Mayhem in Margaux

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

“As if I had been there myself, Mr. Cooker.”

  The two men were quiet for a while as they gazed at the wreck.

  “Mr. Cooker, do you know anyone who would want to harm your daughter?”

  Benjamin looked up and stared at the police officer. He was speechless.

  “Do you have any enemies? Anybody who may have tried to get at you by hurting your daughter?”

  Benjamin finally spoke up. “Inspector, I’m a civilized man working in a civilized business. I may ruffle some feathers with my tasting notes, but I’m always fair, and I have dedicated my life to helping winemakers make a better product. It’s out of the question that I could be the target here.”

  “Your ratings can make or break a château, Mr. Cooker. You understand that my question is legitimate.”

  “Furthermore, my daughter didn’t even know Mr. Rinetti before yesterday. Their date was spontaneous. There couldn’t have been time to plan… What would you call it, a hit?”

  The two men walked around the car. Benjamin sniffed it with a mix of repulsion and shock. His daughter had just experienced a brush with death. And according to the police inspector, it wasn’t a random accident.

  “What a waste,” Barbaroux sneered. “When you think of all the dough one of these things costs. Close to two hundred grand, I figure.”

  “The equivalent of some nice acreage in the Premières Côtes de Bordeaux,” Benjamin said tersely.

  “Ah, yes. You have to have money to blow to buy a baby like this. Too bad it all went up in smoke.”

  “I imagine that some people who can afford a toy like this would think nothing of buying twenty-five acres of Pomerol or Saint-Émilion.”

  “Yep. In my line of work, I occasionally come across folks who don’t know what to do with their money. Things that you and I dream of acquiring, they buy as nonchalantly as toothpaste at the drugstore. But I can’t help wondering how these people earned their cash. I’ve investigated a few, and what I’ve found has been enlightening, believe me.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  “You couldn’t begin to comprehend the ways that people get rich and what they’re willing to do to become wealthy. I tell you, it’s disgusting.”

  “Could you get me some information on Rinetti?”

  “Why, Mr. Cooker? The sabotage is a police matter. We’ll be handling the investigation.”

  “Fair enough, but I’d appreciate it if you’d pass along whatever you find on him.”

  “Would you, by any chance, be thinking of suing him?”

  “That’s not how I do things. My daughter is alive, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

  “You won’t file a complaint for reparations?”

  “I just told you, no!” Benjamin responded.

  “You know, you have every right…”

  “I have never been litigious. Life is too short, and my time is too valuable to waste it in court.”

  “Well, then tell me why you’re interested in knowing more about Rinetti.” Barbaroux insisted.

  “I think it’s obvious,” Benjamin said in barely a whisper. “After what just happened to my daughter, I consider this a very personal matter.”

  “I repeat, Mr. Cooker, this is a police investigation, and as much as I value your perceptiveness and opinions—and your dumb luck—I don’t want you poking around where you don’t belong.”

  4

  “Go. I’ll be fine.” Margaux looked as beautiful as ever, even with her hair mussed and a complexion so pale, it barely contrasted with the white hospital sheets. “Besides, I’m asleep most of the time. I’m not good company.”

  Benjamin and Elisabeth had just announced they would stay in Bordeaux with her. The friends they had planned to vacation with would have sole use of their rented villa.

  “It’s out of the question that you languish here in the heat because of me,” she insisted.

  Elisabeth had finally acquiesced. “As you wish, darling,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Benjamin sighed. “Stubborn and ardent clinging to one’s opinion is the best proof of stupidity.”

  “Michel de Montaigne,” Margaux said.

  “I see you’ve come back to your full senses, at least. How could you have gone out with that… that, madman?”

  “Papa! Antoine was every bit a gentleman! We had an accident. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “You sound like the cops who questioned me. I won’t even answer you.”

  “Benjamin, Margaux, that’s enough,” Elisabeth said.

  Margaux turned to her mother. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “He’s still in intensive care, darling. We don’t know. It doesn’t look good.”

  Margaux turned her head away. They remained silent for several minutes.

