Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12)

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  “Son, if all believers were condemned to getting along, I would have quite a few more friends.”

  “Sorry, boss. Religiosity, spirituality, and all that—they aren’t my thing. I just thought the two of you had a lot in common.”

  “I know, Virgile. Go on.”

  “So the following summer they volunteered at the abbey again, and they started going out. Soon Romain had fallen in love. Love with a capital L, like your father with his Lucy.”

  Benjamin kicked at another pebble. He was getting annoyed at the way Virgile was dragging out the story.

  “They saw each other as often as they could, and when they weren’t together, they wrote long romantic letters to each other. Old, fashioned—right? They loved taking long walks, and they often wound up in the same place. Where was that? You guessed it, boss.”

  “At the abbey.”

  “Elementary, Watson! But then Romain started getting cold feet. Clotilde was talking about settling down, getting married, and having babies. Romain didn’t think he was ready for all that. He got scared and began pulling away.”

  “I’m sure you empathized with that sentiment.”

  “The story’s about him, boss—not me. Anyway, as you can imagine, Clotilde was hurt, very hurt. She didn’t understand what she had done to make him so distant with her. She asked, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Eventually she stopped trying to make things right, and they stopped seeing each other.”

  Benjamin turned his attention to the landscape. Soon the vine-covered hills would be awash in vibrant autumnal hues of gold—and yes, burgundy. “Many love affairs end that way, Virgile. Two people drifting off in separate directions. But that wasn’t the end of their story, was it?”

  “Right, boss. Before long, Romain was missing Clotilde. He started asking mutual friends from the abbey how she was doing, and they said she was okay. A while later, though, she dropped out of sight. Nobody was hearing from her. By now, Romain was really regretting his decision to break things off. He was certain about loving her, and he wanted her back. He wanted the whole thing: marriage, children, the vine-covered cottage. He tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up. He wrote letters. She didn’t answer. Finally, he went to her house. He knew she was there, but she didn’t come to the door. He gave up and walked away, furious with himself for being so stupid.”

  “But too much had happened,” Benjamin said. “Let me take it from here, Virgile. Romain broke Clotilde’s heart, and she was devastated. She had always been a tad insecure, so when he ended it with her, she assumed—incorrectly—that something was wrong with her. She wasn’t pretty enough, smart enough… Whatever. So she set out to prove Romain wrong. She took up with other guys, including Simon, who told her what she wanted to hear.”

  Benjamin stopped to light his last Lusitania and took two puffs.

  “Then, one night she was coming home from a party, and Rafael offered her a ride. He had heard stories about her, thought she was loose, and he took advantage. He assaulted her. Clotilde managed to get away, but a few moments later she found herself in the clutches of another predator: Philippine.

  “When Philippine heard Clotilde’s story, she saw her opportunity. She took Clotilde under her wing. And she was exactly what Clotilde needed: sympathetic, tender, understanding.”

  “Do you think they had a relationship?” Virgile asked, his hands plunged into the pockets of his jeans.

  “I don’t think their relationship was sexual, if that’s what you mean. I think it was more mentor and protégé.”

  “So what was in it for Philippine?”

  “Influence, son—and money. It’s as simple as that. She could use the assault as leverage with Rafael. And I’m guessing she had much more in mind. I’d bet my next shipment from Dunhill that she was preening Clotilde as a mistress—and possible wife—for Marcel. She was young, pretty, and captivating. With the right coaching, Clotilde could have charmed Lemoine senior, and through her, Philippine could have wielded a great deal of power. Perhaps gotten him to change his will, maybe even turned him against his son.”

  “Now that’s really twisted, boss.”

  “Yes. But people have done worse for less.”

  “Well, if that was her plan, it didn’t work. Romain decided to call Clotilde just once more, and this time she picked up. She agreed to meet him in the ruins, and they reconciled.”

  This new information caught Benjamin by surprise. Now he wanted to know how the story ended.

