The Grave Gourmet (12 page)

“M
onkey brains! You actually ate monkey brains?” the pretty blonde shrieked, open-mouthed. The table erupted in laughter. Alexandre beamed.

“You're too adorable,” the hostess said. “You're so engrossed in your fiancé you don't listen to dinner conversation anymore. Alexandre was just telling us about the worst cocktails he's ever had. It seems Monkey Brains are made with Sambuca, Bailey's, and Campari. The Bailey's congeals to look like squashed brains and the Campari makes it look like it's all covered in blood.”

“Sounds thoroughly delightful,” the fiancé said. “You see, my pet, the world would be a very dangerous place indeed without restaurant critics. Intrepidly, they forge ahead, swinging their knives and forks fearlessly, clearing a safe path for us timid souls. Let's drink to their courage!”

It was a dinner party for eight at the apartment of one of Capucine's university classmates. Now a management consultant, she lived with her boyfriend in a small but masterfully decorated flat on the rue des Francs-Bourgeois near the place des Vosges, in the pricey heart of the Marais. Despite the crushing hours of her job she nurtured her social life with the intensity of an intern caring for a patient on life support. She made a point of having at least two carefully orchestrated dinners every month, each complete with eucalyptus branches artfully laid over starched linen napkins and exotic aspics prepared by the gourmet food shop around the corner. Like most Paris
diners en ville,
the guests rarely arrived until after nine and usually remained at the table until one or two in the morning exchanging meticulously crafted epigrams.

The longer Capucine spent with the Police Judiciaire the more she detested such evenings. Her inability to make droll small talk about her job set her apart—fiscal fraud hardly made for witty conversation in bourgeois circles—and she found the slavish attention to social nuances increasingly irritating. Still, she felt a loyalty to her classmates and would have hated to lose them from sight. Alexandre, on the other hand, adored evenings with Capucine's friends, relishing their youthful adulation of his wit.

That night Capucine's stock of patience was depleted. Using the telepathy particular to identical twins and married couples she shot a look at Alexandre instructing him in no uncertain terms to implement an immediate retreat. As self-consciously as an untalented stage actor rushing his exit line before he is booed, Alexandre rose, muttered something about having still to file his next morning's piece—which, in fact, he had e-mailed at one in the afternoon following a leisurely breakfast—and escorted Capucine out after the requisite air kisses and shoulder-thumping embraces.

“That was precipitous,” he said in the elevator. “Are you exhausted?”

“On the contrary. I'm too keyed up for that sort of thing. I need to vent about the case. Anyway, my patience with those inanities is wearing thinner and thinner. Let's go get a drink somewhere. Let's go get several drinks.”

 

They wound up at Pershing Hall. Originally built by charitable subscriptions from the United States as a hospital for recuperating American soldiers in the closing days of World War I, it had been recently transformed into one of the most posh hotels in Paris. At that hour the bar was populated with impossibly anorexic adorables in impossibly brief couturier dresses sipping impossibly colored mixed drinks. A disc jockey ardently played techno rock at a level so low as to be audible only to the barely adolescent. For all others the impact was no more than an unsettling throb in the seat of the pants, not too dissimilar from the sensation of a ship's engine during a trans-Atlantic crossing.

A waiter materialized like a congealing mist, deposited a malt whiskey for Alexandre and a vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon peel for Capucine, and dematerialized just as wordlessly. Alexandre regarded Capucine tenderly. “Case getting you down?”

“I don't know why, but it is. We seem to be making progress, but I just have this feeling that nothing we've got so far will pan out.”

“A good rant will make you feel better. What's going on?”

“Tallon's changed the approach. He wants me to redo all of Rivière's initial background interviews so my legendary nose for subtlety will sniff out something that Rivière missed.”

“At least Tallon's figured out where the talent is. I'm a great fan of that nose myself. What's it produced so far?”

