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

owners of mega yachts on their decks, with bare-breasted trophy spouses being served flutes of vintage champagne by fawning tanned, athletic young things in uniforms of brief shorts and tight T-shirts.
    There was a universal murmur of agreement.
    “Serge, how far away are we from Tortoli?” Dominique asked. “I know the whole episode has been a shock. But I really don’t want to go back to France just yet. I think it would be kind of fun to meet your friend and see the way real people live in Sardinia.” Angélique slid her hand into his and smiled lovingly at him. Mentally, Capucine shook her head at Angélique’s protean mood shifts toward her husband.
    “The timing is bad,” Serge said. “It’s a ten-hour sail. If we leave now, we won’t get there till midnight.”
    Jacques purred. One of his knacks was attracting the attention of a crowd with a mere murmur. “In that case, my vote would be to stay here and sample the nightlife of this delicious den of iniquity. Nothing is more enticing than the musk of barely teen starlets in rut. Then we can perform our usual trick of stealing off like thieves in the night.”
    There was a moment of silence as the group chewed over this alternative.
    “Could be fun, when you think about it,” Angélique said. “I’d like to see the stars at play. Don’t you think, darling?” She slid her arm through Dominique’s.
    “It’s what Nathalie would have wanted,” Jacques said, cackling his braying laugh. Aude shot him a dirty look, one that Capucine was almost sure she saw.
    Half an hour later they were beyond the breakwater. It was hardly the open sea, just a protected cove with no dock. Florence contemplated Serge as he maneuvered the boat, attempting to drop the anchor. He cruised around, found a spot, went too far, turned, came back over it, overshot, went around again. Florence came up beside him at the wheel. She did not even have to ease him aside. He moved away gratefully.
    “This is too close to the other boats,” Florence said. “We might hit one of them in the night if we drop the hook here. Why don’t you go forward and get ready with the anchor while I find us a spot?”
    Serge went to the forecastle and opened a little hatch. He extracted a three-foot anchor, a length of chain, and an electronic device that looked exactly like a TV remote control. Régis snapped pictures with the zeal of a paparazzo.
    “When are you going to post all these pictures?” Capucine asked.
    “Oh, I’ve already started. Porto Cervo has great free Wi-Fi. I can’t wait to post some shots of the anchor dropping into the water. That’ll give the blog real local color.”
    Florence motored the boat over to an area on the other side of the cove, turned it into the wind, held it in position with the motor ticking over, and told Serge to drop the anchor.
    He squeezed a button on his TV remote and the anchor chain clanked through the fairlead. After a few seconds the chain turned into ordinary braided rope. Serge leaned far over the bow pulpit, engrossed. “Bottom,” he announced to Florence.
    Florence put the motor in neutral and let the wind push the boat away from the anchor, drawing out line. After about half a minute, Florence ordered, “Make fast” in a conversational tone. Serge squeezed a button on his remote. Very gently the boat came to a halt.
    “It’s a good one,” Florence said and switched the ignition off.
    There was no denying the cove had scenic appeal. They were surrounded by boats their size or a little smaller. The prosperous middle class cut off from the mega rich by the breakwater.
    The sun was still high in the sky. The group broke up, some going below to nap, others finding secluded corners of the deck to read or chat. Capucine went up to the bow and let her legs dangle over the side. She was unable to shake her frustration at the administrative indifference to Nathalie’s death. No one should be allowed to be erased from the face of the earth so