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Authors: Alexander Campion

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BOOK: Killer Critique
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CHAPTER 36
N
early a month went by. The exhilaration of early summer—with its warm, heady breezes beckoning to the world of café terraces and leisurely walks in the parks—was overcome by the oppressively leaden heat of midsummer. Paris drooped and grumbled, counting the sultry, dusty days until it could finally flee to its
grandes vacances
.
Capucine took to seeing Vavasseur three times a week or more. The level of the river lowered daily. Weed-slimy stone steps now had to be descended to retrieve wine bottles held by their cords in the shrunken Seine. The aroma of river and bank blossomed, its muskiness, sharpened by an ammoniac tang of urine.
Capucine and Vavasseur abandoned the police barricade cubicle and ate their meals on their laps, their legs dangling over the river. After, they continued drinking Portuguese
vinho verde
—cool, green, tart, one step shy of sparkling, thin with its weak level of alcohol. Capucine unburdened herself as she hadn't since her early teens. Most afternoons ended in tears.
Painful as they were, Capucine became hopelessly addicted to the sessions by the river's edge. It was only there that she could think clearly. It was only there that she had an appetite. It was only there that the wait became endurable.
When it was over she asked herself what she had learned in all those hours. Certainly nothing more about the murders—what else was there to know? A handful of insights about her feelings toward her parents—but that had nothing at all to do with the case. And, of course, a metaphysical acceptance of what she knew she must do. The abstract logic was as robust as those of the silly false dilemmas of her lycée days: if the Devil promised you the entire world would be free of hunger for one whole year if only you would allow him to kill three people you had never met in a distant country, would you do it? But that was a very far cry from actually putting a pistol to the head of one of these people with your own hand, wasn't it?
As ever, Alexandre was masterful in dealing with his wife's crisis, even though Capucine was convinced he couldn't have the slightest inkling of its substance. Naturally, his first concern was her diet. Instinctively, he divined that Capucine ate well only when she was with Vavasseur and he intuited this must be due to the quality of the meals. He took her on a tour of the twelve three-star restaurants in Paris. But this proved ill-fated. Capucine only picked at her food and when the dishes returned to the kitchen barely touched there was serious concern over the apparent opprobrium of the wife of one of the nation's most well-known restaurant critics. The third time a starred chef came out into the dining room wringing his hands to consult with him, Alexandre knew he would have to change tactics.
His next tack was more successful. He and Capucine began to explore the restaurants of the Ile de la Jatte, the once lightly grassed sandy bar in the middle of the Seine at the very edge of Paris' town limits. It would be completely unknown to the world today were it not for Georges Seurat's pointillist vision of the petit bourgeois taking their Sunday ease on the then deserted island. In the last decade the island had been overrun by real estate developers. Ramshackle warehouses and lopsided wooden garages had disappeared one after the other to make way for six-story luxury condos made all the more luxurious by their river views. But a handful of restaurants still remained with terrace seats only feet away from the water, cool in the shade of poplar trees. These became their nightly haunt.
None of them were particularly good, at least from Alexandre's point of view; but Capucine ate. And both of them found it pleasant enough to finish a bottle of Sancerre as the sky's azure deepened to purple and a fresh breeze lifted off the Seine.
Still, there was no question that Capucine was becoming slightly gaunt. The wait was unquestionably taking its toll.
 
The call that Capucine so keenly anticipated and so deeply dreaded finally came. She knew she would get only one arrow and she would have to choose carefully. But this one was so straight and true it was impossible to pass up. The problem was that she could not muster the courage to pull back on the bowstring. It was going to take more than the encouraging advice of a professional. Without the comforting embrace of an old friend, she doubted she would ever find the resolve.
She squeezed the buttons of her cell phone to call to Cécile.
“Capucine,
ma chérie,
I literally had my hand on the phone to call you! I need to have lunch with you. Today! Cancel whatever plans you have. You absolutely
must
minister to your best friend in her hour of need.”
“Of course we'll have lunch today. Actually, there's something I need to talk to you about myself. It's really very important. I want your advice before I make my final decision.”
Inevitably, lunch was at La Dacha. At first Capucine bridled. Even though her appetite had been hamstrung, she was repelled by the notion of upmarket grazing where the only substantial offering would be the check. Still, she acquiesced.