“A two-week fling Delage had twelve years ago has paid off in a small way. Turns out she's been seeing the guy Delage had dinner with the fatal night and the guy in question is extremely keen on marrying her. But the bad news for him is that she continued to have a soft spot for Delage and refused to even think of getting married in the hopes she might get Delage back one day. So now we have someone who was at the scene of the crime that night and who also has a motive.”

“You don't sound too convinced.”

“Of course I'm not. For openers, he claims he left the restaurant and went straight to the woman's place and spent the night there. Not the most solid alibi on earth, but an alibi nonetheless. On top of that, it's hard to figure out how he could have known about the oysters. It's not absolutely impossible, of course. He must know tons of people who eat at Diapason regularly and one of them might have mentioned it, but it's a stretch. The real deal breaker is that it would seem impossible that he could have got his hands on weapons-grade saxitoxin.”

“So it's weapons grade now, is it?”

“That was a given from the moment we knew it was saxitoxin poisoning. Making a saxitoxin poison is not something you can just do in your kitchen like reducing a duck sauce. It requires a whole bunch of specialized lab equipment and a lot of technical know-how to make it work. And it just so happens the stuff is ideal for chemical warfare. The victims become partially paralyzed almost immediately, all calm and peaceful while remaining fully conscious, and then progressively get more and more paralyzed until they eventually die of asphyxiation. In the bad old days it was on the official NATO weapons roster as Agent TZ. I'm sure any number of countries still stockpile it on the sly.”

“And one assumes this poor chap had no access to an arsenal, is that it?”

“Exactly, he's a family lawyer, and a very stuffy one at that.”

“So what happens next?”

“Tallon was so pleased that we had a new suspect he wants me to keep on redoing Rivière's interviews. He's a motive freak. As our hostess of the evening would say, the Police Judiciaire methodology is entirely ‘motive driven.' That may be effective in ninety percent of the cases, but it's not going to work this time. Our scarce commodity is suspects who have any access to means, not suspects who have a motive.”

“So what would you do differently?”

“Focus on the restaurant, of course. That's where the means lie.”

“You could well be right about that,” Alexandre said. Capucine looked at him carefully to see if he was tipsy.

“My problem,” Capucine said, “is I don't know how to make restaurant people talk. When I interviewed the three top guys down at the Quai they either said nothing or made fun of me in that supercilious restaurant way they have.”

“That's because you were trying too hard. Believe me, getting restaurant people to run off at the mouth is the easiest thing on earth. And to make it even easier for you, every day they'll present you with a device that is even better than one of those Agatha Christie scenes—you know, where all the characters gather in the study falling over each other to blab their secrets to the detective.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The staff meal, of course. All restaurants have one. It's one of the grand traditions of the business: all employees receive free food twice a day. Sometimes it's wonderful, sometimes not. The theory is that before each service a junior chef is appointed to cook up something with leftovers, scraps, and rejected produce. The young chef reveals his budding genius and the staff bonds over an enchanting repast. In practice it sometimes works out that way but a good deal of the time the staff is served what should have gone into the garbage bin. But one way or the other in every restaurant in Paris you can bet the entire crew is sitting down lapping up whatever is put in front of them. All you have to do is sit down with them.”

“But I can't just waltz in. You forget how leery people are of flics.”

“But not flics with your level of…um…pulchritude. You have a trump card. Good time to play it. They'll welcome you with open arms and drool all over you. I know kitchen staffs. Trust me on that one.”

I
t wasn't Alexandre's love of playing the oracle that irritated Capucine; it was the fact that his prophesies invariably proved correct. At five in the afternoon she had found Diapason's door unlocked and the dining room deserted. Hearing the sounds of an animated gathering in the kitchen she had peered through one of the glass peepholes. As Alexandre had predicted, the entire staff was gathered around steel prep tables, noisily gobbling up a meal. She was seized by a déjà vu flash of an afternoon when, having just started at a new school, she had been dragged off by her mother to a birthday party where she didn't know a soul. The irrational feeling of shame and humiliation was the same. Her ears burned. She blushed. Delage was absent but Bouteiller, avuncular in his baggy tweed jacket, sat at the head of the farthest table. She resolutely decided to make for him and pushed through the green leather doors.