  “Okay, I’ll make it quick. Clotilde came clean and told Philippine that she was seeing Romain again.”

  “And Philippine wouldn’t hear of it. All her plans for her protégé were unraveling.”

  “Clotilde didn’t care. Her heart was set. She told Philippine that she was done with her, the blackmail, and everything else. Romain and Clotilde became lovers again—meeting in the ruins, where they had always come together. Then, one night, someone caught them in flagrante delicto.”

  “You don’t have to use the Latin term just because they were in the ruins of an abbey, for heaven’s sake!”

  “What do you want me to say? That they were in the middle of screwing their brains out? Naked and yelling like animals in heat?”

  “And then?”

  “And then? I’ll tell you what Romain said between sobs. Someone came up behind him and hit him over the head. Most likely with a heavy stone or a piece of roof slate. Romain was knocked unconscious and probably left for dead. He came to when he felt a vulture gnawing at the wound on his head.”

  “Stop, Virgile, you’re giving me the creeps.”

  “I wouldn’t want to leave out any details. Anyway, Romain found Clotilde a few meters away. She wasn’t breathing. She was badly bruised and naked. He tried to resuscitate her, but her body was already cold. He wandered around the ruins and the woods, calling on God for strength and guidance and trying to clean his wound in the Saint-Vivant fountain. Finally, he went down to the village and made an anonymous call to the authorities. He was afraid of being blamed.”

  Virgile sighed. “It must have been terrible for him.”

  Virgile fell silent. Benjamin let him be and examined the Lemoine residence covered in bright purple vines.

  After a moment Virgile picked up the story again. “After his confession, he asked me to smoke a joint with him. I told him I quit a long time ago. He begged me to stay with him a little while longer. Then he got up and gave me a hug, as if I were his best friend and ran off into the night. Left alone, the whole place gave me the creeps.”

  “And yet there’s nothing cowardly about you,” Benjamin responded. “You run toward the roar of the lion.”

  “You really think that, boss?”

  Benjamin couldn’t miss the grin on his face.

  “Yes, son. That’s what I think. But right now we’ve got to run back to the Mercedes. I left my cellphone in the glove compartment, and I must call Cluzel before he commits another blunder.”

  “I think you just want to beat him to the punch!”

  “It would be criminal not to help our resident cowboy, wouldn’t it?”

  22

  “Elisabeth, what have you done to my father?” Benjamin waited for his wife to answer. He could just see her at the other end of the cellphone call, having a good laugh at his expense. “He wants me to be his friend on Facebook. I’m not on Facebook, Elisabeth!

  “But Benjamin, aren’t you proud that he sent you his request by text? I bet you weren’t expecting that.”

  “Right on that score. So, what’s going on there?”

  “I’m pulling your father into the twenty-first century, Benjamin. And he actually hasn’t been kicking and screaming. He’s caught on. I sat him down for a little talk after he had to ditch his plans for that extended road trip. He confessed that he was feeling lonely and cut off from the world. I helped him see
that with a computer and a cell phone, he didn’t have to feel that way anymore. Benjamin, Beau-papa’s not just on Facebook. He’s on Twitter—@PluckyPaulWilliam—and he has an Instagram account. I told him about Pinterest, but he said ‘later.’’’

  “I don’t have time for this stuff,” Benjamin let out. Then he hesitated. “What would I do with a Facebook—”

  “Page, Benjamin. It’s a Facebook page. And you can do whatever you want. You could even have a Cooker & Co. page with photos of the estates you visit and the wines you taste. You could use it to promote your business.”

  “We have enough clients, thank you. But tell Father I’ll consider his request. On second thought, don’t tell him. I’ll text him.”

  § § §

  Benjamin showered and shaved and met Virgile in the château’s breakfast room. Before they even ordered their coffee, Benjamin pulled out his cellphone and put it on the table.

  “Download a Facebook...thingy for me, Virgile.”

