Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (18 page)

CHAPTER 28

A
t ten the next morning, as one of Capucine’s lieutenants walked through her office door for a meeting to review his open cases, Isabelle pushed through the doorway, elbowing him aside none too gently.

“Excuse me, sir,” Isabelle said to the lieutenant, “but something urgent has just popped up that the commissaire needs to know about right away.”

The lieutenant and Capucine exchanged sympathetic glances. They both had built up a level of tolerance for Isabelle.

The lieutenant gone, Isabelle kicked the door shut with her heel.

“Folon’s our man. No doubt about it at all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It turns out that three of the other rapists have been killed in suspicious circumstances.”

“Isabelle, you’re getting ahead of yourself. What ‘other’ rapists? What are you talking about?”

“The ones who weren’t the Brault brothers. Remember David’s report? There were four of them. Well, three have been murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Well, it’s not in the files, but that’s obviously what happened. Get this. Galinette—whose legal given name is Hugolin, by the way—Brun died just outside of La Cadière, shot in the head with a shotgun while he was out hunting hare in the hills.”

“There’s a gendarmerie report?”

“For once, a thorough one. Brun was found on a deserted hillside that was covered with low scrub. He’d been shot in the back of the head at relatively close range. The report makes it clear Brun had been standing in the open when he was shot. It was obviously intentional.”

“And the gendarmerie conclusion?”

“Accidental death, of course. But they always say that. Then, a year later, Escartefigue Anglade apparently ‘fell’ ”—Isabelle made ironic quotes with her fingers—“off a rock into a gully while he was collecting wildflowers used to make herbal teas. It seems he supplemented his revenue as a pig farmers’ hand by going into the hills to collect things that he would sell to a Lyon company that manufactures and distributes natural products for tree huggers.”

“Escartefigue must be a nickname.”

“No, that’s what shows on the civil register.”

“And he would go to Lyon to sell what he collected?”

“No. I called the company. They have an itinerant buyer who travels up and down Provence, buying this stuff from locals. It’s all dried, anyway, so there’s no rush. The man I spoke to said that Anglade was one of their best suppliers. Very experienced. See the pattern emerging?”

“And the third one?”

“Jean Cadort. He died the year after. Hit by a tractor while he was riding his Solex. Of course, those ridiculous bicycles with the little motor on top of the front wheel should be outlawed, but it would still be easy enough to get one out of the way of a tractor, wouldn’t you think?”

“What did the gendarmerie report say?”

“Road accident. No comment.”

“And you think it was intentional?”

“Of course it was. All three of them were. It’s obvious. Look. Four out of the six rapists have died, and one is missing. Dead, too, for all we know. One of them was definitely murdered, and I’ll bet a month’s pay the others were murdered, too.”

“And how do you explain that Philoxéne Cabanis was spared?”

“Spared so far, Commissaire. Only so far. He’s got to be next on the list. Either him or Antonin Brault. That is, if Antonin isn’t already dead.”

“And the killer would be?”

“Lucien Folon. Who else? He has the motive, and he had the means. Of course he’s our man. No doubt about it. Now all we need to do is to dig up some supporting evidence and let the juge d’instruction wrap it up for the prosecutor. A big red bow on a sweet little package for
Monsieur le Procureur de la Justice
.
”

“Isabelle, remember that phrase from Sherlock Holmes I always like to quote. Let the facts dictate your theory. Don’t try to force them into your preconceived notion.”

“Commissaire, this isn’t some mystery novel. This is the real world, where there are no coincidences. Four out of six people who were perps in a rape have died violently. We can’t walk away from that.”

“All right. You win. This is something that needs to be investigated. Have David interview this Philoxéne Cabanis. Also, get him to see if he can find Antonin Brault. Why don’t you put in a call to the gendarmerie headquarters of the department of the Var and see what they can dig up for him? You’ve piqued my curiosity. I’d like to know if brother Antonin is still alive and hear what he has to say about all this. And I want you to do some research on Folon and see if he could have been present during these deaths. If it turns out he was doing restaurant reviews in Tokyo, your theory goes out the window.”

“Now you’re talking, Commissaire. Don’t you worry. I’m on it. We’ll have this one wrapped up in a few days.”

Isabelle was so happy, she almost skipped out of Capucine’s office.

CHAPTER 29

“A
llô, Capucine!” Chéri Lecomte said brightly over the brigade telephone. Capucine thought the use of her first name was a bit much.

