on. Domfront is a good hour and a half away, and you can never make up lost drinking time, right, Oncle Aymerie?”
CHAPTER 17
Despite his well-worn blue workers’ overalls and hint of barnyard miasma, Alain Cochenet wasn’t altogether convincing in the role of the last producteur fermier of Livarot cheese. From the neck up he remained the Paris intellectual techie with a luminous green and purple silk neckerchief, unmistakably from Turnbull & Asser in Piccadilly, and a well-scrubbed face fluorescent with recondite learning.
Overjoyed to see Alexandre, Cochenet embraced him as if he were a long-lost cousin. “No one from Paris ever comes to see me anymore,” he said plaintively but cheered immediately. “Let’s go over to the house. I’ll introduce you to the parents, we’ll have a little drop of something, and then we’ll go pay a visit to my little darlings.”
“You must have found it quite an adjustment to move back in with your parents,” Capucine said.
Cochenet stared at her, attempting to define his new world. “Au contraire, sometimes late at night I do have a yen for slick restaurant dinners and all-night club bashes, but Paris was nothing compared to what I have here. I’m finally doing something genuinely fulfilling. And,” he said, leaning toward Capucine confidentially, “I was déboussolé without my parents—a boat without a compass, sailing in circles.”
“You all live together in this house?” Capucine asked with barely disguised incredulity.
“Of course we do. And Mama spoils us with her delicious cooking. Tonight we’re having râbles de lapin à la normande,” he said, walking in and smiling lovingly at his parents. “You know, saddle of rabbit cooked in cider with lots and lots of onions. Nothing beats the old peasant dishes.”
Capucine suppressed a grimace.
Twenty minutes later father and son steered them to an ancient barnlike outbuilding listing so conspicuously that collapse seemed imminent. “Of course,” Cochenet said, “my father is the éminence grise. He knows all there is to know about Livarot and then some, don’t you, Papa?” He smiled warmly at his father, who slipped his arm through his son’s. With perfect complicity, the two led the way into the building.
Inside, the fruits of Cochenet fils’ checkbook were clearly in evidence. Stainless steel gleamed; electric motors hummed; a handful of workers in white coats strode around purposefully.
“It all starts in these big vats. The caillage—curdling—is done with enzymes from something called rénette, a product made from calves’ stomachs. Ours comes from Charolais calves bred in a small élevage just up the road and is made using a few secrets that only my father knows.”
The father blessed his son with a paternal smile.
“Next comes the rompage.” They moved into a room that was almost uncomfortably warm. “The curd is cut so it matures more quickly.” The air was pungent with wood smoke. “We hang on to our leaky old stove. The smoke is a component of our cheese’s complexity.
“Then comes the égouttage—where the curds are drained before they go into the moulage and are put up in molds. That happens down here,” he said, leading the way down a precipitous, rickety staircase into a chilly cellar.
“We still use the wooden molds that have been in the family for generations. Industrial manufacturers use steel ones. One more element of our distinctive flavor.
“The cheese matures in here for four months and acquires its orange robe from natural bacteria. The industrial producers can’t control the process, so they use something called ‘annatto,’ which comes from Latin America.”
“Oui, c’est vrai. L’Amérique latine!” said Cochenet père, widening his eyes at this substantiation of the insanity of the modern age.
“It’s evil stuff. Gives the cheese a nasty artificial tint and has a distinct peppery flavor.” He shook his head in distaste.
“When the cheeses are finally ready, we tie them up with five bands of bulrush, pop them in their little boxes, stick our label on top, and ship them out. That’s all there is to it!”
“Except for the fact that you’ve taken one of the oldest cheeses in Franc
e to new heights. Livarot Cochenet has pride of place on more than one three-star cheese tray,” Alexandre said.
Both father and son beamed.
When Capucine and Alexandre finally made it back to the Clio, they discovered that a small crate of twenty-five cheeses had been put in the baggage area behind the rear seat. Protestations and offers of money were useless.
“Put it in the cellar of the château and dip into it slowly. Another three months of affinage will make it even better,” Cochenet said.
The Clio didn’t have a trunk, just an empty area behind the rear seat. As they drove off, the car filled pleasantly with the earthy pungency of Livarot.
“You know, when you get right down to it, this is turning into the best day we’ve had on this trip,” Capucine said. “It’s because we’re far away from those killings and all that fuss. I made a great mistake getting involved, didn’t I? We should probably just forget all about it and go right back to Paris, don’t you think?”
“Don’t be silly,” Alexandre said. “You know perfectly well we’re not going back to Paris. You’ve started your hare and now you have to run him to ground.” He scrunched up his nose in distaste. “But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to be more difficult than you think.”
“Is that what you’re wrinkling your nose at? Don’t be silly. I’ll have this thing solved in no time.”
“Actually, it’s the cheese. It’s getting decidedly whiffy in here. Do you think you could roll down your window?”
The open windows had no effect at all. Mercifully, they made it to the Lemonnot domain in seventeen minutes flat.
As they pulled up into the rock-strewn courtyard, three generations of Lemonnots ambled out to greet them: Jean, alert and wiry in his seventies; his son, Pierre, in his forties, just beginning to develop a managerial paunch; and Frédéric, a twelve-year-old clearly awestruck by Alexandre. Capucine suspected that Alexandre’s influence in the culinary world had been overdramatized. All three wore jeans, sweatshirts, and brown rubber boots.
Crime Fraiche Page 9