  “Go,” Margaux said.

  As they reached the door, she called out, “Papa, I know you’ll be coming back to town to work. Come see me.”

  5

  Hoping he could get his mind off the accident, Benjamin stopped to look at the boats. It was one of his simple pleasures. He could stand on a dock or sit on an overturned boat for hours at a time and stare into the haze shrouding the white silhouette of Arcachon. Around the Île aux Oiseaux, swarms of sailboats were gliding over the waves. Farther away, toward the Banc de Bernet, speedboats were growling noisily, disrupting the slow and sinuous dance of the brightly colored fishing vessels whose slender bows were gracefully negotiating the turbulence. A stone’s throw from the pier, between the oyster beds, one had to withstand the onslaught of the Jet Skis and water scooters. Benjamin couldn’t hide his glee when one of them ran aground on a sandbar or flooded its engine. He felt the same happy vengeance that he experienced when he crushed a mosquito bent on disturbing a peaceful evening.

  Benjamin didn’t have the soul of a true sailor, but he couldn’t live far from the ocean. He often left the tranquility of Grangebelle and the bustle of Bordeaux to go walking along the seashore, even for just an hour. He loved hearing the surf and feeling the spray of the saltwater—alone or with Bacchus gamboling beside him. In his mid-thirties, he had bought himself an Artaban 660, a pretty second-hand colonial-style boat with a white canvas canopy and navy-blue hull. It had the dated elegance of boats that were made between the two world wars. For a few years, Benjamin contentedly sailed along one shore or another in the Arcachon Bay, depending on the temperament of the tides. Then time became scarcer, and he sold the boat to a young radio announcer who daydreamed as much as he did and had a taste for lazy traveling.

  He sauntered a bit wearily toward the port of La Vigne and arrived at La Planquette, where Elisabeth was unpacking the suitcases. It was the third year the Cookers were renting this simple villa, designed for idleness and relaxation. They were sharing it with their Parisian friends, Leslie and Ludovic Lamotte, who had fallen in love with the bay and the peninsula. They couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the summer.

  Leslie worked for an advertising company that specialized in cosmetics and ready-to-wear apparel. Her work both excited and exhausted her, and she looked forward to devoting her vacations to her children. Victor and Aristide had delicate features and such fair skin, even a raffia beach bag full of sunscreen was hardly sufficient.

  Ludovic, who had long blond hair and blue-gray eyes, was an unusual mix of idealism and pragmatism. Benjamin had met him at a sale of rare vintages at the Hôtel Drouot auction house in Paris. They had struck up a friendship while commenting on the exorbitant prices of certain private cellars and had continued their conversation at a little neighborhood brasserie. Ludovic was delighted to find himself in the company of the brilliant winemaker, whose guide he knew well.

  After trying his hand at selling old furniture, pop art paintings, and nineteen-seventies memorabilia, Ludovic had finally decided that he was more of an antiquarian than a dealer of bric-a-brac. He changed d
irection and started searching out rare items from the wine-making world: stamped pewter pitchers, china cabinets from châteaus, wood and metal wine racks, crystal carafes, and hand-blown wine glasses.

  Eventually, Ludovic became interested in rare old vintages. Picking up bottles during his travels, he managed to acquire an astonishing reserve of rare finds with faded labels mottled with mold that attested to several decades of storage. This unusual business earned him frequent consultations with billionaires from the United States and Lebanon, a country that had an ancient viticultural region but where popular acceptance of wine drinking was relatively new. Ludovic served as a sort of wine archeologist for these rich clients.

  Benjamin, who considered himself more of a taster than a drinker, understood perfectly how Ludovic had happened upon his chosen field. Life was full of back roads and wrong turns. But for the person with vision and passion, those meanderings inevitably led to the right place.

