Blowback (12 page)
Dominique’s transformation from the almost plain young gendarme whom he had first met, to the beautiful young lady who sat opposite him in the lounge was quite extraordinary. Eating at Chez Fraysse would be, for her, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and she had clearly spent most of the time since Enzo had left her preparing for it.
She wore a simple, white silk blouse with pleated chocolate brown pants and elegant tan shoes with medium heels. A pale pink chiffon scarf was held loosely at her neck by a pearl brooch, and her chestnut brown hair, tonged to gentle, lustrous curls, tumbled extravagantly over her shoulders. The hints of pink and brown around her eyes emphasised their depth, the cherry red of her lips contrasting with the white of beautifully even teeth made a radiant smile dazzling. And she could hardly keep the smile from her face.
Even although Enzo had donned fresh shirt and pants, he felt positively shabby by comparison. He was pleased that he had, at least, taken the time to shave. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said.
“I’m famished!” She paused. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for this.”
Enzo smiled. “Don’t thank me. Thank Guy. When I told him I was bringing you to lunch, he insisted that you were to be his guest. We both are.”
“Oh.” Her smiled faded a little. “Is that wise?”
“I have never felt compromised by accepting someone’s hospitality, Dominique. I live by that old adage, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly if it’s a three-star gift horse.”
She laughed.
“What would you like for
aperitif
?”
But before she could answer, a server all in black arrived with a silver platter and two glasses of champagne. “Compliments of Monsieur Fraysse,” he said, placing the glasses in front of them. He opened two leather-bound menus, handing one to each in turn. “Monsieur Fraysse will take your orders himself.”
They lifted their glasses and touched them together across the table with a resonant chime of crystal. “
A votre
,” Dominique said.
“
Santé
.”
And they sipped the gloriously lemony, yeasty champagne, the finest of bubbles exploding softly around their lips.
“Mmmh, wonderful.” Dominique sat back in her chair, caressed and seduced by its soft leather. “If only all investigations were like this.” She glanced at the menu. “Which one should we go for? When someone’s treating me I always feel I have to order the cheapest.”
“Well, we won’t tolerate that here.”
They both turned as Guy approached their table.
“No, don’t get up.” He stooped to kiss Dominique on each cheek. “I insist you go for the two hundred. And if you allow me to choose for you, then I can guarantee one hundred percent satisfaction.”
Enzo said, “We are entirely in your hands.”
Guy pulled up a chair and joined them, taking away their menus to close on his lap. “What do you think of the champagne?”
“Delicious,” Dominique said.
Guy grinned. “What do you taste in it, Enzo?”
Enzo took another sip and focused on the flavours that filled his mouth. “Vanilla. Ginger. Nutmeg. Citrus…”
“Bravo!” Guy clapped his hands like an excited little boy. “It’s a 1992 Krug brut,
blanc de blanc
, Clos de Mesnil.”
Enzo almost choked. The 1992 Clos de Mesnil was one of
the
best vintages, and would cost, he knew, around a thousand euros a bottle to buy in a store. Double that in a restaurant. Guy was watching him closely.
Enzo tipped his head in appreciation. “Extraordinary, Guy.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then I hope you will allow me to choose the wines to go with your meal.”
Enzo laughed. “I don’t think either of us is going to argue with you over that.”
Dominique’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “What are you going to recommend us to eat?”
Guy smiled a secret smile and waggled his finger. “One course at a time,
mademoiselle
.
Une surprise à chaque plat
. But for your entrées I would suggest the frogs’ legs.”
Enzo detected a flicker of disappointment in Dominique’s smile, but Guy just shook his head knowingly. “These are no ordinary frogs’ legs,” he said. “This is essentially a dish created by the incomparable Bernard Loiseau. Marc borrowed the concept and added his own twist to it. Of course, only the plumpest and juiciest of Burgundy thighs are used, served with
purées
of baby spinach and garlic. Loiseau followed tradition and used flat parsley, but Marc found that a little astringent. He did, however, employ Loiseau’s technique of boiling the garlic cloves, changing the water several times in the process, to remove the impurities and mellow their attack. The
purée
is thinned with a little milk. And, of course, with this dish, presentation is extremely important. You will see why later.” He stood up. “I’ll catch up with you in the dining room.”
