Authors: Alexander Campion
Crime Fraiche (15 page)
CHAPTER 23
A
lexandre was in seventh heaven. As he had explained to Capucine, the last time they were at the Vienneaus, he had been torn away from “Loïc’s Ali Baba cavern of cattle kitscheries,��� and now he was making up for lost time. Having exhausted the pleasures of the table behind the sofa, Alexandre had now expanded his horizons to include the whole vastness of the immense sitting room. And he was well rewarded. On a side table he had come across a cow’s hoof skillfully made into a silver inkwell. A little farther on he joyfully discovered a lamp that emerged from the back of a porcelain figurine of a cow. In no time at all he found that pulling the cow’s tail not only turned the lamp on and off but also caused the contraption to emit a melodic mooing sound. As the three other people in the room turned their heads toward the noise, Capucine directed a warning moue at Alexandre. She had recognized the overinflated-balloon look of suppressed mirth, always a danger sign with Alexandre.
lexandre was in seventh heaven. As he had explained to Capucine, the last time they were at the Vienneaus, he had been torn away from “Loïc’s Ali Baba cavern of cattle kitscheries,��� and now he was making up for lost time. Having exhausted the pleasures of the table behind the sofa, Alexandre had now expanded his horizons to include the whole vastness of the immense sitting room. And he was well rewarded. On a side table he had come across a cow’s hoof skillfully made into a silver inkwell. A little farther on he joyfully discovered a lamp that emerged from the back of a porcelain figurine of a cow. In no time at all he found that pulling the cow’s tail not only turned the lamp on and off but also caused the contraption to emit a melodic mooing sound. As the three other people in the room turned their heads toward the noise, Capucine directed a warning moue at Alexandre. She had recognized the overinflated-balloon look of suppressed mirth, always a danger sign with Alexandre.
“I see the herd has followed you into the house, Loïc,” Alexandre said.
Instead of the awkward silence Capucine feared, Marie-Christine giggled happily.
“This is nothing!” she said. “When we were first married, he wanted to have a prize bull that had just died stuffed and put in the foyer.” She squeezed Vienneau, who beamed and looked at her with deep affection.
“I still think it’s a great idea,” Vienneau said. “After all, that famous American cowboy put his stuffed horse in his living room and everyone thought it was very endearing.”
“And his dog as well, sitting alertly by the fireplace for all eternity,” Capucine said.
Marie-Christine smiled joyfully at the exchange, but somehow her happiness had an unreal quality, as if it had been created chemically.
At that moment the Vienneaus’ cook made her curious semaphore signal of opening the kitchen door to signify dinner was ready, and the quartet trooped obediently off to the dining room.
The first course was astonishing in its simplicity, a carpaccio of raw beef sliced so thin it was translucent, seasoned only with salt, pepper, a trickle of excellent olive oil, and a few drops of lemon juice. It was as rich and full tasting as only uncooked beef can be and as unctuous as a slice of poached fish. But the effect was spoiled when Vienneau announced that the meat came from “Moloch, one of the best steers we’ve produced in ages,” and then proceeded to give a lengthy description of the Moloch-in-question’s lineage and astonishing physical conformity to the Charolais standard. Capucine glanced at Alexandre and was dismayed to see he wore the highly artificial stony face that novice poker players affect when they have been dealt three of a kind. He was an inch away from uncontrollable laughter.
A little later Marie-Christine disappeared into the kitchen to return with a serving dish of tournedos Rossini, an out-of-fashion, overrich recipe involving fillets of beef topped with foie gras, crowned with truffle slices, and splashed with a thick sauce of Madeira and Cognac.
“Moloch redux?” Alexandre asked with exaggerated seriousness.
“Oh, absolutely. Can’t waste a morsel of a creature like that,” Vienneau said.
Capucine broke in rapidly. “So when did you two meet?” she asked with cocktail party gaiety.
“Oh, we’ve been sweethearts since we were students,” Marie-Christine answered.
“Yes,” Vienneau said, taking over the narrative. This was obviously a subject dear to his heart. “We married the summer after I graduated from HEC.” Capucine had no idea he had gone to such a prestigious business school. “We moved into a much smaller house down the road—my parents lived here in those days—and I started working at the élevage.”
“I didn’t know the country at all, I’m a Paris girl, really, but I fell in love with it,” Marie-Christine filled in with the perfect timing of a couple of talking heads spooling out the evening news on TV.
