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Authors: Alexander Campion

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BOOK: Crime Fraiche
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CHAPTER 16
T
hat night Capucine slept badly. Exceedingly badly. At two in the morning she woke with a start, fleeing a nightmare. She had been dating two boys who were identical twins. She thought neither knew she was seeing his brother but wasn’t entirely sure. Even though she couldn’t tell them apart physically, their personalities were entirely different: one was a spendthrift party boy and the other was serious and committed to a meaningful life. Every time she would go out with one of them, she writhed in fear that it was actually the sibling, who had been sent as a joke. But when her father opened the door to let the boy in, he immediately knew which one it was and greeted him by name without the slightest hesitation. Her father became her main anxiety. She suspected he was in on the game and it was part of his plan to control her life. She detested his obsession with appearances, good taste, and manners, but both her beaux told her she was even more obsessed with superficialities than her father. She wanted desperately to explain they were wrong but didn’t dare, because she was terrified of being caught out not knowing which twin she was speaking to.
Capucine huddled up next to Alexandre and put her hand on the roundness of his stomach. The world fell back into focus. She was on vacation. It was not as relaxing as it was supposed to be, true, but she was still on vacation. It was important that she make that vacation a success. That was an important goal. A responsibility, in fact. She decided the next day they would do something fun. Something really fun. Not necessarily fun for her but fun for Alexandre. He was the center of her life, after all. She would focus on him and stop fussing. She settled into a deep, untroubled sleep.
She came down early and breakfasted in the petit salon with Oncle Aymerie, leaving Alexandre to complete his
grasse matinée
—his lazy morning in bed. The torment of the night was long gone. Rosy flecks of early morning sun danced on the moat. Bone china and silver flatware tinkled cheerfully like oriental prayer bells. Neither spoke. Oncle Aymerie had never tolerated chatter at his breakfast table, unless, of course, he initiated it.
When he had finished his second piece of toast and was adding milk to his third cup of coffee, Oncle Aymerie looked critically at his niece.
“You don’t seem to have slept well, ma nièce. Is something bothering you?”
Capucine constructed what she hoped was a radiant smile. “
Au contraire,
mon oncle, I’m delighted to be back at the château. And I’m so glad you’re getting to know Alexandre. We’re having a wonderful time. We really are.”
Oncle Aymerie scowled at her, lips pursed and brow wrinkled. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. I’ve turned your needed rest into a busman’s holiday,” he said.
Capucine put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t think that, mon oncle. We really are having a wonderful time. And I had a brainstorm this morning,” Capucine said, encouraging her enthusiasm into a trot with spur and whip. “I thought I’d take Alexandre on a tour of local producers of the three famous Norman cheeses and, of course, Calvados and that stuff, you know—what’s it called?—when it’s part Calvados and part pear
alcool.
”
“Domfrontais,” Alexandre said, striding into the petit salon. “Now, this is the sort of conversation that makes for a healthy breakfast.”
“Bonjour, Alexandre. You’ve come at exactly the right moment. Capucine is planning a gastronomic tour of a Normandy that I’m sad to say no longer exists,” Oncle Aymerie said.
“A tour of a Normandy that no longer exists? That sounds like something out of a science fiction novel.”
Oncle Aymerie chuckled happily. He had finally tuned in to the wavelength of Alexandre’s humor.
“She has a notion of taking you to see the
producteurs fermiers
of Pont l’Evêque, Camembert, and Livarot. I think she has visions of cheerful paysans and their round wives making cheese in their barns. Sadly, that ended in the fifties, when the industrial producers took over.” He paused and took a reflective bite of toast.
Alexandre knew better than to interrupt.
“Look at what’s happened to our Camembert, once the pride of Normandy. Now it’s all made in giant factories that also make Pont l’Evêque and Lord knows what else. The artisanal producers and their beautiful cheeses are long gone.” He shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid you’re all too right,” Alexandre said. “I wrote a piece last year about industrial Camembert. The decisive buying factor in supermarkets is the feel of the cheese. The little boxes are made to be easy to open to encourage customers to squeeze. Of course, the cheese is adjusted chemically for perfect squeezability, same way car doors are made to sound solid when slammed in the showroom. No artisanal producer can compete with that.”
