Benjamin glanced at his eager driver. “The children’s author Roald Dahl said of Romanée-Conti: ‘Sense for me this perfume! Breathe this bouquet! Taste it! Drink it! But never try to describe it. It’s impossible to give an account of such delicacy with words!’”
Benjamin reached into his pocket to pull out a cigar but changed his mind. He continued. “Albert de Villaine has worked the domaine for decades, and you can see his deep respect for the land in the way he tends to it. He gives back what he takes out and avoids chemical fertilizers. Believe it or not, he’s replaced some of his heavy equipment with horses. He says the machinery compacts the earth too much.”
Virgile glanced at him. “I’ve read about some of his methods in the magazines, but I’m sure you know more.”
Before the winemaker could respond, he caught sight of the pickers. Unlike the workers he had seen elsewhere, these men and women were harvesting with no humor or enthusiasm.
“Have you noticed how down in the dumps they look?” Virgile asked.
“You’re right, son. I don’t know why. But don’t be fooled. The spirit’s there. Everyone loves and admires Aubert de Villaine. It’s really under him that the wines have reached their full potential. If we have some time, we’ll visit Villaine and DRC’s other owner, Henry-Frédéric Roch. They’re both proud and happy Burgundians.”
“Maybe the Burgundians we’re seeing have spirit deep down, but they look like they’re about to get hailed on.”
“Bite your tongue, Virgile. Never, ever mention hail. Not even in jest. It’s a real threat to the vines around here, even more than in Bordeaux. It’s the Grim Reaper knocking at the door. Some vintners never recover from a hail storm. Some even commit suicide.”
“Hail is always a tragedy, but to kill yourself because of it?”
“I don’t know a single winemaker who complains about paying taxes on his fortune, but hail is tax on misfortune! The most unfair and painful toll there is.”
“That, I can agree with.” No sooner had Virgile said this than he yanked the steering wheel to the right. Benjamin grabbed his seat as the car veered to the shoulder and Virgile slammed on the brakes.
“What, in God’s name, are you doing?”
Virgile didn’t have to answer. A blue van from the local gendarmerie came roaring around a curve and flew past them in a cloud of dust.
Without hesitation, Virgile floored the accelerator and followed the vehicle.
“What are you doing, Virgile!”
“If you’ve taught me anything, boss, it’s to trust my instincts. The Côte d’Or is a small strip of land, but I’m sure it’s rich in mysteries. Let’s see where this leads us. Maybe we’ll learn something.”
Benjamin didn’t know what to say—he had taught his assistant well.
They followed the van to the Saint-Vivant Abbey, which didn’t look like much more than a pile of rubble. When they arrived, they discovered more official vehicles and officers swarming the place.
As they got out of the car, Benjamin, the history and architecture buff, couldn’t resist annotating their visit. “This used to be a Benedictine abbey. It was built in the eleventh century. Now, as you can see, it’s just deep cellars and ivy-covered walls.”
He approached a young officer who was roping off the area.
“We can’t let you in, sir. This is a crime scene,” he told Benjamin. “We’re waiting for the medical examiner’s people to come and take the body.”
“The body?”
“That’s all I can tell you, sir.”
Benjamin shook his head and motioned to Virgile to return to the car. He was uneasy until they pulled onto Highway 74. A road sign read, “Nuits-Saint-Georges 6.” They had six kilometers to go.
5
The Lemoine estate was one of Benjamin’s long-standing clients. Lise and Marcel Lemoine had hired Benjamin many years earlier to advise them on thinning, manual harvesting, and grape selection—and to provide expertise on any new venture or piece of machinery.
Marcel had always handled the estate’s winemaking responsibilities himself. He was both gifted and talented when it came to growing grapes and producing fine wine. But shortly after Lise died of pneumonia at the age of fifty-four, Marcel decided to step back. He hired a winemaker, Philippine Perraudin, and Benjamin understood that he was preparing to let his son, Rafael, take over the business. These days, Benjamin’s visits were generally designed to reassure the father that his heir—and the hired winemaker—were doing everything correctly. Like his family members before him, Marcel was committed to the best production methods possible.