“
Je te téléphone parce que . . .
I’m calling you because . . .” The first name might have passed, but the
tu
was definitely over the top for a mere acquaintance.

Capucine replied with a frosty “Oui.” Apparently, her tone passed unnoticed.

“Listen, I know absolutely nothing about police procedure, and I thought you could help me out with a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“It’s . . . personal . . . sort of intimate . . . Would it be all right if I came to see you? It’s not something I can really talk about on the telephone.”

“I think I can give you an appointment next week. I’ll have the brigade receptionist call you. He handles my schedule.”

“Next week! This is really urgent. Can’t I come by this morning? You can find a few minutes for a friend, can’t you?”

Capucine was torn. The presumptuous tone irritated her, and she suspected that this probably had to do with a uniformed policeman banging on her door about a pile of unpaid parking tickets. On the other hand, there was a remote chance that it might have something to do with the case.

Capucine smiled down the line. “For you, I could prize open a slot tomorrow morning. Say at ten. Is that soon enough?”

“It’ll have to do, won’t it?”

At nine thirty the next morning the receptionist called to announce that a Madame Lecomte had arrived.

“Let her sit. It’s going to be a while before I can get to her.”

Capucine continued her discussion with one of her lieutenants about an arrest planned for later that morning and then listened to a report by her other lieutenant about his current case—a very tricky one—which he seemed to have satisfyingly in hand. The lieutenant left at ten twenty. Capucine picked up the duty roster and began making changes, assigning two more brigadiers to the lieutenant’s case. At ten thirty the uniformed receptionist walked through the open doorway.

“This Madame Lecomte has been waiting for an hour. Do you want me to send her away?”

“Good Lord, no. I completely forgot about her. Show her in.”

Despite her belted bright-print dress from another age and the inevitable red-soled Louboutins, Chéri was far less radiant than usual.

“It’s so kind of you,” she said, again using the offensive
tu,
“to see me on such short notice.” Chéri moved in for an air kiss, which Capucine parried, retreating behind her desk and calling the receptionist to ask him to get the café on the corner to send around two expresses. An abiding French myth was that the slightly bitter café coffee was invariably better than anything that could be produced in house.

They exchanged banalities for a few minutes, until a waiter in an ankle-length white apron—still immaculate at that hour of the morning—appeared with a cork-lined tray containing two demitasses covered by their saucers to keep them hot. Once the mysterious bond that humans construct by jointly ingesting food substances was established, Capucine smiled encouragingly at Chéri.

“Why don’t you tell me about the problem you want to discuss?”

Chéri fidgeted. In earlier eras she would have wrung a handkerchief or gone through the elaborate ritual of lighting a cigarette. But, deprived of these props, all she could do was dart her eyes from side to side, seeking escape in the corners of the room. Eventually, she cleared her throat and launched into her story.

“It’s very embarrassing. The sort of thing only a woman would understand. That’s why I’m turning to you.” She stopped short.

Capucine said nothing. Silence was the most powerful goad the interviewer possessed.

“For a good number of years I . . . well . . . I have been deeply in love with a certain monsieur.”

Capucine groaned inwardly. This was going to take over an hour, and it would have something to do with the unrequited love of a married man and some form of monetary compensation. She snuck a look at the appointment list that had been printed out for her. Her next appointment was at eleven: a case involving a father who disciplined his six-year-old boy so severely, he was frequently in the emergency room and missed so much school, he was in danger of repeating the year.

“The monsieur’s name is Thierry Brissac-Vanté. I’m sure you know about him since he’s one of the owners of Chez La Mère Denis.”

Capucine looked at her levelly for several long beats, hoping the rest of it would come gushing out. Chéri said nothing but found enough self-confidence to meet Capucine’s gaze.

Capucine broke the silence. “Why do you think the police should be involved?”

“I think harm has come to Thierry.”

“Why?”

“Thierry and I would call each other at least once a day. Even if he couldn’t get away from his wife, he always called me.” There was a long pause. “But he hasn’t called in a week. And every time I try his cell phone, it rings six times before it goes to voice mail. That means it’s on. I just can’t believe he’s looking at my name popping up on his screen and refusing to take the call. Something’s happened to him.” There was another long pause.

“So I called his house on the landline. Something he told me never to do. I pretended I was a charitable organization he had pledged some money to. The person that answered, some sort of servant would be my guess, said that he was away for the day and that she would take a message. Of course, he never called back. I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes filled with liquid.

