Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (9 page)

Once again, Serge fretted on deck waiting for Alexandre and Régis to arrive with groceries. Once again, a good hour and a half late, they appeared, struggling with an overladen shopping cart, both of them serene despite Serge’s choler.

“Are you two crazy? We’re not sailing to Latin America. We’ll be home tomorrow,” Serge said.

Inès shot him a sharp look.

But Serge’s rage hit its acme when he noticed that—in addition to a full larder of vegetables, Italian charcuterie, cheeses, meats in brown wrapping, dairy products, and an abundance of eggs—they had acquired a family-size pasta-making machine.

“Do you think you’re going to open a restaurant on my boat?”

“Hardly,” Alexandre said. “But we’re not going to leave Italy without eating some proper pasta, and Régis and I are going to make it.
Voilà, c’est comme ça.
”

Getting out of Arbatax was the work of ten minutes. Docile under Florence’s hand,
Diomede
set off on a northerly course toward the Strait of Bonifacio. The afternoon wore on as peacefully as on the most halcyon of sea cruises. Alexandre and Régis joyfully stretched long ribbons of pasta across the salon, some read, and Jacques and Aude communed silently, their legs over the boat’s side. The mood had crossed back over its watershed.

Alexandre, in honor of the traditions of final-night dinners laid down by prewar luxury liners, prepared his most sumptuous meal of the trip. Given the fineness of the evening, they ate in the cockpit. He announced the meal would his version of
cuisine sarde
—Sardinian cooking. The meal started out simply enough with an antipasto dish of thin slices of melon topped with slices of Parma ham. The melon’s flesh was so pale, it was almost blue, and as sweet as if sugar had been added. The Sardinian note appeared in the pasta dish,
ceci e fregola
—a stew made with chickpeas and semolina pasta balls, unique to Sardinia. The pasta balls and the chickpeas were exactly the same size. Alexandre had decorated the dish with pecorino wafers made by grating a slice of the cheese from the huge wedge he had brought on board onto a baking sheet and grilling it in the oven until the pieces fused.

The
secundo piatto—
the first course—was
cefalo arrostito
—grilled fillets of Sardinian gray mullet. Régis ceremoniously brought the platter up through the hatch, placed it on the cockpit table, then served it on the boat’s plastic dishes. Only four people sat round the table. The others had spread out around the deck. The mullets were light, flaky, delicately seasoned with a hint of garlic and caraway thyme, a variety that grew wild only in Corsica and Sardinia.

Next came Alexandre’s pièce de résistance, the
secondo piatto
—the second course Régis brought up a large casserole and placed it gingerly on the table.

“This is a great Sardinian classic,
coniglio alla sarda,
” Alexandre announced. “A stew made of the cousin of the hare and local vegetables, seasoned mainly with tamarind.”

There was happy chuckling at the name of the dish. Inès, who was sitting with Capucine just above the hatch opening, said, “What do you mean ‘cousin of the hare’? Is that a ra—”

Capucine put her hand over Inès’s mouth.

She shook it off, furious. “What are you doing!” Her anger increased as the laughter rose to a peak.

“There’s a certain animal that can never be named on ships or boats. It’s believed it will bring catastrophic luck. Of course, Alexandre’s provoked the ire of the gods by actually bringing the animal on board, but there’s no point in adding insult to injury,” Serge said, shooting Alexandre a poisonous look.

“What animal? What are you talking about?” Inès asked. “A rab—”

Capucine clapped her hand back on Inès’s mouth before the word escaped. There were roars of laughter.

Despite the risk of bad luck, everyone had seconds of the stew and ate so much that Alexandre’s platter of Sardinian cheeses was deferred to snacks for the watches during the night and people only pecked at dessert, which was
pardulas,
pastry tarts filled with soft cheese and sprinkled with powdered sugar.

Grappa and coffee were served below. The bittersweet parting mood became so pronounced, Jacques broke into a satirical chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” The group laughed uproariously, but the sadness remained.