“Then came the hard years.” Vienneau had the microphone again.
Capucine glanced nervously at Alexandre. He had a very low tolerance for this sort of hyperbole, but he seemed interested enough.
Capucine smiled and raised an eyebrow to encourage Vienneau. “You see,” he continued, “what I told you the other day, you know, about the one-legged great-great-grandfather and all that, is really just the PR version. Of course, the élevage actually has been in the family for generations, but it was never all that big, and the business I inherited from my father was in serious financial trouble. My father had let it run down. I had to improve both the quality and the profit margins.”
“Sounds like a tall order,” Alexandre said. “Excellence and cost control sound mutually exclusive.”
“Loïc is a genius,” Marie-Christine said. “He turned the business around in no time at all.” She blew a kiss across the table to her husband. “He can do anything.”
“Getting the élevage back on its feet was the easy part. The hard part came when we started to become successful. I had to expand the herd, and then I needed to acquire a fleet of refrigerated trucks to make deliveries. That involved building relations with banks and the financial community. It was a whole new world for the élevage. And without Marie-Christine it never would have happened.” Vienneau gave his wife an adoring look and blew her back a kiss.
For a second Capucine thought all this Hallmark gushiness would prompt a comment from Alexandre, but his interest continued apparently unabated. “Weren’t you risking your quality by growing too fast?”
“Ah ha! Ever the journalist. That was the challenge, but we had no choice. The other prestigious élevages were growing and were getting big enough to be able to squeeze us out by cutting prices, so we had to grow to remain viable. But, as it happened, we actually improved our quality,” Vienneau said proudly, spearing a hefty chunk of Moloch with his fork.
Alexandre smiled. “Your beef is the benchmark, no doubt about that,” he said. “There can’t be many top restaurants in France that don’t buy from you.”
“Are you planning on having children?” Marie-Christine asked Capucine.
“I had Chef Jean-Basile Labrousse on the phone from New York just the other day, and he was telling me how much he missed your beef,” Alexandre continued.
“Very definitely. Actually, I think the time may not be too far away,” Capucine said with a secretive smile. “And you?”
“We still supply Diapason, his old Paris restaurant.”
“I’d love to. Particularly now. But we can’t. It’s very sad.”
“How does he like New York? I saw that the
New York Times
gave four stars to Aubade, his new restaurant,” Vienneau said.
New York Times
gave four stars to Aubade, his new restaurant,” Vienneau said.
“He loves everything about it, but he misses Paris enormously. He said he’s lost without your beef. Apparently, American beef has excellent flavor, but it lacks—what did he call it?—some ghastly term, oh yes, ‘mouthfeel.’ ”
“Loïc doesn’t want any?”
“He does, but he can’t. It’s his low sperm count.”
“I know it sounds like a sexual act, but we use the term in the industry here, too. American beef has poor mouthfeel because it’s shot too full of growth hormones. It does wonders for the cattle in small doses, but we can’t use it, because it’s strictly forbidden by the European Community. Our tenderness comes from Normandy grass, not chemicals.”
“Actually, that’s a huge secret,” Marie-Christine went on. “Loïc doesn’t want anyone to know. He thinks it would hurt the élevage. Damage the reputation of the bulls or something. Men can be so funny.”
“For once the EC restrictions are rooted in good sense. Those hormones have appalling side effects.”
“What about adoption?”
“I’d love to, but Loïc won’t commit. He doesn’t even listen when I talk about it. Would you like to adopt a child, dear?”
“Of course, my love, anything you want, anything at all. Just have them send me the bill,” Vienneau said, without breaking stride in his rebuttal of Alexandre’s defense of the European Community’s food regulations.
CHAPTER 24
C
apucine slapped her napkin on the table in irritation. Breakfast had become frankly impossible. She might just as well eat tablets of chocolate in her room and avoid all the aggravation. Once again Gauvin had sidled up with his conspiratorial whisper, “Madame la Comtesse, it’s the police!” This time he had been so melodramatic, she almost believed he might have a blue roadster pulled up at the back of the château for her escape.
apucine slapped her napkin on the table in irritation. Breakfast had become frankly impossible. She might just as well eat tablets of chocolate in her room and avoid all the aggravation. Once again Gauvin had sidled up with his conspiratorial whisper, “Madame la Comtesse, it’s the police!” This time he had been so melodramatic, she almost believed he might have a blue roadster pulled up at the back of the château for her escape.
