Capucine felt a sharp pang of guilt. If she had the slightest skill at her job, she’d already have the killer behind bars. But instead, she was playing a waiting game, counting on the killer to make a mistake. But even though the killer had winked at her, she was not even close to an arrest.
Compounding her feeling of guilt, Alexandre seemed utterly oblivious to his new appeal. Serene, he guffawed and chortled happily with his cronies, delighted to be splashing in the bath of his element.
As they approached the Château Haut-Brion table Capucine heard a shriek.
“But it’s Commissaire Capucine! Darling, let’s go have a drink with her.”
At the egregious solecism of “having a drink” when referring to the holy ambrosia of Bordeaux, Alexandre scowled, raising both eyebrows, turning to identify the source of the unbridled philistinism. When he identified the author, his eyebrows elevated to even greater heights.
“Dear,” Capucine said to Alexandre, “let me introduce Mademoiselle Sybille Charbonnier and Monsieur Guy Voisin.”
Alexandre took Sybille’s hand, bent slightly from the waist, and performed a perfectly executed baisemain, air kissing the back of her hand with his lips a good two inches away from any contact with skin. Sybille giggled, wrinkling her nose like a preteen. Capucine was impressed. Alexandre seemed so taken by Sybille’s pulchritude that he completely lost sight of the stricture that baisemains were absolutely not to be bestowed on maidens.
“Mademoiselle,” Alexandre said, “I am a great admirer of your thespian assets. They are truly exceptional.”
He turned suavely to Voisin. “Monsieur, I’m an equally great admirer of Château de la Motte. Actually, I think we’ve met once or twice. You know, we were just tasting a Château de Parenchère clairet and I was telling my wife that despite it’s reputation, it can’t hold a candle to your wine.”
“The last time I had the honor to speak with madame,” Voisin said with a wry but friendly smile, “she told me that you were very critical of my second wine, Le Chevalier de la Motte.”
“Mais non, mais non, pas du tout,” Alexandre said, taking Voisin by the arm and leading him off fraternally, their kinship as colleagues in the same métier fully established. As they sauntered away, Capucine heard Alexandre saying, “Mon cher Voisin, bulls are expected to run after toreadors when they wave their capes, n’est-ce pas? But the bull doesn’t bear the matador any ill will at all. He’s just doing his job. It’s the same with food critics. If we weren’t critical, we’d merely write recipes, and who would read that?” They both laughed tipsily.
Capucine and Sybille followed twenty feet behind.
“This is the most boring afternoon I’ve spent in years! Decades even!” Sybille said. “These people all look like undertakers. And this stuff they drink. No wonder they spit it out. I’d kill for a yac and Coke or a Malibu and ginger. Even a glass of champagne would be better than this crap.”
She pouted, dragging her heels as she walked.
“I know what! I think I have four, maybe even eight, lines of blow left in a my bag. Let’s find a john and do a few bumps and see if we can make ourselves feel a little better.”
“Don’t forget I’m a police officer,” Capucine said with a smile.
“Police officer, smolice officer. You’re my copine. I know you are. Come on, it’s Saturday. I can’t snort alone. That’s just too triste. If I take Guy, he’ll want to do that ghastly pretend-sex charade of his, and I couldn’t handle that after all this boredom. At least come and keep me company.”
Despite herself Capucine chortled delightedly. She imagined Isabelle’s reaction and exploded into laughter. Automatically, Sybille joined in.
“You two seem to be in high spirits,” Voisin said. He had broken away from the clutch around a tasting table. Catching sight of Sybille, half the group joined him, surrounding her. As if a switch had been thrown, Sybille abandoned the petulant tween role she had been playing for Capucine and assumed the persona of a smoldering vamp. The group thrummed.
Alexandre appeared by Capucine’s side and whispered in her ear, “I’ve had about as much Bordeaux as I can take for one day. Let’s get out of here. What if we went and drank something nice and strong and then went to dinner and played footsie under the table?”
“Sybille has been dying to find someone to take her out for a Malibu and ginger ale.”