Alexandre buttered a huge piece of country-bread toast and slathered it with acacia honey.
“But in France there will always be a culinary underground,” he continued. “It just so happens I know a man who really does make artisanal Livarot. He made a killing in the dot-com bubble and retired when he was thirty, just before it burst. His parents had been artisanal producers before industrial production took over, and he was so sick of life in the fast lane, he moved back in with them and refinanced their little business, with him doing all the hard work, of course. Now he’s making another fortune selling his cheese at fabulous prices to the Paris restaurants. I’d love to pay him a visit,” he said, smiling at Capucine.
“And there’s a family just outside of Domfront who have been in business for six generations, working their seven acres of orchard. They refuse to grow, even though some of their older bottles now sell for prices well into the five figures at auction. While we’re down there, we could pay a call on them as well. Darling, your idea is absolutely
épatant
. You’re a genius! But we need to get a move on. Domfront is a good hour and a half away, and you can never make up lost drinking time, right, Oncle Aymerie?”
CHAPTER 17
D
espite his well-worn blue workers’ overalls and hint of barnyard miasma, Alain Cochenet wasn’t altogether convincing in the role of the last
producteur fermier
of Livarot cheese. From the neck up he remained the Paris intellectual techie with a luminous green and purple silk neckerchief, unmistakably from Turnbull & Asser in Piccadilly, and a well-scrubbed face fluorescent with recondite learning.
Overjoyed to see Alexandre, Cochenet embraced him as if he were a long-lost cousin. “No one from Paris ever comes to see me anymore,” he said plaintively but cheered immediately. “Let’s go over to the house. I’ll introduce you to the parents, we’ll have a little drop of something, and then we’ll go pay a visit to my little darlings.”
“You must have found it quite an adjustment to move back in with your parents,” Capucine said.
Cochenet stared at her, attempting to define his new world. “Au contraire, sometimes late at night I do have a yen for slick restaurant dinners and all-night club bashes, but Paris was nothing compared to what I have here. I’m finally doing something genuinely fulfilling. And,” he said, leaning toward Capucine confidentially, “I was
déboussolé
without my parents—a boat without a compass, sailing in circles.”
“You all live together in this house?” Capucine asked with barely disguised incredulity.
“Of course we do. And Mama spoils us with her delicious cooking. Tonight we’re having
râbles de lapin à la normande,
” he said, walking in and smiling lovingly at his parents. “You know, saddle of rabbit cooked in cider with lots and lots of onions. Nothing beats the old peasant dishes.”
Capucine suppressed a grimace.
Twenty minutes later father and son steered them to an ancient barnlike outbuilding listing so conspicuously that collapse seemed imminent. “Of course,” Cochenet said, “my father is the éminence grise. He knows all there is to know about Livarot and then some, don’t you, Papa?” He smiled warmly at his father, who slipped his arm through his son’s. With perfect complicity, the two led the way into the building.
Inside, the fruits of Cochenet
fils’
checkbook were clearly in evidence. Stainless steel gleamed; electric motors hummed; a handful of workers in white coats strode around purposefully.
“It all starts in these big vats. The
caillage
—curdling—is done with enzymes from something called
rénette,
a product made from calves’ stomachs. Ours comes from Charolais calves bred in a small élevage just up the road and is made using a few secrets that only my father knows.”
The father blessed his son with a paternal smile.
“Next comes the
rompage.
” They moved into a room that was almost uncomfortably warm. “The curd is cut so it matures more quickly.” The air was pungent with wood smoke. “We hang on to our leaky old stove. The smoke is a component of our cheese’s complexity.
“Then comes the
égouttage
—where the curds are drained before they go into the
moulage
and are put up in molds. That happens down here,” he said, leading the way down a precipitous, rickety staircase into a chilly cellar.
“We still use the wooden molds that have been in the family for generations. Industrial manufacturers use steel ones. One more element of our distinctive flavor.
“The cheese matures in here for four months and acquires its orange
robe
from natural bacteria. The industrial producers can’t control the process, so they use something called ‘annatto,’ which comes from Latin America.”