In the normal course of events this was the sort of incident that would not even be recorded on the police blotter. Since time immemorial men were notorious for jettisoning their rejected women over a wall of silence. But, of course, Brissac-Vanté was a central figure in Capucine’s cases. Exactly when was the last time she had heard a real-time report about him? Come to think of it, it did seem a long while back.

“Was there any incident? A dispute? A misunderstanding?”

“No, nothing. That’s just it. I spoke to him just last week. We made plans to have dinner.” Chéri licked her lips. “He wanted to take me to a new restaurant that serves food from Réunion Island. He says they have a dish of very spicy baby goat that is just fabulous. He read about the place in
Elle
magazine and had a reservation for the next day—”

Capucine cut her off. “And he never called back to confirm your date? Is that it?”

Chéri nodded, almost gratefully. “I keep on calling and calling, and he never picks up.”

Capucine stood up. “I’ll look into it. Informally. There’s not enough here to open a dossier, but I’ll call you in a day or two and tell you what I come up with. Will that do?”

Chéri smiled weakly. She had expected something more. Capucine had no idea what. The only thing she was sure of was that a good part of the story had been a fib.

CHAPTER 30

“B
onjour, Monsieur le Maire. I stopped by because I need your help.”

David had half expected the old man not to remember him. But the minute the mayor caught sight of David walking through the door, he peered intently at the side pockets of David’s jacket. The mayor beamed when he saw the lumpy bulges.

“Le Cannois! I figured you’d be back.”

Apparently, the tide of village gossip had floated David’s local nickname as far away as a nursing home in the outskirts of Cassis.

“Just in time for the apéro before lunch.” It was ten thirty in the morning.

David collected the glass and carafe from the night table, set them down on the stand next to the mayor’s reclining armchair. The mayor pulled a lever, and the chair shot upright. David twisted open a mignonette of Pastis Ricard and poured it into the glass. The mayor added water and fell silent, transfixed at the transformation of liquid gold into mother’s milk.

“You have good taste in pastaga, mon ami. But you’re not going to make me drink alone, a man of my age. There’s another glass in the drawer of my night table. I filched it from my dinner tray last night.”

David smiled at the thought of Isabelle’s reaction to him drinking on duty in the middle of the morning. This was definitely better than Paris. Maybe there might even be something in the idea of local politics. The mayor picked up the trace of David’s grin.

“Nothing better than a little apéro.” He clinked his glass against David’s and glanced at the door like a guilty schoolboy. In an effort to regain his gravitas, he tucked in his chin and looked sternly at David.

“You said you needed my help, Le Cannois.”

“I’d like to interview Antonin Brault and get his input on Jean-Louis’s childhood. You know, the point of view of the elder sibling. The gendarmes say they have no idea where he went.”

The mayor looked at David shrewdly. “I’m amazed they made any comment at all. You authors must have quite some pull.” He tapped David’s pocket for another mignonette, which he emptied into his glass and topped up with water. He took a long appreciative sip. “But you’re in luck. I know where he is.”

“You do?” This bit of good news vastly exceeded David’s expectations.

“Of course I do. Keep very close tabs on your constituency. That’s the secret to success in politics. Keep that in mind when your time comes.”

It would appear that Antonin was working as a temp mechanic for a Peugeot garage in a village a half an hour away. By a stroke of luck David’s rental car happened to be a Peugeot. David planned on a trip to the garage first thing the next morning.

It took him a good two hours to extract himself from the mayor, who went on at length reaffirming his opinion that David was a natural for village politics. It was not clear to David if this was a ploy to keep the Ricard tap open or if the view was sincere. David was unable to pry himself loose until well after the Angelus would have sounded in La Cadière. He left with more insights into the subtleties of village mayoral politics than he had ever imagined existed.

By the time he drove the twenty minutes back to La Cadière, he was starving. Casimir, the owner of Le Marius, was back from his lunch, energetically polishing glasses behind the bar. The café was completely deserted, save for a lanky man in his middle thirties who David recognized by sight as Felix Olivier.

“I heated this up for you,” Casimir said, serving David an enormous slice of fougasse packed with black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and dark air-cured ham. He set a quarter-liter carafe of rosé next to it. Under the cover of the clank of dish, glass, and carafe, Casimir jutted his chin microscopically in the direction of Olivier and muttered, “He’s been looking for you, Le Cannois. He’s asked after you three times already.”

David shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of the ways of the world.