“That might be a bit more than I could handle.”
A man pushed into the circle, grabbed Voisin’s upper arm, and began hammering him with loud bonhomie, clearly a performance for Sybille’s benefit. The man winked salaciously at Sybille and intensified his kidding of Voisin to underscore the depth of their intimacy.
“Voisin, no wonder your wine is always in the papers. You’re a shameless suck with journalists. I’ll bet you Huguelet here will have nice things to say about you in tomorrow’s Monde. ”
Creases appeared in Alexandre’s forehead and between his brows, the closest he ever came to a frown.
The man continued on relentlessly. “And remember that time that you took me to lunch at Taillevent with Druand from the Nouvel Obs and that other guy—what’s his name?—the one from Le Figaro, Gautier du Fesnay? I’ll bet you got a ton of press out of that.”
Sybille slid her foot back and forth impatiently on the floor. She tugged on Voisin’s sleeve. “Chéri, could you help me find the ladies room? I”—and she lowered her voice to a clearly audible stage whisper—“desperately need a pee.”
“Of course, my little pet,” Voisin said. “I think it’s right down there.”
As Voisin and Sybille trotted off, whispering to each other, Alexandre asked Capucine, “Ready for our drink and early dinner?”
“Very ready. Let’s do something a little démodé. How about the Ritz?”
“Their garden bar would be delightful.”
“I was thinking their somber little Hemingway Bar. We could get tiddly on outrageously expensive brown things.”
“Celebrating, are we?”
“Au contraire, I’m going to drown my sorrow over my obtuseness at having missed the obvious for so long and also try to find the Dutch courage I’m going to be needing so desperately.”
CHAPTER 35
As luck would have it, the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz had been taken over by a book signing. The small, almost oppressively intimate room was packed to the bursting point with a high-spirited crowd, who were funneling thirty-euro cocktails down their throats as fast as the bottlenecks of their esophaguses allowed. The instant Capucine and Alexandre peered through the door they were aspirated into the melee as if by an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner.
Clutching Alexandre’s elbow, Capucine found herself shoved roughly up against the oak bar by the press of the crowd. The serene face of the Hemingway Bar’s celebrity bartender twinkled down at them convivially.
“Monsieur and Madame de Huguelet. How good to see you again. What will be my pleasure to serve you?”
“The mood is exasperation. You decide,” Capucine said. The bartender was famous for his ability to concoct a drink that perfectly matched the drinker’s humor.
The bartender returned in a minute and reverently placed two martini glasses in front of them. “Picasso martinis,” he said. “Guaranteed to evaporate exasperation. The secret is to have the gin—only Tanqueray Number Ten will do—at precisely sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit and then insert a small cube of frozen Noilly Prat vermouth.”
By conventional standards, the martini was impossibly warm. Cool rivulets of melting vermouth lapped at their lips as they sipped. But, as promised, Capucine’s exasperation did seem to volatilize.
Capucine insisted to herself her protean mood shift had nothing to do with the drink. She had finally reached a decision.
“Picasso? Because of the cube?” Capucine asked the bartender.
“Of course,” he said, with an engaging smile.
“Don’t be so judgmental, Dear. It’s a great pleasure to drink a cocktail
that allows you to taste the content and doesn’t threaten to crack your teeth,” Alexandre said.
They took their martinis and explored the room. The author was a shy young woman whose only distinguishing feature seemed to be her oversized, perfectly round, jet-black sunglasses. Capucine picked up a copy of her book, which turned out to be a mystery novel, and flipped through the pages. Every third word seemed to be a shocking profanity. She decided it was exactly the sort of thing Gaël Tanguy should read at the beach, assuming, of course, he ever went to the beach. The thought brought her back to the beatitude of her decision.
“Let’s go have a quiet drink in the garden. I need to hear tinkly ice cubes and bask in summer quiet.”