  Virgile grinned and picked up the phone. “Sure, boss. By the way, it’s called an app.”

  “I don’t care what it’s called,” Benjamin grumbled. “Between you and Elisabeth… Just do it, please.”

  “Okay, okay. You got it.” Virgile fiddled with the phone while Benjamin ordered tea for himself and coffee for his assistant.

  A few minutes later, Virgile took out his own device and did some more maneuvers. Finally, he slid Benjamin’s phone across the table.

  “There, you’re on Facebook. I accepted your father’s friend request, and I friended you too. So now you have two friends. And for your profile, I used two photos I had on my own phone. You do remember that you can take pictures with your phone, right?”

  “Now, don’t push it young man. Of course I do,” Benjamin snarled.

  “Just trying to help. When you get back home, I can help you get connected on your laptop.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Virgile. My father’s coming to visit us. I’ll have him show me.”

  23

  A Lemoine sat at each end of the long table set up in the vaulted room. Following protocol, the father had invited his guest of honor, Benjamin Cooker, to sit on his right. Virgile had slipped in between two of the younger grape pickers. At the other end of the table, Rafael was attempting, without much success, to imitate the patriarch by telling lewd stories. Periodically, he would get up and open a few bottles.

  This harvest feast would be a five-hour affair with multiple offerings, including salads, platters of cold meats, quiches, stew, bread, cheese, and fruit. And of course, it would be an occasion for tasting the estate wines.

  Naturally, Marcel set the tone and made the first comments. After some coaxing, Benjamin put in his two cents, but he wasn’t inclined to publicly judge the wine his host was pouring into his glass. That’s what the Cooker Guide was for. Furthermore, he doubted that his audience would be receptive to this kind of exercise. In truth, bringing out good bottles was an elegant way of thanking those who had broken their backs to harvest, come hell or high water, a vintage manhandled by nature.

  Everyone here had contended with the disastrous effects of the hailstorms and rain. They had plowed through the mud, diligently picked the grapes that could be salvaged, hauled one basket laden with fruit after another, and sorted the berries with no letup. They all deserved respect, and Marcel would find the right words to pay them solemn tribute.

  He asked for silence before the workers started passing the platters of roasted pork.

  “Let me welcome you to this table once again. You’re family, and together we’ve made fine wine, even though, in the history of the Lemoine estate, there has never been such a rotten harvest. Without your dedication and hard work, all would have been lost.”

  The wine began to flow. To begin, there was the table or “ordinary” wine, as the old Burgundians called it. Then the proprietor brought out a 2004 Vosne-Romanée, dazzling until the last drop. Next there was a 2003 that was every bit as good. At the cheese course there was a 1999 that Benjamin praised highly.

  At this point, Philippine broke her silence. “Nevertheless, it’s inferior to the 1996, which I had the pleasure of tasting in the company of Mr. Lemoine.”

  The patriarch felt obliged to leave the table and unearth from the gated section of the cellar five bottles of the 1996.

  Benjamin spoke again, recalling the prevailing weather that year. “I can tell you that, in fact, 1996 was a very excellent year! It reminds me of 1985.”

  Philippine swirled her glass without taking her eyes off the man from Bordeaux.

  He continued. “Yes, 1985 was one of those years I remember. It was the year the British and French governments invited proposals for the Channel Tunnel—only 183 years after it was first suggested by a French mining engineer—for carriages, of course.”

  The winemaker smiled and paused while the celebrants laughed.

  “It’s also the year that Margaret Thatcher got the miners in Britain to capitulate after a year of strikes. And it was in 1985 that a team of American and French researchers discovered the hulk of the Titanic in the waters of the Atlantic, south of Newfoundland.”

  “I would have thought that you’d remember it for the wine,” Marcel interrupted.

