Mayhem in Margaux

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  The Winemaker Detective

  Twenty-two books

  A hit television series

  “The perfect mystery to read with a glass of vino in hand.”

  —Shelf Awareness starred review

  “Wine lovers and mystery lovers alike will enjoy...Crime is a pretext for Epicurean moments in renowned landscapes.

  —Soleil Vert

  “A captivating blend of investigation and discovering wine country.”

  —WinetourisminFrance.com

  “Will whet appetites of fans of both Iron Chef and Murder, She Wrote.”

  —Booklist

  “An enjoyable, quick read with the potential for developing into a really unique series.”

  —Rachel Coterill Book Reviews

  “Alaux and Balen are superbe writers... The series stays with you.”

  —Netgalley Review

  “Unusually adept at description, the authors manage to paint everything... The journey through its pages is not to be rushed.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  “In these cozy mysteries, you get caught up in the descriptions of the scenery, the good food, great wines and even good cigars.”

  —Netgalley review

  “An excellent mystery series in which you eat, drink and discuss wine as much as you do murders.”

  —Le Nouvel Observateur

  “A series that is both delectable for connoisseurs of wine and an initiation for those not in the know.”

  —Le Figaro

  “Perfect for people who might like a little treachery with their evening glass of Bordeaux, a little history and tradition with their Merlot.”

  —AustCrime

  “A wonderful translation...wonderful descriptions of the art, architecture, history and landscape of the Bordeaux region... The shoes are John Lobb, the cigars are Cuban, and the wine is ‘classic.’ As is this book.”

  —Rantin’, Ravin’ and Reading

  “The descriptions of the wine and the food are mouth-

  watering!”

  —The Butler Did It

  “I love good mysteries. I love good wine. So imagine my joy at finding a great mystery about wine, and winemaking, and the whole culture of that fascinating world. I can see myself enjoying many a bottle of wine while enjoying the adventures of Benjamin Cooker in this terrific new series.”

  —William Martin, New York Times bestselling author

  Mayhem in Margaux

  A Winemaker Detective Mystery

  Jean-Pierre Alaux

  and

  Noël Balen

  Translated by Sally Pane

  All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in France as

  Sous la robe de Margaux

  by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

  World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2004

  English translation copyright ©2015 Sally Pane

  First published in English in 2015

  By Le French Book, Inc., New York

  www.lefrenchbook.com

  Translator: Sally Pane

  Translation editor: Amy Richard

  Proofreader: Chris Gage

  Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

  ISBN:

  Trade paperback: 9781939474384

  E-book: 9781939474391

  Hardback: 9781939474407

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  1

  She was there, finally. Her laughter cascading down the stairs, the jar of blackberry jam left uncovered because she always forgot to put the lid back on, her quick hello as she dashed through the kitchen to start her morning run, and her clothes strewn helter-skelter in the middle of the bedroom. Cheerful, exuberant, curious, and messy. Finally, she was there for her summer visit, ready to stir Grangebelle out of its hot-weather lethargy.

  Benjamin Cooker smiled as he looked at the picture on his desk. The colors were faded now, almost gone in some places. Margaux must have been six, maybe seven; she was wearing the little red coat with horn buttons that she ripped while climbing a fence. He remembered how she whimpered that day. To comfort her, he promised to ask the neighboring farmer to give her a ride on his tractor.

  Benjamin’s office was full of mementoes, most of which reminded him of his daughter. On his Empire-style table was a ceramic tile, painted in acrylic, from her kindergarten days. He still used it as a paperweight. Next to an eighteenth-century silver inkwell, a glass yogurt container covered with geometric designs on aluminum foil held all his pencils and pens. And on his Art Deco filing cabinet was her representation of a windmill: sunflower seeds, dried beans, and lentils glued on cardboard. Over time, Margaux’s Father’s Day gifts had become more sophisticated. She had dipped into her piggybank toward the end of junior high school and given him a brochure published in the nineteen thirties by the Margaux Winemakers Union. “The best wine in the world,” it read.

  A true elixir for a long life! Margaux wine revives the body without dulling the mind. Your breath stays clean and your mouth cool, because it’s strong but not overwhelming. Its color is gorgeous and its bouquet incomparable. Its supremely delicate taste gives it unparalleled distinction. When you buy MARGAUX, you buy HAPPINESS and HEALTH.

  When his mind wandered during the long hours at his desk, Benjamin liked to reread the brochure, which he had framed in bronze-colored wood. It took him back to a carefree time of innocent enthusiasm and strong convictions.

  The winemaker remembered himself as a youngster with corduroy shorts and scraped knees, a well-bred and lonely boy who, long before creating the acclaimed Cooker Guide series sold in bookstores all over the continent, had awakened his senses in the wine cellar of Grangebelle, the family estate in Médoc where he now lived with his wife, Elisabeth. His grandfather, Eugene Frontenac, although not the best winemaker in the area, had garnered considerable respect when it came to tasting wine from the barrel and giving his opinion. The old man had a way with words and always found the right one, the precise comparison, the judicious observation to describe so many subtle aromas—fig, roasted almond, violet, candied prune, caramel, musk, brioche, gunflint, hay, cacao, flint, licorice, Murelle cherry, candied fruit, or fern. Benjamin had been his eager student, and well before he even put a glass of wine to his lips, he had learned a world of descriptive variations, which no doubt helped him rise in the ranks of notable wine tasters.

