“A fib?”
“Yes. Do you remember when my husband and I ran into you at the Salon du Bordeaux?”
“I think I remember. Maybe not.”
“You’d met one of your friends, whom you had taken to Taillevent along with a critic called Druand and Gautier du Fesnay. Does it come back to you now?”
“Oh, that,” Voisin said with a little laugh that sounded doubly hollow because of his dry throat. “That was when we were at university together. I think we splurged and had a superb meal at Taillevent. That must have been what he was talking about.”
“Voisin, this is just not working, is it? Your friend quite clearly stated that it had been six years before. You’re lying and you’re taking me for a fool. You’ve had your chance.” Capucine stood up.
“Momo,” she said sharply.
Momo swung in from his far corner behind Voisin with long muscular sweeps on his crutches.
“Momo, sit here and take over the questioning. I’m going to take the brigadiers out for a coffee. I’m sick of this clown. With no witnesses, I’m sure you can get something out of him before we get back.”
She stood up.
“Wait a minute! Just calm down, Commissaire.” Voisin looked wildly around the room, desperately wishing himself out of there. The pain had taken five minutes to get him to a level of anxiety that would have required over an hour with verbal techniques. There might be something to these enhanced interviews after all.
She sat down again. Momo swung himself back to his invisible corner. Now, on top of everything else, Voisin would be fearing the unexpected blow from behind. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.
“Look, Commissaire, that guy was right. I did have lunch with Fesnay and a bunch of other people at Taillevent. We had just introduced our second wine and I was doing a bit of public relations. That happens all the time. Ask your husband. No need to get shirty about it.”
“If it was a routine PR event, why lie about it?”
“Lie? I’m not lying about anything. Look at it from my point of view, Commissaire. I go to some restaurant with my girlfriend. Someone gets murdered. Someone I knew vaguely years before. What do you think I’d do? Stand up, waving my hand and saying, ‘Over here, Officer. I knew the murdered man. Why don’t you take me in for questioning ?’ Nobody knows anything when the police start asking questions. You know that, Commissaire.”
“The stories always come out after a while. But not from you, Voisin. I want to know why.”
“Commissaire, I told you. I clammed up when your people were asking questions the night of the murder and I wasn’t going to admit it when we talked later. After all, it was hardly important. I knew the man from our lycée days and we’d had lunch six years before he was killed. So what? I mean, really.”
Voisin was finding the logic of his story convincing. Not something he should be doing. She stood up.
“Momo, keep this lying creep company. We’re going for coffee.”
Momo swung up at speed, dropped heavily into Capucine’s chair, and glowered at Voisin. Momo even glowered when he was trying to be friendly. When he didn’t like someone—and he was embarrassed about his ankle—he could be terrifying.
Fifteen minutes later the three detectives returned, laughing happily over the tail end of a story. Capucine carried a thick white porcelain demitasse with the saucer on top to keep the coffee hot. She handed it to Momo.
“I put in three sugars,” she said with a smile. The act was designed to show how excluded the interviewee was from the group solidarity of the police. It was wasted on Voisin. His anxiety level had reached a new peak. Capucine knew Momo hadn’t said a word and had just stared at Voisin, who must have sat trembling, cowering from a blow that never came.
When everyone was back in his seat, Voisin’s anxiety level dropped half a notch.
“Look, Commissaire. Let me tell you how it was.”
Capucine looked at him stone-faced and said nothing.
“I think you know that when we introduced our second wine, the quality was not as good as it is now. A number of highly critical articles appeared. I needed an ally in the press. When we were children I had been quite close to Gautier, but we really did drift apart when we went off to university. I thought that if I could rekindle our friendship, he would be sympathetic to me. Gautier was already quite famous. He could have done a great deal to bolster the new wine.”
“I’m beginning to understand, Guy. This is all about saving the château, isn’t it?”
Voisin paused. “Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I guess.”
