Killer Critique by Alexander Campion

brutality of the professional kitchen would be too much for me and would teach me some useful lessons. When I decided to open a restaurant in Paris, he was against that, too, but was convinced it would fail and that the experience would be valuable when I finally took up my position in his company.”
    â€œI’ve been through a bit of that myself,” Capucine said.
    Béatrice looked at Capucine in surprise. It was not clear whether it was because her élan had been checked or because of the unexpectedness of the comment. After a beat she picked up her narrative.
    â€œWell, I made goddamn sure my place was a howling success. I invited everyone in my address book, got the gossip columns to write about me, and made my food uncomplicated and easy to eat. Naturally, the restaurant became the watering hole for the young gratin of Paris, which was not at all what I wanted it to be, but it nailed my father’s mouth shut. Now I’m inching upward. More and more of my dishes are truly haute cuisine. I’m hoping to get my first Michelin star before too long and was convinced Fesnay’s review would be the turning point.”
    â€œSurely your success has palliated your father?”
    â€œIt’s a double-edged sword. He left me alone as long as he was convinced I was going to fail. Now that I’m a success, he may be so driven to get me back, he’ll poke his big stick in the wheel of my little bicycle—which is easy enough for him to do with all his money and power.” She paused and looked sharply at Capucine. “Do you know about that part of it, too?”
    â€œTotally. My family was horrified at the idea of my going into the police. I spent years in fear that they would pull some strings and have me thrown out. In fact, it’s still something I lose sleep over.”
    â€œBut you’re a commissaire . That’s a big deal.”
    â€œAnd you’re on your way to a Michelin star. That’s an even bigger deal.”
    They both laughed.
    â€œAh, non, non, non, non! Bordel. Merde, merde, merde! Qu’est-ce que tu me foutez là?” Béatrice shouted through the door.
    â€œHe’s done it again!” she said to Capucine as she ran into the kitchen. Capucine realized it was high time for her to leave and made for the door with a wave at Béatrice who took no notice as she elbowed the trembling cook away from the stove and took over his position.

CHAPTER 9
    W hen Capucine walked into her brigade the next morning, the uniformed receptionist stopped her.
    â€œCommissaire, one of those process servers from the City of Paris Administration dropped something off for you this morning. You know, those creepy guys with black uniforms with no insignia. Funny thing was that it wasn’t an official document, looked more like a wedding invitation or something like that. I put it on your desk.”
    The missive in question would have gladdened the heart of Capucine’s dear grandmother, now departed to a world where she no doubt continued to spend the day perusing the social register—the celestial one, of course—making acid comments about the inadmissibility of most of the entries.
    The envelope was a thick creamy bond with the name of a famous rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré stationer pressed into one of the folds that would normally be hidden when the flap was sealed. It was addressed with the extreme formality that had gone out of style with Choderlos de Laclos:

    A Madame
    Madame le Commissaire Capucine Le Tellier
    E/V

    As her grandmother had explained to her many times, it was necessary to state that the letter was for Madame before actually naming the madame in question. She had no idea why; that was just the way it was done. The “E/V” was to signify that the letter was being delivered en ville —in-town, in other words, by hand of servant and not entrusted to La Poste . The missive itself was on thick card stock with a