Free Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion

industrial buns from clear plastic wrappers.
    “I trust it hasn’t escaped your attention that the delightfully raunchy Nathalie was wearing Inès’s jacket,” Jacques said, surveying the colossal yachts with insouciance, ripping the wrapper off a cornetto, an industrial glazed croissant.
    “That was the first thing I thought of,” Capucine said.
    “So you don’t think it was an accident?” Alexandre asked, unwrapping with grave suspicion a bombolone, a brioche-like industrial pastry. He frowned, having found a topic that interested him more than people lost at sea. “It’s curious that the Italians, from whom, after all, we have inherited our gastronomic heritage, have utterly surrendered their art of boulangerie to industrial processing.”
    “Of course it wasn’t an accident!” Inès said with verve. “Someone on that boat has been after me from the very beginning. First, I was nearly washed overboard by that so-called gust of wind. Then they tried to run me over in Bonifacio. And finally, they threw me overboard. But it was the wrong person!” She laughed victoriously.
    She tapped Alexandre energetically on the arm. “That means someone’s worried that I’m on their trail, don’t you think, Monsieur le Journaliste?”
    Alexandre looked at her. He frowned deeply, pensively chewing an exceptionally dry-looking Mulino Bianco, and said nothing. Capucine was positive he hadn’t heard a word she had said.

CHAPTER 11
    O n their way back to the boat, Capucine stopped off at the port captain’s office. At the desk, a white-uniformed ensign informed her that the port captain was indeed present but was winding up a meeting in his office. If Capucine would care to wait for a few minutes at the very most, the ensign was sure the captain would be delighted to see her. She sat for nearly forty-five minutes before the ensign took her to an office at the rear of the open-plan area. The door had been in full view the whole time, and Capucine had seen no one leave.
    Inside the office a man in his early forties with two gold stripes on his epaulets, sporting an officer’s cap decorated with the badge of a fouled anchor, looked at her guardedly, ignoring her breasts.
    Capucine introduced herself.
    “Yes, of course,” the man said in perfect French. “The night-duty ensign left me a detailed note. I have also received a report from the helicopter service, which saw nothing, even though they patrolled the area for two hours.”
    He paused, constructing a melancholy look.
    “It’s a tragedy, of course, but I’m afraid nothing more can be done. These things happen at sea, I’m sad to say. It’s fortunate that none of you were close to the young woman.” He shrugged, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and raised his hands slightly, palms upward.
    “That’s it?” Capucine asked, not bothering to hide her irritation. “That’s all the Italian authorities are going to do?”
    “I regret the loss of your servant,” he said, intensifying his melancholy look. “But you have to understand the situation. The fact that your skipper noted the position of the boat only a good while after he was alerted tells us that we have no idea exactly where she went overboard. An extended search over a broad area would take a small fleet of aircraft, and it is almost certain that it would be fruitless. In my experience it is extremely rare that drowned bodies float.”
    Capucine sat mute, radiating irritation.
    “Commissario, naturally I spoke to my superiors about this regrettable incident this morning.” The melancholy look had been replaced by a shrewd, knowing one. “They are, naturally, very deferential to your rank.” He paused. “They regret the ‘loss’ of your servant girl.” The quotation marks were heavy in the air. “But a factor exacerbating the futility of the search”—he paused again to let Capucine admire his mastery of the French language—“is that, given the ambiguity of the boat’s