“She’s quite a looker, isn’t she?” Paul-William had a familiar gleam in his eye. The last time Benjamin had seen it was when he was pursuing his home-health aide, Lucy.
“She is good-looking, Father, but you need to concentrate on your recovery. Let’s get you to a chair.” He guided Paul-William to his favorite place in the sitting room.
Edward followed and took the chair facing his father. “Dad, while I’m here, we should go over a few things. Your will, for one. Have you looked at it lately?”
Benjamin couldn’t believe his ears. Paul-William was just home from the hospital, and now Edward was talking about the will? He glared at his brother, but before he could say anything, Paul-William spoke up.
“Now look here, son! I’m appreciative that you were there for me at the hospital, but let me make this perfectly clear: I am in charge of my own affairs, and I’ll continue being in charge. If I need your help, I’ll let you know.”
“But Dad,” Edward protested. “You know I only have your best interests at heart.”
If Edward kept it up, Benjamin would need a drink. Didn’t he know when to stop? This was why their father no longer trusted him. Paul-William considered Benjamin’s brother self-serving, if not crooked. Edward knew the value of things and the intricacies of the law. He was a regular at the auction houses and frequented No. 8 Kings Street, the home of Christie’s. Edward had been asking for an appraisal of Paul-William’s estate, “just in case…”
Benjamin was convinced that Edward felt nothing approaching love for their father. He wondered if he would even shed any tears at his funeral. Edward had suggested more than once that Paul-William move into an assisted-living facility in Brighton. He’d get top-notch treatment there—Edward knew the manager. But Paul-William had refused. He’d die “with dignity” in Notting Hill, even if he had to sell some furniture or paintings to pay for a full-time nurse.
“I get the feeling that your brother wants me dead,” Paul-William said. “Or is it Kathelin—although I’m sure one of her splitting headaches would keep her from attending my funeral.”
“Dad! You know that’s not true!” Edward got up from his chair, a pained expression on his face. “I’m going to check on the tea.”
Paul-William turned to Benjamin. “Let’s hope he stays in there awhile. Did I tell you about the article I read in the Independent the other day? English wines took well over a hundred medals at the International Wine Challenge. According to the article, some of England’s sparkling wines are giving Champagne a run for their money. Do you believe it?”
Actually, Benjamin didn’t, but he was heartened to hear his father talk this way. Here was the real Paul-William—well-informed and sure of himself, hammering the end of each sentence like a coppersmith who knew everything about the metal he was shaping. Paul-William was a man who could lose his temper one minute and discuss a book or a poem that had moved him to tears the next. He was mischievous, sensitive, and irascible.
“Father, I know this sounds crazy, but let me take you to lunch. I have an appointment to keep this afternoon, and I think you might enjoy accompanying me—if you’re up to it.”
Edward and the nurse emerged from the kitchen with the tray of tea.
“Edward, Benjy and I are going out for lunch,” Paul-William said, hoisting himself from his chair. “Benjy, get me my cane.”
“Dad, you can’t go out.” Edward slammed the tray down. “You’re in no shape. You just got out of the hospital.”
“I’ll be fine, Edward. I’ll be with Benjy. He’ll take good care of me.”
Benjamin returned from the front hall with his father’s cane. Britney handed Paul-William his dark-brown coat with an astrakhan collar. With his thick fur hat, he looked like a Russian grand duke.
“You don’t need to wait for us, son,” Paul-William called to Edward before Benjamin closed the door behind them. “We’ll be out for a while.”
37
Benjamin and Paul-William ended up on Saint James Street. They each had their own habits in this venerable neighborhood. Paul-William had always bought his cigars at Davidoff and was, in fact, a friend of Edward Sahakian, the native of Iran who fled the country during the revolution and eventually opened Europe’s first Davidoff franchise. Sahakian was known for his charm and hospitality, as well as his expertise in fine cigars. Paul-William had given up smoking, but he still stopped at the shop occasionally to say hello to Sahakian’s son Eddie, who had taken over the business, and the elder Sahakian, when he was there.
