Benjamin and Virgile had settled on the terrace of a small café on the Place François Rude in Dijon. The air was mild for the season, and the Burgundian city was just waking up. Although Rafael Lemoine had arranged the morning meeting, he wasn’t there yet.
All around the winemaker and his assistant, the terrace was perking up. Servers were arriving at the marble tabletops with espressos and pastries and mopping after customers who, energized for the day, were headed for work or errands.
The latest edition of Le Bien Public lay on one of the tables. “Murder Haunts Ruins at Saint-Vivant Abbey,” a headline on page one read. Benjamin and Virgile had already gone over the article. Officials in the criminal investigation division hadn’t given the reporter much to go on. An unnamed informant did reveal that Clotilde Dupont’s undergarments had been found, but the source didn’t elaborate.
When Rafael finally arrived, there were dark circles under his eyes. Still, he was sharply dressed in bronze corduroys, a tweed jacket, a blue pinstriped shirt, and a rust-tone scarf tucked into his collar.
“You owe me an explanation,” he had told Benjamin in a phone call the night before, after the dinner with Inspector Cluzel.
Rafael had made it clear that neither he nor his father appreciated seeing the police turn up at their estate to speak to the well-known Bordeaux winemaker.
“I would have thought that you, of all people, would have been above suspicion,” Rafael had said.
Reaching the table, Rafael gave Virgile a cold look and offered the men perfunctory handshakes. He sat down and called the server over to order a strong espresso and a croissant.
In typical fashion, Benjamin quickly thawed the uneasy atmosphere. “I took the liberty of inviting my colleague to this little breakfast. We’ve been together for a while now, and I’m proud of our collaboration. Aren’t you, as well, Virgile? Youth and experience make a great team. He gives me fresh perspective, while I try to teach him what he doesn’t know yet, but he senses. A bit like you and your father, wouldn’t you say?”
Rafael shifted in his chair. “Which brings me right to my point. Father and I were very surprised by the homicide division’s interest in your presence in Burgundy. For a moment we feared the inspector would be taking you in. Luckily, it was all a huge misunderstanding.”
“Yes, thanks largely to your family’s influence. But, my dear Rafael, things are both simpler and more complicated than they appear,” Benjamin said, toying with his teabag. “There’s nothing very surprising about the police including the Lemoine estate in the scope of their investigation.”
“What do we have to do with that matter?” Rafael asked, scowling.
“Have a little imagination, Rafael,” Benjamin said, looking up.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Fortunately, I kept Inspector Cluzel from making an embarrassing faux pas. If I hadn’t intervened, I don’t doubt that the Lemoine reputation would have been tarnished by—”
“Tarnished by what? Does this have anything to do with Philippine? Did she have something going with that dead girl?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
Rafael didn’t respond at first. Then: “Did Philippine talk?”
“Oh, she sang like a canary,” Virgile bluffed.
Benjamin was about to contradict Virgile but changed his mind. Rafael was nervously jiggling his foot. He’d let the man fret. Finally, he added in a confidential tone, “I’m asking you, for the sake of the relationship that I have with your father. Listen, we know you and your father have had words. What’s going on?”
Virgile was peering into the bottom of his cup. Benjamin knew how he was feeling—like a fisherman who had hooked his catch and was watching it struggle in the brackish water.
“I’m listening,” Benjamin continued with the patience of a father confessor.
“It was Philippine’s idea. I just wanted to save us some money. Everyone’s doing it now.”
Benjamin and Virgile looked at each other. This was not what they were expecting.
“Doing what, Rafael?”
“Changing the insurance policy. It was time for renewal, and the kid working for our insurance agent—his nephew, I think—said we could get broader coverage for less. Father was away, so I made the decision. Philippine told me it was the best thing to do. But Father is furious. How would I know that we always had a ten percent deductible? Now it’s twenty-five percent. And that’s if they even pay out, which they’ll only do if we lose thirty percent of the harvest.”
Now Benjamin understood why Marcel had been so upset on the phone and why he was watching the young insurance-claims rep like a hawk when he visited the fields. He also understood the father-son argument—at least part of it.
“I’m a bit confused, Rafael. What does that have to do with Clotilde’s murder?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re talking about Clotilde’s murder.”
Virgile leaned in toward Benjamin and whispered, “He’s really not the brightest light, is he?”
“I don’t know. Clotilde and that insurance kid—Romain’s his name—were seeing each other. That’s all.”
§ § §
Benjamin knew that sometimes people were like wine. If they sat and breathed for a while, their full complexity could be revealed, even more so in the right environment and with the right people.
“Rafael, the policy change is, in fact, a common one these days. You’re kicking yourself over this, but it may not be as bad as you think. You’re probably eligible for some European Union funding to help pay the deductible, or maybe even the premium. I suggest we call your father and work this out.”
Virgile was dipping his croissant in the second café crème he had ordered when Benjamin looked over and gave him a nod. He wolfed down the final bite and stood up to call Marcel.
Marcel arrived twenty minutes later, wearing a beige field jacket with corduroy trim and a blue beret. A deep frown accentuated his sagging jowls.