  Benjamin always arrived at the coast with suitcases full of wines from his cellar, which he fully enjoyed sharing with his guests. The foursome generally indulged in white wine during their shared vacation. They would have their first glass after returning from the beach in the late afternoon. They had agreed that no one would drink at lunchtime, and this proved to be a wise decision, as the daytime temperature was almost always hovered in the high eighties. When it came to the early evening ritual, Benjamin would offer a Côtes de Gascogne, a Meursault, a Bergerac, or perhaps a Bugey. He also took pleasure in pouring a Puligny-Montrachet, an Entre-Deux-Mers, or a Côtes de Provence. Sometimes he teased his wife and friends by combining prestigious estate vintages with harmoniously structured table wines.

  Ludovic, on the other hand, had a sentimental affection for the Carbonnieux he had discovered a few years earlier at a Cap Ferret wine bar. He couldn’t imagine a vacation at La Planquette without a case of this amber-colored Pessac-Léognan with mineral properties and a delicate mint bouquet enhanced by fine notes of toasted brioche. He was equally fond of a competitively priced Touraine wine that offered the sauvignon’s refreshing qualities and aromatic elegance.

  They gathered shrimp, snails, and oysters and ate them with garlic butter and a glass of wine as the waning light of the afternoon sun shimmered through the upper branches of the pine trees. Sometimes they nibbled pistachios, toasted almonds, slices of Aveyron sausage, or slivers of a good Laguiole cheese while watching the children play and preparing a fire for their dinner of red sea bream, marinated mackerel, or tuna.

  “If only our everyday lives were this relaxing,” Elisabeth sighed, delicately wiping a spot of condensation off her wineglass.

  “It feels like we’re at the end of the earth,” Leslie said quietly. “I can’t wait until Margaux can join us.”

  “When do you expect her to get out of the hospital?” Ludovic asked.

  “The doctor wants to keep her a little longer,” Benjamin said, uncorking a bottle of Côtes de Saint-Mont, Les Vignes Retrouvées. “But I hate the thought of her alone in Bordeaux. If she hadn’t absolutely insisted that we keep our plans, I’d be back there right now. As it is, I feel guilty that we’re enjoying ourselves while she’s still recovering.”

  Elisabeth put her glass down and stared at her husband. “Benjamin, I feel guilty too. But you know how stubborn she can be. She wouldn’t hear of us staying in Bordeaux, and she can get the rest she needs in the hospital. She’s recovering from a trauma, after all.”

  The Lamottes agreed with Elisabeth and insisted that it was best to trust the doctors, who believed that Margaux needed to remain in the hospital. Benjamin, however, was intractable and grumpy.

  “What are they doing for her that we can’t? She can get all the rest she needs while staying with us. And Cap Ferret is known for its spa therapy centers. She could regain her health much better here, with our care, the fresh sea air, and all these trees.”

  He lifted nose and inhaled the aromas of pine resin and the sea to underscore his point.

  “The best way to recover and forget the accident is to enjoy life. She can’t do that when she’s surrounded by the smells of disinfectant and hospital food, along with scores of nurses and doctors interrupting her sleep. She shouldn’t be spending her vacation this way. I know my daughter. If she wouldn’t let us stay with her, we should have insisted that she come with us, and I could have won her over. Even now I’m willing to march into that hospital and sign the discharge papers myself.”

  He had gotten carried away. Elisabeth and the Lamottes were staring at him.

  “Benjamin, think about it,” Elisabeth said, putting her hand on his. “We were willing to stay with her, but Margaux wouldn’t have it. She didn’t want us to change our plans, and she assured us that she would be perfectly fine in the hospital. She’s a grown woman. She has the right to make decisions for herself. Give her some credit.”

  But Benjamin was still vexed. He got up and decided to take a stroll on the jetty by the docks. Haloed in pink light, the last boats were coming in and slowly tying up. A couple of amateur sailors in their sixties were hosing down their little catamaran while a tanned and muscled young man in a white tank top and kaki shorts was polishing the deck equipment of his Riva. Benjamin pulled out his cell phone and entered a number.

  “Good evening, boss. Mission accomplished, but what a tough day!” Virgile’s voice was weary.

  “Thank you for all that you’re doing. We’ll take stock tomorrow. Does the name Rinetti mean anything to you?”