“Why was it necessary to kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him,” Voisin said, but in a voice so timid it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Something happened six years ago that threatened the château, didn’t it? I need you to tell me what it was. I know you did what you did to protect the château, but I need to know the details.”
Voisin looked confused. He smoothed his hair with his left hand, grimacing in pain as he stretched to reach the right side. He glanced at the door. He shot a look at David and then Isabelle behind the table.
“I made my mistake by trying too hard and being too honest. I invited Gautier to the château for lunch and a complete tour of the brand-new chai I had built for the vinification of the new wine. Over lunch we got along quite well, just like old times. But when we toured the chai he got aggressive and insisted on sticking his nose into everything and chatting with the workers on his own. It was impossible to stop him without making an unpleasant scene, which was the last thing I wanted. I’m not exactly sure how he did it, but he discovered our little secret.”
“Your secret? And exactly what was that?”
Voisin started to shrug his shoulders and winced at the pain. “I was making wine using a viticultural technique that happened to be illegal in France in those days but under current regulations is now perfectly legitimate. I produced a high-yield white wine and brought in some cheap red from one of our neighbors and mixed the two to make rosé.” Voisin smirked and shook his head in pleasure at his cleverness. “It’s done all over the world. It’s not as good as traditional rosé, but it’s quite drinkable and extremely cheap to produce. Even the government finally had to admit that it’s a viable method.”
“And Fesnay threatened to write about what you were doing?”
“Did he ever! And with what he’d found out he had the power to destroy the château.”
“So you paid him off.”
“He blackmailed me. Not the same thing at all.”
“But you kept on making your rosé by mixing red and white.”
“What else was I going to do? It was selling well and we desperately needed the money.”
“And when your son came to work at the château he also discovered what you were up to?”
“He was supposed to be in charge of marketing but he got interested in the production side as well. He found out how we were making the rosé almost immediately.”
“And he was furious. Furious enough to take it to the family board and have you kicked out. And then he started making the second label the way rosé is supposed to be made.”
“Exactly.”
“So why was Fesnay still a threat?”
“You don’t understand the wine business. The fact that we had done it was more than enough to demolish the château’s reputation. And on top of it all, the way Fesnay would have written about it, I would have come across as the sleazy laughingstock of the industry.”
“But that wasn’t the important part, was it? You killed him to save the château, didn’t you? It’s important for us to make that point clear.”
“Would”—Voisin hesitated—“that reduce my sentence?”
“Magistrates are human, too.”
“You see, he never stopped blackmailing me. In fact, when my son took over, he even increased his demands.”
“That must have been difficult for you with y
our reduced salary.”
“Difficult? I was paying him half of what I earned. Half!” Voisin paused. “But you’re right. I did it for the château, not for me. I’m counting on you to tell them that. The château is my life.”
“How did you kill him?”
“I got lucky. You see, part of Gautier’s routine was that we’d meet for lunch and act like we were the best of friends when I gave him his money. Getting money wasn’t enough for him. He had to watch me squirm as well. At our last lunch he went on and on about Chez Béatrice. He was reviewing it and was going to give it a fabulous writeup. He even told me the date of his last dinner there before he wrote his piece.
“I had an air pistol at the château I’d use on rats. I’ve loved shooting the little beggars ever since I was a kid. Got quite good at it, too.” Voisin mimed shooting with his index and thumb, smiling nostalgically at a life he knew he would never see again.
“So the next time I went to the château I put the gun in the glove compartment of my car and brought it to Paris. Of course, I wasn’t at all sure you could kill a man with an air gun. So when those kids started horsing around at that Brazilian reception I knew it was a gift straight from heaven. I saw them pinch the curare-tipped darts out of the display case and shoot them into the president’s portrait along with all the others. When the kids got bored and wandered off I pulled the curare darts out of the picture, broke them in half, and put them in my pocket.