Benjamin preferred James J. Fox, the more than two-hundred-year-old company that once supplied Winston Churchill and Oscar Wilde, a distant Cooker relative. Benjamin was treated like a celebrity here, and they always kept a few boxes of rare Havana cigars just for him. The Freddie Fox Room in the basement was a museum dedicated to the company’s storied history. Churchill’s famed smoking chair was in this museum, as well as Edward VIII’s humidor.
After stopping at both shops, the father and son headed to Seven Park Place, a Michelin-starred restaurant where the chef, William Drabble, created seasonal French-inspired cuisine, using British ingredients. His signature dishes included ravioli of langoustine, Lune Valley lamb with potatoes confit and caramelized onions, cabbage with truffle butter sauce, scallops with Dorset crab and blood orange, and braised stuffed oxtail. Reviewers called the intimate restaurant space, with its rich jewel-tone colors, a perfect backdrop for the food.
Ordering from the lunch menu, Benjamin selected the roasted skate with nut brown butter, lemon, parsley, and capers, while his father chose the assiette of pork.
Benjamin asked for the wine list, and after perusing the options, he decided on a 2013 Etienne Sauzet Puligny-Montrachet, a crisp white wine with aromas of peach, minerals, and hazelnut, from a ten-and-a-half-hectare estate in the Cote d’Or region.
“To your health,” Benjamin said, raising his glass.
“And to yours, son,”
The winemaker watched as his father took his first sip.
“That’s quite a finish, Benjy,” Paul-William said, putting his glass down. “I detect a hint of fish oil.”
Benjamin smiled. He had come by his nose for wine honestly.
The wine seemed to restore the sparkle in Paul-William’s eyes and the color in his cheeks.
“On second thought, Father, I don’t know if I should be ordering any wine for you. What about your diabetes?”
“John Keats said, ‘Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather, and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.’ That’s the best prescription for health I’ve ever read.”
Benjamin was glad to see that his father’s memory was still intact. He took another sip of his wine. “I heard from Mother recently. She asked after you. Do you want me to tell her about your fall?”
“No, son. Let’s just leave her out of this. It’s taken me a long time to get over her, and I want to let well enough alone.”
“Do you ever regret marrying her?”
“Not in the least! Consider who we conceived—the most famous winemaker in Europe…”
Benjamin gave him a mischievous grin. “You’re not prouder of Edward?”
Paul-William grinned back. “No worries there, Benjy. But you must remember: as much as I don’t trust him, he’s still my son, and I’ll always love him.”
Their orders arrived, and the two men spent a moment appreciating the plating and aromas of their respective dishes. Then they dived in. When they finished, their server returned with the dessert menu. Both ordered the poached granny smith apples with cinnamon cream, walnut sponge, and honeycomb set in lemon cream.
Benjamin cleaned the plate and asked for the check, looking forward to lighting up his Havana once they were outside.
38
The light rain had lifted, but a fog had settled in. Benjamin and his father could barely make out the streetlights.
Benjamin studied his father’s face. Despite their full bellies, Paul-Wi
lliam didn’t look tired in the least. But he still thought it was a good idea to ask.
“Father, I told you that I have an appointment with someone. An old acquaintance—an auctioneer, in fact. Are you up to meeting him?”
Paul-William wasted no time giving him an answer. “Benjamin, you’re talking to your antiquarian father. Auction houses are my second home. Besides, I have no desire to rush back to the apartment and that brother of yours.”
“All right then, it’s not far from here.”
The two Cookers walked the two short blocks to King Street and entered the imposing building. Benjamin could hear hammering in the distance. To their right was a room with a collection of ancient jewelry. Benjamin approached the reception area, and before he could even tell the secretary that he had arrived for his appointment, Thomas Hyde appeared.
“Benjamin! What a pleasure it is to see you again.” A licensed specialist in wine and cigars, Hyde frequently sought Benjamin’s expertise when he was trying to ascertain the value of wines whose vintages were likely to drive up bidding.
