Read Online Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) by Alexander Campion - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander Campion
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him. I also got the impression he either hadn’t heard that his other son died or he hadn’t really taken it on board. He certainly doesn’t know anything about his son’s life after he left the village.”
“Cheerful,” Isabelle said. David smiled sweetly at her.
“What about you, Momo?” Capucine asked. “How’d you do? Find the guys who delivered the trunk?”
“Yup. They’re good old boys. You know, guys who toss down a couple of Calvas first thing in the morning, before the coffee arrives on the zinc at the café. The trunk was one of three deliveries they made that day. There was also an armoire that was a breeze because it came apart and a dining table that was a bitch because it didn’t.
“They were at the Puces at five thirty in the morning, picked up their stuff, and piled it into their truck. The trunk was their last delivery. The people that own the stands they deliver for gave their dispatcher the keys, and they picked them up before they went home the day before. When they arrived at the stand in the morning to load the trunk, the screens were down but the padlocks weren’t on. They said that happens every now and then. The owners pull down the screens but forget to put on the locks.
“The trunk was in the front of the stand, lying on its side with a red tag on it. They noticed that the hasps hadn’t been shut, so they snapped them and loaded the trunk. They didn’t notice there was a hole, which makes sense since it was on the bottom. They said they didn’t find it odd the trunk was so heavy, ’cause they’re used to weird shit like that at the Puces.”
The dearth of clues cast a pall over the table. Capucine stood up. “Why don’t you stay and have cheese and dessert and talk it over? Maybe you can find an anomaly in this somewhere. I need to get home to Alexandre.” She tossed the copy of Le Monde on the table. “This might be something else for you guys to think about.”
CHAPTER 11
T he office, with its look-at-me ostentation, could have been any one of the myriad boutique marketing and consulting firms on the Champs-Élysées. All the components were there: the minimalist Knoll furniture, the view of the hallowed avenue through plate-glass windows, the inch-thick glass desk populated with computer screens and expensive executive toys, the starlet-grade secretary in the ultra-miniskirt and the ultra-maxi heels.
The de rigueur secretary placed a de rigueur demitasse of office-made express on the desk in front of Capucine and then minced sensually to give Thierry Brissac-Vanté his cup. As convention required, he ran his eyes up and down her body, but it was from behind a curtain of reserve so opaque there was no doubt at all he had never had, nor would he ever have, the slightest lascivious interest in her.
“How much of La Mère Denis do you own, monsieur?” Capucine asked.
“Maybe the majority. Maybe nothing. A judge is deciding as we speak.”
Brissac-Vanté opened the lid of a faïence apothecary jar, removed a pinch of paper clips, and began making little patterns with them on the glass desk. Capucine raised her eyebrows to encourage him to explain.
He thought for a few seconds, squeezed the paper clips together in a small mound, and said, “You see, my investment in La Mère Denis is in the form of an automatically renewing, convertible short-term loan. One of the conditions that would trigger the conversion was the last thing anyone expected, the death of the company’s président-directeur général, Jean-Louis Brault.” His head drooped fractionally for a few seconds in mourning, but he looked up quickly at Capucine with a boyish grin. It was obvious he expected to find that Capucine had been overwhelmed by the financial jargon.
He went on. “You see, the idea was that debt turned into equity if something happened that made it look like the company couldn’t pay it off. It’s pretty standard stuff.”
“I gather from pictures and press clippings in
“Cheerful,” Isabelle said. David smiled sweetly at her.
“What about you, Momo?” Capucine asked. “How’d you do? Find the guys who delivered the trunk?”
“Yup. They’re good old boys. You know, guys who toss down a couple of Calvas first thing in the morning, before the coffee arrives on the zinc at the café. The trunk was one of three deliveries they made that day. There was also an armoire that was a breeze because it came apart and a dining table that was a bitch because it didn’t.
“They were at the Puces at five thirty in the morning, picked up their stuff, and piled it into their truck. The trunk was their last delivery. The people that own the stands they deliver for gave their dispatcher the keys, and they picked them up before they went home the day before. When they arrived at the stand in the morning to load the trunk, the screens were down but the padlocks weren’t on. They said that happens every now and then. The owners pull down the screens but forget to put on the locks.
“The trunk was in the front of the stand, lying on its side with a red tag on it. They noticed that the hasps hadn’t been shut, so they snapped them and loaded the trunk. They didn’t notice there was a hole, which makes sense since it was on the bottom. They said they didn’t find it odd the trunk was so heavy, ’cause they’re used to weird shit like that at the Puces.”
The dearth of clues cast a pall over the table. Capucine stood up. “Why don’t you stay and have cheese and dessert and talk it over? Maybe you can find an anomaly in this somewhere. I need to get home to Alexandre.” She tossed the copy of Le Monde on the table. “This might be something else for you guys to think about.”
CHAPTER 11
T he office, with its look-at-me ostentation, could have been any one of the myriad boutique marketing and consulting firms on the Champs-Élysées. All the components were there: the minimalist Knoll furniture, the view of the hallowed avenue through plate-glass windows, the inch-thick glass desk populated with computer screens and expensive executive toys, the starlet-grade secretary in the ultra-miniskirt and the ultra-maxi heels.
The de rigueur secretary placed a de rigueur demitasse of office-made express on the desk in front of Capucine and then minced sensually to give Thierry Brissac-Vanté his cup. As convention required, he ran his eyes up and down her body, but it was from behind a curtain of reserve so opaque there was no doubt at all he had never had, nor would he ever have, the slightest lascivious interest in her.
“How much of La Mère Denis do you own, monsieur?” Capucine asked.
“Maybe the majority. Maybe nothing. A judge is deciding as we speak.”
Brissac-Vanté opened the lid of a faïence apothecary jar, removed a pinch of paper clips, and began making little patterns with them on the glass desk. Capucine raised her eyebrows to encourage him to explain.
He thought for a few seconds, squeezed the paper clips together in a small mound, and said, “You see, my investment in La Mère Denis is in the form of an automatically renewing, convertible short-term loan. One of the conditions that would trigger the conversion was the last thing anyone expected, the death of the company’s président-directeur général, Jean-Louis Brault.” His head drooped fractionally for a few seconds in mourning, but he looked up quickly at Capucine with a boyish grin. It was obvious he expected to find that Capucine had been overwhelmed by the financial jargon.
He went on. “You see, the idea was that debt turned into equity if something happened that made it look like the company couldn’t pay it off. It’s pretty standard stuff.”
“I gather from pictures and press clippings in
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