La Dacha hadn't changed. It never would. If Gaël Tanguy's dystopia ever came to pass, rusty automatons might copulate with festering animals in the street, but La Dacha would manage to extract the last hundred grams of beluga caviar from the last moldering sturgeon in the hopelessly polluted Caspian Sea and serve it—with an insufficient amount of toast—for an obscene price.
Capucine scoured the menu. Perversely, she was extremely hungry. As it turned out, if you actually took the time to read it—which, of course, was hardly the done thing—real food could be found. Capucine ordered the borscht with three pirogies on the side to be followed by beef Stroganoff, and a half bottle of a Côtes du Rhône that she had heard Alexandre praise.
“Are you pregnant?” ejaculated Cécile, genuinely alarmed. “Now that I look at you, you do seem different. But thinner, not rounder. What's the matter?”
“Nothing. I just need a bit of support. And a spoonful of fish eggs on toast isn't going to do it for me.”
Cécile's concern lasted for almost three seconds before she refocused on her own life.
“I've made up my mind! You'll never guess what I decided.”
“You're quitting the firm, leaving Théo and your girlfriend, and going to Switzerland to start life anew.”
Cécile deflated like a badly knotted party balloon. “How did you know? I haven't told a soul.”
“It was obvious.” Capucine dove into her borscht and ate a pierogi, which was superb, cooked to an authentic Russian recipe, the unleavened dough fried until it was crisp and the interior redolent with potatoes and onions.
“No, seriously, tell me. How did you know?”
“Bolting was the only thing on your menu that excited you.” Capucine picked up another pierogi and nibbled on it. “Your interest in your firm had dwindled. It was really only the politicking that challenged you anyway and once you had grabbed the brass ring, nothing was left. The girlfriend was all about the shock value. And poor Théo bored you even before you were married. All he's ever been is a scenic backdrop. Vevey doesn't sound all that longterm but it has the virtue of being something completely new. And that makes it more exciting than the other options.”
“How well you know me. Is that how you catch your little criminals, by reading their minds?”
“No. What it takes is spending all night in the rain looking up at peoples' apartment lights. In fact—”
“Aren't you excited for me? I feel like I'm about to climb up on a Conestoga wagon and discover a whole new California. Or even join the crew of one of Columbus's ships and not be able to sleep at night for fear of sailing over the edge of the world.”
The waiter came up with Capucine's Stroganoff and asked Cécile if she wanted more caviar.
“Please, but I think I'll have the osetra this time.” In an aside to Capucine she said, “When you get right down to it, it's by far the best of the three, even if it is the cheapest.”
“Have you stocked enough caviar on your Conestoga wagon to last the whole journey?”
“You're being mean, and that's so not like you. I thought you would be happy that I've made my decision and my agony of uncertainty is over.”
“I
am
being mean. It's just that I'm faced with an enormous decision mys—”
Cécile squeezed Capucine's hand, comforting her. “I understand. It's difficult for you to understand the enormity of my challenge. You're
so
right. Vevey won't last forever, so I don't want to burn any bridges behind me. I'm going to tell Théophile it's a temporary assignment so he'll feel comfortable staying here, and, of course, I'll come and visit often. Who can stay away from Paris? There are hardly any shops in Geneva, much less Vevey.”
Capucine's Stroganoff was perfect, the sauce rich and creamy, the beef satisfyingly rare.
“What is that vile concoction? Some sort of stew? And you're eating it in the middle of the summer. Capucine, are you sure you're not pregnant? Where was I? The worst part of it is I'll need an entire fall wardrobe and the shops still only have summer things. And on top of it all, Théo insists on going to his parents' house on the Ile de Ré for a month. An
entire
month, can you imagine? It's a purgatory of boredom but I feel morally obliged to go. When I get back I'll only have a week for shopping and dealing with Honorine, but one does what one has to do,
n'est-ce pas, ma chérie?
One copes.”
The lunch dragged on for another twenty minutes. Capucine stopped listening and contemplated the little lamp on the table with its tasseled red silk shade. At first she could not understand why Cécile was so ebullient. Then it struck her. Because she had finally stopped weighing her alternatives and had committed herself to a course of action. Unlike Capucine, she didn't need a validation of her decision; she merely wanted a witness to her joy.
