The Grave Gourmet Read online

  THE GRAVE GOURMET

  THE GRAVE GOURMET

  ALEXANDER CAMPION

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  The first one, of course, can only be for T.,

  to whom I owe it all.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would never have seen the light of day without the expertise and tireless efforts of Lyn Hamilton—author of Lara McClintoch mystery series—who indefatigably steered a fledgling writer away from his flights of fancy back onto the straight and narrow. Tragically, just as the book was going to press, at the age of sixty-five, Lyn lost her very private battle with cancer. Her death was a great loss.

  I also owe thanks to a dear friend since college, Dr. Tom Santulli, for all his insights into matters medical. And also to my youngest daughter, Charlotte, who, even in the middle of her final exams at nursing school, found the time to respond to the endless prattle of my questions.

  Profound thanks also to my agent, Sharon Bowers, and my editor at Kensington, Martin Biro, who were unsparing with their talent and unwavering in their support and understanding. The fact that they both share my love for Capucine is not inconsequential either.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  With the consummate petulance endemic to opera divas and French chefs, Jean-Basile Labrousse kicked the bag as hard as he could.

  It wasn’t vegetables. It felt more like meat.

  He kicked again, with a vengeance. He could feel the fibers separate just as if he was flattening a scallop.

  It really did feel like meat.

  He had been sure it was those potimarrons he had ordered; the chestnut flavor of the fall squashes would be at its peak for only another week. The farmer must have dropped them off late Friday night and some careless commis had tossed the bag negligently into the walk-in refrigerator heedless that they would go soft as he flitted off for the weekend. Nothing enraged Labrousse more than produce being treated with anything short of adulation.

  But this was meat. Absolutely. But no meat was supposed to have been delivered on Friday. Something was wrong. He explored the bag with his toe. Something was definitely very wrong. He lurched back out the door and stabbed at the light switch. The neon overhead stuttered into life. It was a man, in a dark suit, lying on his side, curled into a painfully tight ball, palms flat against each other, elbows pressed against his stomach, legs bunched in with knees almost touching chin. Labrousse knelt down and peered intently. The eyes stared fixedly ahead, clouded over like a fish’s that would have been quickly rejected at the Rungis market. The man was unquestionably dead. Very dead. Long dead. Labrousse’s petulance soared to a new stratum. This was an outrage.

  Chapter 1

  Capucine Le Tellier rushed into the restaurant. Late again. I hope he isn’t fuming. She pulled up short at the end of the long zinc bar perpendicular to the front door and scanned the large tobacco-, wine-, and butter-sauce-pungent room for Alexandre. There he was, in the far corner, grinning contentedly as a corpulent waiter in a severe black coat erupted in laughter, shimmying his white floor-length apron as if it were swaying in a breeze.

  The covert stares she drew as she walked across the floor sparked a buoyant rush. She preened, straightening, drawing in her tummy, rounding out her buttocks, lifting her breasts against her designer silk blouse. The Sig Sauer automatic holstered at the small of her back nipped into her spine. Her feeling of well-being popped like a soap bubble, drenching her in cold oily dampness.

  When she reached Alexandre he rose and swept her in his arms with a stage-whispered whoop. “Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder,” he said, planting an ostentatiously lubricious kiss on her lips.

  At the next table—all of two feet away—a shrewish woman in her sixties with blue rinsed hair and a miniature poodle nervously piaffing on the banquette at her side scowled at her husband. “These hussies,” she hissed loudly, well within earshot of Alexandre and Capucine. “They think when they cavort with a man twice their age nobody knows what they’re after. And him, that bloated old fool, he’s as bad as you are, drooling at everything that goes by in a skirt.”

  At precisely that instant the waiter, who had scuttled away at Capucine’s approach, returned, bowed slightly, and handed her a flute of champagne. “Bonsoir, Madame l’Inspecteur. You’ve come just in the nick of time. Monsieur, your husband, his stories are just too good. I can’t tear myself away to go to my other tables. They are all getting impatient.”

  After the waiter left Alexandre winked at his wife affectionately. “My dear, your self-control is admirable. I could see you itching to explain to the poor man that “inspecteurs” have been called “lieutenants” for over a decade and then give him a long lecture on the hierarchical structure of the Police Judiciaire.”

  Capucine laughed. “Au contraire. I’m sure he knows far more about the police than he would like. He hangs on to “inspecteur” because it sounds quaint and inoffensive and fits right in with the opera boulevard libretto restaurant people love so much. Also it sounds far more exalted and he’s anxious to please such a revered restaurant critic as you.” She crinkled her nose coquettishly.

  The woman at the next table leaned toward them, openly eavesdropping.