  “A brand of shoes?” Virgile said. “Pasta, maybe?”

  “Stop being an imbecile, Virgile. He was the manager of Gayraud-Valrose.”

  “The guy who was with your daughter?”

  “Yes. I’d like to get some information on him. See what you can find out, but be discreet.”

  “I know the Château Gayraud-Valrose pretty well. I did an internship there when I was in my second year at La Tour Blanche. We could head over there if you want.”

  “Tell me more, Virgile.”

  “I said ‘pretty well,’ but I meant ‘very well.’ I spent a little more than a month there, and I mostly worked with the vineyard manager. An old guy, not easygoing by any stretch, but a recognized expert: Georges Moncaillou. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “That name does ring a bell.”

  “I was mostly in the vineyards, but I still got to know the cellar master, Stéphane Sarrazin. I think he’s still there. Actually, I’d like to see him again. He was a quite a guy.”

  “In what way?”

  “I might as well confess. He fixed me up with the château’s secretary, who was a bit stuck up—the type who knows very well that she’s pretty and looks down on you. I don’t know how Stéphane did it, but as soon as he walked into a room, all the girls noticed him. He had a knack for making women laugh. Still, he never took advantage. He was a family man and faithful to his wife. At any rate, he introduced me to the secretary, and thanks to his charm, she warmed up to me. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.” Benjamin smiled. “It seems your internship at Gayraud-Valrose was especially beneficial in the area of women’s studies.”

  “You have no idea.”

  6

  Benjamin took in the château perched above the estate and knew it was exactly what tourists expected to see when they drove along the wine roads of the Médoc. Built in the late nineteenth century, the aristocratic residence of the Gayraud family was situated on a hilltop covered with fine gravel and sandy soil. It was a structure commensurate with the once-powerful family’s commercial success. The massive square mansion topped with a slate mansard roof stood at the end of a driveway lined with palm trees and rosebushes, which once grew wild here. Cast-iron Medici vases lined the entry steps, and little windowpanes reflected the green of the surrounding vineyard. The nearby buildings, used for winemaking, had a proud, solid, and graceful allure. Surrounded by ampelopsis shrubs, they blended with the landscape.

  The winemaker studied the
eroded sculpture of a beautiful disciple of Bacchus, a layer of moss covering her tangle of grapes. Virgile, meanwhile, headed to the wine cellar to look for Stéphane Sarrazin, walking past a man wearing a beret who was squatting next to a moped with a wrench in hand. When Benjamin joined them, the two men were already deep in conversation. Sarrazin greeted Benjamin with a strong handshake.

  “I will be with you in two minutes, Mr. Cooker. I just need to give some instructions on topping up the barrels.”

  Benjamin and his assistant left the building and sought shade under a chestnut tree. It was only ten, but the sun was already beating down. Benjamin missed the sea breeze he’d left behind in Cap Ferret that morning.

  “So?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Virgile said, shrugging. “At least he didn’t say so. It was as if we’d seen each other just yesterday.”

  They didn’t have time say more. Stéphane Sarrazin emerged from the wine cellar. He motioned to them to wait where they were and joined them under the tree. Benjamin guessed that he was in his forties, and he was still a handsome man: average height, rather slim, short slightly graying hair, broad forehead, bushy eyebrows, and playful eyes. But his somewhat weary gait and nonchalant bearing suggested underlying disappointment. No bitterness or regret, but an awareness of pain.

  “From your description yesterday, I was expecting a more jovial-looking man,” Benjamin said.

  “Well, they’ve just gotten some unsettling news, boss. But it’s true, I remember that Sarrazin could be cold sometimes, and he didn’t have any illusions about people.”

  “I’ve come to see you on unofficial business, Mr. Sarrazin,” Benjamin said when the cellar master reached them. “You probably know why I’m here.”

  The man sized up Benjamin with amused eyes. He didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed to find himself in the company of one of France’s best-known wine experts. Courteous, respectful, and full of himself, Benjamin was thinking.