She picked up the receiver in the cloakroom, fully expecting to hear a breathless Isabelle. Instead, a crisp male voice asked her if she was Commissaire Le Tellier and, on hearing an affirmative answer, asked with icy politeness if she would be good enough to hold for Commissaire Pelletier. The phone went silent with that leaden deadness that foretells a long wait. It didn’t seem that the DCPJ’s largesse ran to upbeat little tunes to keep the caller on hold entertained.
Capucine was so sure the call would be bad news that she let the odors of the cloakroom act like a time machine, sucking her back through a vortex into her childhood. The active reagents seemed to be the sweet wax of Barbour jackets, the even sweeter banana smell of the compound used to jag out shotgun barrels, and an indefinable amalgam of wet wool and leaf mold, overlaid with a soupçon of overripe Camembert, which she traced to a line of venerable wellies standing rigidly at attention against the wall. She was transported to a time when she must have been twelve or thirteen and Jacques had chased her into the cloakroom, screeching, tickling her ribs, pushing her into the coats, and . . .
“Allô. Allô? Capu. Capu! Can you hear me?”
“Damien. Sorry, I put the phone down.”
“No, I apologize for making you wait. I’m having one of those days. Look, as you insisted, I presented your request to the staffing committee yesterday afternoon. They reacted exactly as I thought they would with the usual crap, keep the gendarmerie motivated, no squabbling among services, blah, blah, blah.” He fell silent. She could hear someone speaking to him in the background.
“Listen, Capu, stay on the line. It’s going to take me only a few seconds to deal with this.” The phone fell back into its tomblike silence.
Well, that was definitely that, Capucine said to herself. So much for Jacques’s influence. She was tempted to hang up and let Pelletier call her when he had more time, but as she thought about it, a loden cape she remembered wearing when she was in her teens seized her attention. She had loved the way it swallowed her up until she cast it back like a comic book superhero. She slipped it off its hanger and draped it over her shoulders. She realized that the archaic oak hanger must have swung from the cast-iron bar for at least a hundred years and probably a lot more. She was tempted to spend the rest of her days in the cloakroom. Maybe Gauvin could install a cot.
“Capu, Capu! Are you there!
Merde!
Allô. Allô!”
Merde!
Allô. Allô!”
“Sorry, I’m here.”
“Where was I? Yes, right. Well, they decided you have ‘special insights,’ ”—he gave the words heavy ironic emphasis—“into the two cases we discussed. So they’ve been taken away from the gendarmerie and assigned to you. Voilà.” He paused. “What else?” She could hear him shuffling papers. “Oh yes, the local gendarmerie is to lend you whatever assistance you need, and an order to that effect is being sent to them. But it’s important you ‘liaise cooperatively with them,’ ” he said with more leaden emphasis. “Which means, don’t piss the gendarmes off too much, because the DCPJ doesn’t want to hear any complaints, okay? What else? Ah yes, your vacation has been canceled effective, effective . . .” Capucine could hear the crackle of papers again. “Effective last Monday. Voilà. That’s it.”
“What about the first case?” Capucine asked.
“The first case?” Pelletier asked. She heard papers rattling once more. “The guy who got hit with bird shot while shooting birds? There’s no way in hell that’s not just a plain-vanilla shooting accident. I didn’t even put it on the agenda. Now, listen, Capu, completely off the record, I have a bone to pick with you.
“Let me translate what ‘special insights’ mean in DCPJ jargon. It means you pulled a string. Capu, I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t want to know, but it doesn’t make me proud of you. You used to impress the shit out of me on the commissaire’s course because your integrity set the tone for the way real flics were supposed to act. Shit, it wasn’t just me. You impressed us all. And then you go and do this. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re acting like a corrupt politician, not a cop.” He hung up on her. It suddenly felt oppressively hot in the cloakroom. Capucine tore off the cape and bolted into the hallway.