The Lemoine family saga had its beginnings in the early nineteenth century, when Armand and his son, Séverin, created a small business in Nuits-Saint-Georges. Transporting merchandise—particularly wine—across Europe had finally become possible, thanks to the development of railways.
Armed with their samples and sales pitch, the Lemoines peddled their quality Burgundy wines throughout Europe. Both crafty and pragmatic, they began to buy crus with growing reputations, both locally and throughout the region. Under the aegis of the daring Armand Lemoine, they built a small empire. Unfortunately, it was soon undermined by the phylloxera epidemic. Then came the war with Germany, and Europe fell into chaos.
An expected market surge between the two world wars failed to materialize, and the Lemoine family faced a slump that threw all winemakers into a state of despondency. Soon the barrels were more valuable than the wine they contained. Bankruptcy was on the horizon, and lenders shamelessly cut short all lines of credit. Perseverance was not enough. They had to stick together, overcome their misfortune, and publicize the excellence of Burgundy wine. That was when the long-dormant Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, whose mission was appreciating and promoting Burgundy wine, was revived. Of course, a Lemoine was a founding member.
Gradually the Burgundians began to recover. Land was still being sold off, and Marcel’s father purchased one plot after another. It was a shrewd move. Ultimately, the family owned more than one hundred and fifty hectares.
Marcel, who had benefited greatly from his father’s expansionist policy, fully understood the benefits of getting an outside opinion. “And we might as well hire the best of the best,” he told his wife when they asked Benjamin Cooker to take them on. “He’ll tell it to me straight, because he’s from Bordeaux!”
Thus, one of Burgundy’s greatest vineyard owners allied himself with the most eminent Bordeaux wine expert to produce elegant—astonishing even—wines from the Côte d’Or. This alliance would never be broken. Benjamin was committed to the success of the Lemoine estate’s wines.
The relationship between the two men was both professional and cordial—one that gave the two epicureans an excuse to se taper la cloche. In other words: enjoy a good meal.
In fact, Marcel Lemoine often invited his personal advisor to Les Jardins de la Cloche, the Michelin-starred restaurant in the Grand Hotel La Cloche in Dijon. The Haussmann-designed palace had welcomed some of old Europe’s most important figures under its crystal chandeliers, including the sublime Princess Grace of Monaco. Sometimes Lemoine put his guest up there, requesting the top-floor room whose unique feature, in the past, was a brass faucet that dispensed an excellent Burgundy wine. It was said that the room was often booked for newlyweds, as the wine fanned the flames of desire. Unfortunately, this tap had disappeared and been replaced with a faucet delivering the slightly bleach-scented city water.
Benjamin and Marcel had established an understanding that Rafael would lead the business with the same dedication. And Marcel had made it clear that he expected Benjamin’s help to ensure continuity when he passed the reins.
When Rafael announced that they would start using a new high-tech sorting system, Marcel called Benjamin. The machinery removed the stems, bad berries, and leaves, along with the soil, rocks, and insects that could de
tract from the quality of the final wine. In addition, it sorted the grapes into levels of quality. The system relied on optical technology, which recognized the colors of individual grapes and therefore their sugar content.
Marcel had gone on and on about the merits of hand-sorting when he asked Benjamin to take a look at the new system. He had even called the machinery “something they’d use in Bordeaux.” Benjamin ignored the slight and filtered out the usual fatherly questioning of his son’s every decision. Benjamin heard the concern about the quality of the result. He agreed to visit the estate and suggested that they test the system on a small portion of the grapes during the upcoming harvest.
§ § §
Benjamin and Virgile arrived at the impressive gate to the Lemoine estate. As they turned into the drive, the winemaker scanned the horizon. So far, no threatening clouds.
“Benjamin! Finally!” Marcel rushed over to greet him with open arms. He turned to Virgile and shook his hand.
