Voisin jumped up. “Madame, that's a villainous lie! The Chevalier line has always been excellent. In fact, it received a gold medal for rosés only last year.”
“Did the Chevalier label win any awards when you were managing the business?”
“The wine industry is very conservative. It takes them years to overcome their resistance to something new. But in the end they reward quality when they see it.” He poured the last of the champagne into his glass.
“How is it, monsieur, you are lucky enough to be able to spend so much time in Paris?” David asked sweetly, as if to defuse the tension.
Voisin smiled at David and moved to the phone to order more champagne. “Once my son had learned the business well enough to take over operational management, I was only too happy to concentrate on defining the corporate strategy and acting as ... well ... ambassador to the industry. As it happens, I'm here to see my tailor and, of course, for a little bit of innocent amusement.” He waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the bedroom and gave David a broad wink.
Isabelle grunted in anger.
In a few minutes room service returned. Voisin seemed oddly relieved. He was plainly exasperated at the ostentatious care the waiter took in opening the bottle and encouraged him with nervous gestures. When the cork popped he breathed an audible sigh. Once his glass was in hand, Capucine picked up the thread of the interview.
“I see in your file that just before you stepped down as directeur général, criminal and civil charges were brought against you by a young woman.”
“Statutory rape,” Isabelle said, filling in. “You like them young, don't you?”
Voisin filled his glass and downed it in one go. All of a sudden the wine seemed to affect him. His eyes became red, and he made a clear effort at focusing. Capucine suspected he was seeing double.
“Those charges were dropped,” he said, just barely slurring his words.
“The business bought her out. Is that how it was done?” Isabelle asked.
Voisin shook his head slightly. “There
was
a pecuniary consideration. But only a very small one.”
“And because of that you were asked to step down?”
Voisin had had enough of the back and forth. He was tired of them. “No. But it was the last straw. It was really about the wine. It had nothing to do with the girl and her absurd claims. It happened like this. The Chevalier line was doing well, very well. But it was being sold in supermarkets and the wine snobs can't have that, now can they? My son graduated from business school at HEC and started working in the business. He had all these highfalutin conceptual views he had learned there.
“To use his language, he felt that the difference in quality between our two wines created a âvacuum' that damaged both brands. He insisted on improving the Chevalier de la Motte label and bringing it closer to the excellence of Château de la Motte. I thought this was a huge mistake. I was afraid of cannibalizing the first growth with the second. I wanted Château de la Motte to stand alone, uncontested, without any competition, least of all from its own house. Do you understand?”
All three detectives nodded.
“But an improved second label would result in more revenue and better margins, I imagine,” Capucine said.
“That was exactly Damien's view. He went on a lobbying campaign with the family. They own most of the stock. He made me appear a doddering old fool. He, of course, was a young genius who had just graduated from the best business school in France and had all the answers. I was polluting the historical image of the château to make vulgar money. But he was going to preserve the nobility of the
vignoble'
s tradition
and
the glory of the family while making even
more
money. For the family it was a highly attractive proposition. But in spite of that they still stuck by me.” Voisin paused.
“And then that stupid girl had to get into the act with her idiotic suit. I could have talked her out of it, but Damien jumped in and paid her off behind my back. It was all the ammunition he needed. He got his way with the family.”
There were a couple of long beats of silence.
“You know, I've always thought that Damien put her up to it. He engineered the whole thing. It's exactly the sort of thing he'd do.”
This time the pause was longer.
“Young man,” Voisin continued, “you wanted to know why I spend so much time in Paris. I'll tell you why. When I go to my own
vignoble,
I can't get past anyone's secretary. No one will give me the time of day. Damien runs the business like a tyrant and keeps me locked out. But, of course, every time the new Chevalier de la Motteâhis Chevalier de la Motteâwins an award, Damien insists I go to receive it. He can't find enough salt to rub in my wounds.”
He sighed a deep sigh of the long-suffering, so profound that bats could be heard flapping their wings in his lungs.
“So I amuse myself as I best I can under the circumstances,” he said with world weariness to David, as if only a man could understand the true depths of suffering.