This kind of evaluation was more complicated than an uninformed wine drinker would guess. The only way to provide a precise determination was opening the bottle, but that was impossible. Benjamin usually confined himself to reporting the weather conditions that prevailed during the harvest of the vintage in question, the specificity of the terroir, and the aromas that the most enlightened connoisseurs had come to expect from the wine.
Further complicating his job was the fact that he sometimes didn’t know how the wine had been preserved. Wine was living matter par excellence. It wasn’t threatened by the passage of time as much as it was influenced by fluctuations in temperature and inadequate storage. Benjamin always warned buyers to consider this before making a purchase.
Over the years, Benjamin had also bid on some of the wines.
“I’m so glad you brought your father,” Hyde said, ushering them into his office.
Benjamin turned to Paul-William, who was grinning. “Are you surprised, son? You know how long I had my business.”
“Indeed, your father and I are old friends,” Hyde said. “I visited his shop many times and picked up a painting or two over the years.”
“We’ve also shared some fine bottles of wine,” Paul-William said. “I have a fond memory of that Laville Haut-Brion Pessac-Léognan, 2006. That was a rich one, with its hint of honeysuckle.”
Hyde pointed to two fauteuil chairs in his cluttered office, brimming with cases of wine stamped with the names of legendary châteaus. Valuable engravings of hunting scenes covered the walls. Hyde pulled open a drawer in his French writing desk and pulled out a thick catalogue advertising the sale of fine and rare wines.
The exhibition of precious bottles was set to take place in just a few hours. Benjamin studied the catalogue. Among the batches that were sure to beguile the well-heeled wine collector: a double magnum of 1970 Château Latour. From the same year, twelve bottles of Gruaud-Larose, as well as six magnums of 1975 Mouton-Rothschild, two jeroboams of the same vintage, and four bottles of Château Pétrus.
He kept turning the illustrated pages: Calon-Ségur 1966, Pape Clément 1970, Giscours 1975, Mission Haut-Brion 1975, Cheval Blanc 1982 and 1989, Château Palmer 1982, Château Trotanoy 1985, L’Évangile 1995. Then came the list of Burgundy wines: Corton 1987, Gevrey-Chambertin 1988, Chapelle Chambertin 1988, Corton-Bressandes 1987, Romanée-Saint-Vivant 1988, Romanée-Conti 1991, Nuits-Saint-Georges 1996, Meursault 1969, Chevalier-Montrachet 1982, Puligny-Montrachet les Peyrières 1978, Musigny Vieilles Vignes 1972…
“An impressive catalogue, Thomas,” Benjamin said, handing it back. He gave the auctioneer a knowing wink. “I do see some lesser wines. But I’m sure you’ll drive up the bids.”
The two men weren’t fools. Even in their Savile Row suits and impeccably polished John Lobb shoes, they were savvy horse traders at the fairground, well aware that the buyers who would descend on King Street were mostly collectors. In art, as in wine, many were more swayed by the signature than the artwork itself.
“But you’re here to talk about that vertical collection of Yquem, aren’t you?” Hyde said. “You told me to be on the lookout, and sure enough, it came in. I hope there’s not some problem with it, because the Yquem will undoubtedly be the highlight of the auction. Too bad the seller arrived too late for us to include it in our catalogue.”
“Yes, that Yquem is of great interest to me, Thomas.”
“Well then, be prepared to open your wallet, my friend. I intend to give the double batch star billing,” Hyde said. “It’s a magnificent vertical tasting from 1956 to 2006. The only ones missing are the 1964, 1972, 1974, and 1992, for reasons you’re aware of, and one other bottle. We don’t know why that one’s missing.”
“Yes, that is odd,” Benjamin murmured.
“I appraised the double batch myself, Benjamin. It’s in perfect condition. Even the labels have only a few traces of mold.”
“What do you know about the provenance?” the winemaker asked.
“The owner came in here from France with the bottles wrapped like war treasures. He said he got them from his grandfather. He claimed he didn’t like white wine himself.”
“White wine—Yquem?” Benjamin was indignant.
“I assure you, he didn’t seem that inexperienced. He knew the value of his little nest egg…”
“Did this owner tell you what he does for a living?” Benjamin asked.