CHAPTER 25
C
apucine skidded to a stop on the cool cracked marble tiles of the hall, gulping air like a surfacing diver who had gone too deep. How cruel life’s ironies were. Just as her old family was finally beginning to accept her back into the fold, her new one slapped her face. Well, she just wasn’t going to be bothered. That was all there was to it. As she stamped her foot in peevish irritation, she noticed that Odile had left a large picnic basket on the hall table. Two long-necked bottles of Touraine emerged from under the twined-down red check napkin like geese ready to be carted off to market. Of course! How could she have forgotten ? She had made plans to go mushrooming with Alexandre. Her mood lifted like a bubble of noxious gas rising out of a swamp and escaping in the sunlight. The day was going to be a glorious one, after all. This outing was going to be even more fun than the last one.
apucine skidded to a stop on the cool cracked marble tiles of the hall, gulping air like a surfacing diver who had gone too deep. How cruel life’s ironies were. Just as her old family was finally beginning to accept her back into the fold, her new one slapped her face. Well, she just wasn’t going to be bothered. That was all there was to it. As she stamped her foot in peevish irritation, she noticed that Odile had left a large picnic basket on the hall table. Two long-necked bottles of Touraine emerged from under the twined-down red check napkin like geese ready to be carted off to market. Of course! How could she have forgotten ? She had made plans to go mushrooming with Alexandre. Her mood lifted like a bubble of noxious gas rising out of a swamp and escaping in the sunlight. The day was going to be a glorious one, after all. This outing was going to be even more fun than the last one.
But it turned out that you could no more go on the same mushroom jaunt a second time than you could step twice into Heraclitus’s proverbial river.
The start was cheerful enough. Alexandre had filled his cane flask with a single-malt whiskey he had unearthed in the darkest recess of Oncle Aymerie’s liquor cabinet. Odile’s picnic proved to be up to her usual standard of bountifulness. Still, the joyous mood of the previous expedition was just not there. Even the interruption of leaping stags and horsemen in period costumes would have been welcome.
As they sipped Calvados with their coffee, Alexandre asked, “You’re worried about muddying your watering hole, is that it?”
“Who wouldn’t be, with all the grief you and Jacques have been giving me?” Capucine said irritably. She could see Alexandre wondering exactly when Jacques had proffered so much advice but, relishing the idea of a spat, made no attempt to sidetrack him. Discharging the tension, Alexandre bounded up, stuffed the detritus of lunch back in the basket, and began an intense scrutiny of the perimeter of the clearing. Lusting after something to sink her teeth into, Capucine joined him in his search with the enthusiasm of a puppy deerhound on a new scent. Wandering off, she came across a small bunch of lovely flat-capped mushrooms topped off exactly in the same hue as the weathered brick red pants yachtsmen so loved.
“Capucine! Stand back!” Alexandre yelled in alarm.
His tone was so sharp that Capucine recoiled, half suspecting Alexandre had seen a viper she had missed. They were too far north for vipers, but anything was possible.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch those things.” He came up behind her and pinioned her arms. “Those are the arch villains of the mushroom world—
Amanita muscaria
. They’re a dangerous and unpredictable hallucinogenic. Normally, they’re fire-engine red, but these must have been washed out by the rain.”
Amanita muscaria
. They’re a dangerous and unpredictable hallucinogenic. Normally, they’re fire-engine red, but these must have been washed out by the rain.”
Fifteen minutes later Capucine discovered some identical-looking specimens and backed off cautiously. The shape was the same and the mushrooms were domed with a dull orange, not too far removed from the faded red of the
muscaria
.
muscaria
.
“These are okay,” Alexandre said, plucking one up and sniffing it. “
Amanita caesaria,
Caesar’s favorite. Or at least I hope they are. What if we have Odile put them in some omelets tomorrow for breakfast? Russian roulette is a game I’ve always wanted to try.”
Amanita caesaria,
Caesar’s favorite. Or at least I hope they are. What if we have Odile put them in some omelets tomorrow for breakfast? Russian roulette is a game I’ve always wanted to try.”
Naturally, the Pharmacie Homais was the first stop on the way home. It seemed deserted, but they could hear someone puttering around in the workroom in back, presumably Homais filling an urgent prescription. When he did not stick his head out for several minutes, Alexandre called out, “Is anyone back there?”
Homais answered testily, “
Minute!
I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.” He arrived unhurriedly a good five minutes later.
Minute!
I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.” He arrived unhurriedly a good five minutes later.
“Voilà. Voilà! What can I do for you?”
Alexandre proffered his basket of mushrooms for inspection. Homais poked through them incuriously with a forceps. Eventually he came to the
amanitas,
picked one up with the long pincers, and squinted at it. “Clearly not
Amanita muscaria.
They’re
Amanita caesaria,
a good find, but you knew that already.” He looked ostentatiously at his watch, a heavy gold Rolex, and said, “You must excuse me. I have to close up. I’m expected at the
presbytère
for dinner.”
amanitas,
picked one up with the long pincers, and squinted at it. “Clearly not
Amanita muscaria.
