Angélique was on her knees on the narrow sidewalk. She must have been jostled in the attempt to get at Inès.
“Corsican separatists,” someone said.
“That brutal Florence shoved me,” Angelique wailed. “Capucine, if you’d told me there would be violent dykes on this trip, I’d never have come.”
Capucine gently took her arm. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m very much not all right! Look at my knee. It’s bleeding. And my skirt is torn. Not that any of you care. And where’s my husband when I need him? Don’t bother telling me. I know perfectly well what he’s up to, that goddamn philandering cad!”
Inès very gently slipped her arm through Angélique’s. “There’s a pharmacy just at the end of the street. Let’s go there and have them put an antiseptic on your knee. The last thing you want is an infection. These streets are probably alive with microbes. . . .” There was a silent sigh of relief as the two walked down the street, Angélique taking great pains to limp theatrically. The fact that it was Inès who had been in danger was quite forgotten.
The group continued to wander and discovered a miniscule restaurant on the ground floor of a two-window-wide house. From the street it was obvious that there was a magnificent view of the sea. Cell phones were put to use to summon the fort explorers, who trooped in, moved all the tables adjacent to the window together, and ordered apéros of fortified wine. A frisson ran through the group when they realized that they were on the overhang, well out over the sea. Drinks in hand, they amused themselves by leaning as far as they could out the window, attempting, in vain, to see the cliff face below them.
Aude, who had been dispatched down the street to let Angélique and Inès know where the group had gone, arrived with her two wards. Simultaneously, the group from the fort became boisterous, anxious to learn about Inès’s encounter with the Corsican separatists. When everyone was seated, it was noticed that Serge was at the table, too, as if he had materialized from thin air.
“I ran up all those steps, and it took forever to find you,” he said with a sheepish smile.
Ignoring him, Angélique showed off her knee, which was covered in an oversize compress, and summarily instructed the waiter to prepare her a pot of tea from the herbal tea that the pharmacist had given her. With acid cynicism, she asked the group at large, “And, of course, my husband has yet to appear?”
Resuming his Club Med mantle, Serge gushed about the view and, in a confidential whisper, said that he had it on good authority that the food at the restaurant was outstanding.
Alexandre, who had been examining the menu, cocked an eyebrow at him.
The main topic at dinner was the violence of the Corsican separatists, who were famous for blowing up villas owned by the French. Capucine noticed that the waitress was so unnerved by the conversation that she avoided the table. As the main courses were served, Alexandre whispered in Capucine’s ear, “It’s a shame Nathalie had to boat sit. She would have loved this. The ravioli in marinara sauce are going to be worthy of Chef Boyardee himself.”
Serge overheard but misunderstood. “Don’t feel sorry for her. I needed her to top up our supply of provisions”—Alexandre winced—“and the boat needed a thorough cleaning.” He paused awkwardly. “And don’t forget, she’s being paid and we’re on vacation.”
The insipid dinner was served with a particularly muscular Corsican red wine that made up in vigor and alcoholic content what it lacked in quality and subtlety. Halfway through the main courses, vacation hilarity reemerged. At one point, Capucine looked up from Alexandre to discover that Dominique had materialized at the corner of the table, in front of an enormous plate of the Bo-yardeesque ravioli, their red sauce luminescent under a pile of dusty Parmesan cheese.
The conversation veered to the next port of call. The group quickly formed a consensus that the supposedly magnificent Costa Smeralda of the northeast of Sardinia—which had been lavishly developed by the Aga Khan and was now the econiche of movie stars and paparazzi—should be bypassed in favor of a more authentic Sardinia to the south.
Serge announced he had a close friend in Tortoli who owned a fabulous villa and who would be overjoyed to feed them dinner after they had swum on his private beach. The decision to embark at the first light of dawn on a ten- to twelve-hour sail directly to Tortoli was made by acclamation. As was a second decision to descend to the port and have a long series of nightcaps at the so-called hot spot that would have kept them all awake had they been imprudent enough to berth the boat in front of it.
