Murder on the Ile Sordou by M. L. Longworth Page A

course.
    â€œGood evening,” she said, carefully setting down a bowl. “Chef Émile’s
amuse-bouche . . .
”
    â€œ
Petits supions
,” he said.
    â€œExactly!”
    â€œThank you,” Monnier said, tucking the napkin up under his chin. “And to follow?”
    â€œPuttanesca,” Marie-Thérèse answered, smiling.
    â€œAh, the whore’s pasta!” Monnier said, breaking some bread to have with his squid.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œGo ask Chef Émile what ‘puttanesca’ means,” he said, pointing with his bread toward the kitchen.
    Marie-Thérèse turned away and quickly walked to the kitchen door.
    The squid were tiny and had been fried quickly in garlic followed by a white wine reduction. They were fresh, and delicious, and Monnier realized that he had eaten them too quickly, for when he looked around he saw the other diners still eating. He pulled out his book and realized that it would be difficult to find words to rhyme with Shirley. Someone laughed and he looked up; it was Marine, Antoine’s girlfriend, and he wrote down her name.
    He noticed that Alain Denis wasn’t dining, nor was his family. They were probably eating in their room, or suite, more likely. The poor boy, Monnier mumbled to himself. Should be out swimming with his buddies, not stuck in a small hotel with his unhappy parents. The Parisians were at the table next to him, talking of their own children; one was at camp and the two smaller ones were with their grandparents, he gathered. Monnier imagined that’s what married couples do: speak of their children. He tried to block out their conversation; he didn’t like eavesdropping, especially if it wasn’t interesting. But then the wife said Sordou more than once, and
investment
,
and her husband whispered for her to be quiet.
    Monnier became restless when the Viales began to talk once again of their children, and, self-conscious of having eaten his squid too quickly, got up and walked to the Jacky Bar to grab the wine menu. He’d need a nice strong red to go with the puttanesca; Serge—they too were on a first-name basis—would have a good recommendation.
    â€œWhat would a whore from Naples drink with her tomato-based pasta?” Monnier asked as he leaned on the bar.
    Serge laughed, and Monnier smiled. “A southern-Italian red,” Serge replied. “But let’s go farther afield than Sicily.”
    â€œYes, let’s.”
    â€œYou’ll need a fresh fruity red to match the tomatoes and red peppers and anchovies.”
    â€œI can handle that.”
    â€œCalabria,” Serge said. “Chef Émile and I have picked out a special wine to go with the pasta—”
    â€œOh, I love Calabria,” a female voice sounded. Monnier swung around and saw Marine standing beside him.
    â€œI’ve come for the wine menu,” she said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Serge said. “There should have been one out there.”
    â€œIt’s no problem,” Marine continued. “Have you been to Calabria?” she asked Monnier.
    Trying to be nonchalant, as he always did in the presence of beautiful, kind women, he leaned an elbow on the bar and shrugged. “I’m sad to report that no, I’ve never been south of Rome.”
    â€œI’m Marine,” she said, extending her hand. “Antoine told me you had a nice talk today about poetry.”
    â€œEric Monnier,” he replied.
    â€œI’m pleased to meet you.” She turned to the bartender and said, “So you’re recommending a wine from Calabria? We were hoping you’d have one.”
    â€œWe’re a small island with a big wine cellar,” Serge said. Happy to share his knowledge, he showed them one of the bottles. “The ancient Greeks—the Oenotrians—made wine in Calabria as early as the seventh century B.C. ”
    â€œOenotrians?” Marine asked.