When Casimir went back to his obsessive-compulsive glass polishing, Olivier came up to the bar, glass of chalky white liquid in hand. He was careful to station himself a good two feet beyond David’s territorial perimeter. There was a long awkward moment.

“You’re the writer,” Olivier said, posing the question as a statement of fact, with no upward inflection on the last word.

“Guilty as charged,” David said as he cut off another piece of fougasse.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Felix Olivier.” He turned toward David but did not presume to extend his hand.

“The butcher’s son,” David said, concentrating on chewing. He realized how much he missed real fougasse when he was in Paris.

“And you’re writing a book about Jean-Louis Brault.”

“Guilty again.” David swallowed his last bite of fougasse, washed it down with the last swallow of the rosé, and edged into Olivier’s space. “I was going to sit outside and have a pastaga. Care to join me?” Without waiting for a reply, David turned to Casimir and said, “We’ll be on the terrace. Can you bring us One Hundred and Two?”

At the luncheon hour the village square was deserted. Not even a stray dog wandered by to lift his leg. The din of the cicadas was almost deafening. David savored the liquorish taste of the pastis, his third of the day.

Olivier took a quick deep draught, downing a quarter of his drink.

“You’re going to write about that . . . incident . . . with Fanny?” This time it came out as a question.

David said nothing.

Olivier downed another quarter of his drink, choked, and coughed.

“Well, I don’t want to look bad in your book. I want you to say what really happened.”

David said nothing, egging Olivier on with his silence.

“The village will tell you that Fanny encouraged Anou. But that’s not true at all. Not at all. It’s important you know that.”

David looked at him and slowly took a sip of pastis. “Let me try and visualize the scene,” he said. “You were, if I understand the situation, on top of Fanny when Brault came up with his pals?”

“Of course I was on top of her. She was my girlfriend. And let me tell you, she was writhing and moaning and having a wonderful time. She really was. It’s important you understand that.”

David nodded dispassionately. “And so what happened ?”

“I noticed Anou and a bunch of his pals hiding in the trees, sniggering at us. They all had cans of beer in their hands and were having a good time at my expense. Fanny saw them, too, and stopped moving around. It’s true she looked at them. Who wouldn’t?”

There was another long pause. Both men finished their drinks.

“Then Anou came over to us and hauled me up by my collar and made me stand. I told him to let go. That’s when he hit me in the ear. It started bleeding.”

“Did Fanny scream?”

“No. She was so shocked, she just lay there with a funny expression on her face. That was all that happened.”

“So what did you do?”

“What did I
do?
Five of the biggest bullies in the village were about to beat me up. I got out of there as fast as I could. I was lucky to get home in one piece. Anybody would do that, right?”

“And was Jean-Louis Brault there?”

“I don’t know. Probably. It happened very fast. Jean-Louis was always hanging around with his big brother. He might have been behind the other boys. Yes, now that I think about it, he
was
there. Definitely!”

A scrawny man in patched work clothes came up behind Olivier and called out,
“Salut, Le Cocu!
How’s it going, Cuckold!” Judging from the slur in his voice, the newcomer was a fervent adept of the maire’s school of mid-morning drinking.

Olivier turned as sharply as a skittish cow prodded with a sharp stick.

“Oh, salut, Philoxéne,” Olivier said meekly, his glow of self-righteousness evaporating like a wisp of mist in the morning sun.

Philoxéne Cabanis, the fourth victim. The very man he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon tracking down. The Midi was definitely the place to do police work. Here, all you had to do was sit at a café table, sipping pastaga in the warm sun, and everyone you wanted would eventually come and sit right down with you.

“Sounds like you were talking about my girlfriend, Fanny,” Cabanis said, making a sign at Casimir through the window of the bar. Casimir ignored him, industrious with his glasses.

Olivier clenched his teeth and scowled at Cabanis.

“What’s the matter, you wimp? Are you afraid I’m going to tell Le Cannois about how Fanny was so bored with your tiny little dick that she was begging Anou to come over and give her something man sized to moan about?” Cabanis grinned at David. “If this guy was an inch shorter, he’d be a girl!” He roared with laughter.

Olivier stood up, his face flushed bright carmine.

Cabanis stood up, too. “What are you going to do? Punch me, you little half-pint? Go on. Get out of here. Run back to your daddy and hide behind his apron, like you always do.” He pushed Olivier violently in the chest. Olivier staggered and regained his balance. “Go on. Get. No room for a little boy at a table of men.”