CHAPTER 8
Nathalie stood on the second step of the salon companionway and faced forward, looking over the bow, her eyes flush with the top of the deckhouse, a floating crocodile searching for prey. With slow eyes she followed the group as they walked around the cove. She hated them all, and she hated the boat. They were too rich, too pleased with themselves, too full of self-confidence to be interesting. And the boat was also too rich, too plastic, too fat and sluggish.
As the group started up the long sloping steps leading to the old town, Nathalie grabbed the rim of the overhead hatchway and swung herself onto the salon floor. Time to get to work. The brand-new boat already had the musky aroma of too many people sleeping in a confined space. It made her feel more at home, but she knew they couldn’t stand it. Even at sea they wanted the scent of lavatory pine. Damn them all to a Formica-coated hell.
On her knees, she rooted through the locker under the sink and found a red plastic bucket, a handful of cleaning cloths, and a bottle of nettoyant Carrefour. She mixed a healthy swig of the green liquid with water from the freshwater tap and went into one of the heads to attack the bowl. In the telephone booth–size enclosure the heat was stifling. She thought of turning on the air-conditioning, but it wasn’t worth the effort of going up on deck and starting the engine. Instead, she took off the thin checked shirt she had knotted under her breasts and threw it on the cabin bunk.
This was that cop’s cabin. She sure didn’t look like a cop with her fancy clothes. Still, despite the clothes and the fact that she was a flic, she was not as bad as the others. And her big teddy-bear husband was kind of cute in an odd sort of way. She could see herself with him. She undid the top brass button of her hacked-off jeans and slid her hand down over her belly. She really could see herself with him.
She yanked her hand out, leaving the button undone, and stood up. I wonder if she has a gun, she thought. Flics are supposed to carry even when they’re off duty. At least on TV they are. She rooted though the drawers of Capucine’s locker and found two clips of ammunition but no gun. I wonder where she hides it. Probably in her panties. She laughed and rubbed her abdomen with four fingers, itching to get under the waistband of her cut-off jeans.
I have to stop doing that. I’m doing it at least three times a day. If my mother was right, I’m going to explode in so many pimples, I’ll look like a pizza. What I really need to do is get off this goddamn plastic tub and get a real life.
She heard footsteps coming down the companionway and turned around. It was the painter one. He was probably the worst of all. He couldn’t even think of going up on deck without some fancy outfit that included a silk neckerchief knotted around his neck. What an asshole. Still, those wiry bodies with their stringy muscles could be good if you played them right.
Dominique—that was his name, wasn’t it?—slid around the cabin door and smiled down at her. Even with that stupid thing around his neck, he did have a cute smile.
“They’re making you work while they all go off to play? That hardly seems fair, does it?”
“I’m here for the money, not to socialize.”
Without answering, Dominique ran his finger through the sweat on her collarbone and put it to his lips. Yeah, there was definitely something usable about this one.
“Everyone needs to socialize now and then, don’t you think?”
His finger continued to trace patterns on her upper chest, slowly working down to the gully betw
een her small, hard breasts. She said nothing. He dropped to his knees, and his finger wandered gently downward, past her navel, into the gap left by the undone button of her shorts.
With his other hand he grabbed her wrist, stood up, attempted to lead her to the bunk.
“Not here. Come with me.”
They climbed up the companionway, crossed the deck, then dropped down the forepeak hatch into her coffin-size cuddy.
He was like a rangy animal. As she reached up to latch the hatch, he yanked off her shorts, threw her down on the narrow bunk, and was at her like a jaguar. It took less than a minute. No wonder they call it la petite mort—the little death. She screamed, the release liberating. The world came back into focus, glorious, filled with sunshine and hope and joy. She sighed happily.
But he was not finished. He pounced on her, rougher than ever. He dragged her off the bunk, flipped her over the spinnaker bag that filled half her coffin-size cabin, her butt at the apex of the pile.
She started to say no—she hated it there; it hurt; it had a terrible impact on her intestines. But it was too late. He was already halfway in. There was a sharp pain. Then she forced herself to relax and felt almost nothing.
