Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

A
t seven thirty that evening Capucine sat in her office, reading the final edition of
Le Monde,
waiting for David to get off the phone so she could start a meeting with the three brigadiers.

Once a week Alexandre wrote a column called “
Celui Qui Ecrit la Bouche Pleine
—He Who Writes with His Mouth Full.” It was about various food topics: a little restaurant gossip, his views on current food trends, comments about what he had been eating, maybe a dish he had invented and thought would be perfect for one chef or another. It was one of the more popular columns in the paper. That day’s was a eulogy of Jean-Louis Brault. Under the column’s logo and his picture, Alexandre had started with a quote from Destouches.

“
La critique est aisée, mais l’art est difficile.
Criticism is easy, but art is difficult.”

Capucine had no idea who this Destouches was. The biographical Robert dictionary told her he was a composer famous for an opera she had never heard of, and had died in 1749. She went back to the article.

Capucine found the depth of Alexandre’s anger almost erotic.

Isabelle clomped through the door, followed by David and Momo.

“It’s nearly eight o’clock. I’m starving,” Capucine said. “What if we have this session over at Benoît’s?”

There were enthusiastic nods from all three brigadiers. Capucine folded the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, and walked out with her team.

Benoît’s, on the corner twenty yards down from the brigade, was one of a dying breed of
restos ouvrier
—workers’ restaurants—and a jackstay for the flics of Capucine’s brigade. It wasn’t that worker’s restaurants were closing; the problem was they were going upmarket. But at Benoît’s you could still get lunch with an appetizer, a main dish, cheese, dessert, and a quarter bottle of red for only five euros on top of the
ticket restaurant
, the meal vouchers supplied by the Ministry of the Interior. Sadly, the working-class Twentieth was rapidly becoming a hip new frontier, complete with trendy restaurants. If Benoît’s went that route and began charging thirty or forty euros for lunch, the brigadiers would find themselves eating at McDonald’s. But that was—hopefully—unimaginable.

The four detectives trooped into the restaurant, retrieved their napkins from cubbyholes labeled with their handwritten names—complete with rank so punctiliously noted that many brigadiers had first learned of their promotions by the change in their cubbyhole labels—and moved to a corner table. Angélique, a woman of heroic rotundity, announced what they would be eating: boudin—blood sausage—with sautéed apples for the men, and a
pavé de saumon grillé—
a paving-stone–sized hunk of grilled salmon—on a bed of
lentilles du Puy
for the women. And, of course, they would be drinking the house Tavel, which was universally known to be the best that had ever come through the gates of Paris.

When the food arrived, the detectives waited for Angélique’s back to be turned and rapidly exchanged plates. Capucine loved boudin; Isabelle hated fish, but David adored it; and—completely erroneously—none of them thought Momo cared what he ate.

Once the wine was poured and the mandatory thirty seconds of silence to concentrate on the food had been observed, Capucine put down her knife and fork.

“Let’s start with you, Isabelle. Did the database have anything interesting to say about Brault?”

“Not really. His bio is pretty much what you’d expect. He graduated from the
maternelle
and
école élémentaire
in La Cadière-d’Azur and then matriculated in the town’s lycée. After a year in high school he transferred to the école hôtelière in Paris.

“He went to Paris all by himself?” Capucine asked. “He must have only been fourteen.”

“He had his fifteenth birthday over the summer. The records show he lived on the seventh floor of a building on the boulevard Pereire owned by a certain Frédérique Brault. I’m guessing that Frédérique Brault is some sort of cousin who had an apartment that came with a
chambre de bonne
under the eaves with no heating, a cold-water tap, and a Turkish toilet at the end of the hall.”

“Do you think the cousin supported him financially?” David asked.

Isabelle shook her head. “He worked at night doing the
plonge
—washing dishes—in a restaurant called the Repaire de Pereire, which was a few blocks away on the boulevard Pereire.”

“Cheerful,” David muttered.

Isabelle gave him a scornful look. “Don’t feel too bad. He only did that for two years. The cycle at the école hôtelière is shorter than the other lycées. He got his BEP, his professional studies certificate, at the end of his first year, and then his BTS, his superior technician’s certificate, the year after that. He was quite the star. He got the best grades in his class.”

“Then what?” Capucine asked.

