The woman pursed her lips and held up three fingers. Benjamin quickly laid out three hundred euros in small bills and took possession of a small bag. The winemaker buried it deep in his coat pocket and continued to stroll through the noisy crowd. The Provencal dialect made the covert dealings all the more incomprehensible. Naïve buyers clearly had no place here.
As he passed the sellers, they opened their bags and gave him insistent looks. Benjamin responded with a grin. He had found what he had come for.
Soon the sun broke through the fat clouds, and the crowd began to thin out. It was barely ten o’clock, and business was concluding. The sellers streamed into the two Richerenches cafés, and in the square, the anise fragrance of pastis replaced the heady odor of truffles. Women in flowered aprons lifted their glasses alongside men who yelled greetings to each other in coarse voices.
Benjamin found an empty table and ordered a coffee. His conference was scheduled for three o’clock, so he had enough time to make a detour to Valréas before going back to Rochegude, where Elisabeth would be sure to reproach him for his tardiness. Luckily, the four diamonds were safe in his pocket, proof that he had accomplished his mission.
~ ~ ~
A hand-painted sign at the entrance to the Boissière estate advertised tastings and on-site sales. Benjamin turned in and inched his Mercedes down the long rutted driveway lined with old olive trees. Beyond the trees were acres of vines. Stripped of their foliage, they looked like rows of black crosses.
The house was low and plain. Gray shutters were its only adornment. As soon as Benjamin got out of the car, a spaniel was upon him, wagging his tail. Benjamin leaned over and scratched behind his ears. The owner of the house greeted Benjamin from the doorway with a cheerful wave of the hand. The man was not very different in appearance from the people he had just seen in Richerenches. His face was flushed, and his moustache was stained with tobacco.
“Mr. Huguenard?” Benjamin asked.
“Huguenard senior,” the man answered.
“Benjamin Cooker.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, it’s no joke. I am Benjamin Cooker.”
“I can’t believe it. The famous winemaker showing up at my door! I know someone who’s going to be sorry that he wasn’t here!”
“Oh, really?” Benjamin said, a bit disappointed. “And who is that?”
“My son, of course! He wanted to send you some bottles, some samples, as you say. He thinks his wine deserves to be in your guide. He’s vain. It’s his wife who put that idea in his head.”
“Actually, I’m here because I’ve heard some very good things about his wine.”
“Oh, who from?” the old man asked. Benjamin detected a suspicious note in his voice.
“That doesn’t matter,” Benjamin replied. “The fact is, he’s building quite a reputation for himself. I’d like to taste his wine and draw my own conclusions. I regret that I haven’t done it sooner.”
“We can correct this oversight if that’s all you need. I know very well that I’m not good for much anymore, but I still know how to use a corkscrew.” With that the elder Huguenard pointed toward the wine cellar.
“So your son has left you in charge of things?” Benjamin asked, making no attempt to hide his curiosity.
“He’s at a wine show in Paris, at the Porte de Champerret. His wife’s in the Vaucluse with her sister, who just had a baby. You know about this event in Paris, right?”
“Absolutely,” Benjamin responded. “It’s a great opportunity to promote your wine.”
“I don’t put much stock in those big fairs,” the winemaker grumbled.
“You should. The winegrowers fair at the Porte de Champerret has a faithful following, and year after year, those people renew their orders.”
“If you say so.”
“But tell me, didn’t the fair end last Sunday?” Benjamin asked.
“He wanted to stay in Paris a few more days to see if he could find more merchants who’d stock his wine. Anyway, he’s up there, spending money he doesn’t have.”
“Well, you know the cliché,” Benjamin said, happy to glean any information. “It takes money to make money.”
“Well, that may be true, but he’s gonna be pissed when he finds out that you stopped by and he wasn’t here. I can tell you that.”
Benjamin almost smiled with satisfaction.
“And that Julia, his wife from Rasteau, she’ll throw a fit too. She’s always saying there are only two guidebooks that count when it comes to sales—the Hachette and the Cooker.”
“That’s quite a compliment she’s paying me,” Benjamin said.
“As a matter of fact, it’s because of her that I heard about you. I couldn’t care less about guides, really, even though I hope their wine sells. Same as the fairs, I suppose. You have to keep up with the times.”
“So you don’t have many wine merchants in Paris who sell your wine?”
“Not that I know of. My son and daughter-in-law handle everything to do with the business, and I keep my nose out of it, for the most part.”
“Tell me, Mr. Huguenard, did your daughter-in-law ever mention a wine merchant in Montmartre, someone named Arthur Solacroup?”
“Oh him. Yeah, I know all about Arthur Solacroup. Thomas asked him to stock his wine a while ago. Solacroup was the first merchant my son approached in Paris, since he was in your guide and my daughter-in-law knew him. But Solacroup said no. Flat out. My son was insulted, thought he deserved better treatment. This merchant and my daughter-in-law were close once, if you catch my drift. I got the feeling that Thomas thought Solacroup owed him. Actually, my son told me he met Julia right after she and Solacroup broke up. Sometimes he wondered if she still had a thing for him. Who knows? Maybe this Solacroup guy figured he was making a clean break when he moved to Paris, and he wanted to leave it that way.”