There was another long pause, which Capucine finally broke.
“Let's get back to last night at the restaurant,” she said. “It seems an odd place for you to want to go.”
“Exactly. Like way too down-market a place to take a movie star,” David said.
Capucine was amazed that he actually seemed to have formed an affection for Voisin.
“Ah, my friend, you underestimate my little Sybille. She recognized the restaurant's potential,” he answered with the hint of a wink. “It was her idea.”
“And you really didn't see anything?” David asked.
“You know, it's funny you should ask,” he said, as if it was the first time the question had been aired. “As my so-called meal was progressing, I had the impression that there was a very faint green spectral aura floating through the room. At the time I was sure it was my guardian angel. Then I shut my eyes. I'm sure you can imagine why. And when I opened them, the aura was gone. That girl really has a spectacular talent.”
Capucine was so delighted with this piece of news that she was completely oblivious to Isabelle's low growl.
CHAPTER 14
I
t was nearly one in the afternoon by the time Capucine battered the Twingo into an impossibly tight space on the rue de Ménilmontant, a few doors down from her brigade. She realized she was ravenous.
“Do you think we can still squeeze into Benoît's? I'm starving,” Capucine asked Isabelle, sitting next to her in the front seat.
“A little
casse-croûte
would be wonderful. All that vintage hot air has given me an appetite, too.”
David opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.
All three of them knew that a
casse-croûte
âa quick snackâwas out of the question at Benoît's, the local restaurant of choice for the brigade personnel. It was a full meal, eaten and savored at leisure, or nothing. Benoît's was one of the last handful of genuine working-class bistros, which now existed only in the outlying arrondissements, like the Twentieth. The fare was only simple classics, but they were prepared with love and pride.
Inside, the detectives extracted their napkins, changed once a week, from a long rack of pigeonholes labeled with the names of regular patrons. The restaurant's sole waitress, Angélique, a matron of prodigious proportions, shepherded them to a table in the corner, eulogizing the day's selection.
“Since it's Friday we have two fish dishes,
quenelles de brochet
and
raie au beurre noir
. And for the men, since they're rarely religious,” Angélique said, looking severely at David, “we have a
paupiette de veau
that you'll tell your mother about.” Behind her, a slate blackboard proclaimed a list of six or seven dishes. They all existed, but Angélique was adamant about choosing for her patrons. Few dared argue with her.
Angélique produced her order pad. “So,
Commissaire,
the pike for you. The sauce is very delicate, perfect for someone of your sensitivity. And mademoiselle
brigadier-chef,
you'll enjoy the skateâ”
“You know what?” Isabelle interrupted. “I'm going to have the veal paupiettes instead. My mother forced skate cooked like that down my throat when I was a child. All those bones and that nasty dark butter sauce with that vinegar.” She gave a histrionic shudder, shaking her head. “The veal, please. Definitely.”
“Pas question!”
Angélique said. “Your mother was absolutely right. Skate is excellent for the complexion and that beautiful hair you have.”
She stroked Isabelle's butch-cropped dark blond hair. Isabelle jerked away.
“Oh, là laaaÃ
,” Angélique said in mock alarm. “You should let it grow. You could be very pretty if you took a little better care of yourself.” The skate was clearly not up for debate.
“And
monsieur le brigadier
will have the paupiettes,
bien sûr
,” she said, not even looking at him for approval. “I'm going to give you a nice rosé. It's a Domaine Tempier, from Bandol, perfect for both the fish and the veal.”
At the word
rosé,
the three detectives shot glances at each other.
“What now?” Angélique asked in a pantomime of irritation. “All of a sudden we don't like
rosé?”
“Of course we do,” Isabelle said. “Do you have any Château de la Motte?
”
“Mademoiselle, where do you think you are? This is a restaurant for honest working people. We don't serve Bordeaux. We don't serve
any
fancy, rich-people wine.” Angélique stalked off in a huff.
The detectives made small talk, gossiping themselves into a sense of contentment with acronyms and police jargon. When the food came, Isabelle waited until Angélique turned her back, and switched plates decisively with David.