  “Well, I do. And I mention these things to provide perspective on what was taking place beyond the vineyards. As for the grapes, the harvest in 1985 wasn’t a good one. Only half the crop was brought in, a bit like what we’ve just been though. The older people among us will remember: the winter was a hard one, perhaps the coldest of the century. The temperatures went down to minus-twenty-five Celsius. Many vines were frozen in the spring. And then the summer was particularly hot, with record temperatures into September. But in the end, Burgundy winemakers made out rather well—didn’t they, Marcel?”

  Benjamin was already hearing the sweet sound of the 1996 being opened. The winemaker turned to Marcel, who was sniffing the cork. The aroma of cherries tickled Benjamin’s nose. Bringing the glass to his lips, he discovered the wine’s freshness and a nice complexity, even though the tannins had totally faded. Evidently, it was past its peak.

  “I think we should drink this one now,” Benjamin said, absently wondering when Philippine had shared the tasting experience with her employer. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be sharing many more such experiences.

  “Remember, there are three subjective parameters in judging wines: what time of day you drink it, where you drink it, and with whom you drink it.”

  Marcel nodded, and Rafael dug into his Époisses cheese with great affectation.

  Soon the private conversations resumed, and the paulée became even more festive.

  The best caterer in Beaune had prepared three beautiful black currant vacherins with whipped cream. Lise Lemoine, the daughter of a wealthy Dijon liquor-maker who specialized in black currant syrups, had established this tradition thirty years earlier, when she married into the Lemoine family.

  Everyone was praising the creamy dessert when Inspector Cluzel let himself in, casting a chill over the gathering. Two officers were on his cowboy-booted heels. Two others planted themselves at the entrance to the hall, the only way anyone could get out. Marcel gasped. Benjamin thought he might choke on his fine wine.

  Uninhibited by common courtesy, Cluzel gave Benjamin a warm greeting. He barely acknowledged the master of the house.

  Benjamin heard a sound at the other end of the table and turned to Rafael. All the color had drained from his face, and Benjamin could have sworn that he was about to get up and make a dash for the door.

  Seemingly oblivious to what was going on with his son, Marcel mustered a smile for the inspector.

  “Would you like some of this 1996 Vosne-Romanée premier cru?”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir, and I regret having to disturb your feast, but I must deprive you of a certain pe
rson of interest who is dining with you.”

  Marcel put his glass down and raised his voice. “You will do nothing of the sort, sir! This is Benjamin Cooker! You’ve questioned him, and he’s addressed all of your concerns. You have no reason to take him in.”

  “My apologies. I haven’t made myself clear,” Cluzel said. “I’m not here to arrest the person who ensures the reputation of your wines—the most scrupulous and certainly the most upstanding winemaker in France. I’m here for the one who’s doing serious damage to your name and your holdings.”

  Marcel’s eyes flashed to his son. Rafael had already pushed back his chair. But none of the officers were making a move toward him.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Lemoine,” Cluzel said, pointing his chin toward Rafael. “I’m not here for him, at least not today. He turned his face in the other direction. “I’m here for her.”

  All eyes converged on Philippine Perraudin. The black currant coulis was dripping from her spoon, poised in the air above the vacherin. Her face had hardened, and her eyelashes were beating like an old porcelain doll smashed against a wall. There was no hint of protest on her thin lips. Just resignation.

  Benjamin looked at Virgile, whose eyes were trained on Marcel. A smile of satisfaction was lighting up the patriarch’s face.

  “So you’re here to press charges of extortion against my winemaker?” Marcel asked.

  “Yes, extortion—and murder.”

  “What?” Marcel turned to Benjamin. “Did you know about this?”

  Cluzel answered before Benjamin could say a word. “Mr. Cooker and I have been collaborating. He can explain how your No. 1 employee is guilty of the crime committed at the Saint-Vivant Abbey on the person of Clotilde Dupont!”

  The room was absolutely silent. A shiver ran through the diners. On the brownish tiles of the great hall, a glass shattered, as one of the waitresses, suddenly light-headed, tipped a tray.