It was over in seconds. She felt the liquid ooze within her. He withdrew with a jerk, smirking, proud of himself, leaving her deflated and depressed. She couldn’t even muster the energy to get mad.
“All right, you can get the fuck out now. I have to get to work and clean your crappy plastic boat and then go buy provisions so you can get sozzled and eat your delicious meals.” The hollowness of her complaint depressed her even further.
Marking his disdain, he touched a finger to his lips and placed it gently between her legs. He stood up, slipped into his clothes, knotted his ridiculous kerchief with ridiculous care, slipped out of the cuddy. She burned with desire to let him experience a spinnaker pole whacked hard upside his ear. Instead, she downed what was left of a quarter bottle of cheap cognac in two gulps, stood up on the bunk, and hurled the empty at the next boat over, gratified by the visible dent it left in the gel coat.
Wouldn’t life be perfect without the need for men?
CHAPTER 9
By ten o’clock that night the crew was exultant in the B’52, the bar-nightclub opposite the berth Serge had initially targeted. Even at that early hour, the noise level made conversation all but impossible. There was no doubt it was the town’s hottest spot. Hemmed in by writhing, gyrating golden youths, they drank the club’s namesake drink, flaming B’52s, claimed to be made with only three painstakingly poured layers of Kahlúa, Baileys Irish Cream, and Grand Marnier, which were then set alight to produce an evanescent blue flame, dramatic in the almost pitch-black room.
With histrionic brio Serge downed his drinks into an open mouth, oblivious to the pain. The only one who showed the slightest interest was Alexandre, who looked quizzical for a moment and then disappeared behind the bar.
When he returned, he whispered in Capucine’s ear, “Just as I thought, the bartender pours a layer of well-heated hundred-twenty-proof rhum agricole from Guadeloupe on top. That’s what produces the extravagant flame.”
The evening wore on. Capucine and Angélique were solicited as dance partners. Florence had disappeared from the table and could be seen in the distance, in earnest conversation with the bartender, drinking what looked like chilled Perrier. Aude’s glacial inscrutability discouraged invitations. When slow dances came up, Capucine noticed that Angélique folded herself into Dominique’s arms. Conversation among the nondancers stalled, degenerating into telegraphic utterances that floated out, hanging limply over the table, defying reply. The only one who seemed to be having fun was Dominique, who danced sensuously with his wife while his eyes ping-ponged back and forth among the coterie of well-tanned nymphets in the club.
At twelve Serge stretched, yawned, and looked at his multi-dialed watch. “There’s no hope our crew is going to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on deck at five a.m. tomorrow morning,” he said at large. “The only thing to do is shove off now. Good thing I collected our passports from the capitainerie this afternoon. Let’s have one more drink and get going.”
Twenty minutes later, Serge was doing his best to steer the boat through the narrow gorge by the light of a powerful flashlight he had found in the tool kit after spilling the contents over the salon floor. Even though he was more or less drunk, he had the good sense to drive the boat at a slow speed. One white cliff would appear in the beam of his light, and he would rectify his course, but in no time the opposing wall would appear just as threateningly.
After one particularly close encounter, Florence elbowed Serge away from the wheel, snapped off his light, took the helm, and let the light of the full moon guide her. “Why don’t you all go to bed? I’ll call you if I need anything.”
Serge stretched out on the cockpit settee and fell asleep instantly.
As they went below one by one on unsteady legs, the motor accelerated to cruise speed and the boat became rock hard on a steady course. After a few minutes, those few who were still awake noticed the irritating throb of the engine cease, heard the rattle of the sails going up, felt the boat assume its normal heel, and sensed the natural rhythm of the sea taking over. They were at sea under sail.
At three in the morning Capucine was dragged into a nightmare. She was in a Chinese dungeon, being interrogated by a sinister Fu Manchu–like character with mustaches dangling well below his chin, grinning evilly as he adjusted a device that dripped water on her forehead. She squinted her eyes shut tight. She would never talk, never, never, ever.