“
Voilà pour toi
,
monsieur le brigadier
male chauvinist pig,” she said.
“
A vos ordres
,
Brigadier-Chef,”
David replied with a grin and a smart salute. Capucine knew he hated sausage in any form. The paupiettes were a thin wrapping of pounded veal cutlet covering a big lump of sausage meat, held together tightly with string. It was the last thing he would have ordered for himself.
The exchange flooded Capucine with a wave of contentment. It was for moments like this that she had incurred the wrath of her parents to join the police. She smiled as she imagined her mother at their table. The pigeonholed napkins would have been bad, David's fey locks would have been worse, Isabelle's multiple ear piercings and butch haircut would have been an affront, and the very notion of eating proletarian paupiettes would have sent her running out the door.
The trill of her cell phone cut off her reflections.
She flipped it open, turned slightly sideways in her chair, offering a three-quarter profile, and flapped her hand over the table to indicate the two officers should begin.
“
Allô.
Dechery here. I have some preliminary information for you on last night's stiff. Is this a good time?”
“What did you guys find out?”
“The pathologist is just doing the autopsy now,” Dechery said loudly over the shrieking whine of an electric saw. “But we already have a bunch of news that's going to interest you. We extracted the baster first thing this morning. First interesting fact, no prints, naturally, but we did find faint ridging on the surface that had been wiped.”
“Ridging?”
“The baster had been held by someone wearing loose-fitting plastic-film gloves. Most likely the kind they use in food stores.” He paused to see if she had a question.
“Got it. What else?”
“The needle on the baster was three and a half inches long and must have gone into the primary auditory cortex and probably into the cerebrum itself. That alone would have caused immediate death. There was also a residue of thick brown liquid that looked like it might have been injected. We'll know about that when the autopsy is complete. The pathologist is just lifting off the parietal and frontalâ”
“Dechery, remember you're talking to a layperson here.”
“The front and back of the top of the skull. He saws it off and lifts out the brain. He's doing it now.”
Capucine pushed away her plate of lumpy white nuggets of fish in a liquid yellow sauce.
“Then we'll know how far in the needle went and be able to determine how much of the liquid was injected. But here's the punch line. We analyzed the residue in the baster this morning. You'll never guess what it was.”
Capucine drummed her fingertips on the table, refusing to rise to the bait.
“A solution of ground-up castor beans!” Dechery was delighted. “Not only did your perp kill the victim with a basting needle but he also injected a castor-bean solution. Two firsts for me in one go. It's made my day.”
“Castor beans? Is that some kind of poison?”
“Oh my dear! You kids of today have missed out on so much. Thirty years ago every child in France was regularly dosed with castor oil. It's a mild laxative.”
“The murderer wanted to give the victim diarrhea?” Both Isabelle and David looked up at Capucine quizzically.
“There's an urban legend that castor beans are a deadly poison. You know, like the myth that eating rhubarb leaves will kill you instantly. I imagine the castor bean one comes from the fact that they contain ricin, which really
is
a lethal poison. They use it in biological weaponry. But you need a chromatographic protein laboratory to extract ricin from castor beans. This stuff was just crushed mush that had been boiled down. Nothing lethal about it at all.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you inject it into someone's brain.”
“But you're guessing the murderer probably didn't know that.”
“Guessing's your job,
Commissaire,
not mine. But there's more.”
“Oui, Ajudant.”
“Before we started the autopsy we did a thorough examination of the body with hyperspectral light. There was latent bruising on the left side of the face. Four small circular bruises, which almost certainly came from fingertips. We were able to get a very tight estimate of the time of the bruising and put it within half an hour of the death. It looks like someone came up behind the victim, held his head, and shoved the needle in his ear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. The hand was very strong. That was why the pressure was on the fingertips and not the palm. Given the spacing between the bruises, it was probably a man's hand. It must have been a sudden, violent gesture.”
When Capucine flipped her phone shut, David looked up from his plate and asked, “Death by diarrhea? This case just keeps getting better and better.”