“How was your night at the Château de Gilly?” Marcel asked. “You slept well, I hope.”
Before Benjamin could answer, Marcel continued. “Rafael will join us in a minute. But first, I have to run off to resolve some issue with the caterers, or our harvesters won’t eat at noon. Let me show you to the machine, and I’ll be right back.”
Once alone, Benjamin and Virgile circled the optical sorter.
“It certainly is an impressive piece of technology,” Benjamin said.
“How does it work, boss?”
Benjamin eyed Virgile, who was poker-faced.
“Just kidding,” Virgile said, cracking a smile in response to Benjamin glare. “Of course I’ve done the research. I’m your assistant, aren’t I? The high-speed camera photographs the grapes as they pass, and then the software takes over. Compressed-air jets blow the bad grapes and detritus off the belt, and then the good grapes are automatically graded and sorted.”
Benjamin heard the door open behind them.
“That’s right.” It was Rafael. He came over and greeted Benjamin, shaking his hand and giving him a friendly pat on the back. He nearly ignored Virgile, only extending his hand as an afterthought and averting his eyes like someone unaccustomed to the artifice his birthright required. As the sole heir to the Lemoine estate, he was expected to maintain his rank in any and all circumstances. On this Rafael was still quite virginal, as he was in the business. Benjamin knew he hadn’t inherited a natural passion for wine. It was simply the link between him and his autocratic father.
“Philippine will determine the quality by setting the parameters—with your help, of course, Mr. Cooker. We’ll no longer be reliant on the hand sorters to make that call.”
§ § §
When Marcel returned, he ushered them into the mansion. In the sitting room, a sterling silver teapot, an English-style milk pitcher, and a white porcelain coffee pot had been carefully arranged on a wooden console. The Lemoines had a morning routine whenever they hosted visitors. Burgundy was in the throes of harvest, but the rite of coffee—and, in Benjamin’s case, tea—would not be sacrificed.
Rafael distributed steaming cups to Benjamin, Virgile, and his father as they held forth on the sunny skies, which wouldn’t last long, according to the weather forecast.
“Fortunately, the late August rain didn’t affect the grapes, despite the heat,” Marcel said. “But Benjamin, we’re going to need a strategy to face global warming.”
Rafael set his cup down. “Father, we’ll be fine here. Bordeaux will be hit harder than Burgundy. Don’t worry.”
“Still, son, we can’t deny what’s happening. In my father’s day, the harvest was in mid-October. Now it’s in September.”
“You’re right, Marcel,” Benjamin said. “Last year, for the first time in my career as an enologist, I was called to Châteauneuf-du-Pape at the beginning of September.”
Marcel shook his head. “Before you know it, we’ll be harvesting in August like they do in Provence.”
Rafael let out a vexed sigh. “Father, you’re so pessimistic. Early harvest often makes excellent wine. We’ve seen a number of great vintages in the last decade.”
Benjamin, sensing an undercurrent of friction between father and son, tried to soften the tone. “Rafael’s right, Marcel. But I am concerned, especially about the extreme weather events, which have become more frequent and more severe. A storm can wipe out a whole harvest.”
“Well, we could all move to England, where it’s warm enough for vineyards now,” Virgile said with a grin.
The three men turned and stared at Virgile, impervious to his humor.
At that moment, Philippine Perraudin, the resident winemaker who presided over the destiny of the 1.2 million bottles the estate produced yearly, swept into the room like a whirlwind. She was the one who determined the maturity of the grapes and oversaw the bottling and racking of each cru.
The woman was square-shouldered and muscular. Her looks were no-nonsense—flannel shirt, short hair, no makeup—and the expression on her round face was taciturn. Benjamin wasn’t really surprised. He had worked with her more than a dozen times, and even though she clearly knew what she was doing, she seldom exhibited the kind of collegiality he was used to. While other estate winemakers paid special attention to his advice, aware that they were collaborating with one of the world’s most highly regarded wine experts, Philippine often questioned and second-guessed him. Benjamin chalked it up to the fact that even though women were making headway as winemakers, they were still far outnumbered by men. Certainly, Philippine thought that she had to be tough. And never for a second had Benjamin considered saying a disparaging word to her employers.
