Alexander Campion - The Grave Gourmet (Capucine Culinary Mysteries 01)

W ith the consummate petulance endemic to opera divas and French chefs, Jean-Basile Labrousse kicked the bag as hard as he could.

It wasnt vegetables. It felt more like meat.

He kicked again, with a vengeance. He could feel the fibers separate just as if he was flattening a scallop.

It really did feel like meat.

He had been sure it was those potimarrons he had ordered; the chestnut flavor of the fall squashes would be at its peak for only another week. The farmer must have dropped them off late Friday night and some careless commis had tossed the bag negligently into the walk-in refrigerator heedless that they would go soft as he flitted off for the weekend. Nothing enraged Labrousse more than produce being treated with anything short of adulation.

But this was meat. Absolutely. But no meat was supposed to have been delivered on Friday. Something was wrong. He explored the bag with his toe. Something was definitely very wrong. He lurched back out the door and stabbed at the light switch. The neon overhead stuttered into life. It was a man, in a dark suit, lying on his side, curled into a painfully tight ball, palms flat against each other, elbows pressed against his stomach, legs bunched in with knees almost touching chin. Labrousse knelt down and peered intently. The eyes stared fixedly ahead, clouded over like a fishs that would have been quickly rejected at the Rungis market. The man was unquestionably dead. Very dead. Long dead. Labrousses petulance soared to a new stratum. This was an outrage.

C apucine Le Tellier rushed into the restaurant. Late again. I hope he isnt fuming. She pulled up short at the end of the long zinc bar perpendicular to the front door and scanned the large tobacco-, wine-, and butter-sauce-pungent room for Alexandre. There he was, in the far corner, grinning contentedly as a corpulent waiter in a severe black coat erupted in laughter, shimmying his white floor-length apron as if it were swaying in a breeze.

The covert stares she drew as she walked across the floor sparked a buoyant rush. She preened, straightening, drawing in her tummy, rounding out her buttocks, lifting her breasts against her designer silk blouse. The Sig Sauer automatic holstered at the small of her back nipped into her spine. Her feeling of well-being popped like a soap bubble, drenching her in cold oily dampness.

When she reached Alexandre he rose and swept her in his arms with a stage-whispered whoop. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder, he said, planting an ostentatiously lubricious kiss on her lips.

At the next tableall of two feet awaya shrewish woman in her sixties with blue rinsed hair and a miniature poodle nervously piaffing on the banquette at her side scowled at her husband. These hussies, she hissed loudly, well within earshot of Alexandre and Capucine. They think when they cavort with a man twice their age nobody knows what theyre after. And him, that bloated old fool, hes as bad as you are, drooling at everything that goes by in a skirt.

At precisely that instant the waiter, who had scuttled away at Capucines approach, returned, bowed slightly, and handed her a flute of champagne. Bonsoir, Madame lInspecteur. Youve come just in the nick of time. Monsieur, your husband, his stories are just too good. I cant tear myself away to go to my other tables. They are all getting impatient.

After the waiter left Alexandre winked at his wife affectionately. My dear, your self-control is admirable. I could see you itching to explain to the poor man that inspecteurs have been called lieutenants for over a decade and then give him a long lecture on the hierarchical structure of the Police Judiciaire .

Capucine laughed. Au contraire . Im sure he knows far more about the police than he would like. He hangs on to inspecteur because it sounds quaint and inoffensive and fits right in with the opera boulevard libretto restaurant people love so much. Also it sounds far more exalted and hes anxious to please such a revered restaurant critic as you. She crinkled her nose coquettishly.

The woman at the next table leaned toward them, openly eavesdropping.

And by the way, Capucine said in a clear voice, darting a sideways glance at the woman, you havent been twice my age for all of eight years. She smiled sweetly at the woman whose brows had creased in her struggle with the arithmetic. The woman jerked away indignantly.

Alexandre hiked his eyebrows. Are you harrying the hapless bourgeoisie as a result of insufficient job gratification? he asked with the barest hint of hopefulness.

Pas du tout . Actually, as it happens, we finally made an arrest on that insider trading case Im in charge of. I was showered with kudos, Capucine said with an ironic smirk.

Alexandre looked at his wife levelly. But somethings wrong.

Capucine tapped her menu irritably on the glowing whiteness of the tablecloth. Weve been over this a thousand times. I loathe white-collar crime work. Look, I mortified my parents by joining the police so I could be on the streets with real people, dealing with real passions, real crimes. But all I got was endless hours in front of a computer screen. Im in a trap. I might as well be an accountant with a green eyeshade and my sleeves hitched up with armbands. Believe it or not, most of the people in my department actually leave their guns in the boxes they came in, still wrapped in the original oily paper, and only take them out once every six months to do their mandatory fifteen minutes on the range.

My love, what an enigma you are. Youre on the cutting edge of the police force and all you want to do is pound the pavements like a flatfoot in search of vulgar wife beaters and muggers.

Dont start. I know your theories about my need to liberate myself from the yoke of my parents genteel upbringing in order to validate my existence, blah, blah, blah. Its all very nice and well put and all, but the truth of the matter is it makes no sense to pursue a career that bores you comatose.

Thats for dead sure. A job without fervor is like a meal without cheese. Like a kiss without a moustache, Alexandre exclaimed with a raised finger.

Dont ever think of growing a moustache! Capucine said with mock alarm.

Alexandre laughed. Not likely, I was just sympathizing with you. But sooner or later theyre bound to respond to all those applications youve made for another section. Wasnt your Oncle Etienne going to pull a string? Since hes Director of the Minister of the Interiors cabinet, his string is bound to be a hawser.