Surprised by the intrusion of a stranger, the group fell silent, but once they recognized Capucine they resumed eating with gusto; their looks softened and there were even a few scattered smiles and greetings. Bouteiller came up to her, very much the executive officer in charge.

“I apologize, Lieutenant, I wasn't informed of your visit. How can I help you? Is there anyone in particular you wish to interview?” he asked.

“Actually, Monsieur Bouteiller, I don't have a specific agenda. I thought I'd sit in on your staff meal and see how things were going in the restaurant.”

A distressingly pretty adolescent, who must have been an intern
aide-chef,
jumped up, “Please sit here. We're having a pot-au-feu. I made it myself, and in all modesty it's exquisite. It's just some beef cheeks and veal shanks we couldn't use and a few carrots, leeks, and potatoes, and, of course, my secret spices.” The extent of his pride in what was probably the first meal they had let him make all by himself was beyond charming.

The table erupted in laughter. “Secret spices, my ass! How secret is a bay leaf, a bunch of thyme, and a pinch of pepper?” said the next man at the table. “Mind you”—he winked conspiratorially at Capucine—“if you could talk him out of one of the marrow bones he stuck in there and spread the marrow on a baguette dipped in the broth, you'd have a dish fit for Chef himself!”

It was a motley but boisterously cheerful group. The prep cooks, the armpit sweat stains just meeting in the back of their ragged smocks, were perking up after the exhaustion of a long day of chopping and dicing. The cook staff, refreshed from their post-lunch break, were already in baggy striped uniform pants but still in T-shirts. The blazing white smocks, neckerchiefs, and caps would not be donned until just before the evening service started. The front of the house staff were relaxed, still in street clothes, hours away from needing their uniforms. Even the delectable Giselle was in jeans, although to Capucine's informed eye the designer version couldn't have cost less than five hundred euros and were beautifully set off by a pair of Chanel mules.

Sommelier Rolland was striding around with a proprietary air, dotting the table with bottles of cheap labelless
vin ordinaire
. After a momentary disappearance he oozed up to Capucine proffering the inevitable flute of champagne with a simpery welcome. The unctuousness he had displayed at the Quai was apparently still fully operative. Capucine wondered if it was his normal off-duty persona. “How nice of you to join us. What serendipity. Do sit down. Alfonse will be mortally offended if you don't try his pot-au-feu. You know how chefs can be, even very young ones.”

With much scraping of stools, the staff scooted around to make room for Capucine at the middle of the table. A small man with dark sweat-stringy hair, olive skin, a heavily stained smock—Lebanese, perhaps—undoubtedly one of the afternoon prep cooks who chopped produce at blinding speed for hours on end without a break, smiled a broken-toothed smile at her and said, “Lieutenant, how considerate of you to come by and share our little meal. Some of us were a little afraid we would be called down to the Quai. You never know what will happen down there when you can't produce an immigration card.”

Just as she was struggling for a suitable reply, Rolland—suddenly reverted to his inscrutable sommelier persona—returned with a bottle and one of the crystal wineglasses used in the front of the house. “Réserve de la Comtesse, 2000,” he said, enunciating as carefully as if he were explaining electricity to a Congolese tribesman. “As you may know, it's the second wine of Pichon-Longueville-Comtesse de Lalande. It's the exception to the rule I was propounding the other day. I'm sure you'll find it particularly delicate.” The bottle was almost exactly half full. Capucine wondered if Rolland had opened it for the seniors at the staff meal or if it was a perquisite left over from lunch. Yet another thing to ask Alexandre.

Either the wine or Rolland's insufferableness broke her timidity. She made a little speech. “It's very kind of you all to receive me like this,” she said, looking around the table. “I need your help and it seemed more reasonable for me to come here than to have you all down to the Quai. Here's what I need. At 2:30 in the morning the night Président Delage died two men were seen dragging a very heavy duffel bag in through the kitchen door. Do any of you know anything about that?”