“Oui, c’est vrai. L’Amérique latine!”
said Cochenet
père,
widening his eyes at this substantiation of the insanity of the modern age.
“It’s evil stuff. Gives the cheese a nasty artificial tint and has a distinct peppery flavor.” He shook his head in distaste.
“When the cheeses are finally ready, we tie them up with five bands of bulrush
,
pop them in their little boxes, stick our label on top, and ship them out. That’s all there is to it!”
“Except for the fact that you’ve taken one of the oldest cheeses in France to new heights. Livarot Cochenet has pride of place on more than one three-star cheese tray,” Alexandre said.
Both father and son beamed.
When Capucine and Alexandre finally made it back to the Clio, they discovered that a small crate of twenty-five cheeses had been put in the baggage area behind the rear seat. Protestations and offers of money were useless.
“Put it in the cellar of the château and dip into it slowly. Another three months of
affinage
will make it even better,” Cochenet said.
The Clio didn’t have a trunk, just an empty area behind the rear seat. As they drove off, the car filled pleasantly with the earthy pungency of Livarot.
“You know, when you get right down to it, this is turning into the best day we’ve had on this trip,” Capucine said. “It’s because we’re far away from those killings and all that fuss. I made a great mistake getting involved, didn’t I? We should probably just forget all about it and go right back to Paris, don’t you think?”
“Don’t be silly,” Alexandre said. “You know perfectly well we’re not going back to Paris. You’ve started your hare and now you have to run him to ground.” He scrunched up his nose in distaste. “But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to be more difficult than you think.”
“Is that what you’re wrinkling your nose at? Don’t be silly. I’ll have this thing solved in no time.”
“Actually, it’s the cheese. It’s getting decidedly whiffy in here. Do you think you could roll down your window?”
The open windows had no effect at all. Mercifully, they made it to the Lemonnot domain in seventeen minutes flat.
 
As they pulled up into the rock-strewn courtyard, three generations of Lemonnots ambled out to greet them: Jean, alert and wiry in his seventies; his son, Pierre, in his forties, just beginning to develop a managerial paunch; and Frédéric, a twelve-year-old clearly awestruck by Alexandre. Capucine suspected that Alexandre’s influence in the culinary world had been overdramatized. All three wore jeans, sweatshirts, and brown rubber boots.
Pierre opened the car door for Capucine. “Ah, I see you’ve been buying cheese,” he said with a histrionic grimace. “Before we start our tour, my father’s going to take you over to his house for a taste of the product while I make a few calls. Then I’m all yours.”
Jean led them off to an ancient stone cottage at the far end of the courtyard.
“Pierre and his family live over there,” Jean said, proudly pointing to an even smaller stone cottage. Capucine tried, and failed, to imagine what it would be like having her parents living fifty feet away, peering into her living room every time they walked by.
In his house Jean opened the doors of a nondescript oak armoire. The shelves were packed with thickset bottles with a red and tan label depicting a cheerful medieval paysan in a pointed hat sitting in front of a roaring fire, smoking a churchwarden, and sipping contentedly from a tiny glass.
“This is my personal
cave,
” Jean said. “I keep a selection of our recent production alongside of some of our more notable older
millésimes.
Pierre has the reins of the domain firmly in hand, but I still have the memory. That’s why we work so well together.” His face softened as he looked out the window toward his son’s house. “I plan to hang around until I can see young Frédéric getting involved too.
“Enough of that! Let’s get to work. I’m only going to give you two grades to taste. The first is our Réserve Familiale. It’s been in the cask for six years and is our mainstay. The second is the nineteen seventy
millésime,
which has been in wood for fifteen years and is the finest product we commercialize.” Alexandre’s tiny glasses filled, Jean began pouring for Capucine. She stopped him.
“I have to drive back,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.
Jean puffed out a snort, as if to say that these Parisians really lived in an incomprehensible world all of their own.
Rapt, Alexandre ignored the exchange. “It’s extraordinary,” he said. “The nineteen seventy has a far more pronounced pear note in the mouth than the Réserve. And, naturally, it’s much more subtle and nuanced, with hints of licorice, almond, orange, and, of course, wood, but it’s the presence of the pear that makes it so exceptional. Monsieur, I congratulate you. It’s truly extraordinary.”