“He said he’s in music. I think he works for some record label in Paris.”
Benjamin leaned in. “Just as I thought. I need the seller’s name and address.”
Before the auctioneer could answer, Paul-William spoke up. “Benjamin, don’t you see you’re bothering Mr. Hyde? That’s information he may not want to give out.”
The auctioneer turned to Paul-William. “Your son isn’t a bother at all.” Then he looked at the winemaker. “Okay, Benjamin, what’s the deal?”
“I’ll tell you, Thomas, but first I need that name and address.”
Hyde put on his glasses and consulted his computer screen. “Ah, here we go,” he finally said. “His name is Michael Shuller, residing at 15 Avenue Mozart, Paris, sixteenth arrondissement. He said he just moved into the place.”
“Do you have a current phone number?”
“Here it is,” Hyde answered. “I’ll write it down for you.” He scribbled the number on a business card.
Just as Benjamin was reaching for the card, Hyde pulled it away.
“Benjamin, I’ve done my part. Now you need to do yours.”
“My dear Thomas, I’m afraid you must withdraw the Yquem from tomorrow’s sale.”
The auctioneer threw the card on his desk and fell back in his chair. “Do you know what you’re asking? I’ve been counting on raising the bids with this collection. I could get well more than a hundred thousand euros for it, especially if I emphasize the rarity of a double batch. We already have three hundred bids by phone. What’s going on? You owe me an explanation!”
“Will you allow me to make three phone calls, Thomas—the first to a Bordeaux police inspector, the second to Scotland Yard, and the third to my assistant?”
“Surely this is a bad joke, Benjamin!”
“The joker in this case is your Michael Shuller—who also goes by the names of Ralph Shuller and Michael Duforest. He’s a first-class crook. I’ll explain it all to you. But it may take awhile. Would you like a Havana? Montecristo Especial No. 1?”
“A first-class cigar while you tell me about your first-class crook. All right, Benjamin, let’s have it.”
39
When Virgile got Benjamin’s call, something clicked in his brain, like a cork popped from a bottle, and he immediately called Inspector Barbaroux.
“Between you and Cooker, how am I ever supposed to get my job done?” the inspector bellowed into the phone.
“I saw them!” Virgile was so excited, he was nearly breathless.
“Saw who?”
“I saw Macarie and Ralph, or Michael, or whatever his name is, talking together.”
Virgile told Barbaroux about the morning in the café, before he ran into Milou. He recalled the conversation he’d started to eavesdrop on.
“I guess I’ll have to talk to the café owner,” Barbaroux said.
“I’ll meet you there,” Virgile said, hanging up without giving the inspector a chance to say no.
Virgile got to the café before the inspector and found the owner sitting in exactly the same spot behind the bar. He settled down in front of her and turned on the charm.
The owner was beginning to warm up when Barbaroux pushed open the door and strode over to the counter. He showed his badge without a word of introduction, and her demeanor chilled again.
Worried that the inspector’s attitude would ruin their opportunity, Virgile leaned over the bar and whispered into the café owner’s ear. “What’s the difference between a pressure cooker and a cop?”
The women inched closer without taking her eyes off of Barbaroux. “Don’t know.”
“When the whistle blows, you’re done!”
She burst out laughing. The deep, full-bodied response dissarmed Virgile. Barbaroux looked on without so much as a twitch.
Virgile took the lead. “This is Inspector Barbaroux. Fernand Macarie is one of your regulars. The inspector would like to ask you about a visit we think he paid shortly before his death.”
“Yeah, he was here the day after the Lacombe funeral,” she said. “That was the last time I saw him. He’d been out fishing. As usual, that meant he’d carried his equipment down to the river, felt a chill, and beelined it here for his morning drink.”
Barbaroux cleared his throat, but Virgile didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I came in that day and saw a biker sit down next to him. They were talking. Do you remember what they said?”
“Yeah.”
Barbaroux and Virgile focused on her. Seeming to enjoy the attention, the café owner stood up, spread her arms, and planted her hands firmly on the counter, as if she wanted it to hold her up and make her look taller.
Requiem in Yquem Page 13