Olivier’s eyes moistened. He pivoted and walked off almost at a trot.

“That’s the same thing that happened the evening we had that laugh with Fanny. Daddy’s boy there took one look at Anou and galloped off home. What he can’t get over is that Fanny had smiled at Anou and had beckoned him to come over. Can’t nobody say that’s not true. I was there. That Fanny always knew a real man when she saw one. She sure had an eye for it.”

Cabanis made another gesture at the barman, with as little success. David turned in his seat and motioned to Casimir with his fingertips.

“A Hundred and Two,” he ordered, putting a little twist on his grin to take the sting out of the incident.

Cabanis nodded his thanks. “I guess it’s true that you’re becoming a
caïd
around here,” he muttered almost inaudibly.

“I owe it all to clean living,” David said, clinking his glass against Cabanis’s. Both men chuckled.

“So what’s your version of the story?” David asked.

“Same as everybody else’s. We was just out having some beers and roaming around, seeing what was happening, and Anou gets an idea. ‘Let’s go over to that wood on the hill behind the village. That’s where that pussy Felix Olivier takes his girl. Let’s see if Fanny likes it or just lies there, wishing it was somebody else.’ So we go up there, and sure enough, they’re hard at it. Felix is trying to get her to take her dress off, but she wasn’t having any of that. Finally, she gives a snort and lifts her skirt and lies back in the grass. Felix was in and out in about three heartbeats. Fanny was really pissed off. ‘It happened again, you idiot. I told you, you have to learn to take it slow.’ That’s when Anou goes up to them.

“When Fanny sees Anou coming up, she gets all smiley at him. So what was Anou going to do? He lifts Felix up by the collar and goes, ‘Let me show you what she means, wimp.’ Felix says something, and Anou gives him a good one up the side of the head and he runs off.
Tu veux que je te dise?
Do you want me to tell you? It was a whole different story when Anou got going. Fanny started moaning loud enough to get the whole village up there.”

“And then you all had a go at her.”

“Nah, just two of us. And then Fanny says she’s getting sore and it’s time to go home to dinner, anyway. So we go back down the hill. On the way down we run into Lucien Folon coming up. I guess his mother had sent him looking for Fanny to get her home to dinner on time. Lucien gives us all a dirty look, but nothing happens.”

“And Jean-Louis Brault was with you.”

“Funny thing that. He was with us when we went up the hill. That’s for sure. When we were up there, I sure didn’t have my eyes on no little kid. You can bet on that. But when we went back down the hill, he wasn’t with us. Maybe he’d run off scared. He didn’t want to go in the first place, but Anou made him.” He stopped short. “Think you can get your pal Casimir to bring us some more pastaga? He won’t serve me.”

When the next round had been brought and water added with care, Cabanis resumed his tale. “Thing is, if that Folon kid hadn’t gone off the deep end, everybody in the village would have forgotten about it in three days. But no, Folon goes ballistic. First thing he does is beat the shit out of Jean-Lu every day at school. Got so bad, Anou had to show up and put a stop to it. That only made him wilder.

“Next thing he does is pinch a fifty-pound bag of sodium chlorate from the gardener’s shed at the school—you know, the stuff they use to kill weeds in gravel driveways—and sprinkle it around the base of the baron’s olive trees one night when it’s beginning to get stormy. There was no trace of it after the rain, but the day after, the leaves start falling off. I tell you, those damn trees
still
don’t give a decent crop of olives.” Cabanis shook his head in amazement.

“But that wasn’t enough for Lucien. So he goes out looking for stray cats and gets about six of them in a burlap bag. He goes over to the Brault place real quiet in the middle of the night and throws the bag over this chicken-wire fence right into the baron’s precious bantam hens. In the morning half of them are dead, and the other half don’t lay for six months.” Cabanis leaned far over the table and whispered conspiratorially, “But that was nothing, I mean nothing, compared to what he did after.” He tapped the side of his empty glass significantly.

David went up to the bar to get the drinks. PJ accounting wasn’t going to believe how much he had to spend on booze on this case.

As he poured a fresh glass, Casimir said, “Watch out for that one when he’s had a snout full. He can get mighty nasty. That’s why I don’t want him in here.”

David smiled, pursing his lips, and shook his head, miming that there was nothing to worry about.

“What did he do next?
Tu veux que je te dise?
Do you want me to tell you?” Cabanis asked when David returned with the drinks. “He started killing us off one by one.”