  Indeed, no one questioned Benjamin Cooker’s expertise in the complex area of wine tasting. It was the very core of his business. The nearly thirty organic acids found in wine, its twenty-some varieties of alcohol, and more than eighty esters and aldehydes made for a heady mix he would sniff, swirl, and describe. Despite the sometimes dramatic performance of chewing and slurping, Benjamin knew that he didn’t detect a wine’s flavor on his tongue, but instead in his nose. It was his keen olfactory sense that allowed him to distinguish the four hundred or so aromatic compounds at work. That was as far as the science went. The rest involved sensory memory and art—although he knew that some skeptics called it bull. Benjamin sometimes returned to his moments with his grandfather on the rare occasions that he felt at a loss for words.

  “Benjamin, come join us for tea,” Elisabeth called from the kitchen. “We’ll have it on the terrace.” Her tone was that particular variant of nonchalant that meant she didn’t want him to dawdle.

  He grumbled and left the relative coolness of his office to join his wife and daughter. The July air was oppressive, dry, and heavy, without the slightest promise of a storm. He sat down in his
chair and sank his spoon into the jar of jam. But before he could put it to his lips, a drop of the gooey sweet plopped on his shirt.

  “Benjamin, you’re such a child,” Elisabeth said as she poured his Darjeeling. “At least you didn’t use your finger.”

  He winked at Margaux, who bit her lip to suppress a smile. They had long ago established a complicity. It was based on childish games, silly gestures, and harmless pranks, along with an occasional long discussion about the tides, the injustice of God, food cooked in goose fat, the works of Chateaubriand, the art of polishing shoes, and the architecture of the Cordouan lighthouse. Benjamin had never been an authoritarian parent. He had left Margaux’s basic upbringing to his wife. To be sure, there was some tension between mother and daughter during the teenage years, but the two of them had managed to find a balance, especially after Margaux moved to the city to study business.

  Elisabeth had adapted well to her daughter’s decision to study in Bordeaux and enjoyed visiting her. It was an opportunity to get away from the Médoc, do some shopping, have uninterrupted time with her daughter, and discuss large and small matters, which ranged from politics and social issues to food and fashion.

  “I saw you ladies gawking over an issue of Femme Actuelle. If you’re planning to hit the shops later, please remember that I don’t have a surgeon’s income.”

  “It was Marie Claire, Papa, and you should have seen that pair of designer jeans,” Margaux said, winking at her mom.

  “I’m sure you’d look quite fetching in them with a pair of embellished heels,” Benjamin said, sipping his tea.

  “Give it up, Papa. You’re useless when it comes to fashion.”

  “I wouldn’t say useless. I just have traditional tastes.”

  “You say traditional,” Margaux said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “I say fuddy-duddy.”

  “Now you’ve gone too far, young lady,” Benjamin shot back, grinning. “And I’ll have you know that I do splurge on clothes from time to time.”

  “Yes, to replace that same Loden coat, herringbone shirt, tweed jacket, or English shoes that you’ve worn since before I was born.”

  “Touché, my darling fashion queen.”

  “These are delicious, Papa,” Margaux said, changing the subject and grabbing another almond meringue cookie.

  “Authentic macarons de Saint-Émilion. There’s more to that town than wine. The recipe dates back to 1620.”

  Benjamin finished his tea, set down his china cup, and glanced at the clock. “We have to get going, girls.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa. I don’t need long to change.”

  “We’ll be down in just a minute,” Elisabeth chimed in.

  Considerate. Yet another of his beautiful wife’s characteristics. Without breaking a sweat, she could turn out a dinner rivaling any served up in a two-star restaurant. Then she could sit down with her guests and discuss world affairs. And she hardly ever complained about his work, which required him to be away from home much of the time. He felt truly blessed to have her at his side.

  The winemaker stood up and gave his wife and daughter an affectionate look before heading back to his office, if only for the few minutes Elisabeth and Margaux needed to get ready. An article for an Australian magazine that he had spent two days laboring over still wasn’t finished.

  He would have preferred putting off his work. Grangebelle’s stone construction had kept the house relatively cool during the past month. But a person had to be either a martyr or a fool to do anything in heat that was this stifling. The weather forecasters weren’t seeing any signs of a letup, either. Some were even predicting a heat wave worse than the one the region had experienced in 2003. The vineyards were beginning to show troubling signs, and now there was the threat of a drought.

  Benjamin trudged back to his desk and made some easy revisions, crossing out a few redundancies and reworking a paragraph here and there. Then he decided he had done enough. Upstairs, he could hear Margaux going from room to room in her heels.

  “Did you get into my makeup again?” Elisabeth called to her daughter, sounding more curious than irritated.