Pierre, with Frédéric in tow, walked in just as Alexandre was giving his verdict. All three looked at each other without expression, but their joy was nonetheless palpable. This was the ultimate reward.
“Let me tell you about the domain,” Pierre said. “We’ve had the same seven acres for over a hundred and fifty years, so we’re getting to know them quite well. Most Domfrontais is thirty percent pear, but that’s not enough. Ours is made with seven pears to every three apples. And, of course, all of our fruit comes from right out there,” he said, pointing through the window at rows of gnarled, leafless trees aligned with military precision.
“Let’s go see the distillery and I’ll show you how it’s made.”
The first stop in the ramshackle outbuilding was the head-high oak fermentation vats.
“The apples and pears are crushed in those presses over there, and the juice is left in these vats for eleven months, until it turns into nice hard cider. Then the fun starts.” They moved on to the next room, filled with a gleaming copper alembic and a row of shining copper tanks.
“We only distill once. Most producers double distill, but we think our way preserves the depth of the fruit taste. You should come back when the distillation is going full steam. You get drunk just standing here, right, Frédéric?” Father and son laughed happily.
“At that point the liquor is clear as water. It’s the oak barrels in the next room that give it its color. The distillate goes into the barrels at a hundred and forty proof. Years later it comes out in its distinctive golden
robe
at only eighty proof. The missing alcohol is what we call the
part des anges
—the angels’ share. The longer it stays in the barrel, the more the angels get. When we die, we’re going to come back as Domfrontais angels, aren’t we, Frédéric? They’re the ones who have all the fun.” Father and son laughed uproariously at the funniest joke in the world, even though it must have been trotted out at every visit.
Before they left, Alexandre bought two bottles of the 1970
millésime
for himself and a wooden case of six of the Réserve Familiale for Oncle Aymerie.
As the bottles were being loaded into the car, Jean came out to say good-bye. He shook Alexandre’s and Capucine’s hands and then wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell? Good Lord, you have a whole case of Livarot back here, cooking in the sun. Enjoy your trip home,” he said with a grin. As they drove off, all three generations of Lemonnots were doubled over in laughter at the hapless Parisians.
 
The Livarot became too much for them even before they reached the town of Domfront, seven minutes away.
“Let’s leave it at a railroad crossing. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with foundlings?” Capucine asked.
“Defeat is not in the code of the Huguelets. We’ll stop in the village, procure some twine, stow the damned stuff on the roof of the car, and turn on the air-conditioning. That should do it.”
The solution proved imperfect. Even with the windows closed as tightly as the twine would allow, the odor of Livarot was still very much in evidence. Capucine counted the minutes. She searched for a topic that did not involve cheese.
Alexandre came to the rescue. “You know, of course, that I don’t have the slightest doubt you’ll find the culprit. I just hope you won’t suffer in the process.”
“I’m suffering already. But if you’re referring to Dallemagne, there’s no problem there. The Police Judiciaire has authority throughout France. Actually, I was planning on paying a visit to a pal I have on the DCPJ.” She paused at Alexandre’s blank look. “I thought you knew all the ins and outs of the PJ by now. The Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire. Headquarters. The loonies who make staffing decisions with a Ouija board, remember them? Sure, they’ll think I’m being a bit impetuous, but I have a good pal there from the commissaire’s school. No problem at all. He’ll fix it all up.”
“I was thinking more about the village. It would be a mistake to underestimate Dallemagne. Your success will be his failure, after all. The village knows you as a sweet little girl who blossomed into the charming Madame La Comtesse. They’re not going to like it when you rip off your rubber princess mask and reveal yourself as a Police Judiciaire fiend who has come to prize open their little boxes of nasty secrets.”
Capucine giggled but her eyes hardened and her mood swung.
“
Tant pis.
As Napoleon said, ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.’ It’s simply beyond me to let a murderer walk away free. That’s all there is to it.”
“Wasn’t that Robespierre? But you’re sure there really
is
a murderer?”
BOOK: Crime Fraiche
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