They’re
Amanita caesaria,
a good find, but you knew that already.” He looked ostentatiously at his watch, a heavy gold Rolex, and said, “You must excuse me. I have to close up. I’m expected at the
presbytère
for dinner.”
“With the pastor?” Alexandre asked with a sardonic smile.
“Of course with the pastor. Who else? And, madame, I saw you examining my watch,” he said aggressively, raising his arm to show Capucine the watch in question. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not the real thing, only a knockoff I bought in Lyon from a Senegalese street vendor last year,” he said with a cynical laugh.
When they were out on the street, Capucine asked, “What was that all about? What’s with all your questions? The last time it was about some newspaper, and today it was all this business about the pastor.”
Alexandre burst out laughing. “I adore you,” he said. “You’re becoming the perfect tough street cop. Any day now you’re going to be sporting a manly stubble. You’ve even forgotten your Flaubert. Remember the pharmacist in
Madame Bovary?
The one who plots continuously against the Bovarys because Emma’s doctor husband has displaced him as village medico? The puffed-up pseudo-intellectual who writes endless pretentious pieces for a Rouen paper called the
Fanal?
His name was also Homais.”
Madame Bovary?
The one who plots continuously against the Bovarys because Emma’s doctor husband has displaced him as village medico? The puffed-up pseudo-intellectual who writes endless pretentious pieces for a Rouen paper called the
Fanal?
His name was also Homais.”
“Of course. I never made the connection. But what about the pastor?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Flaubert’s Homais was a militant atheist. His archenemy was the village pastor. They couldn’t abide each other, much less have dinner together.”
“And what about that business about his watch?”
“There I can’t help you. It was odd, all right, but I’m pretty sure Flaubert’s Homais didn’t have a fake gold Rolex.”
Their second errand was to pick up fresh-baked rolls for dinner at the
boulangerie.
Even though the bread of choice in the country was a gigantic loaf of
pain de campagne,
which the paysans put on their chests to slice with their pocketknives, the Saint-Nicolas baker also made delicious glazed rolls, delightfully doughy and yeasty.
boulangerie.
Even though the bread of choice in the country was a gigantic loaf of
pain de campagne,
which the paysans put on their chests to slice with their pocketknives, the Saint-Nicolas baker also made delicious glazed rolls, delightfully doughy and yeasty.
The baker and his wife observed the classic division of labor of the métier: Madame looked after the shop while Monsieur, who had been up all night tending his oven, slept. It was rumored that this arrangement suited the baker perfectly as he couldn’t abide his spouse, a spindly, flinty woman, as haughty and unyielding as her outrageous hairdo, a coif made so rigid by an excess of lacquer that it looked like a snug bronze battle helmet. She presided imperiously over her cash register while a terrified village girl picked out the customers’ selections with tongs and placed them timorously in a white paper bag, which she clutched tightly until her mistress had been paid.
Capucine gave her order for a dozen rolls and, with a politely expectant smile, stepped up to the baker’s wife to pay. The baker, who had clearly just woken up, opened the door behind the counter, scratched, and peered sleepily at the shop and at the street beyond the plate-glass window. “
Bonjour, m’sieu’dame,
” he muttered, bobbing his head and disappearing back into his apartment, leaving the door open, their living room plainly visible. Capucine was surprised to see that in addition to the inevitable oversized television and browning reproductions of stags at bay, there was also a substantial mahogany bookcase surmounted with family pictures in inexpensive plastic frames. Intrigued, Capucine leaned forward in an attempt to make out some of the titles. Outraged, the baker’s wife slammed the door violently and glared at Capucine.
Bonjour, m’sieu’dame,
” he muttered, bobbing his head and disappearing back into his apartment, leaving the door open, their living room plainly visible. Capucine was surprised to see that in addition to the inevitable oversized television and browning reproductions of stags at bay, there was also a substantial mahogany bookcase surmounted with family pictures in inexpensive plastic frames. Intrigued, Capucine leaned forward in an attempt to make out some of the titles. Outraged, the baker’s wife slammed the door violently and glared at Capucine.
“Madame,” the baker’s wife said tartly, “it’s inadmissible for you to gape like that. You may well have the right to investigate, but please have the consideration not to disrupt my business. If you want to take an inventory of my possessions, show the courtesy of making an appointment first.”
From behind, Capucine heard a mumble from the couple that had just entered the shop that sounded very much like a murmur of assent.
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