The father’s tone was grave. “Mr. Cooker, Mr. Lanssien,” he said, sitting down. “This meeting was inevitable. I’ve come to the conclusion that Burgundy and Bordeaux are fundamentally different and that my intuition about the rewards of working with a Bordeaux winemaker—even one as celebrated as you—must now, considering the circumstances, give way to reason.”
“Father, not so fast,” Rafael said.
Benjamin saw a glare light up in Marcel’s eyes. He clearly had bones to pick with his son.
“The winemaking business is based largely on intuition,” suggested Rafael.
“Intuition, to be sure, but also method,” Benjamin said. “I would add that you also need a measure of perversity to anticipate the scourges that nature, always unpredictable, can be guilty of.”
“Did you say perversity?” Marcel asked, turning his attention to Benjamin.
“Yes. Voltaire said something similar about politics. He claimed that politics, by their very nature, are perverse. ‘In politics there are no friends, only conspirators who get together.’ In winemaking, the weather, the soil, and the seasons may work in your favor, but they can turn on you just as easily. You can never take nature’s elements for granted.”
Virgile finished his coffee in one gulp and piped up. “I agree one hundred percent!” His behavior was a bit abrupt, but Benjamin thought it might be intentional.
“I didn’t know we were going to have such a philosophical breakfast,” Marcel quipped. “What is it that you really wish to talk about?”
Rafael spoke up. “It’s about the insurance policy, Father.”
Benjamin cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s something else. As long as we’re being frank with each other, I’d like to clear the air. How should I say it? We noticed…”
“Let me, boss. Marcel, what’s your deal with Philippine?”<
br />
The man sat up straight and ran his hands through his gray hair, shifting his eyes to his son.
“We know that she slept with you to get her job.”
Benjamin scowled at Virgile. He was being a bit too direct.
“What!” Marcel shouted. “How can you say such a thing! Never in my life would I do something like that! She’s my employee!”
His indignation was genuine. Suddenly, Benjamin realized his mistake. Philippine had made it up. But why? And what else was she inventing?
“Marcel, I’m terribly sorry about my assistant,” Benjamin said, nudging Virgile under the table. “He misread the situation. What’s really going on?”
Marcel looked around the terrace. The morning crowd had cleared out by now. The man’s eyes settled on his son. He let out a heavy sigh.
“Philippine has been holding something over our heads. I found out only recently.”
Rafael squirmed.
“The estate’s reputation must be protected, at all costs. You see, Rafael… He—”
Benjamin interrupted him to save his dignity. “Inspector Cluzel understands that Philippine has a tendency to—how should I put it—exaggerate? It would be better if Rafael gave us his version of the facts.”
All three men turned to Rafael, who said nothing.
“I understand this is something that’s not easy to talk about,” Benjamin said, his tone soft. “But you’ve been carrying it around for too long now. We’ve heard what Philippine has to say. If you don’t tell us the truth, this game of liar’s poker might quickly turn to your disadvantage.”
Rafael waved to the server. “Some brandy for us!” His forehead was sweaty, and his hand was trembling. He took off his neck scarf and put it on the table.
“It was last spring,” Rafael mumbled. “I was coming from an evening with friends in Beaune. It must have been one or two in the morning. I had had a bit too much to drink, but I wasn’t drunk, Mr. Cooker!”
“I believe you. Just a little tipsy,” Benjamin suggested, playing the role of psychologist.
“It was raining hard that night—storming, really. I could hardly see the road, and the wipers were on full speed. A few miles into my drive, I saw a girl standing on the berm with her thumb out. She was wearing a red jacket and a blue hat pulled down over her ears. At first, I thought it was a guy.”
Rafael took a sip of brandy and grimaced.
“She was looking so bedraggled. So I took pity on her. I stopped. She got in, and I turned on the heat to help her dry off. We talked. She told me she was crazy about wine. She was coming from a nightclub or a party—I don’t remember. She said she liked the music I had on. It was The Rolling Stones. So I turned up the volume. And then…”
“And then?” Virgile asked, turning his snifter around to gaze at the mysterious shapes forming in the depth of the brandy.
Benjamin pulled out a Bolivar Bonitas, a little cigar that suited his mood. Not too satisfying, but enough to tickle his palate with subtle aromas of humus and chocolate. He offered one to Marcel, who declined.
“And then?” Benjamin said, rolling the maduro cap between his fingers.
“I don’t know what got into me. I made a bad move. I pulled over and said something stupid like, ‘I never realized how pretty you are.’ She seemed willing. We started kissing, and she unzipped her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. Then, all of a sudden, she panicked and jumped out of the car. I called after her but she was gone. I don’t see how that makes me guilty of anything—do you?”
Fine blue veins on Virgile’s temples betrayed his anger. Benjamin sensed his assistant was about to say something. He let his knee tap Virgile’s, telling him to stay quiet.
“That depends on whose story you believe,” Benjamin said. “What did you do then?”
“I went home and got shit-faced.”