Much, much later, as most of the group staggered off to their cabins, Jacques, Capucine, and Alexandre made for the bow pulpit for more grappa, with a final cigar for Jacques and Alexandre.

“You need another lifeline out of the bouillabaisse, don’t you, petite cousine?” Jacques asked.

Capucine smiled a long-suffering smile at him. “I probably do, but you can’t work your celestial Rolodex in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea, can you?”

“You’re just miffed I didn’t throw your little popgun into the sea when I had the chance. But that’s my profound sense of allegiance to
la patrie.
Government property is sacred.”

“Actually,” Alexandre said, “I think she’s disappointed you didn’t intercept the second shell casing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. She’ll figure out that part of it in the end. You have to be patient with the poor dear. She’s not as quick as the rest of us, but she’s much better looking.”

“Inès seems to want me to believe I’ll get arrested the second I set foot in Port Grimaud. That’s ridiculous. I’m a commissaire in the Police Judiciaire, after all.” She was crestfallen when the comment didn’t draw a corroborating snigger.

“Cousine, I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept that that’s a fairly accurate assessment of the situation,” Jacques said.

Capucine pouted. “I can hardly jump overboard and swim to the isle of Elba, now can I?” she asked.

“Even if you could, it would be subpar as an idea. I understand Napoleon didn’t have all that much to say for the place.”

“So I’m
foutu,
” Capucine said, accepting another shot glass of grappa from the bottle Alexandre had brought on deck.

“Cannes, little cousine. Think Cannes. The film festival is over. It’s possible once again to get into restaurants, and the beaches will be free of those dreary paparazzi.”

“Jacques, don’t joke. How would we get to Cannes? I can hardly suggest to seven people, one of whom is a juge d’instruction, to make a detour to Cannes and keep it a secret.”

Jacques smiled at her with his all-knowing Cheshire cat smile.

“Well, there’s always the dinghy.”

“You’re joking!”

“Not at all. Bligh covered thousands of nautical miles in a leaky rowboat. And you have a high-tech craft with a state-of-the-art internal combustion engine at your disposal. All you have to do is pitch it into the sea, hop in, and putt-putt your way into Cannes. What could be more simple?”

Capucine furrowed her brow.

“It’ll be as easy as taking a
sucette
from a toddler in a stroller. And I’ll create a smoke screen so dense, no one will notice that you two weren’t there for the arrival in Port Grimaud.”

Lightning flickered soundlessly in the distance, lighting up a small segment of the horizon. Sensing her concern, Alexandre shook his head. “Probably just a local storm. Nothing to worry about. Let’s go to bed. I’m thinking we’re not going to get much sleep tonight.”

An hour later Capucine was jolted awake by a clap of thunder. Eyes open, she lay in the bunk, Alexandre’s arm across her torso and the slight roundness of his stomach pressed into her back. Like a child at camp, she counted the seconds between the cracks of thunder and the flashes. Three miles away. Despite the fact that Florence was at the helm, Capucine fidgeted, on edge, a poker player about to slap her last card on the table, a card she didn’t like very much when you got right down to it.

Taking to the open sea in the tiny dinghy with a storm coming on was lunacy. But there was no alternative. It was the damned rabbits. What
had
Alexandre been thinking? She sank into an uneasy doze with a vision of a sinister rabbit twitching his nose at her, laughing maliciously.

D
espite Jacques’s assurances, when they got down to it, it turned out to be a very far cry from snatching a lollipop out of a baby’s hand.

At four thirty in the morning Capucine and Alexandre came on deck, miming a couple seeking a snap of cool air to bring on sleep. Serge, at the helm, had switched on the autopilot and sat on the stern rail, struggling to stay awake.

Serge was delighted at their arrival. “Can you two look after the boat? I’m going below to make something to eat. I need something to get revved up.”

“There’s some excellent
prosciutto di Parma
in the fridge, and the eggs are farm fresh from the outdoor market,” Alexandre said. “Put some butter in a skillet to fry the eggs, and when they’re nearly done, put the ham in for a few seconds, until it just begins to stiffen and turn brown.”