  “And by the way,” Capucine said in a clear voice, darting a sideways glance at the woman, “you haven’t been twice my age for all of eight years.” She smiled sweetly at the woman whose brows had creased in her struggle with the arithmetic. The woman jerked away indignantly.

  Alexandre hiked his eyebrows. “Are you harrying the hapless bourgeoisie as a result of insufficient job gratification?” he asked with the barest hint of hopefulness.

  “Pas du tout. Actually, as it happens, we finally made an arrest on that insider trading case I’m in charge of. I was showered with kudos,” Capucine said with an ironic smirk.

  Alexandre looked at his wife levelly. “But something’s wrong.”

  Capucine tapped her menu irritably on the glowing whiteness of the tablecloth. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. I loathe white-collar crime work. Look, I mortified my parents by joining the police so I could be on the streets with real people, dealing with real passions, real crimes. But all I got was endless hours in front of a computer screen. I’m in a trap. I might as well be an accountant with a green e
yeshade and my sleeves hitched up with armbands. Believe it or not, most of the people in my department actually leave their guns in the boxes they came in, still wrapped in the original oily paper, and only take them out once every six months to do their mandatory fifteen minutes on the range.”

  “My love, what an enigma you are. You’re on the cutting edge of the police force and all you want to do is pound the pavements like a flatfoot in search of vulgar wife beaters and muggers.”

  “Don’t start. I know your theories about my need to liberate myself from the yoke of my parents’ genteel upbringing in order to validate my existence, blah, blah, blah. It’s all very nice and well put and all, but the truth of the matter is it makes no sense to pursue a career that bores you comatose.”

  “That’s for dead sure. A job without fervor is like a meal without cheese. Like a kiss without a moustache,” Alexandre exclaimed with a raised finger.

  “Don’t ever think of growing a moustache!” Capucine said with mock alarm.

  Alexandre laughed. “Not likely, I was just sympathizing with you. But sooner or later they’re bound to respond to all those applications you’ve made for another section. Wasn’t your Oncle Etienne going to pull a string? Since he’s Director of the Minister of the Interior’s cabinet, his string is bound to be a hawser.”

  “It backfired. I got the call this afternoon. My request is permanently denied on the grounds that I’m allegedly just too good at what I do. So, my last resort is to take the commissaire’s exam and get promoted to senior-grade officer—”

  “I knew we wouldn’t escape the lecture on the hierarchical structure of the Police Judiciaire,” Alexandre said interrupting.

  “Oh, you’re impossible! What I mean is becoming a commissaire is much more than just a promotion. It means joining a whole new hierarchy. It would be like starting all over again. I’d have to do another internship and I’d get to pick the place. You can bet I’d choose a small precinct in a poor neighborhood as far away from the financial brigade as I could get.”

  “Sounds straightforward enough. Why didn’t you think of that months ago?”

  “I did, but, as that good woman so tactfully pointed out, I’m just a child. I’m twenty-eight and you have to be thirty to be a commissaire. Unless,”—she paused—“one of the top brass authorizes it.” She pursed her lips slightly and pianoed the table with her fingertips. “I’m going to see Commissaire Principal Tallon in the Brigade Criminelle tomorrow morning and see if he’ll do it.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  “Well, then I think I may just quit.”

  Alexandre beamed and beckoned the waiter over. It was not clear to Capucine if the smile was for the waiter or at the idea of her quitting the police.

  Chapter 2

  Capucine bit the inside of her lip until she could taste the salt of her blood and willed herself not to wither as Commissaire Principal Tallon shook his head in dismay. It was exactly her father’s look when she was being taken to task for some adolescent peccadillo.

  “Lieutenant, your request is entirely unreasonable,” Tallon said, snapping over another page in Capucine’s file. “According to this”—he tapped the bundle of papers—“your first year in the fiscal branch has been very successful. Your fitness evaluations are exemplary. I can understand your desire for promotion and I’m sure your divisonaire will be happy to endorse your application for the commissaire’s exam when you reach the minimum age in—what is it?—two years. Be patient.”

  “Monsieur le Commissaire Principal, I have spent my entire year in fiscal trying to get out. When I graduated from the academy I requested the Brigade Criminelle but was dumped into the fiscal squad simply because my father is an investment banker. I didn’t join the police force to do accounting work. It’s not about becoming a commissaire. Every time I apply for a transfer I get turned down. It’s clear that the only way I’m going to get into La Crim is as a commissaire. Sir, I’d do anything to get away from classroom problems and into real life.”

  “Real life?” Tallon pursed his lips in the ghost of a smirk, looking her up and down, clearly taking in the black Bill Blass suit she had picked out with such care that morning, convinced that it gave her a tough, street-smart look she was sure would go down well.

