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

One of the officers put the flat of his hand on Serge’s chest and pushed. Serge stumbled backward and nearly fell.
    “Capucine,” he said, “do something. Make them go away.”
    “Serge, there’s nothing to do. The boat has been impounded. And I wouldn’t try to strong-arm a police officer again. That’s going to get you a night behind bars, which you definitely wouldn’t enjoy.”
    “So what are we going to do?”
    “Hotel,” Capucine said.
    Serge’s face crinkled, as if he was on the edge of tears. “A hotel? How the hell are we going to find a hotel at this hour of the night? Look at this damn place.” With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the bleak area behind the marina. The only amenities were a minute convenience store and a grim-looking café, both shuttered. Behind the marina lay a vast deserted industrial area.
    “What am I supposed to do? Cruise around Arbatax in a taxicab in the middle of the night, trying to find hotel rooms for ten people without luggage? That’ll be a perfect end to the evening. Merde, merde, merde!” He stamped the metal dock, making it ring.
    Serge marched off to the end of the jetty, snapped open his cell phone, punched a speed-dial button, turned his back on the police and the boat crew. In less than thirty seconds he swiveled back, his face alive with a radiant smile.
    “ Grazie mille, Tommasso. You’re a prince among men. See you in a few minutes. Ciao. ”
    “Problem solved. Tommasso is going to put us up for the night. He even has a supply of toiletries for his guests. I’m calling us some cabs. I can’t get away from these Italian cops fast enough.”
     
    Tommasso’s joy at their return seemed genuine enough. Capucine was sure that he would dine out for years to come on the tale of the evening he had offered a French police commissaire a room because her boat had been declared a crime scene.
    The villa seemed to contain an infinity of suites, made sumptuous by the unsubtle hand of an interior decorator. They were decorated with aggressively endearing peasant furniture and precious scenes of olive trees and fishing boats.
    Large survival kits—plastic containers crammed with luxury toiletries, including toothbrushes, shaving equipment, colognes, deodorants, shampoos and conditioners, perfumes—one for men, another for women, had been placed on each pillow. The effect was that of a luxury Relais & Châteaux country inn.
    Capucine took a shower, hoping to cleanse herself of the feeling that for the first time in her life she was, somehow, on the wrong side of the law.
    She dried herself off and walked through the house, emerging onto the terrace, sure it would be deserted save for Alexandre smoking his final cigar of the day.
    She was dismayed to see that Alexandre was locked in an energetic discussion with Tommasso about something they were drinking. Capucine debated turning on her heel and going to bed, but her desire to be with Alexandre won out. She padded out on the terrace in her bare feet.
    It was about grappa. Tommasso had placed an array of bottles on the long table and was attempting to persuade Alexandre of the superiority of the Sicilian product over the Sardinian. Capucine knew full well this was the sort of exercise that could amuse Alexandre until the rosy fingers of dawn crept up over the horizon.
    “Tommasso, you’re right. The Grappa di Malvasia delle Lipari is the clear winner. Bravo, Sicilia!” He downed the last half inch of grappa in his tulip-shaped glass, reached around Capucine’s waist, drew her toward him, kissed her temple.
    “It comes from a little village a few miles from mine back home. I know the man who makes it very well. He is my godfather. A man of many talents.”
    Tommasso handed Capucine a glass of grappa made by the many-talented man and refilled Alexandre’s. The three exchanged polite banalities. The wind from the hill brought down the odor of wild herbs and ruffled the canopy of grape leaves above them.
    Tommasso