When he had gone their
amuse-bouches
arrived, eggshells in pewter eggcups, the tops removed to leave a perfect, unbroken ring. Inside they contained a concoction of hollandaise, balsamic vinegar, and herbs, to be soaked up by fingers of bread which had been drizzled with olive oil before being toasted.
Dominique’s face dissolved into wreaths of ecstasy with the first mouthful. “Oh, my God, it’s wonderful.”
Enzo had to agree. The toast was crisp, but melted in the mouth, carrying with it the delicate flavours of the mixture from the egg. They ate in silence, savouring every mouthful, until the appetiser was finished, and their appetite for the meal ahead fully whetted.
Enzo cleansed his palate with more champagne. He glanced around and lowered his voice to make sure they were not overheard. The buzz of conversation that filled the lounge made discretion a little easier. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what you know about Anne Crozes.”
Dominique tilted her head, clearly surprised. “The chef’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“Not much. Except that they’ve been married for years and live somewhere just outside Saint-Pierre. She’s a receptionist here, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Enzo hesitated. “You didn’t pick up any chatter during the investigation about a possible relationship between her and Marc Fraysse?”
This time her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “No, I didn’t.” She paused. “Was there?”
“It’s what I’ve heard.”
Dominique frowned, spoiling the radiance of her face. “Where would you ‘hear’ something like that?”
Enzo allowed himself a tiny shrug of the shoulders. “Let’s just say I have access to a little inside information.”
She stared at him for a moment. Very still. “I thought we were sharing everything.”
“We are, and I am. Haven’t I just told you what I heard?”
“Yes. But not who told you.”
“That’s a source I’m not prepared to reveal just yet. But I will, in time.” He leaned forward. “The point is, if you had known that Marc Fraysse and Anne Crozes were having an affair, how much would that have influenced your investigation?”
Dominique blew air through pursed lips. “Enormously. It would have had the immediate effect of creating three potential suspects.”
“Elisabeth, Georges, and Anne herself.”
“Exactly.”
“And you never had a single suspect, did you?”
She shook her head. “No we didn’t. No motive, no suspect.” Her eyes darted cautiously around the room, and she leaned, if anything, a little closer. “But were they? Having an affair, I mean. Marc and Anne.”
Enzo sighed. “I don’t know. I confronted Georges with it this morning, and he reacted pretty fiercely. He denied it absolutely, of course, and threatened me with violence if I were to repeat it.”
Dominique looked thoughtful. “And Anne?”
“Haven’t spoken to her yet. Although I do get the feeling that she might be trying to avoid me.”
“But there is no evidence that they
were
having an affair?”
“None at all.”
“So it’s just some gossip passed on to you by your ‘source’.”
“Clichés become clichés, Dominique, because they are oft repeated universal truths. And here’s one that I always pay attention to. No smoke without fire.” He drained his champagne glass. “A hotel-restaurant like this is a particularly tight, insular world. I can’t imagine that there’s much goes on around here that pretty well everyone doesn’t get to hear about. If Marc and Anne really were having an affair, how could it possibly have been anything other than an open secret?”
“An open secret that nobody chose to tell the police about.”
“Why would they? The police are outsiders. And unless somebody thought that it had anything to do with Marc’s murder, I can see how everyone would just close ranks.”
Their server arrived to remove their plates and glasses, passing the debris tray to an assistant. “Your table is ready whenever you are,” he said.
Dominique nodded, and they both stood.
“Follow me, please.” The server led them from the lounge to the south-facing conservatory, and Enzo was disappointed to see that the flat quality of the light spawned by a pewtery sky overhead had stolen the depth from the view that was spread out below them. Its detail was smudged and lost in the grey yellow of the early afternoon.
White linen napkins were draped on their laps, and the
sommelier
arrived to open a bottle of 2005 Domaine de la Pépière, Muscadet Granite de Clisson, which he placed in an ice bucket on a stand by their table. “Monsieur Fraysse will be with you in a moment.”