“He got an internship at the Troisgros restaurant in Roanne. That must have been the prize job. He stayed there four years and moved as sous-chef to a one-star restaurant in Le Perreux-sur-Marne called Les Pieds dans L’Eau. A year later the owner of the place fired the chef and put Brault in charge of the kitchen.”

“How old was he at this point?” Capucine asked.

“Twenty-two. A real whiz kid. After four years he quit the place in Le Perreux and bought the restaurant in Sèvres. We have a lot of stuff on that transaction. He put twenty thousand euros down on the table, and a bank gave him a mortgage for the rest. Five years later, he bought the small building across the street and began converting it into a hotel. The purchase was done with a short-term loan by an operation called Athénée Investments. I looked them up. It’s a financial holding company with only two shareholders, Monsieur and Madame Brissac-Vanté. Thierry Brissac-Vanté is listed as
gérant
—manager.”

“Good work. According to the sous-chef, this Brissac-Vanté’s acting like he’s the new owner of both the hotel and the restaurant. He’s going to be my next stop,” Capucine said. “David, what did you find out about Brault’s family?”

“His father, the baron, has been broke as far back as our records go. His bank file goes on and on—heavy mortgage on the château to pay for upkeep, mortgage payments frequently in arrears, multiple threats of foreclosure, declined requests for loans, a good number of fines for bounced checks. The story is obvious. He inherited a small château but didn’t have the money to keep it up. If you read between the lines, he didn’t have enough money to buy groceries, either.

“Then, one day, he got his big break. But that didn’t pan out. A development company made an offer to buy his château. They wanted to build retirement homes on the land and use the château as the center of attraction with a restaurant and game rooms and stuff like that. Brault got a few thousand euros in cash, which the bank immediately snapped up to cover his delinquent loans. The contract gave the baron a share of the profits once the development company had sold enough houses to get past its break-even point.”

David slowly cut a piece of salmon and chewed it carefully, letting the dramatic tension of his story build.

“
Allez, allez,
” Isabelle barked.

“The development company built the homes and then went bankrupt. They didn’t come close to selling enough houses to cover their costs. The baron never got a sou.”

“He was out on the street?” Capucine asked.

“No. The one smart thing he did was to hang on to the gatehouse and keep it out of the deal. But judging from the property taxes, it must be tiny.”

“Siblings?” Capucine asked. She trusted police records more than the social register.

“A brother. Antonin. Five years older than Jean-Louis. A long arrest record for minor stuff—fights in cafés, disturbing the peace, things like that. The gendarmes would haul him in, give him a dressing-down, and release him without a booking. Then, four years ago, he went on the lam. His last job was in a garage near Bandol. He either quit or got fired—the job termination form was never filed—and disappeared. Not on La Cadière’s or any other civil register, no bank accounts or Carte Bleue bank cards. Sounds like he’s hiding out somewhere, living off odd jobs he does for cash. My guess is that he finally did something serious and figures the gendarmes are after him.”

“Did you speak to the father on the phone?” Capucine asked.

“That’s what I was just doing. Waste of time. He wasn’t entirely lucid. Also, between the blaring TV and the loose false teeth, he was almost impossible to understand. He did say he had no idea where Antonin was. It didn’t seem to bother 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 the waiting room that your business here is promoting sports personalities.”

“We don’t promote them. We sign them up for our clients.” With a toothy smile, he switched into sell mode and rolled his chair around the desk so it was next to Capucine’s. “Let’s say, to pick a crazy example, that the Police Judiciaire wanted to improve its image.” He held up both hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I’m only using this as an example, but it really might not be a bad idea. We’d get, say, the soccer player Zinedine Zidane. . . . No, no, wait, he’s no good for you, way too aggressive with that head-butting stuff at the World Cup.

“Let’s make it Yannick Noah, our iconic black tennis player, who sings those great songs with an African rhythm for kids. So, we’d cut a bunch of upbeat TV spots with a voice-over while Noah’s singing in the background to let the world of immigrants know how important the Police Judiciaire is in making their lives safe and comfortable. We’d map out the whole campaign for you and sign up Noah.” He paused, looking at Capucine hopefully for a sign of enthusiasm. “It was only an idea, but something like that could really help you guys out.”

“Are your investments part of your sponsoring business ?”