Capucine unglued herself from the lamp and focused on her friend who was going on about not needing evening clothes in Vevey and what a relief that was. Capucine stood up.
“
Ma belle,
have a wonderful time on the Ile de Ré. After all this you
so
deserve a vacation. I'm sure we'll find a moment to finish catching up when you come back.”
“Of course, and then you'll really have to tell me what it is that's on your mind. I must hear about that. Why on earth are you leaving so soon? Don't you want to finish your goulash or whatever it is?” Cécile asked with a grimace.
“I have to get going with an arrest. It's the sort of thing that really can't wait.”
As she walked out of the restaurant Capucine knew Cécile would always be part of her life's furniture, if only as an archivist of her early memories. But she also understood that the rift between them would gradually continue to widen until eventually they would do no more than run into each other occasionally at dinner parties and make sincere plans, which would never materialize, to have lunch at La Dacha and rekindle their closeness.
CHAPTER 37
H
er decision finally made, Capucine boiled with impatience. On the street corner in front of La Dacha she flipped open her phone and pressed Alexandre's speed dial. He picked up immediately.
“Where are you?” Capucine asked.
“I'm at the paper. In an intensely boring editorial meeting.” Alexandre spoke in a sibilant whisper, his hand obviously cupped around his mouth and the receiver of his cell phone in a gesture he recently affected from a movie about Colombian drug dealers.
“Damn!”
“What's the matter?”
“Nothing. It's just that I'm in the Eighth Arrondissement and the Thirteenth is at the other end of Paris. I wanted to see you right away.”
“I'll hop in a cab and encourage the driver so vigorously with word and gesture I'll be at your side in a flash.”
“Why don't we meet in the middle? The Sixth. How about Les Editeurs? You know, in the carrefour de l'Odéon?”
“Les Editeurs?” Alexandre asked. “I'm sure we could find someplace more amusing.”
“Don't be such a snob. Last one to arrive pays the bill.” Capucine flipped her phone shut and smiled for the first time that day.
But in the heat of the unair-conditioned taxi her resolve melted and plopped on the floor like a child's ice cream cone undone by the seaside sun.
Les Editeurs, with its bought-by-the-yard book-lined walls, was pleasant enough, but the unfathomable vagaries of the Saint-Germain intelligentsia had nevertheless deemed it irrevocably infra-dig. Capucine had picked the spot precisely because there was absolutely no chance of running into anyone they knew. She bitterly regretted her choice. There would be no escape for her here.
As if he had read her mind, Alexandre had rejected the welcoming awning-covered terrace and had retreated inside, choosing a table in the farthest recess of the deserted bar–dining room. Grinning happily, he read from an open volume propped up against a small pile of books on the table and sipped whiskey from a glass with a single ice cube.
When he saw Capucine's approach he leapt to his feet and took her into his arms, searching deep in her eyes. She had no idea what he read there but with a jerk he broke the mood.
“I can't for the life of me imagine why no one comes here,” Alexandre said as they sat down. “These shelves contain a rich lode.” He held up a book and read the title,
“The Astonishing Digestive Tract of the Burgundy Snail.”
Despite herself Capucine grinned.
“And how about
Proceedings of the Thirty-Eighth Annual Congress of Growers of Root Vegetables of the Southwest
or
Guinea Pig Husbandry for Fun and Profit?”
Capucine began to laugh. “Stop, please.”
“It gets even better.
Collectible Swizzle Sticks—A Pictorial Overview.
And my absolute favorite,
The Wit and Wisdom of Recipients of the Order of Commander of the Decoration of Maritime Merit.”
Capucine's hoots of laughter squeezed out tears. Alexandre leaned forward and kissed her eyes.
“
Chérie,
your problem is that you don't drink enough.” He raised his finger imperiously and a waiter scuttled over. Even far off the beaten track of the cognoscenti, his reputation had preceded him. “A double vodka with lots of ice for madame and another one of these for me,” he said, shaking his almost empty on-the-rocks glass, making the nearly melted ice lozenge tinkle.
“I'm sorry. I got upset because we need to have a serious talk and you were making jokes,” Capucine said.
“Serious talk, eh?” He fell silent as the drinks arrived.
“Very serious. It's about ... well ... you see ... It's sort of hard to explain.”
“I'm guessing the word you're looking for is
appât—
bait.”
“Bait? No, not that. No. Never.”
