An avid reader of my food and stories blog (yes I have one or two) recently inquired if was planning anymore updates on the characters who have occasionally surfaced in my blog. As you well know, all characters appearing in my blog are “fictitious” so any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is of course purely coincidental Monsieur. Enough said on that point so now I don’t have to worry about my refrigerator blowing up when I open it or the radio when I turn it on. It gets so old after a while. So what have these unsual, fascinating characters been up to? Just to let you know, I have been absent from Paris for a while so a personal assessment over a cafe or pastis has not been possible. But here is what I do know.
Raymond and Sylvie: As I write, R and S left Paris right after Christmas for “un petit sejour” in the Alps. Raymond wanted to try Chamonix for New Year but Sylvie reminded him that everybody was going to be in the Val D’Isere. So no real suspense on who won that argument. Sylvie informed me that Raymond has been very “stressée” more so than “d’abitude”. Sylvie speaks in “Franglais” quite often and it become a bad habit, je vous le jure. As I am guilty of doing the same I find it perfectly understandable. Raymond, I understand is now knee deep in litigation defending a client who has attracted the attention of the French Government on matters of intellectual property relating to silicon chip and matters of technology transfer ending up in the hands of the “wrong people.” That’s all I know but the papers hint at more – which reminds me that I must get in contact with Rusty my old friend in the newspaper business who happens to have excellent contacts in the right circles. Sylvie insists that as soon as I am in Paris we “simply must” have lunch. That’s an invitation I will consider carefully as she has a knack of sweating out confessions with relative ease. Their “little apartment” on the Boulevard Suchet (16e) apparently was the “mise-en-scène” for a rather glamorous holiday party with a mix of diplomats, business, academics and artists. I am still looking for my invitation, the one Sylvie swears she sent me.
Max: I consider myself thankful that I do get an occasional note, sometimes it’s a scribble from Max but more often it’s a card from his second wife “Bobbie” who is kind enough to let me know that all is well and the “general” whereabouts of Max – ever the globetrotter – hopping from one continent to the other. Just before the New Year, I received a card postmarked Gstaad, Switzerland. “It’s the most beautiful place to spend a vacation, it’s simply splendid” Bobbie wrote, “cars not allowed in the village, so the only way to get there is by horse-drawn carriage (calèche), how lovely is that?” I remember Max telling me that he was “rather good” on skis from his boarding school days at Le Rosey, a prestigious Swiss boarding school in Rolle. Written along the side of the postcard near the address line was “Purchased a lovely colonial town home in old town Alexandria, Virginia so close to you is it not?” I wondered why there? Why in Virginia of all places? This past summer Max had sent me a card from Juan-les-Pins raving about the weather, the people and the sites to be seen, on the beach. Bobbie, was equally thrilled, less about the beach, and was twisting Max’s arm to please-please buy a simple little Mas with swimming pool or something similar close but not too close to the beautiful people that arrive to Provence in droves all in search of sun, food and the good life. If I remember correctly, Max had been in the South of France right around the same time as that sale affaire, as it was referred to by the Voix du Midi newspaper. It was an interesting case to be sure and read like a real thriller. An extremely wealthy financier with an Anglo-American background but living in London had been brutally murdered in his villa in Juan-les-Pins. Bad for the tourist season they all said. The Police Nationale and, for some reason, several four letter “bureaus” in Paris had swooped down to handle the investigation and catch a quick tan.
Sergei: For the life of me, not only do I wonder what has happened to Sergei and his involvement with the hedge fund in London but more importantly what worries me has been his silence ever since his now late boss and company President was found murdered in the villa. It bothered me to think there could be any connection between the two and preferred to think that he was deep in work or in the arms of yet another woman – both good reasons for silence. His cell phone and private emails went unanswered and I was cautious enough not to call the firm in London and inquire. I remember reading that INTERPOL in Lyon, the French authorities in Paris and other interested parties were casting an ever wider net without any publicized results. I was worried and considered making some discrete inquiries of my own and would see if Rusty, my news hound friend would be available for lunch anytime soon.
![](https://culinarytravelsinfrance.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/994e8-antibes.jpg?w=170&h=200)
Principal Inspector Lambert: The sensational murder in Juan-les-Pins could not have come at a worse time for Lambert. Condolences to the family to be sure, but he saw his immediate plans for retirement receiving a size 10 gleaming black police boot kick in the pants. Not to mention that Madame was worried about his health – weight and stress were taking their toll and constantly reminding him that if he didn’t retire he would one day drop dead at his desk. From Lambert’s perspective, things would have been fine, the investigation managed and the guilty party (a foreigner there was no doubt, Russian or Middle Eastern origins) apprehended – however some tightly wound bureaucrat in Paris decided they needed to get in on the investigation and sent over one of their own, “un type un peut froid” Lambert had thought. Indeed, this “type” was an ambitious law enforcement “by the book” professional with a family pedigree that made crossing him a bad career move. This investigation was going to be murder for Lambert without some pastis handy.