Benjamin paused at what seemed like an odd choice of words for the wannabe.
“Did you tell your father about this incident?” Benjamin asked.
“Of course not!”
“Why?”
“Because he would have killed me!”
“A man doesn’t kill his son, even if he commits a disgraceful act,” Marcel said. There was sadness in his voice.
“Father! You say that now, but you’ve always made so much of honor and pride. You’re so arrogant!”
“Is it so different from your own sense of self-importance?” Marcel asked.
The men fell silent. Benjamin took two puffs of his cigar and let out milky swirls of smoke.
“Would you like another brandy?” Benjamin asked, motioning to their server.
“No, that wouldn’t be wise,” Rafael answered, as if he were measuring the weight of all that he had just confessed.
“Marcel, how did you learn about it?”
“Rafael finally told me—the day the kid from the insurance agency came out to look at the fields. The insurance policy was the last straw—I needed to clear the air about a lot of things, including the fact that Rafael was withdrawing too much money from our bank account. I pressed him, and he wound up telling me everything. Philippine had convinced Clotilde not to file a complaint, and we were essentially buying their silence.”
Virgile leaned into Marcel’s personal space. “And you would do that for the sake of the estate? Even keep on the payroll a woman who was blackmailing you?”
Benjamin listened as Virgile pursued his interrogation. The delivery was direct, and the questions suffered no evasions.
Marcel locked eyes with Virgile. “Young man, you’ve been here these last several days. You’ve seen the devastation, the chaos, and the rush to harvest. Now this…” He turned to Rafael, who was fidgeting in his chair. “There’s only so much I can deal with. I’ll handle Philippine in due time.”
“So the authorities never questioned you about Clotilde’s assault?”
Rafael and Marcel answered in unison. “No.”
“Rafael, did you ever see Miss Dupont again?”
“Never. Philippine was the intermediary.”
“Let me put it this way: did you see Clotilde again before some evil person decided to take her life?”
“No, I tell you!”
Benjamin joined in. “It would be useless, Rafael, to hide the truth from us.”
“The blackmail gives both of you an excellent motive for eliminating the girl.”
“But I am incapable of committing such a…,” Rafael stammered.
Marcel looked on, as if he’d capitulated.
“Unfortunately, the facts contradict you.” Virgile was on a roll. “Whether influenced by alcohol or your uncontrolled libido, you are capable of committing acts that are punishable by law, Rafael!”
“I’m afraid my colleague’s assessment concurs with Inspector Cluzel’s.” Benjamin blew out two smoke rings. God, this Bolivar Bonitas was good! A slight wind had come up, ruffling the water shimmering in the fountain. Bacchus seemed to smile with pleasure.
Virgile sipped his brandy, unfazed by the alcohol content of the extremely aromatic eau-de-vie.
“Are you familiar with the Saint-Vivant Abbey?” Benjamin asked.
“Like everyone else around here. It’s a pile of old rocks, and not a very interesting one. Some association’s trying to restore the cellars. But they’re wasting their time.”
“They’re looking for strong arms, in fact, as well as sponsors,” Benjamin said, blowing out another smoke ring.
“Yeah. You can do a lot with a little money—even buy yourself a clean conscience,” Virgile added.
“To put it another way—you can redeem your sins,” Benjamin said. “Rafael, are you sure that you didn’t go to the abbey on the night Clotilde Dupont was murdered?”
“So, you’re accusing me of…”
“Well, what were you doing that
night? You haven’t said a word about it.”
Marcel turned to his son. “Yes, I’d like to know too. I think you were out.”
Rafael wriggled before taking a deep breath. “I went for a drive. It was harvest, and I had a lot on my mind. Driving always helps me think.”
“And then?” Benjamin asked.
“And then I met up with some girl I know. We had a couple of drinks, and one thing led to another...”
Now Marcel was scowling at Rafael. “What are you saying, boy? You had a quickie in a farmer’s hayloft?”
“A hayloft. A field. I don’t remember.”
Marcel was about to rebuke him, but Benjamin interceded. “What was her name?”
“Sophie, Sadie... What difference does it make?”
“I’d advise you to remember her name,” Benjamin said. “That is, if there really is a Sophie or a Sadie. You see, the evidence against you is mounting, and it can’t be ignored. An alleged assault... Blackmail... Those two elements alone are the time-honored makings of a homicide. Am I right, Virgile?”
Rafael looked for something to wipe his sweaty forehead. Finding nothing, he used his hand.
Marcel stood up. “Rafael, it’s time for us to leave. Mr. Cooker, you are going beyond the clear objectives of your assignment at our estate. I would even call it interfering with our family business.”
“Rafael, it’s up to you to quickly weigh the consequences of your actions before…”
“Before what?” the Lemoine son said with feigned braggadocio.
“Before your fate is taken out of your hands. ‘The rain is famous for falling on the just and unjust alike.’”
Marcel and Rafael marched out of the café.
“Is that another Oscar Wilde quote, boss?”
“No, son. Mark Twain. But it actually comes from the Gospel of Matthew. ‘He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.’”
Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 10