In the garden Alexandre and Capucine sat at a table covered in a floral print with matching cushions tied on to white painted wrought iron furniture. The area was dotted with brand-new reproductions of Greek sculpture and potted shrubs so perfectly trimmed and maintained they seemed to be made of plastic. It was so quiet she could hear birds chattering complaints at each other as they quarreled over crumbs on the marble tiles.
Alexandre seemed mesmerized by the change in scene. As their gin and tonics arrived—never mix grape and grain was one of Alexandre’s canonic maxims—Capucine made off to the interior section of the bar without word of excuse. She never ceased to marvel at the sanctity with which all males seemed to regard the manifold imperatives of women’s “plumbing,” even in this age of pugnacious obliteration of all taboos.
The over-elegant bar with its pale wood and tapestry paneling was completely deserted. Capucine flipped open her cell phone and pressed Jacques’ speed dial. Despite her love for her cousin, she gritted her teeth.
“I’m happy to see my delicious older cousine is developing such very round heels,” he said once she had made her request. “I have erotic visions of you lying on your back on that good doctor’s bed.” The cell phone emitted a high feedback whine Capucine knew was his full-volume braying.
“Jacques, be serious. This man is enormously helpful. I think I’m about to close in on this killer but I definitely need Vavasseur’s advice.”
Jacques became mock serious. “As you wish, my dear. Tomorrow it is then.” He paused. “I have noticed, though, that your embonpoint seems to be developing at an extraordinary rate with all these lunches. I think a déjeuner minceur is going to be in order, n’est ce pas?”
Capucine hung up on him.
As she minced down the treacherous stone steps the next day, she found Vavasseur waiting for her wearing a warm smile.
“They no longer tell me you’re coming. They just deliver an extra large food container. I think I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the pleasure of your visits.” He dropped his head and stared dejectedly at the rough paving stones. “I suppose that’s a very bad thing for an analyst.” Mercurially, he brightened. “But it’s true I enjoy your visits very much. And, of course, they do excel themselves with the wine when you come. Actually, the food is considerably better too.” He beamed.
Capucine wondered if Vavasseur’s fascination with fetishes stemmed entirely from Lacan. He seemed to have a rather pronounced food fetish of his own. Of course, who was she to gainsay. It was his tip about those fetishes that had solved the murder for her, wasn’t it?
Anxious as she was to air the issue that had brought her, Capucine knew that if she jostled the luncheon ritual, she stood the risk of losing Vavasseur to his shell.
She let him proceed with the elaborate ceremony of clearing off his bedside table, pulling up the chair, and creating a seating for two. Then he carefully snapped open the olive drab container and extracted a cream card with the menu in a florid italic hand. Capucine wondered if the DGSE actually had a calligrapher on its payroll.
“They’ve spoiled us today. Pan fried sea bream on an étouffé of young leeks.”
“Sea bream, what a coincidence. I was at Rungis the other day buying kaimin katsugyo sea bream.”
Vavasseur recoiled in horror. “These fish can’t be Japanese.” He began to tremble. The card fell out of his hand.
“Of course not, Docteur. Sea bream is a Mediterranean fish. It’s as French as ... as ... tarte Tatin. I was talking about something else entirely.”
“Tarte Tatin,” Vavasseur said, reassuring himself. Cradling himself with the phrase, he said it again. “Tarte Tatin. ”
“Did they send us a nice wine, Docteur?” Capucine asked, as if speaking to a child.
Vavasseur rummaged through the container.
“They have! They have indeed,” he said delightedly. “A two thousand six Joseph Drouhin, Bâtard-Montrachet. They’ve outdone themselves. I never get anything like this when you’re not here. You must come more often. You really must.” The gaffe about Japan had metabolized. Still Vavasseur’s phobia of Japan intrigued her. She chalked it off as one of life’s many mysteries that would never be unveiled.
The squall had passed, and the sun shone as Vavasseur bustled happily with his luncheon preparations, putting out plates, sampling the wine, and finally devoting his whole being to the meal.