“Capucine, wake up.” Water dripped on her face from the hood of Florence’s foul-weather jacket. “I need you on deck. Nathalie’s replacing me, and I want you and Inès on watch with her. You don’t have to do anything. Just keep the conversation going so no one goes to sleep. There are squalls coming. Nathalie can handle herself, but if you think you need me, just come and get me.”
Capucine shook herself awake and bumped into Inès in the salon. They both had foul-weather jackets in their hands.
On deck, the tangy salt of the sea breeze was a tonic. It blew the last of the alcohol out of their systems. Capucine and Inès stood for a moment, breathing deeply, admiring the phosphorescent glow of the bow waves.
Nathalie, at the helm, shot them a belligerent look. The squall had passed through, and the plastic leather of the cockpit settee was slick with water. Both Capucine and Inès spread out their foul-weather jackets over the banquette and sat face-to-face, their legs touching.
The night wore on with the rhythmic swaying of the boat and glimpses of the extravagant panoply of stars through holes in the black clouds. They spoke disjointedly, straining to see if Nathalie was listening. Once she was sure Nathalie was in her own world, Inès launched into a sotto voce plan of attack for Tottinguer, tapping Capucine’s knee point by point for emphasis. As Inès gesticulated, her jacket fell on the deck at the foot of the settee.
Nathalie groaned to herself. Goddamn that fucker. I knew this would happen. She clutched at her lower abdomen and moaned again. I’ve been in the head the whole fucking afternoon. And for what? She flicked a switch on the column of the wheel, activating the autopilot, doubled over at the waist, cursed one more time. The boat steered itself, both wheels jerking back and forth like a vaudeville song and dance number. Heavy drops of rain fell.
Nathalie groaned a deep lament, half moan and half wail. “I told that fucker I didn’t want to do it, but do they ever listen?” she asked herself rhetorically. More drops of rain fell.
Lurching, she picked up Inès’s jacket, shrugged it on, flipped the collar up, and turned her torso to face Capucine. Thunder crackled in the distance. “I’ll be back in a sec. Don’t worry. The boat will take care of herself.” She ran across the deck and disappeared into the dark.
Five minutes later Inès began to fidget. “Where is she?”
“She went up there to have a pee. She’s probably communing
with nature. She’ll be back. Don’t worry,” Capucine replied.
But after another five minutes, Capucine had lost the strength of her conviction. “Stay here for a moment,” she said to Inès. “I’m going to see if I can find her.” It began to rain in earnest. She slipped on a jacket and inched forward. Thunder cracked so near the boat, it made Capucine jump. A second later, lightning lit up the boat as brightly as a theater stage. The deck was completely deserted. There could be no doubt about that.
Capucine ran back to the stern and extracted the yellow horseshoe life buoy from its cradle on the rail, along with the attached dan buoy, a six-foot pole with a red flag on top set in a float. Once out of its rack, the life buoy gave off the strong stench of human urine, overpowering the clean ozone smell of the storm. A good number of beer-soaked males must have peed over the stern, hanging on to the whiplike pole for support. As soon as the dan buoy hit the water, a pulsing strobe began to wink. In a few seconds it vanished into the oily black night.
Capucine went below and opened the door to Serge’s cabin, half expecting that somehow Nathalie had teleported herself there and was vigorously disporting herself. But Serge lay flat on his back, clad only in the tan shorts he had been wearing in the bar, legs wide apart, mouth slack open, the cabin reeking of stale alcohol.
She shook him awake. “We may have a person overboard.”
He shook his head violently to clear it. “Who?”
“Nathalie.”
Serge jumped out of his berth, pushed Capucine aside, and made for Florence’s cabin, only to discover that Florence was already on her feet at the navigation console. She flicked some switches and raced up the companionway. By the time Capucine returned on deck, it was brilliant with masthead lights and even more conspicuously empty than it had been in the strobe flashes of lightning.
Murder on the Mediterranean Page 5
