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

Author:Alexander Campion [Campion, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2014-06-24T00:00:00+00:00

The next morning the village square was as packed as the Paris Metro at 6:00 p.m. The instant David’s speech was over and loudly cheered and he was absorbed into the melee, a determined phalanx of paysans appeared with trestle tables. They spread them about and covered them with tablecloths and the trappings for dinner. Finally, a platoon of village matrons marched in to place an earthenware cocotte at the center of each table. An expectant hush settled over the crowd.

“Monsieur Alexandre.” Magali had sidled up to Alexandre and drew him with some occult magnetic attraction to her table. She edged the lid of her cocotte to one side and inserted a spoon. “You’re going to have news for me,” she said with a flirtatious smile that transformed her back into a teenager.

The dish was a Toulouse cassoulet: white beans—known as lingots Tarbais, ingots from Tarbes—goose confit, salt pork, garlic sausage, and tiny white Toulouse sausages. A classic recipe, but to Capucine’s nose, in a class entirely of its own. Surreptitiously, Magali spooned out samples for Capucine and Alexandre. Alexandre exuded an orgasmic groan.

Capucine dropped to her knees. Alexandre assumed it was the vulgarity of his eructation.

“I’ve lost a contact lens!”

“You don’t wear contacts.”

“Of course not, you idiot. It’s happened again. This time it’s the Chambourdons.”

“You don’t wear contacts.”

“We’ve got to get out of here right now. The church . . . Hurry up!”

Inside the church Capucine vanished into one of the tiny transepts. And from there out a small door in the sacristy leading into a field at the back of the church. Alexandre was hard on her heels.

“Curse those Chambourdons,” Alexandre said. “It was a truly heinous crime to abandon that cassoulet.”

“I’m sure Magali will make you another. We’re not going to be leaving the mas for a while.”

When they reached the house, Alexandre puffing, they stopped on the terrace. “I need sustenance after all that emotion. Wait out here and I’ll get us both some pastis.”

“Not out here. Let’s drink it in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen? There’s no light in there. The windows are tiny.”

“That’s just the point.”

To compensate for the gloom, Capucine had a Lillet Blanc and Alexandre a double pure malt Scotch. Gradually, Capucine relaxed. She fluffed up the back of her hair in a feminine gesture.

“Tell me,” she asked, “how do you think I’d look as a blonde?”

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