Capucine had to admit it was not only delicious but undoubtedly slimming. As they finished, as if on cue, the neighbor from across the river emerged from his packing crate and began his day with his picture-perfect Labrador. They both waved enthusiastically and were waved back at with equal enthusiasm. The sun became heavy. The river scent rose, pleasantly musky. The stillness of the heat drew their minds to the Midi with its clink of steel boules and licorice fragrance of pastis.
“Could I tempt you with a little Ricard?” Vavasseur asked.
“Do you read minds as well as heal them?”
“One can’t do one without the other.
“You think you came back to discuss the murderer, but it’s really something else that’s troubling you deeply that you want to talk about, non?” he asked, dropping half-melted ice cubes from the food container into two tumblers holding an inch and a half of the clear dark yellow liquor. Like a magic trick, as the ice melted, the liquid turned as opaque and white as milk. Vavasseur tipped the container and filled the tumblers with melted ice water. “Tchin-tchin,. Vive l’été!” he toasted, touching his glass to hers.
“I’ll never be able to drink this while lying on my back,” Capucine said. “Do I really have to lie down?”
“I think we’ve progressed beyond that. So tell me, what’s bothering you?”
Capucine sat up straight. “You were right. It only took one more murder for me to understand who the killer is. And, of course, the fetishes were the key.”
“Congratulations. They should have sent us some champagne.”
“Identifying the identity of the murderer is hardly the same thing as being able to make an arrest.”
“Ahhh. That’s a professional concern. Instead, why don’t we talk about why it’s such a personal issue?”
“I’d like to very much, but first I need to understand the role of the poison a little better.”
Vavasseur nodded and then looked out over the river, stroking the wattle under his chin, saying nothing for what seemed like an inordinately long time. Just as Capucine thought he had lost interest in the conversation, he spoke.
“Yes, of course. I understand why that’s so important to you. The complexity here is that we are trying to understand the psychology of someone we have never met. So nothing can be sure. We can only deal with the likely, not the reality. Will that be enough?”
“In the country they like to say, ‘If you don’t have a dog, you hunt with a cat.’ ”
“I think we can do better than that. I suspect your real question is whether or not the murderer would let the poison do the killing. Is that it?”
“Of course.”
“The poison completes the mise-en-scène for the killer. The victim must be extinguished in the act of committing his crime, in other words, while he is judging. But he must also be punished, at least symbolically, by the substance of what he is
judging, which is to say food.”
“And why, other than in the first murder, has the death never been from poisoning?”
Vavasseur lost himself in the river and his wattle again. After a long minute he returned.
“The real question is, would the killer kill with poison alone? And the answer must be, yes, if the opportunity presented itself. But it must be very difficult to introduce poison into a restaurant meal.”
“That’s not at all what I hoped you would say.”
“I’m aware of that. But let’s address what is really bothering you. The conviction to do what you know you must do. Isn’t that it?”
Capucine downed her Ricard and thrust her glass awkwardly at Vavasseur. “Do you think I could have another ?”
As he poured out another Ricard, he said, “The gestalt of the altruistic avenger has been central to Western culture from Homer to Mickey Spillane. It also happens to be the gestalt you have chosen for yourself. Surely you understand that one of the tenets of the model is that the altruism be without limit.”
Tears filled Capucine’s eyes.
It was a good thing that Vavasseur did not charge by the hour, because the session lasted until well after a rather large man in a loose-fitting dark suit came down the steps with another container of food.
CHAPTER 36
Nearly a month went by. The exhilaration of early summer—with its warm, heady breezes beckoning to the world of café terraces and leisurely walks in the parks—was overcome by the oppressively leaden heat of midsummer. Paris drooped and grumbled, counting the sultry, dusty days until it could finally flee to its grandes vacances.
Capucine took to seeing Vavasseur three times a week or more. The level of the river lowered daily. Weed-slimy stone steps now had to be descended to retrieve wine bottles held by their cords in the shrunken Seine. The aroma of river and bank blossomed, its muskiness, sharpened by an ammoniac tang of urine.
Killer Critique Page 23