I used my pocketknife to deepen the hole in the front of one of the air gun’s pellets, scraped some curare from a dart, and packed it in. Turns out it’s damned effective stuff.”
“How did you shoot him?”
“It was right out of a James Cagney movie. I cut a little hole in my suit jacket pocket, stuck the air gun in, and shot him in the neck as I walked by. Nobody noticed a thing.”
“Weren’t you afraid Sybille would see the hole?”
“Sybille?” He shook his head in amazement. “Sybille’s only interested in clothes she can wear. Anyway, the next day I took the coat to the woman at my dry cleaner’s who does reweaving. It was like new after she fixed it.”
He paused, pleased with himself after he had told his story. “You have to admit that it was an effective way to kill someone.”
“That it was. You had me fooled for quite a while.”
CHAPTER 43
Alexandre woke with a start, threw his arm over Capucine’s torso, and pulled her close. Capucine tensed. In a few seconds his arm went limp; he had fallen back asleep. Capucine gently slid out of bed and slipped into her silk robe, knotting it tightly.
In the kitchen she dealt with the wiles of the Pasquini, hoping the coffee would remove the bile of guilt from her throat. Alexandre materialized, hugging her from behind and nuzzling her hair.
“What’s got into you this morning? You never budge before ten,” Capucine asked.
“You escaped. That’s what happened,” he said, fumbling at the silk cord that held her robe shut.
“We don’t have time, chéri. Remember, today’s the day I’m taking you to lunch for a change, and we absolutely can’t be even a minute late. That would spoil everything.”
Alexandre pouted. Something she had never seen him do other than ironically.
As they felt their way down the steep stone steps by the Pont Marie, Jacques chatted easily with Vavasseur, flutes of champagne in hand.
The second Vavasseur caught sight of Alexandre, he retreated to the farthest corner of his stall.
“Just stand here immobile,” Capucine whispered in Alexandre’s ear. “Let him get used to the sight of you. Pretend he’s a scared colt whose confidence you’re going to have to gain.”
“I forgot my sugar cubes in my other jacket. Could you lend me some?” Alexandre whispered back.
“Docteur,” Jacques said fulsomely. “This is Alexandre de Huguelet, Capucine’s husband. He’s a restaurant critic, a highly poached endangered species. I think you’re scaring him.”
“The poaching is over, and I doubt the endangerment is defining,” Vavasseur said. He was gaining confidence, but he wasn’t about to move out of his cubicle.
Jacques went to the riverbank and pulled in a cord, surfacing a squat dark bottle of champagne. He poured out flutes for the two of them and held the bottle up for Alexandre’s approval.
“Krug Clos d’Ambonnay nineteen ninety-five,” Alexandre said, pursing his lips appreciatively. “I should have lunch here more often.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Vavasseur said, moving to a position at the edge of his stall but still clearly outside the periphery of the group. “The setting is at its best in the winter, but that’s a bit of an acquired taste.”
Gradually, with the help of the Krug, they eased into the airy chatter of patrons of a luxury restaurant sipping aperitifs in the garden, letting their appetites blossom before going in to lunch, but Vavasseur continued to remain slightly at arm’s length. The usual riverbank dramatis personae came and went, culminating with the perfectly configured Labrador and his owner, who waved cheerfully.
After the third flute of champagne Jacques announced he was starving. “Let’s see what they gave us today.” There were not one, but two olive drab metal containers as well as a wicker hamper. Jacques opened them all and inserted his nose, sniffing audibly. He then fished out the usual cream-colored menu card and read, proclaiming as if onstage at the Comédie-Française.
“Voilà. To begin with, it would appear we have a choice. We are offered cuisses de grenouilles meunières, fine écrasée de racine de persil, sphères fondantes d’ail doux—frogs’ legs meunière with crushed parsley root and melting spheres of sweet garlic. I thought only tourists ate frogs’ legs but these do smell delicious.” He fanned the aroma toward his nose with an open hand, mocking a gesture dear to Alexandre and most chefs.