“Not at all,” Brissac-Vanté said with a laugh. “Completely separate. The investments are important, of course, but this is the real love of my life. It’s where my entrepreneurial talent shines through.”

“Do you invest primarily in restaurants?”

“I don’t specialize in anything. I’m on the lookout for projects where I can really add value. Succeeding in the investment world takes a whole lot more than writing checks. Let me tell you. We’re very diverse. We have three restaurants, an art gallery, an Armagnac producer, and the pride of our crown, the Tours soccer team. You probably know we won the league championship last year. I was hoarse for a week after.” Brissac-Vanté laughed happily.

“And what sort of value did you add to La Mère Denis?”

“It was—is—a very complex situation. Chef Brault was one of the towering chefs in France. I supported him through a very difficult period in his life by tailor making financing that not only fit his financial needs but also his psychological ones. I may be bragging, but I think I’m one of the forces that enabled his fabulous genius to blossom.”

“A difficult period in his life?”

“You have to understand the full complexity of Chef Brault. He was a true genius, with all the strengths and weaknesses of a genius. You need to grasp the fragility of his ego. He was one of the most gifted chefs France has ever produced, but he always doubted himself. When he came to me, his restaurant was producing food that easily merited three stars, but the Guide had only given him two. The third star was clearly coming, but Michelin likes to take it slow. Chef Brault got it in his head that they were holding back the third star because he didn’t have a hotel attached to his restaurant. He was completely unglued. His bank wouldn’t finance the hotel, because it was a bad idea commercially. Fortunately, he came to me. I saw that the hotel thing was seriously distracting him from his cooking—which was the only important thing, after all—and I made the hotel happen so he could concentrate in the kitchen.”

“And did it work?”

“Absolutely. The minute we bought the building across the street and the renovation started, he was a changed man. And then, of course, he got his third star the next year.” He laughed. “Which just happened to be the year the hotel opened. Pure coincidence, but Jean-Louis couldn’t be shaken in his belief that it was all due to the hotel.” He smiled warmly at the memory.

“Do you usually do your deals for convertible debt?” Capucine asked.

Brissac-Vanté looked at her sharply. The question wasn’t in keeping with the altruistic spirit of his message.

“The raison d’être of my investments is philanthropic, but I’m also a professional financier. Our investment firm is owned jointly by me and my wife, and she’s a very prudent woman. Brault was in a tough spot. His bank categorically refused to lend him money for the hotel. Of course, he could have sold off a part of the ownership in the restaurant, but it was critical to his psyche to be sole owner. I understood and respected that. So I let him have his cake and eat it. In fact, as we say in French, I gave him
le beurre, l’argent du beurre, et le sourire de la crémière
—the butter, the money for the butter,
and
the smile of the girl behind the counter. My convertible loan structure gave him everything he wanted and let him retain full control of everything.”

“So Brault’s death is a windfall for you.”

Brissac-Vanté seemed sincerely offended. “Just the opposite, Commissaire. Just the opposite. It’s a catastrophe. Even if the court awards me ownership of the restaurant—and that’s a very big if—all I’ll get is a restaurant site in Sèvres. Without Brault, the place has no more value than the premises and the pots and pans in the kitchen. Even if Ouvrard keeps it limping along, I’m still going to have to post a very big write-down.” He paused and drummed his fingers on the glass desktop. “I really don’t think you appreciate the magnitude of the loss of Chef Brault. His death wasn’t just a catastrophe for me. It’s a catastrophe for the nation.”

“So what happens next?”

“If the court awards me control, nothing. Ouvrard seems to be holding his own. We’ll see how many stars the Guide will take away from us next February. When the Guide decides, then I’ll decide.”

The long-legged secretary came in with a bright blue file folder. She bent over to hand it to Brissac-Vanté, revealing a maximum of décolleté.

“Can I ask you to sign these, monsieur? I need to get them in before the accountant leaves for the day.”

Brissac-Vanté extracted a sheet of paper from the folder. “Excuse me,” he said, beaming his best smile. “These are my expenses for a trip I took to London the weekend Chef Brault died. I’m working on a very big promotional deal over there.” The smile faded in homage to the tragedy. “I somehow feel that if I’d been here, if he’d had someone to talk to, this might not have happened.”

It was amazing, Capucine reflected, how everyone—even she on occasion—persisted in the belief that Jean-Louis Brault had committed suicide.