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

that he had it on good authority that the food at the restaurant was outstanding.
    Alexandre, who had been examining the menu, cocked an eyebrow at him.
    The main topic at dinner was the violence of the Corsican separatists, who were famous for blowing up villas owned by the French. Capucine noticed that the waitress was so unnerved by the conversation that she avoided the table. As the main courses were served, Alexandre whispered in Capucine’s ear, “It’s a shame Nathalie had to boat sit. She would have loved this. The ravioli in marinara sauce are going to be worthy of Chef Boyardee himself.”
    Serge overheard but misunderstood. “Don’t feel sorry for her. I needed her to top up our supply of provisions”—Alexandre winced—“and the boat needed a thorough cleaning.” He paused awkwardly. “And don’t forget, she’s being paid and we’re on vacation.”
    The insipid dinner was served with a particularly muscular Corsican red wine that made up in vigor and alcoholic content what it lacked in quality and subtlety. Halfway through the main courses, vacation hilarity reemerged. At one point, Capucine looked up from Alexandre to discover that Dominique had materialized at the corner of the table, in front of an enormous plate of the Bo-yardeesque ravioli, their red sauce luminescent under a pile of dusty Parmesan cheese.
    The conversation veered to the next port of call. The group quickly formed a consensus that the supposedly magnificent Costa Smeralda of the northeast of Sardinia—which had been lavishly developed by the Aga Khan and was now the econiche of movie stars and paparazzi—should be bypassed in favor of a more authentic Sardinia to the south.
    Serge announced he had a close friend in Tortoli who owned a fabulous villa and who would be overjoyed to feed them dinner after they had swum on his private beach. The decision to embark at the first light of dawn on a ten- to twelve-hour sail directly to Tortoli was made by acclamation. As was a second decision to descend to the port and have a long series of nightcaps at the so-called hot spot that would have kept them all awake had they been imprudent enough to berth the boat in front of it.

CHAPTER 8
    N athalie stood on the second step of the salon companionway and faced forward, looking over the bow, her eyes flush with the top of the deckhouse, a floating crocodile searching for prey. With slow eyes she followed the group as they walked around the cove. She hated them all, and she hated the boat. They were too rich, too pleased with themselves, too full of self-confidence to be interesting. And the boat was also too rich, too plastic, too fat and sluggish.
    As the group started up the long sloping steps leading to the old town, Nathalie grabbed the rim of the overhead hatchway and swung herself onto the salon floor. Time to get to work. The brand-new boat already had the musky aroma of too many people sleeping in a confined space. It made her feel more at home, but she knew they couldn’t stand it. Even at sea they wanted the scent of lavatory pine. Damn them all to a Formica-coated hell.
    On her knees, she rooted through the locker under the sink and found a red plastic bucket, a handful of cleaning cloths, and a bottle of nettoyant Carrefour. She mixed a healthy swig of the green liquid with water from the freshwater tap and went into one of the heads to attack the bowl. In the telephone booth–size enclosure the heat was stifling. She thought of turning on the air-conditioning, but it wasn’t worth the effort of going up on deck and starting the engine. Instead, she took off the thin checked shirt she had knotted under her breasts and threw it on the cabin bunk.
    This was that cop’s cabin. She sure didn’t look like a cop with her fancy clothes. Still, despite the clothes and the fact that she was a flic, she was not as bad as the others. And her big teddy-bear husband was kind of cute in an odd sort of way. She could see herself with him.