“Or,” Jacques continued, “we can have an émincé de coquilles Saint-Jacques sur une betterave jaune assaison-née de caviar, huître en fine gelée de carotte—scallops on a bed of yellow beetroot seasoned with caviar and oysters in a carrot jelly. You know, indecisive as I am, I’m tempted to have a soupçon of both.”
Vavasseur eased cautiously into the perimeter of the group and peered, transfixed, into the two canisters. Food was definitely his opiate.
Jacques continued his reading. “And for the main course, we have a choice of homard bleu rôti dans sa carapace, mitonnée de fruits secs et pomme Granny-Smith—blue lobster roasted in its shell with a sauce of dried fruits and Granny Smith apples. Or ris de veau cuit au sautoir, ragoût de légumes oubliés, cappelletti, perles de persil—sweetbreads with cappelletti, parsley pearls, and a ragout of ‘forgotten vegetables.’ I love that phrase, sounds like a girl I used to know at the lycée. No, not you, chère cousine, so stop pouting.” His braying cackle echoed under the arch of the bridge.
The festive mood had been created. They arranged the luncheon table using Vavasseur’s nightstand, his chair, and another borrowed from the next stall over. Capucine and Vavasseur sat on the bed, Alexandre and Jacques on the chairs.
They decided to stage a tasting menu and eat all four of the dishes. Jacques delegated the honors of the wine to Alexandre who, ecstatically, discovered three bottles of a 2005 Laville Haut-Brion, at precisely the right temperature in quilted-foil sleeves.
They started with the scallops and moved on to the frogs’ legs, which proved to be extremely delicate with the merest hint of sweet garlic and herbs, bearing not the slightest resemblance to the greasy fried horrors reeking of garlic usually served to foreigners.
Elegantly sucking the bones of a frog’s leg, Jacques considered Capucine through his eyelashes with his mocking, knowing smile.
“Cousine,” he said, “the entire purpose of this lunch was for you and Docteur Vavasseur to reveal your legerdemain to the uninitiated. I’m not sure who’s the prestidigitator and who’s the assistant but you’re both going to have to sing for your suppers.”
Vavasseur reco
iled in alarm.
“I understood I was to be fed twice a day, no matter what. I didn’t know there were conditions.”
“Of course there aren’t. Definitely not! Your meals are as assured as the rising and setting of the sun. That was just an ill-chosen turn of phrase. I’m just keen to find out how you two figured out who the murderers were.”
Vavasseur threw up his hands in mock surrender. “All I did was make a few observations. I’m quite sure I learned much more from Commissaire Le Tellier than she did from me.”
“No, no, Docteur, without you—”
“Let’s not have a scrimmage of politesses, cousine. I want to know how you knew it was that dykie girl, Béatrice Whatsherface?”
Capucine scowled at Jacques’ double-barreled rudeness. A few traces of affection for Béatrice still lingered.
“As it happened, the juge d’instruction was quite right. The key to the case was profiling. But it took a good bit of flat-footed flic work, too.
“Docteur Vavasseur explained that the big Other, the force that prevents the patient from reaching his Mirror Image and attaining his fulfillment, is an authority figure, most often the father, but not necessarily. So it was clear that some sort of conflict with authority was the cornerstone to the profile, quite possibly a rebellion against parental dominion.
“He also pointed out that since the killings were symbolic acts, the audience was key. And what better audience than the police, who are connoisseurs in murder? So from the beginning we were looking for someone who had had difficult relations with his or her parents and was abnormally interested in the police’s progress on the case.
“At first we thought it was a locked-room situation and the murderer must be someone who had been both in the dining room of Chez Béatrice and also at the Brazilian reception. Of course, as the murders progressed, it could have been anyone, but there was such a feeling of intimacy about it all that I had a very strong sense it was one of the original suspects.”
Killer Critique Page 29
