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

position at the time of the incident, it is quite possible, even likely, that you were in French waters.” Delighted with himself, he smiled at Capucine, leaned over the desk, and gave her an earnest, curtain-closing look.
    Capucine sat back in her chair. The penny dropped. The superiors, whoever they might be, wanted no risk of international complications, particularly if it involved a ranking French police officer. Nathalie, even dead, was an embarrassment.
    “Commissario, I’m afraid the case is closed.” He smiled again, the smile of someone of who had tied up all the necessary loose ends. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to remain in Porto Cervo. But I would appreciate it if you could vacate my mooring. My launch is normally tied up there. One of my men can help you find an anchorage, but I’m afraid it may have to be on the other side of the seawall. Marina berths are booked up months in advance, as I’m sure you understand.” He favored Capucine with a grandfatherly smile.
    “That’s very generous of you, Captain. But we won’t be staying. We’re on our way to Tortoli. We’d planned a dinner there.”
    “ Va bene. Have a good sail. And don’t forget to check in at the port captain’s office when you get to Tortoli.”
     
    Despite the glory of the day, the deck of the boat was deserted. Capucine inched down the long flight of algae-slick steps.
    Halfway down she stopped. The situation was intolerable. The opera buffa of the Italian authorities would have been charmingly comical if it weren’t for the context of the probable death of someone they had shared an existence with, even if only for a few days. This was her world. A world she should be in control of. Of course, she could always make calls to Paris. The most likely call would be to Contrôleur Général Tallon, her mentor, now a god in the stratosphere of the Police Judiciaire hierarchy. But she would sound ridiculous. What would she want him to do? Pull strings to the get the Italian authorities to do something? But what, exactly? That was the whole problem; there was nothing to be done.
    She hopped on board. The rest of the party was huddled around the salon table, drinking Prosecco, serving themselves something out of a Plexiglas bowl, looking unhappy.
    “We’ve been kicked out of Porto Cervo,” Capucine said.
    “Good,” Alexandre said.
    “Kicked out?” Florence asked.
    “Well, not exactly. But we’ve been occupying the mooring of the port captain’s launch. He wants it back. There aren’t any berths available in the cove. We were graciously invited to drop our anchor outside the seawall.”
    “That’s safe enough,” Florence said. “It’s a good, shallow, sandy bottom out there. Fine for one or two nights with the fair weather that’s coming up.”
    “So what do we do now?” Serge asked nervously, poking at the food on his plate.
    Capucine squeezed into the banquette. Alexandre handed her a plate scintillating with bright summer colors. He must have found a market and gone foraging. He’d whipped up a salad of Barilla three-cheese tortellini, zucchini, green peppers, cherry tomatoes, and scallions, seasoned it with a delicate lemony vinaigrette, and topped the whole affair off with thinly shaved slices of Parmesan cheese. One of the things Capucine loved most about Alexandre was that, no matter how severe the crisis, his priorities remained inviolate. The salad was delicious.
    Capucine refocused on Serge. “Descartes would have been eloquent in explaining we have only two choices, go on or go home.”
    “Ah, the quaint notion of free will. It’s the sort of concept that you could conjure up only if you lived in an oven,” Jacques murmured, sipping Prosecco. Capucine half thought Aude smiled at him.
    “I don’t care what we do as long as we get out of this godforsaken Costa Smeralda,” Angélique said. “I’d just as soon move to Hollywood as stay here.”
    Through the salon ports Capucine could see portly