The cohesiveness of the table fragmented into a multitude of separate whispered conversations. After a long pause one of the prep cooks—a Turk—spoke up. “Madame, I have worked in many restaurants in your beautiful country, but I have never been in one that has so many deliveries. It is as if each type of produce comes from a different place. Potatoes from here. Mushrooms from there. Many of these suppliers are small local farmers. It is a big problem for the prep staff. Very often things come in late. We have to rush through the prep work. But Chef will do it his way even if it makes our life very difficult. You would think it would have been one of these suppliers who came in the middle of the night. But how could it have been? How would he have gotten in? None of us has a key!”

There were nods of agreement around the table. “He's quite right,” Bouteiller said. “I have a key, of course, as does Perrault, and I believe there is an extra in the drawer of the hostess's desk, but no one else has one. Nor would Chef, or anyone else, give one to a supplier. I locked up for the night on Friday and can affirm no one was left to wait for anything. I'm sorry we can't be more helpful.”

It was frustrating. Capucine had the distinct impression there was more to be gleaned, but being aggressive certainly wouldn't make anyone speak. She changed tack. “There's one other thing. I know this is a little delicate, but I understand that Président Delage and his guest, Martin Fleuret, had some sort of argument during dinner. Does anyone know anything about that?” There was an awkward silence; everyone conspicuously avoided looking at her.

“Obviously,” Capucine went on, “no one here is going to gossip about what patrons speak about during their meals.” She gave a little smile she hoped conveyed her complicity. “But a valued client of the restaurant has been murdered and we need all of you to help bring the culprit to justice. It's the responsible thing to do.”

The table again fractured into shards of animated private conversation. Only two boys, teenagers in jeans, who looked like they might be aide-serveurs, sat rigidly, staring straight ahead silently, lips squeezed tight as an extra precaution against betraying their secret. Making them even more conspicuous, Bouteiller peppered them with warning glances.

“Monsieur Bouteiller,” Capucine said, “if those boys know anything, let them speak. The discretion of a restaurateur is one thing, obstruction of justice is a whole other kettle of fish.”

Bouteiller scowled, shrugged, and jerked his head toward the boys, “Très bien, out with it.”

“Well, madame,” began one of the boys, “at the beginning of the meal, Arsène—he's the
serveur
who's our boss—served Président Delage the
Coquetier au liqueur d'érable acidulé
. You know, it's a signature dish: soft-boiled eggs with a vinegar and maple syrup sauce. The eggs are delivered just before dinner. Can you believe it, they are actually laid that morning,” he said with adolescent wonder. “Anyway, Président Delage said he wanted some more of the sauce on the side because there was never enough.” A man in his early thirties sitting a few seats down the table, whom Capucine assumed was the Arsène in question, nodded vigorously. “So,” the boy continued, “Arsène went back to the kitchen to get it and left us standing there. We did what we were supposed to and backed five paces away from the table and stood at attention and all while we were waiting, but we could still hear the conversation pretty well.”

“Good,” said Capucine, her excitement rising despite herself. “What did they say?”

“Well,” the other boy jumped in, “Président Delage's friend seemed really pissed off. He said something like, ‘How can you ask me to give it up? This is the best thing I've ever done!'”

Once they were into the story the boys weren't to be stopped. The first one elbowed his pal aside. “Yeah, so Delage gives him this big sneer and says something like, ‘If this is the best thing you've ever done I feel sorry for you.' Then they just stared at each other, you know, like in the Westerns, the big face-off, like one of them was going to draw a Colt Peacemaker and start blasting away.”

“So then what?” asked Capucine.

“So then nothing. Arsène came up with the sauce and we all went back to the waiter's area.” The boys were so delighted with having penetrated the lives of exalted patrons they didn't notice the anticlimax.

Capucine was at a loss. They so obviously had nothing more to say. Perrault saved the day. He stood up like a sergeant major and ordered, “
Au travail!
” The staff dinner was suddenly over. Capucine felt as if she had been left on the dock as the stately liner eased off to sea.