Killer Critique by Alexander Campion Page A

the expanse of creamy flesh of her upper torso and neck. The look was summery and astonishingly erotic. Sensing the crowd’s eyes locked on her, she extracted the comb and shook her hair free to cascade into a sensuous bedroom mop. There was an audible intake of breath. For the penned-up customers the gesture had transcended the murder. The body was now no more than a minor prop for her performance. It was the first time Capucine had experienced genuine star quality at close quarters.
    During this production Voisin leaned smugly back in his chair, so pleased with himself, he strongly invited a bitch slap. But underneath the veneer something was clearly wrong. It was like rust waiting to explode through the carefully waxed finish of an aging luxury sedan.
    â€œMonsieur Voisin,” Capucine said, “is there anything you can tell me about what happened here tonight?”
    â€œA great deal! But none of it has any bearing on the crime.”
    â€œAnd don’t ask me,” Sybille interjected, giggling. “Where I was, it was even darker than in the restaurant.”
    Capucine looked at them sternly. “Very well. You two are now officially ‘persons of interest’ to the police. I’ll be calling on you in the morning to take your depositions. You’re free to go home now, but you must not leave Paris without police permission. If you do, you will be arrested, and the simple fact of having attempted to leave the city will be considered a crime punishable by a prison sentence. Is that perfectly clear?”
    Even beneath their alcoholic glow the couple was shocked enough to be at a loss for words. Capucine turned on her heel and made a disdainful flicking gesture with the tips of her fingers, instructing Momo to get them out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.
    â€œAnd a few minutes after they’re gone, you can let all the other customers go, too,” she told Momo. “Then the three of you can finish up with the waitstaff while I do the kitchen staff.”
    She went back to the maître d’ and sat him down at one of the long tables.
    â€œAll right. I need to understand how this place works. First off, how do customers get in?”
    â€œThere’s only one way. Once the hostess confirms their reservation, she buzzes for me and I go up to collect them. We go through a big song and dance, putting their hands on the shoulder of the person in front so they can follow me through the double set of doors and creep down the staircase. Obviously, the two doors are there so the dining room remains completely dark. We have the same thing for the kitchen so the light doesn’t shine in there when they bring in the food. Creating the right mood is the basis of the experience.”
    â€œAnd if you’re busy, will the hostess ever let them come down by themselves?”
    â€œOf course not. They’d kill themselves on the staircase. And that rigmarole with the hand on the shoulder gives them a three-blind-mice feeling, kicking their evening off. A key part of the experience is making them feel helpless.”
    â€œUnderstood. Then what?”
    â€œI leave the group standing by the door and take them one by one to their seats. Once they’re seated, I whisper the menu in their ear. There are always only three dishes. They’re chosen to be as liquid and messy as possible. That’s all part of the show. Then a waiter serves them just like in any other restaurant, except he makes a big deal out of feeling their backs to know where they are. The other difference is that we have to bring extra napkins.” He laughed maliciously.
    Capucine pushed through the two sets of double doors separated by a five-foot hallway and went into the brightly lit kitchen. With its stainless-steel tables, greasy stoves, and grill racks, it looked like every other small-restaurant kitchen in Paris, right down to the open doorway into an alley, a haven for smoke breaks and