Murder on the Mediterranean (Capucine Culinary Mystery) Read Free Page B

sight of Capucine, Angélique doused her rage. The females air kissed loudly, while the males thumped backs robustly. As this display of affection went on, a tall, wiry woman, face sunbaked brown as a saddle, clanked down the ramp with no more luggage than a diminutive backpack slung over one shoulder. Florence Henriot’s face was unforgettable. It had been plastered over every Saturday supplement for decades when she was the queen of the daring single-handed transoceanic yacht races that so captivated the imagination of the country. She seemed not to have aged a bit. Capucine supposed that was the result of having had her face embalmed by the sun as a teenager.
    Puffed up as a blowfish, Serge appeared at the head of two-foot gangway connecting the boat to the dock.
    “Hey, there’s no need to hang out down there. Come on board. I was just signing the inventory with the man from the charter company. Skipper stuff. You’re going to love this boat. She’s a total honey.”
    On board there was a cocktail party scurry of introductions. As the commotion died down, all eyes turned to the dock, where Régis and Aude had arrived, Régis wreathed in winsome smiles, an expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck, Aude statuesque, her beauty even more ethereal than the day before.
    Beaming, Alexandre waved them on board. The second round of introductions was interrupted by yet another loud clattering down the ramp. A muscular young woman in very abbreviated, oil-stained cutoff jean shorts, a man’s denim shirt tied in a loose knot under her breasts, and none-too-clean bare feet struggled with a grocery cart brimming with primary-colored packaged food products. Régis went to the rail and busily snapped pictures.
    “That’s our marin, Nathalie,” Serge said. “I sent her out to buy provisions.”
    Solicitous of all matters comestible, Alexandre hurtled down the dock to help Nathalie.
    Capucine’s cousin Jacques had been one the first to arrive on the boat. As Capucine eyed the recent arrival with misgivings, Jacques whispered in her ear, “Not to worry. I understand that she’s to be chained in her forepeak dungeon, gnawing on bones, until she’s needed. Serge felt that the clanking of her fetters would add an erotic piquantness to the trip.”
    By their side Dominique examined Nathalie with a knowing eye, clearly mentally removing her few garments. Angélique scowled and spat out an inaudible comment. Serge’s lips tightened. Capucine wondered if it was dismay at strife among his crew even before they set off or if he was jealous.
    With a shrug of irritation Serge led the group below deck for a tour, leaving Nathalie to cope with her groceries as best she could. Régis brought up the rear guard, the clunk of his camera continuous.
    “Do you always take pictures of everything?” Florence asked him.
    “Good lord, no. This is for my blog. I’m avid blogger. I usually just post food pictures—I’m a food photographer by trade—but I have a special section for our summer vacation. I’m going to cover our progress day by day. It’s my summer treat to myself.”
    He took a quick snap of Florence, who smiled tolerantly at him, and then wheeled and took one of Aude, hoping to catch her off guard. But she was as composed and expressionless as ever.
    The boat’s salon was as large as a small living room. There was a sofa to port and a banquette wrapped around a table and two chairs screwed into the floor to starboard. Toward the stern was a large, well-equipped galley screened off from the main area by a long counter. Opposite was a navigation desk flanked by a row of switches and screens that would have been at home on a jumbo jet.
    Serge explained it all in enough detail to make their eyes glaze over.
    Next, they trooped single file to visit each of the four cabins, all roughly the same size and each with a tiny bathroom, which Serge made a point of calling a head. Once the stateroom doors were closed, the units