Free Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion Page A

d’être of my investments is philanthropic, but I’m also a professional financier. Our investment firm is owned jointly by me and my wife, and she’s a very prudent woman. Brault was in a tough spot. His bank categorically refused to lend him money for the hotel. Of course, he could have sold off a part of the ownership in the restaurant, but it was critical to his psyche to be sole owner. I understood and respected that. So I let him have his cake and eat it. In fact, as we say in French, I gave him le beurre, l’argent du beurre, et le sourire de la crémière —the butter, the money for the butter, and the smile of the girl behind the counter. My convertible loan structure gave him everything he wanted and let him retain full control of everything.”
    “So Brault’s death is a windfall for you.”
    Brissac-Vanté seemed sincerely offended. “Just the opposite, Commissaire. Just the opposite. It’s a catastrophe. Even if the court awards me ownership of the restaurant—and that’s a very big if—all I’ll get is a restaurant site in Sèvres. Without Brault, the place has no more value than the premises and the pots and pans in the kitchen. Even if Ouvrard keeps it limping along, I’m still going to have to post a very big write-down.” He paused and drummed his fingers on the glass desktop. “I really don’t think you appreciate the magnitude of the loss of Chef Brault. His death wasn’t just a catastrophe for me. It’s a catastrophe for the nation.”
    “So what happens next?”
    “If the court awards me control, nothing. Ouvrard seems to be holding his own. We’ll see how many stars the Guide will take away from us next February. When the Guide decides, then I’ll decide.”
    The long-legged secretary came in with a bright blue file folder. She bent over to hand it to Brissac-Vanté, revealing a maximum of décolleté.
    “Can I ask you to sign these, monsieur? I need to get them in before the accountant leaves for the day.”
    Brissac-Vanté extracted a sheet of paper from the folder. “Excuse me,” he said, beaming his best smile. “These are my expenses for a trip I took to London the weekend Chef Brault died. I’m working on a very big promotional deal over there.” The smile faded in homage to the tragedy. “I somehow feel that if I’d been here, if he’d had someone to talk to, this might not have happened.”
    It was amazing, Capucine reflected, how everyone—even she on occasion—persisted in the belief that Jean-Louis Brault had committed suicide.

CHAPTER 12
    C apucine had never understood Alexandre’s abiding love of restaurant openings. They struck her as being as pointless as office Christmas parties. If it was a restaurant of stature, the gratin of the culinary world would be invited. Naturally, none of the critics would even think of writing a critique of a meal consumed in a nimbus of alcohol-fueled jollity, and the best the restaurant’s owners could hope for was one or two column inches announcing they had opened for business. Still, Capucine felt the occasional appearance at an opening luncheon was a wifely obligation. After all, Alexandre put up with the impositions of her police career.
    This particular opening was the renaissance of the venerable Brasserie Brech—long renowned for the perfection of its seafood—the third historic bistrot taken over by France’s most starred chef, who had developed a lucrative side business of revamping classic eateries and coating them in a shining luster of dernier-cri chic.
    Capucine exceeded her usual fifteen-minute lateness and arrived a good half an hour after the affair was to have started. Alexandre waved at her cheerfully from the middle of what was clearly the table of honor, a vacant chair by his side reserved for her.
    Capucine had been to Brech many times over the years. Even though nothing seemed to have been changed, the décor had an entirely unfamiliar feel, almost as if she was entering the restaurant for the