And true to his word, Guy arrived smiling at their table after less than a minute. He lifted the bottle from the ice, wiped it down, and poured half an inch into Enzo’s glass. “Now, this,” he said, “is much more modestly priced than the Krug. But you can rest assured that I wouldn’t serve it to you if I didn’t think it was a bit special. The winemaker is a lovely, biblical character called Marc Olivier. He has recently gone organic, the
terroir
is granitic, and this particular vintage was left to age for two years on the lees. It’s not a classic Muscadet, but it’s a classic Loire white. Creamy, aromatic, herbaceous, with wonderful complex acidity. It will go superbly well with the frogs’ legs.”
He waited with excited anticipation for Enzo to taste the wine. Enzo rolled it slowly around his mouth. “Wow! Honey and cream. Wet stone. Lime, tarragon. A hint of smoke, and pepper.”
Guy’s eyes lit up with delight. “My God, man, you really do have a good palate.” He filled both their glasses and put the bottle back on ice as their starters arrived.
They came on large, round, white plates. Circular pools of puréed spinach, with smaller ponds of creamy white garlic at their center. The frogs’ legs, crisply fried in the lightest of batters, were arranged all around the edges of the plates, fanning out from the middle.
“You eat these by hand,” Guy said. “The calves have been removed, leaving the bone to act as a stick for you to hold them by. Just dip them in the spinach, and then the garlic, and eat. Like savoury lollipops.” He beamed broadly. “
Bon appetit
.”
Enzo and Dominique glanced at each other across the table, and shared a moment of smiling anticipation before commencing their journey into three-star heaven. Enzo closed his eyes as his palate was suffused with the flavours of his plate. The soft, meaty thighs all but dissolved on his tongue. The spinach was sweet and sharp, the garlic creamy and mild. The combination of flavours was exquisite. He lifted his glass and washed the residue over with the delicious Loire
blanc
, and savoured its after-taste for thirty seconds or more, before its long, long finish finally began to fade. He opened his eyes to find Dominique’s shining back at him. He raised a single eyebrow, in search of her opinion.
But all she did was laugh. “Do I really need to say?”
He returned the laugh and shook his head. “No.” And they lapsed once more into silence as they succumbed to the inheritance of a dead man’s genius.
Enzo mopped up the last of his spinach and garlic purée with soft, crisp-crusted bread fresh-baked in the kitchen, and washed it over with another mouthful of wine. An attentive wine waiter quickly replenished their glasses. “So…” Enzo said. “Are you Thiers born and bred, Dominique?”
“I am. A real country girl, actually. Probably not very sophisticated by your standards, and certainly not accustomed to eating in a three-star restaurant.” She ran a slender finger around the rim of her glass. “My dad was a farmer. We ate wholesome French country cuisine that my mom prepared in a kitchen that would probably seem mediaeval to you. Certainly to the Fraysse brothers.”
Enzo shook his head. “Don’t do yourself down, Dominique. The Fraysse brothers were just country kids, too, learning to cook at their mother’s apron in a cramped little kitchen. And the family relied on their dad’s income as a travelling shoe salesman to pay the bills.” He took another sip of wine. “As for me, I came from a working class family in the east end of Glasgow. No silver spoon in my mouth. I’ve never considered myself better than anyone, or thought anyone better than me. We’re all cast from the same mould.”
Pursed lips concealed her amusement. “Sounds like socialism to me.”
“It’s not really. I take my inspiration from a Scottish poet called Robert Burns. A marvellous poem called
A Man’s a Man For a’ That
.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, let me quote the last two lines of the first verse:
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
”
Dominique laughed. “I’m afraid I’m not any the wiser.”
Enzo smiled. “A guinea was a gold coin worth one pound and one shilling. What Burns meant was that the design stamped on the gold coin might denote its value, but it’s real worth was in the gold. And that by implication, regardless of a man’s office, or reputation, or ancestry, his real value is in himself. Or not.”
Dominique thought about it for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I like that.” She looked at Enzo. “I didn’t know you were Scottish. The newspapers just call you
Britannique.
Is Enzo a Scottish name?”
“No, it’s Italian. Short for Lorenzo. My mother was Italian.”
