park and went outside in time to see her turning her Renault Scenic into the driveway to head off down the hill.
Enzo stared after her as her car rounded the bend and disappeared among the trees. He wanted to talk to her, in spite of her husband’s warning. But it seemed possible that she might have anticipated his interest, and was trying to avoid him. He would catch up with her, he knew, at some point. Though perhaps, in the light of Georges Crozes’ advice about not upsetting the chef before eating, it was just as well that lunch would come first.
Chapter Fifteen
Dominique’s transformation from the almost plain young gendarme whom he had first met, to the beautiful young lady who sat opposite him in the lounge was quite extraordinary. Eating at Chez Fraysse would be, for her, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and she had clearly spent most of the time since Enzo had left her preparing for it.
She wore a simple, white silk blouse with pleated chocolate brown pants and elegant tan shoes with medium heels. A pale pink chiffon scarf was held loosely at her neck by a pearl brooch, and her chestnut brown hair, tonged to gentle, lustrous curls, tumbled extravagantly over her shoulders. The hints of pink and brown around her eyes emphasised their depth, the cherry red of her lips contrasting with the white of beautifully even teeth made a radiant smile dazzling. And she could hardly keep the smile from her face.
Even although Enzo had donned fresh shirt and pants, he felt positively shabby by comparison. He was pleased that he had, at least, taken the time to shave. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said.
“I’m famished!” She paused. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for this.”
Enzo smiled. “Don’t thank me. Thank Guy. When I told him I was bringing you to lunch, he insisted that you were to be his guest. We both are.”
“Oh.” Her smiled faded a little. “Is that wise?”
“I have never felt compromised by accepting someone’s hospitality, Dominique. I live by that old adage, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly if it’s a three-star gift horse.”
She laughed.
“What would you like for aperitif?”
But before she could answer, a server all in black arrived with a silver platter and two glasses of champagne. “Compliments of Monsieur Fraysse,” he said, placing the glasses in front of them. He opened two leather-bound menus, handing one to each in turn. “Monsieur Fraysse will take your orders himself.”
They lifted their glasses and touched them together across the table with a resonant chime of crystal. “ A votre,” Dominique said.
“ Sante.”
And they sipped the gloriously lemony, yeasty champagne, the finest of bubbles exploding softly around their lips.
“Mmmh, wonderful.” Dominique sat back in her chair, caressed and seduced by its soft leather. “If only all investigations were like this.” She glanced at the menu. “Which one should we go for? When someone’s treating me I always feel I have to order the cheapest.”
“Well, we won’t tolerate that here.”
They both turned as Guy approached their table.
“No, don’t get up.” He stooped to kiss Dominique on each cheek. “I insist you go for the two hundred. And if you allow me to choose for you, then I can guarantee one hundred percent satisfaction.”
Enzo said, “We are entirely in your hands.”
Guy pulled up a chair and joined them, taking away their menus to close on his lap. “What do you think of the champagne?”
“Delicious,” Dominique said.
Guy grinned. “What do you taste in it, Enzo?”
Enzo took another sip and focused on the flavours that filled his mouth. “Vanilla. Ginger. Nutmeg. Citrus…”
“Bravo!” Guy clapped his hands like an excited little boy. “It’s a 1992 Krug brut, blanc de blanc, Clos de Mesnil.”
Enzo almost choked. The 1992 Clos de Mesnil was one of the best vintages, and would cost, he knew, around a thousand euros a bottle to buy in a store. Double that in a restaurant. Guy was watching him closely.
Enzo tipped his head in appreciation. “Extraordinary, Guy.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then I hope you will allow me to choose the wines to go with your meal.”
Enzo laughed. “I don’t think either of us is going to argue with you over that.”
Dominique’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “What are you going to recommend us to eat?”
Guy smiled a secret smile and waggled his finger. “One course at a time, mademoiselle. Une surprise a chaque plat. But for your entrees I would suggest the frogs’ legs.”
Enzo detected a flicker of disappointment in Dominique’s smile, but Guy just shook his head knowingly. “These are no ordinary frogs’ legs,” he said. “This is essentially a dish created by the incomparable Bernard Loiseau. Marc borrowed the concept and added his own twist to it. Of course, only the plumpest and juiciest of Burgundy thighs are used, served with purees of baby spinach and garlic. Loiseau followed tradition and used flat parsley, but Marc found that a little astringent. He did, however, employ Loiseau’s technique of boiling the garlic cloves, changing the water several times in the process, to remove the impurities and mellow their attack. The puree is thinned with a little milk. And, of course, with this dish, presentation is extremely important. You will see why later.” He stood up. “I’ll catch up with you in the dining room.”
When he had gone their amuse-bouches arrived, eggshells in pewter eggcups, the tops removed to leave a perfect, unbroken ring. Inside they contained a concoction of hollandaise, balsamic vinegar, and herbs, to be soaked up by fingers of bread which had been drizzled with olive oil before being toasted.
Dominique’s face dissolved into wreaths of ecstasy with the first mouthful. “Oh, my God, it’s wonderful.”
Enzo had to agree. The toast was crisp, but melted in the mouth, carrying with it the delicate flavours of the mixture from the egg. They ate in silence, savouring every mouthful, until the appetiser was finished, and their appetite for the meal ahead fully whetted.
Enzo cleansed his palate with more champagne. He glanced around and lowered his voice to make sure they were not overheard. The buzz of conversation that filled the lounge made discretion a little easier. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what you know about Anne Crozes.”
Dominique tilted her head, clearly surprised. “The chef’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“Not much. Except that they’ve been married for years and live somewhere just outside Saint-Pierre. She’s a receptionist here, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Enzo hesitated. “You didn’t pick up any chatter during the investigation about a possible relationship between her and Marc Fraysse?”
This time her eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “No, I didn’t.” She paused. “Was there?”
“It’s what I’ve heard.”
Dominique frowned, spoiling the radiance of her face. “Where would you ‘hear’ something like that?”
Enzo allowed himself a tiny shrug of the shoulders. “Let’s just say I have access to a little inside information.”
She stared at him for a moment. Very still. “I thought we were sharing everything.”
“We are, and I am. Haven’t I just told you what I heard?”
“Yes. But not who told you.”
“That’s a source I’m not prepared to reveal just yet. But I will, in time.” He leaned forward. “The point is, if you had known that Marc Fraysse and Anne Crozes were having an affair, how much would that have influenced your investigation?”
Dominique blew air through pursed lips. “Enormously. It would have had the immediate effect of creating
