Free Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion Page A

a flute of champagne. “But it’s no dish your dear Odile would ever cook.” He swept Capucine in his arms. “This is a recipe that embraces the very essence of modern Paris.” He tightened his hug, lifted her, and spun with the lack of grace of a trained bear. Capucine let out a little yell. Alexandre dropped her. “What’s the matter ?” he asked.
    “You’re crushing my Sig into my spine,” she said, laughing and reaching to the back of her waist to unclip the holster and gun, which she clunked on the long table as she kicked off her shoes. “There, that’s better. So what is this dish?”
    “It’s an onglet —a hanger steak—that marinated all afternoon in a bath of wine, onions, and carrots, and was then rolled tightly around a horseradish paste, and is now happily cooking in the oven, waiting for you. It will be served with a sauce made from a reduction of the marinade and lovingly presented over a bed of the chopped leaves of celery and parsley. Can’t get farther away from Maulévrier than that, can you?”
    Capucine kissed Alexandre. “Only you understand me.”
    It took some time for Alexandre to finish cooking. The sauce seemed a great deal more complicated than he had described, involving egg yolks and furious whipping with a whisk. Completed, the dish was delicious, if a bit bizarre, with a sharp bite that was more Japanese than French. Imagining Oncle Aymerie wrinkling his nose in disapproval reminded Capucine of his call.
    “Oncle Aymerie called me this morning. He wants me—us, really—to go back to Maulévrier this weekend. He’s got it in his head that neither of the deaths were accidents and that they have something to do with the élevage.”
    “Back to Maulévrier, quelle idée! ” Alexandre paused, looking closely into Capucine’s face. “Good God. You’re tempted, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe. A little. I don’t know. I shouldn’t even think of taking more time off, of course, but Oncle Aymerie seemed so distraught. If I’m going to discover anything, I’d have to leave before the weekend.”
    “Follow your heart and all that good stuff, but think twice about encouraging your uncle in the delusions of an old man. That gendarme capitaine seemed completely convinced the deaths were accidents, and it’s hardly surprising that both the victims worked at the élevage since it’s virtually the only business in town.”
    “The provincial gendarmerie is hardly expert in criminal investigation. It’s not their function. That’s why the Police Judiciaire has authority throughout France.”
    “Maybe,” said Alexandre with just the hint of an edge in his voice, “but don’t forget that the Elevage Vienneau is one of the pillars of French gastronomy. Even the slightest hint that it’s involved in a crime in any way would sully its reputation, and that would be a blow to the national glory. You know how fickle the world of haute cuisine is. Not to mention the fact that rooting around the village like a Périgord pig after truffles isn’t going to make you any friends either.”
    Capucine’s brow wrinkled as she contemplated his response.
    In a flash she brightened. “There’s also the matter of my accrued vacation time,” she said. “I have four weeks left to take. If I don’t use them before the end of the year it will send the wrong message to the troops. I want them to be fulfilled and well adjusted, not mindless slaves to their jobs.”
    “Well, do what you want,” Alexandre said. “I won’t be able to go with you. I’m in the middle of writing a piece. It’s going to be called ‘Critics Who Hurt—Critics Who Kill,’ all about the damage some restaurant critics have done to haute cuisine.”
    “It doesn’t sound like the piece is going to make you any friends either.”
    “Well, you know my policy, bloody the noses that deserve to be bloodied.” Alexandre paused and looked at his wife fondly. “Actually, if you were to go, I think I could come down for