“Sounds fabulous. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

As Serge started to go below, he brushed up against Jacques, who was coming up the companionway, yawning and stretching.

“Couldn’t sleep. Our cabin is like an oven. I need a good jolt of the briny.”

“We all do. I’ve had my fill of standing watch, and I’m going below to stuff my face. The worst part is I’ve got another two hours before we make port.” He shook his head to demonstrate the full extent of his heroic suffering.

The instant they heard Serge rattling pans, Jacques got to work soundlessly. He tripped a release catch just above the transom, popping open the long, thin cover with a muffled clunk. All three froze, praying for Serge not to come back up. Capucine thrummed. Jacques pulled her over to him.

“Your course is dead north. I just checked our position on the GPS. We’re twelve nautical miles south of the coast. When the dinghy goes in the water, you need to get right on board. I’ll hold on to the painter, but at the speed the yacht is making, the dinghy will surf with its nose out of the water. Capucine, you’ll go first and kneel in the bow to keep it down. Then you switch places with Alexandre and move to the stern. Tubby Hubby’s avoirdupois is just what we need to keep the dinghy level. I’ll cast you off, and you sit quiet as ship rats for at least fifteen minutes before starting the engine. That’s all there is to it. Even you two can pull it off with your fingers in your nose. Okay, off you go, now.”

Jacques jerked the dinghy out of its niche and in the same motion knotted the painter around the stern rail.

The tiny dinghy, barely long enough to lie down in, rose half out of the water, weaving a crazed, erratic wake.

The idea of leaving the yacht seemed beyond suicidal.

“Get your ass in gear, cousine,” Jacques said with steely eyes. Capucine could easily imagine him shooting a recalcitrant agent slowing up a field mission.

Holding on to the rail, she lowered herself into the bucking dinghy. Alexandre followed immediately. For a split second they hung on the line running around the gunwales of the careening dinghy. Jacques cast off. The dinghy stopped as short as if it had hit a wall.
Diomede
receded into the night.

Capucine and Alexandre sat on folded Indian legs on the wood slats of the dinghy’s sole and watched Jacques disappear, happily waving a vaudevillian good-bye.

For the first time in her life, Capucine came close to a genuine panic attack. All she wanted was the normal context of her life restored. Instead, the only thing they could have called home was already almost over the horizon. What had she gotten them into?

Conversely, Alexandre sighed contentedly. “How satisfying to leave behind all the silly squabbles of that plastic boat. Let’s have breakfast. I’m starved.”

“And I suppose if we ring, a steward will appear?”

Rather than reply, Alexandre produced several film-wrapped packages from the pockets of his Windbreaker. “Prosciutto and mortadella
panini.
I made them while you were getting ready.” He produced a large bottle, which he opened with a resounding pop. “This is that excellent Prosecco we bought at the market yesterday. I know it’s a bit early in the day, but a little bubbly
does
make for a perfect breakfast.”

Capucine’s world came partially back into focus. Bless Alexandre’s priorities.

The first rays of the sun winked over the horizon just as they finished breakfast, and they attacked the diminutive outboard lashed to one of the dinghy’s gunwales. Clamping it on the wooden transom and hooking up its tiny gas tank was easy enough, but getting it started was a whole other matter.

Both Capucine and Alexandre yanked the starter cord to no avail. Despite the early morning chill, they both began to sweat.

Capucine stopped to rest. She noticed that there was a rubber bulb in the middle of the fuel line. She remembered her early teen years in La Baule, in Brittany. There had been plenty of outboards in those days. Of course, they had been the boys’ purview, but she had been an attentive observer.

“I wonder if you need to pump it up to get it going?” Capucine asked.

“All the girls ask that.”

Capucine shot Alexandre a mock scowl and gave the bulb three vigorous squeezes.

The engine caught at the first pull of the cord with the purr of an oversize cat. The dinghy advanced, bouncing cheerfully over the miniscule waves of the lake-flat sea.