  The demon of indignation gripped Capucine. She half rose, leaned far over the desk, her weight on the balls of her feet, palms flat on its scarred top. “Commissaire,” she said, “I might as well be working at my father’s bank. I have yet to arrest anyone who has ever held a gun in his life.” She paused. “I’ve only drawn my own gun on the range. That’s just not police work.” She felt she was trembling slightly and sat back down with a thump.

  Tallon smiled. “I take your point. I’m not very keen on accounting myself. I can’t even balance my checkbook.” His mood had changed perceptibly. Capucine was not sure if it was her gumption or the view of her breasts she had offered when she leaned over. Either would do. She thanked her lucky stars she had felt omitting a bra was essential to the tough-guy look. But instead of talking on Tallon had plunged back into her file, grunting and occasionally inexpertly poking at his computer keyboard. Capucine fidgeted. The meeting had slipped away from her again.

  Just as the silence became unbearable, the phone rang. Tallon glanced at the caller ID screen. His face tightened. He held up his hand. “One moment. I have to take this.” He grunted monosyllabically into the telephone in the liquid diphthongs of French virility, occasionally making notes on a scratch pad.

  Capucine sneaked a look at Tallon’s computer monitor. The screen was one she was all too familiar with, the Police Judiciare data bank on private citizens. She boggled. The file was headed, “d’Arbeaumont de Huguelet, Alexandre Edouard.” Alexandre, her Alexandre.

  Tallon was still engrossed in his conversation. Finally he nodded. “Yes, sir…. Of course…. If you insist…. I’ll take charge myself…. Right…. I’ll have a team there in half an hour…. Yes…. Yes…. Of course, sir.”

  He put the phone down and stared contemplatively at Capucine for a few beats. “You know, Lieutenant, the gods just might be smiling at you. That was my boss’s boss, the contrôleur general. He dumped something in my lap that could get you seconded to the Brigade Criminelle for a week, if you want it. Enough to give you a taste of how things work here and see if you have the stomach for it.”

  Capucine beamed. “Of course I want it, Commissaire.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Lieutenant. Do you by any chance happen to know anything about the owner of that fancy restaurant, Diapason, Chef somebody or other?”

  “Jean-Basile Labrousse. He’s very famous. My husband knows him. Actually my husband knows almost everyone in the restaurant business. He’s the restaurant critic for the Monde.”

  “I know,” Tallon said, tapping his screen with a fingernail. “I was just reading up on him. Anyway, it seems the président-directeur général of Renault has been found dead in the refrigerator of this good Chef Labrousse.”

  “Good Lord. Poor Jean-Basile. He must be distraught.”

  “It might make some sense to assign you to this case temporarily. I don’t doubt that through your husband you’ll have some useful insights into the restaurant business. Anyway I’m over a barrel. I need someone right away and the only lieutenant not up to his eyeballs in work, Lieutenant Rivière, is away on a training course all this week. If you want you can start up the investigation. Examine the crime scene, take the initial depositions, make sure the forensic people are set up, just like they taught you at the academy. You can hand it over to Rivière when he gets back on Monday. The experience might dissuade you from wanting to do this sort of work. You’d have to start right away. If you agree, I’ll square it with your boss.”

  “Commissaire, of course I’ll do it. But what happened? People don’t just get murdered in three-star restaurants. It’s unthinkable.”

  “Lieutenant, don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s probably not a murder. So far
it’s just a dead guy in a refrigerator. If it wasn’t for who the dead guy is, the local commissariat would be handling it. But since it’s who it is, it came to me. And since you happened to be sitting in my office, and since through your husband you probably know more about the restaurant business than anyone else in this building, and since you’re certainly qualified to launch a homicide case, it makes some sense for you to lend a hand.”

  “Did the inspecteur général supply any details? Do we know what he died of?”

  “The guys from the local commissariat are already convinced it’s just a case of bad food. It doesn’t look all that good for Labrousse. He discovered the body. The local guys seem to think Labrousse panicked and stuffed the body in the refrigerator and took all weekend to find the courage to call us.”

  “Labrousse would never do anything like that.”

  “We’ll find out, don’t worry. You’re in charge of the team for the week and you’ll report to me. But get two things through your head. This doesn’t go beyond one week and you can’t fuck up. I want results and I want them fast. Clear?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I mean it. Don’t think for an instant that this is a permanent reassignment or that it has any bearing on your application for the commissaire’s exam whatsoever.”

  “Oh, yes sir,” Capucine said, releasing an insuppressible smile to flutter across the room like a butterfly.

  “Go collect Rivière’s brigadiers and get out there. Here’s the address of the restaurant,” he said, needlessly handing her a page from his scratch pad. “The forensic guys are already informed. Make sure you kick the guys from the local commissariat out right away. Don’t let them hang around. They get their fingers into everything. Make it clear that you’re in charge and check everything out carefully. Report back to me in the afternoon so we can decide what to do next.”