“How about ‘tethered goat,' then? I think that's what lion hunters call it. Would that be better?”
Capucine's eyes filled with tears again.
“Now you're being silly. If you don't stop, I'll take your big black gun away from you and give you a good spanking. Right here.”
“You wouldn't dare!”
“Try me.”
“It's Jacques, isn't it? You found out from him. That horrible Docteur Vavasseur must have told Jacques and Jacques told you. Men can never keep secrets.”
“Oh, please. Jacques didn't tell me anything. I figured it out weeks ago. I know nothing about criminals, thank God, but I know all there is to know about you. And, of course, a rumor has been going around the staffs of the food pages of the big dailies that the
Police Judiciaire
is making inquiries about restaurant openings. The connection wasn't all that hard to make.”
Capucine burst into tears in earnest. A waiter poked his head around the door and then retreated. It was the great thing about restaurant service in France, no matter how pretentious and incompetent the management, the waitstaff were always professionals.
When the waiter left, Alexandre asked, “Where was I?”
“ ‘Oh, please'-ing.”
“Exactly. It was obvious. You did what you always do. You let your intuition solve the crime, but since your intuition can't produce evidence, you can't make an arrest.”
“There is no evidence. None at all.”
“Oh, please. That truism had permeated even my geriatric, alcohol-pickled brain.”
“Oh, please. No more ‘oh, please'-ing.”
Alexandre laughed. Capucine giggled. He picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I'm glad that's finally over,” Alexandre said. “Now let's hear this plan of yours. I've been waiting for weeks. You know how I love amateur theatricals.”
“It's going to be next Saturday. On the Eiffel Tower.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Alexandre, rapping the table with his knuckles. “It's perfect. You're a genius.” He kissed his wife happily on the forehead.
After a never-ending month, Capucine was finally reunited with Alexandre. She felt like crying again. In the dusty, over-air-conditioned, empty room, Paris and its oppressive blanket of heat were forgotten. They were like two children in the corner of an attic, eagerly sharing a secret.
Elated, Capucine described her plan. The reopening of the Restaurant Jules Verne on the second level of the Eiffel Tower had long been touted as the restaurant project of the season, if not the decade. Originally the opening had been planned for September—the crowning event of the
rentrée,
when life exploded back into the City of Light after the long dead summer—but it had been moved up to the third week in June. Wags opined this was because the project had run seriously over budget and the investors wanted to tap into the summer revenue from fat-walleted tourists.
There was no doubt the project was magnificent. Even though the restaurant had existed from the construction of the tower, it had become increasingly mediocre over the years, eventually declining to a level where not even American and Japanese tourists were willing to put up with its extravagant prices.
A group of investors had contracted Georges Delmas, the most starred and most ambitious of the French chefs, to revamp the décor and create a level of cuisine that would guarantee one Michelin star at a minimum. But it was no mean undertaking. The new furniture had had to be cleverly designed to meet the tower's draconian weight limits. The kitchen was so tiny it could hold only a handful of cooks and all the prep work would need to be undertaken in the basement of a nearby building and shuttled up to the restaurant in a dedicated lift.
On top of it all, the opening had been billed as the event of the summer. A hundred and twenty highly select guests had been invited to dinner, including representatives of the senior echelons of the government who would be there to celebrate the burnishing of France's most cherished monument. A further three hundred guests had been invited for a display of fireworks after dinner.
“If this doesn't attract the killer nothing will,” Alexandre said when Capucine's exposé was finished.
“It better do the trick because it's our last chance until the fall and I could never stand another wait.”
As they walked out of Les Editeurs Capucine noticed a bulge under Alexandre's left armpit.
“Hey, what's that? Momo didn't slip you a weapon, did he? Let me see.”
Alexandre shied away.
“No. This is serious. You can't go walking around armed without a permit. That's a class-one felony.” Using a police hold she pinioned Alexandre's left arm and stuck her hand in his jacket. It was a book.
“What's this?”
“It was the best one of all. Too good to leave where no one will ever read it. Please, Officer, I couldn't help myself. Don't take me in.”
The cover of the book was blank. Capucine turned it sideways and read the spine.
Sadomasochism for Beginners.
“Okay, young man. I'll let you off just this once. But only if I get to read it first.”
BOOK: Killer Critique
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