Capucine turned on her iPhone and frowned. It was dead.

“Don’t worry about it, about not having the GPS. France is a big country. If we keep the sun on our right hand, we’re bound to run into it sooner or later.”

It all seemed simple enough. Capucine almost began to enjoy herself as the morning wore on tranquilly with the bubbling burp of the outboard.

Without warning the outboard gave a moribund cough and fell terminally silent. Capucine lifted the gas container and shook it. Dead empty. The dinghy turned until it steadied, facing the rising sun.

“We seem to be heading toward Pisa. Not an unpleasant place, of course, but at this rate we won’t get there till la Toussaint,” Alexandre said.

“There must be oars on this thing.”

There were. Two toylike objects that required assembly like the shafts of beach umbrellas.

Alexandre began to row. It was obviously hard going. The broad-beamed rubber boat seemed immovable. After twenty minutes he looked at the palms of his hands and frowned.

“Think of that wonderful scene in
A Farewell to Arms
when Frederic and Catherine row all the way across Lake Maggiore to escape to Switzerland,” Capucine said.

Alexandre frowned again. “As I recall, that particular boat trip ended a bit tragically.”

In another ten minutes, Alexandre sagged and let go of the oars. The dinghy immediately resumed its easterly direction.

Capucine grabbed Alexandre’s hands by the wrists and twisted his palms toward her. Blood oozed down his wrists.

“Change places with me. I need some exercise,” Capucine said.

It took some discussion, but Capucine finally gained control of the diminutive oars. She was astounded how difficult it was to get even the slightest motion out of the little boat.

“How far from the coast would you guess we are?” she asked.

“Jacques said we were twelve nautical miles off when we started. With any luck we’re halfway there, maybe less.”

Capucine deflated. Square one. They might just as well be in the middle of the Atlantic.

In the stern, Alexandre contracted his brow, deep in thought. He inserted his index finger in his mouth and then held it up in the air, nodded, and checked the position of the sun. He broke into a broad smile and sang two bars of cracked Verdi “We’re going to be all right,” he said. “We’re being pushed along by a wind from the south.”

“The sirocco?”

“No, its friendly little cousin, the Ostro, mild and humid, not harsh and dry with desert air.”

Over the next half hour they became skilled jury-rig sailors. First, they discovered that if they kneeled upright side by side, the little boat would actually move in the right direction, even though it was impossible to steer. Then it dawned on them that they could make a perfectly serviceable sail by threading an oar through the sleeves of their Windbreakers and zipping them shut. Steering with their hands in the water, they managed to produce a bow wave almost as satisfactory as with the outboard.

Within an hour Capucine smelled land. She didn’t actually smell it, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt it was close to hand. Seagulls appeared. Half an hour later they were lifted by a compact breaker and gently deposited on a gritty beach. The grotesque cruise was at long last over. They were ashore, on a rational, ordered, and—above all—normal shore. Capucine’s heart soared.

They sat on the sand, basking, catching their emotional breath, rejoicing that they had survived an adventure that, in retrospect, had been conceived in folly and could have ended tragically. But it had worked. Here they were, back in France. Mere steps away from the chic of the Midi, well stocked with haute couture and gastronomic delights.

Sighing in well-being, Alexandre dug through the pockets of his Windbreaker, extracted an aluminum cigar tube, and removed a cigar, which he rolled lovingly in his hands. Capucine shared vicariously in his return to rational order. Alexandre bit off the end of the cigar and patted his pockets for matches. As he prepared to light up, an ancient man, in clothes so old they were almost rags, a heavy burlap bag slung over his shoulder, shuffled over to them double time. Both Capucine and Alexandre smiled at him. Alexandre lit the cigar.

The man broke into a run. “
Non, non, non!
” he shouted. “No smoking. It is forbidden!” He snatched up the cigar—a prized Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona—flung it down on the beach with a grunt of disgust, ground it into flakes with his heel, and continued his amble down the beach, growling in irritation.