Read Online Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander Campion
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all persist in believing Chef Brault committed suicide, when there is such abundant evidence to the contrary? The answer is obvious: Folon had driven him to the brink. The assassin merely completed the task.
Capucine found the depth of Alexandre’s anger almost erotic.
Isabelle clomped through the door, followed by David and Momo.
“It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’m starving,” Capucine said. “What if we have this session over at Benoît’s?”
There were enthusiastic nods from all three brigadiers. Capucine folded the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and walked out with her team.
Benoît’s, on the corner twenty yards down from the brigade, was one of a dying breed of restos ouvrier —workers’ restaurants—and a jackstay for the flics of Capucine’s brigade. It wasn’t that worker’s restaurants were closing; the problem was they were going upmarket. But at Benoît’s you could still get lunch with an appetizer, a main dish, cheese, dessert, and a quarter bottle of red for only five euros on top of the ticket restaurant , the meal vouchers supplied by the Ministry of the Interior. Sadly, the working-class Twentieth was rapidly becoming a hip new frontier, complete with trendy restaurants. If Benoît’s went that route and began charging thirty or forty euros for lunch, the brigadiers would find themselves eating at McDonald’s. But that was—hopefully—unimaginable.
The four detectives trooped into the restaurant, retrieved their napkins from cubbyholes labeled with their handwritten names—complete with rank so punctiliously noted that many brigadiers had first learned of their promotions by the change in their cubbyhole labels—and moved to a corner table. Angélique, a woman of heroic rotundity, announced what they would be eating: boudin—blood sausage—with sautéed apples for the men, and a pavé de saumon grillé— a paving-stone–sized hunk of grilled salmon—on a bed of lentilles du Puy for the women. And, of course, they would be drinking the house Tavel, which was universally known to be the best that had ever come through the gates of Paris.
When the food arrived, the detectives waited for Angélique’s back to be turned and rapidly exchanged plates. Capucine loved boudin; Isabelle hated fish, but David adored it; and—completely erroneously—none of them thought Momo cared what he ate.
Once the wine was poured and the mandatory thirty seconds of silence to concentrate on the food had been observed, Capucine put down her knife and fork.
“Let’s start with you, Isabelle. Did the database have anything interesting to say about Brault?”
“Not really. His bio is pretty much what you’d expect. He graduated from the maternelle and école élémentaire in La Cadière-d’Azur and then matriculated in the town’s lycée. After a year in high school he transferred to the école hôtelière in Paris.
“He went to Paris all by himself?” Capucine asked. “He must have only been fourteen.”
“He had his fifteenth birthday over the summer. The records show he lived on the seventh floor of a building on the boulevard Pereire owned by a certain Frédérique Brault. I’m guessing that Frédérique Brault is some sort of cousin who had an apartment that came with a chambre de bonne under the eaves with no heating, a cold-water tap, and a Turkish toilet at the end of the hall.”
“Do you think the cousin supported him financially?” David asked.
Isabelle shook her head. “He worked at night doing the plonge —washing dishes—in a restaurant called the Repaire de Pereire, which was a few blocks away on the boulevard Pereire.”
“Cheerful,” David muttered.
Isabelle gave him a scornful look. “Don’t feel too bad. He only did that for two years. The cycle at the école hôtelière is shorter than the other lycées. He got his BEP, his professional studies certificate, at the end of his first year, and then his BTS, his superior technician’s certificate,
Capucine found the depth of Alexandre’s anger almost erotic.
Isabelle clomped through the door, followed by David and Momo.
“It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’m starving,” Capucine said. “What if we have this session over at Benoît’s?”
There were enthusiastic nods from all three brigadiers. Capucine folded the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and walked out with her team.
Benoît’s, on the corner twenty yards down from the brigade, was one of a dying breed of restos ouvrier —workers’ restaurants—and a jackstay for the flics of Capucine’s brigade. It wasn’t that worker’s restaurants were closing; the problem was they were going upmarket. But at Benoît’s you could still get lunch with an appetizer, a main dish, cheese, dessert, and a quarter bottle of red for only five euros on top of the ticket restaurant , the meal vouchers supplied by the Ministry of the Interior. Sadly, the working-class Twentieth was rapidly becoming a hip new frontier, complete with trendy restaurants. If Benoît’s went that route and began charging thirty or forty euros for lunch, the brigadiers would find themselves eating at McDonald’s. But that was—hopefully—unimaginable.
The four detectives trooped into the restaurant, retrieved their napkins from cubbyholes labeled with their handwritten names—complete with rank so punctiliously noted that many brigadiers had first learned of their promotions by the change in their cubbyhole labels—and moved to a corner table. Angélique, a woman of heroic rotundity, announced what they would be eating: boudin—blood sausage—with sautéed apples for the men, and a pavé de saumon grillé— a paving-stone–sized hunk of grilled salmon—on a bed of lentilles du Puy for the women. And, of course, they would be drinking the house Tavel, which was universally known to be the best that had ever come through the gates of Paris.
When the food arrived, the detectives waited for Angélique’s back to be turned and rapidly exchanged plates. Capucine loved boudin; Isabelle hated fish, but David adored it; and—completely erroneously—none of them thought Momo cared what he ate.
Once the wine was poured and the mandatory thirty seconds of silence to concentrate on the food had been observed, Capucine put down her knife and fork.
“Let’s start with you, Isabelle. Did the database have anything interesting to say about Brault?”
“Not really. His bio is pretty much what you’d expect. He graduated from the maternelle and école élémentaire in La Cadière-d’Azur and then matriculated in the town’s lycée. After a year in high school he transferred to the école hôtelière in Paris.
“He went to Paris all by himself?” Capucine asked. “He must have only been fourteen.”
“He had his fifteenth birthday over the summer. The records show he lived on the seventh floor of a building on the boulevard Pereire owned by a certain Frédérique Brault. I’m guessing that Frédérique Brault is some sort of cousin who had an apartment that came with a chambre de bonne under the eaves with no heating, a cold-water tap, and a Turkish toilet at the end of the hall.”
“Do you think the cousin supported him financially?” David asked.
Isabelle shook her head. “He worked at night doing the plonge —washing dishes—in a restaurant called the Repaire de Pereire, which was a few blocks away on the boulevard Pereire.”
“Cheerful,” David muttered.
Isabelle gave him a scornful look. “Don’t feel too bad. He only did that for two years. The cycle at the école hôtelière is shorter than the other lycées. He got his BEP, his professional studies certificate, at the end of his first year, and then his BTS, his superior technician’s certificate,
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