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

put his glass down on the table.
    “ Mi dispiace molto. Nothing would give me more pleasure than chatting with the two of you all night long, but I’m afraid I have a very early meeting and must go to bed. But please, stay and enjoy the night.”
    The night was indeed magical. The moon had finally become entirely full, a perfectly round orb.
    “Let’s go down and sit by that pool in the rock grotto. It’s perfect for an evening like this,” Capucine said.
    Alexandre led her down three flights of steps cut into the rock to a natural grotto, which had been enlarged by architects and fitted with plumbing to make it appear to be a natural pool.
    “A whole night of having you in my arms, far away from any living creature, on a night like this. It’s my definition of heaven, ” Alexandre said. But at the grotto Alexandre deflated when he saw Jacques sitting at the edge of the pool, facing the sea, his legs dangling over a twenty-foot drop.
    With some trepidation they inched out over the rocks to Jacques’s side and sat down, Capucine between her cousin and her husband. Alexandre passed one of the glasses to Jacques and shared his with Capucine. Alexandre lit a cigar.
    They said nothing, staring into a moon so incandescent, it cauterized the shock of the police defilement of the boat.
    Jacques’s loud voice shattered the calm.
    “Petite cousine, for once, I’m going to extract you from the bouillabaisse before you even know you’re in it. Aren’t you impressed?” He extended his empty glass to Alexandre for a refill.
    Capucine sat up straight. “Jacques, not now. It’s been a very long day. Let’s just go to bed.”
    “Petite cousine, all this sea air is making you dull. As I’m sure you’ve told your corpulent consort many a time, the best things in life come in small packages. And I have one for you right here in my hand.”
    He held out his closed fist, fingers down, to Capucine. Despite her pique at being teased, she opened her palm under his. He stretched his fingers open.
    It was difficult to see what it was in the dark. Alexandre lit his lighter.
    “A shell casing,” Capucine said.
    “Look a little closer.”
    It was a nine-millimeter shell casing marked SPEER around the bottom edge. It was from one of the so-called safety-tipped American rounds that the French police had started issuing three months before. A shell casing that could only have come recently from a French police weapon.
    “Where did you find this?”
    “It was wedged into the little recess at the edge of the deck on the forecastle. I noticed it as we were approaching the coast on our way into Porto Cervo after Nathalie went overboard.”
    There was a long silence, punctuated only by compact little cumuli of Alexandre’s cigar smoke rising into the moonlight.
    Capucine reached into her pocket, produced her iPhone, fussed with it.
    “Here,” she said, handing the phone to Jacques. “Show me exactly where you found it.”
    The picture on the little screen was a close-up of the foredeck area.
    “It’s Régis’s blog,” Capucine said. “I’ve become an avid reader. He posts endless pictures of our trip. This picture was taken before you found the shell casing.”
    Jacques put his finger on the screen. “Right here.”
    Capucine took the smartphone back, zoomed in on the image. Régis’s pictures were very high resolution. It was obvious there was no shell casing.
    “Is there a chance it rolled there after the picture was taken?” Capucine asked.
    “None whatsoever. It was wedged in tightly. So tightly someone must have jammed it in so it wouldn’t get lost.” Jacques beamed his Cheshire cat grin on Capucine. “Aren’t you glad, little cousin, that it was me who found it and not one of those heavy-booted carabinieri? ”
    He held his palm out flat in front of Capucine. Automatically, she placed the shell casing in his hand. In a single fluid motion, Jacques crooked his thumb and projected the shell like a small boy