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

visible dent it left in the gel coat.
    Wouldn’t life be perfect without the need for men?

CHAPTER 9
    B y ten o’clock that night the crew was exultant in the B’52, the bar-nightclub opposite the berth Serge had initially targeted. Even at that early hour, the noise level made conversation all but impossible. There was no doubt it was the town’s hottest spot. Hemmed in by writhing, gyrating golden youths, they drank the club’s namesake drink, flaming B’52s, claimed to be made with only three painstakingly poured layers of Kahlúa, Baileys Irish Cream, and Grand Marnier, which were then set alight to produce an evanescent blue flame, dramatic in the almost pitch-black room.
    With histrionic brio Serge downed his drinks into an open mouth, oblivious to the pain. The only one who showed the slightest interest was Alexandre, who looked quizzical for a moment and then disappeared behind the bar.
    When he returned, he whispered in Capucine’s ear, “Just as I thought, the bartender pours a layer of well-heated hundred-twenty-proof rhum agricole from Guadeloupe on top. That’s what produces the extravagant flame.”
    The evening wore on. Capucine and Angélique were solicited as dance partners. Florence had disappeared from the table and could be seen in the distance, in earnest conversation with the bartender, drinking what looked like chilled Perrier. Aude’s glacial inscrutability discouraged invitations. When slow dances came up, Capucine noticed that Angélique folded herself into Dominique’s arms. Conversation among the nondancers stalled, degenerating into telegraphic utterances that floated out, hanging limply over the table, defying reply. The only one who seemed to be having fun was Dominique, who danced sensuously with his wife while his eyes ping-ponged back and forth among the coterie of well-tanned nymphets in the club.
    At twelve Serge stretched, yawned, and looked at his multi-dialed watch. “There’s no hope our crew is going to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on deck at five a.m. tomorrow morning,” he said at large. “The only thing to do is shove off now. Good thing I collected our passports from the capitainerie this afternoon. Let’s have one more drink and get going.”
    Twenty minutes later, Serge was doing his best to steer the boat through the narrow gorge by the light of a powerful flashlight he had found in the tool kit after spilling the contents over the salon floor. Even though he was more or less drunk, he had the good sense to drive the boat at a slow speed. One white cliff would appear in the beam of his light, and he would rectify his course, but in no time the opposing wall would appear just as threateningly.
    After one particularly close encounter, Florence elbowed Serge away from the wheel, snapped off his light, took the helm, and let the light of the full moon guide her. “Why don’t you all go to bed? I’ll call you if I need anything.”
    Serge stretched out on the cockpit settee and fell asleep instantly.
    As they went below one by one on unsteady legs, the motor accelerated to cruise speed and the boat became rock hard on a steady course. After a few minutes, those few who were still awake noticed the irritating throb of the engine cease, heard the rattle of the sails going up, felt the boat assume its normal heel, and sensed the natural rhythm of the sea taking over. They were at sea under sail.
    At three in the morning Capucine was dragged into a nightmare. She was in a Chinese dungeon, being interrogated by a sinister Fu Manchu–like character with mustaches dangling well below his chin, grinning evilly as he adjusted a device that dripped water on her forehead. She squinted her eyes shut tight. She would never talk, never, never, ever.
    “Capucine, wake up.” Water dripped on her face from the hood of Florence’s foul-weather jacket. “I need you on deck. Nathalie’s replacing me, and I want you and Inès on watch with her. You don’t have to do anything.