Without so much as a hello, Philippine shook hands with them. Her palms were cold and clammy.
“What’s wrong, Philippine?” Marcel asked.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?” Rafael cut in.
“About the murder of the grape picker.”
Marcel gasped. “One of ours?”
“No, no. She was working at Romanée-Conti.”
“Who was it?”
“Clotilde Dupont.” Philippine was shaking and wringing her hands.
Benjamin placed his cup on the table and insisted that she take a seat. Marcel and Rafael looked at each other but said nothing.
“Did you know her well?” Benjamin asked.
“Not so well. She was from Meursault, but has been around here for a while.”
“When did it happen?” Benjamin asked.
“Sometime last night. I don’t know exactly—”
“Where?” Virgile asked.
“At the Saint-Vivant Abbey, up there on the hill in Curtil-Vergy.”
“Who found her?” Rafael asked.
“The gendarmes… They got an anonymous call.”
“What do we know?” Benjamin pressed.
“Strangled.” Philippine’s lower lip was quivering. Benjamin started to take out a handkerchief, expecting her to sob at any moment, but she pulled herself together.
Marcel opened a door of the console and rummaged through papers and samples. Finally, he extracted a bottle of Cognac.
“Was she raped?” Virgile asked.
Everyone glared at him.
After a minute or so of silence, Philippine answered, dabbing her eyes. “She was naked and had bruises all over her body.”
Benjamin shook his head. “I see.”
“Can you imagine?” Philippine gulped the Cognac that Marcel had just poured for her.
“It’s clear now why the workers at Romanée-Conti were looking so demoralized,” Benjamin said.
He helped himself to another cup of tea while Marcel waved the bottle of Cognac toward Rafael and Virgile. They nodded, and Marcel filled their glasses. Benjamin sniffed the aroma of orange peel as he watched the father and son drop su
gar cubes into their respective glasses. Virgile followed suit.
“Let’s have faith, my friends, that the gendarmes will catch the criminal,” Benjamin said. “I’d be willing to bet that he’s still hanging around here. He could even be one of the harvesters filling your baskets.”
Marcel stared at Benjamin, indignation written all over his face. “Surely you’re joking, Mr. Cooker.”
“I wouldn’t take anything for granted. Allow me to quote Agatha Christie. ‘What are murderers like? Some of them are thoroughly nice chaps.’”
Just as he said this, Benjamin looked up from his cup. The sunlight filtering through the blinds was fading, and the silver teapot had lost its radiance. A second later, a gust of wind slammed a shutter against an open window. There was a drum roll in the distance, above the Hautes Côtes de Nuits. The storm was brewing.
6
From Beaune to Dijon, ashen tatters of clouds stretched across a dismal sky. A strong westerly wind was casting shadows on the vineyards. The Côte de Nuits name had never seemed more appropriate than it was at this moment. Everything was dark and imbued with a sense of foreboding.
Rooftop weathervanes were spinning madly. The swallows were flying low, and in the courtyards, dogs and cats were in constant motion, seeking refuge at each roll of thunder. From the Lemoine vineyards, the twinkling lights of the large telecommunications tower looked silly and impotent against the white flashes in the sky. On the dirt roads, the wobbly ballet of overloaded tractors was speeding up. The countdown had begun.
The mostly silent cutters picked up their pace in the vineyards. They had to hurry before the… No one dared to say it: before the storm hit. They had to fill the vendangerots, as Burgundians called their grape baskets. And too bad if there were burned or rotten grapes in the clusters. The people at the sorting table would take care of separating the good from the bad.
In a matter of minutes it would be too late. A treacherous wind was descending the hillsides and lopping off the branches of vines roasted during the extremely dry summer.
Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 3