  “We’re taking off in fifteen minutes!” Benjamin yelled up the stairs. He stepped into his own bathroom at the end of the hall, having been crowded out of the one upstairs many years earlier.

  He showered quickly, shaved, and splashed on some Eau d’Orange, which he preferred on hot days. It was much lighter than his usual Bel Ami. After he put on his sky-blue shirt, he took a good look at himself in the mirror. He was rare that he lingered before his reflection, and whenever he indulged in this dangerous exercise, he was invariably surprised to see how he had aged. Eyelids not quite as high, a bundle of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and a heavier chin. At this stage in his life, Benjamin, the product of a London father and a Bordeaux mother, disparaged his visage: a mix of arrogance and innocence, a bit aloof and yet jolly.

  Elisabeth and Margaux were waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom.

  “You look fabulous, ladies! Really superb.”

  “And you thought you’d be waiting for us. We’ve been cooling our heels while you’ve been splashing on your Eau d’Orange and staring at your handsome face in the mirror,” Elisabeth said, playfully pinching his cheek.

  “Do these pearls make me look like an old lady?” Margaux asked, running her fingers over a three-strand choker.

  “Not at all.” Benjamin said. “Pearls never go out of style. They’re timeless.”

  “As if you’d know about style, Papa. I think they look kind of matronly.”

  “Your father is right. That choker looks very nice on you. Trust him for a change.”

  “When I say ‘matronly,’ I mean like some fussy old rich lady. You know the type.”

  “Oh, I do,” Benjamin chuckled. “But you have nothing to worry about. You have inherited your mother’s natural class.”

  Elisabeth brushed his cheek with a kiss.

  “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. Your father loved that da Vinci quote, didn’t he, Benjamin?”

  Like Benjamin himself, Paul William Cooker had a talent for reeling off quotes, as well as coming up with his own expressions. A London antique dealer, he collected sayings with the same passion that he acquired boxes, tables, and chairs: in profusion. They filled his mind, just as his old things filled the store. Some of his expressions had absolutely no truth and were even a bit foolish, but they circulated in the family as if they were the indisputable truth.

  “Benjamin, you’re looking quite handsome at the moment,” Elisabeth said, giving her husband a head-to-toe look-over. “Casual but stylish. You’re just my type.”

  “I envy the two of you,” Margaux said. “How do you manage to still love each other after thirty years of living together?”

  “Well, I’m very easy to live with,” Benjamin said, giving his wife a wink. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “No comment,” Elisabeth answered, returning her husband’s smile.

  They walked outside, where Benjamin’s 280 SL convertible was waiting for them. He turned on the ignition, and Elizabeth and Margaux climbed in beside him. He was glad that they hadn’t asked him to put the top up to avoid getting their hair mussed. It was a pleasure to be driving with the sun setting at their backs and a warm breeze softly brushing their faces and caressing their necks.

  Benjamin drove at a moderate speed to enjoy the moment and let Margaux take in the landscape of her childhood. His daughter had been living in New York for three years, and even though she was sometimes homesick, she didn’t regret her decision. Her position as manager of a company that imported gourmet foods from southwestern France had been an opportunity seized at just the right time. The salary was more than decent. Her two-room Greenwich Village apartment was charmingly furnished, and she had acquired close friends who made her feel at home in a huge city where every moment was lived with intensity.

  They passed through the villages of Cussac-F
ort-Médoc, Arcins, and Soussans and turned left toward Château Margaux. Benjamin slowed down as he passed the sign and kissed Elisabeth’s neck. Margaux! How many bottles had borne her name! A name that for centuries had resonated throughout Bordeaux and beyond like the promise of ecstasy.

  The building loomed at the end of a road lined with tall plane trees. Its sumptuous Palladian façade was a Greek temple lost in a sea of emerald vines. It had been built at the beginning of the nineteenth century by the same architect who had designed the Bordeaux opera house. Benjamin parked the convertible beside dozens of other cars and gave Elisabeth and Margaux a few minutes to brush their hair. They got out and followed the lamps that lit their way to the gardens flanking the east wing. With glasses in hand, guests were chatting happily. Beyond the tables covered in ecru linen, gold-rimmed dishes, and candelabras, a quartet was playing Baroque music at a volume that complemented the atmosphere, a sure sign that the musicians were experienced and highly skilled in the art of providing background music. Every member of Bordeaux’s elite winemaking society was here on this night.

  Benjamin could see Elisabeth and Margaux relax as they took in the sea of guests and realized that they had dressed appropriately for the occasion. The hosts had wanted this dinner affair to be lovely but also comfortable. Few men were wearing ties, and the women were in light-colored linen suits and summer dresses with modest necklines.

  Benjamin was immediately surrounded by property owners who politely asked how he was doing but mostly wanted his advice. Elisabeth greeted some of the wine merchants’ wives she had met at dinner parties and soon found Hubert de Boüard and his wife, who were close friends and the owners of a premier grand cru estate. After managing to escape a paunchy banker who was worried about his heavy investment in grand crus, Benjamin beat a path to his wife, who was taking a glass of Champagne from a server.