“Maybe,” Benjamin said, smoothing his hand over a still fragrant oak barrel filled with Huguenard wine. “At any rate, she seems to have done well by your son. This is an impressive little wine cellar that you have here. Thomas was quite young when they were married, wasn’t he?”
“You’re right on that score. She has some years on him. But I have to give her credit. She’s taught him a lot.”
Benjamin walked through the cellar, where a temperature regulation system looked brand new. He admired the impeccable cleanliness and attention to detail. Thomas had carefully written the vintages and racking in chalk, and Benjamin noted the arrangement by Côtes-du-Rhône village name, each one followed by the commonly used acronym CDR.
The winemaker doubted that this down-to-earth man knew who had first used the CDR insignia on Côtes-du-Rhône barrels. In fact, it was a magistrate in Roquemaure, a town in the Gard, who, in the sixteenth century, introduced a branding system to designate wine that met extremely high standards of hygiene and production.
But Benjamin had no intention of flaunting his knowledge. He had come to taste the production of this allegedly talented winemaker and find out how he had spent the previous week. He knew now that Thomas had gone to Paris. But he still needed to know what he looked like. Was he an imposing young man who favored fatigues and tattoos?
“So should we try the wine, Mr. Cooker?”
“As you wish,” replied the expert.
“We’ll begin with the 2002. That’s his first production. I don’t like it myself. But it’s all a matter of taste, and maybe I’m not with it anymore.”
Mr. Huguenard filled Benjamin’s glass, careful not to spill a drop on the plastic tablecloth covering the old wooden table.
“A rather good blend of wood and wine. A little light for my taste, but it draws some nice oak,” Benjamin said after plunging his nose in the glass and feeling the wine in his mouth. “I picked up wild fruits, blueberry, and black currant on the first nose.”
“I don’t know how you manage to find all that,” Huguenard said with a hint of mockery.
“The nose is a book. I just read ch
apter by chapter without skipping a page,” Benjamin answered.
“And what if you’ve never gone to school, like me?”
“Well, then, you trust your instincts. That’s what your son did, I believe.”
“That’s for sure. He was going to oenology school when he met Julia, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. He was always arguing with his teachers. He figured he was a hotshot. But then he got married, and the two of them started making wine. She tamed him some, but he’s still got a high-and-mighty attitude. I’ll say that, even if he is my son.”
Benjamin was chewing the 2002. It was developing notes of vanilla, as well as spices from the tannins, which could have been silkier.
“Interesting, indeed,” he said.
“So you like it then?” Huguenard asked.
“To say the least. I can’t wait to taste what the 2003 has to offer.”
“Good God, I can just imagine the look on Thomas’s face when I tell him you liked his wine. As far as he’s concerned, it’s exceptional. But to have your stamp of approval—I can’t tell you what it will mean to him.”
With more care than he used pouring the previous vintage, Huguenard senior filled the Bordeaux winemaker’s glass halfway.
“This time, there are aromas of peony, raspberry, and sweet spices.”
“But where do you get all that?”
“From my garden of senses,” Benjamin quipped. “And I almost forgot: winter pear.”
“Well what do you know.”
“This time the tannins are strong but subtle. The finish isn’t bad either: pepper and spices. Good work.”
“You’ve given me something to think about. That’s for sure. My son’s wine has always reminded me of my grandmother’s cottage garden—and her cooking too—all contained in a bottle.”
“You could say that,” Benjamin replied.
Huguenard senior was seeing his son with a new pair of eyes. Perhaps Thomas was right about putting in more vines and investing in a larger wine cellar. He took out a cardboard box and put in two bottles of the vintages they had tasted.
“Here, Mr. Cooker, take these. And taste them again at home. I only wish it was summer. I’d give you some gooseberries and blackberries from my grandmother’s garden. I do have some nutmeg growing inside. Let me get some.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Huguenard. But I am pleased that your garden of senses is thriving. All you have to do is open the gate.”
“I’d be happy to have a visit like this every day.” The old man grinned, exposing his tobacco-blackened teeth. “Come with me, Mr. Cooker. I have a little present for you.”
“A present?”
“Well, a souvenir. Call it what you like.”
The two men left the wine cellar. They blinked in the bright sunlight, which accentuated the stony terrain of Valréas.
Marc Huguenard led Benjamin Cooker to the house and took him into the kitchen. He asked him to wait a moment by the fireplace, where two embers were glowing.
The man stepped into what Benjamin supposed was a scullery and returned with a black stone as big a tennis ball.
“Here you go, Mr. Cooker. Something for your lunchtime omelet. Don’t thank me. I have some truffle-producing oak trees, and they did rather well this year. I hope you like it.”
Benjamin had some qualms about accepting the present, which was twice the size of any of the truffles he had bought two hours earlier at the Richerenches market. This one made his own look pitiful. Was Huguenard trying to bribe his son’s way into the Cooker Guide? Benjamin quickly dismissed his suspicions. Under his gruff appearance, the man seemed to be good-hearted and maybe a bit naive.
“Wait, let me give you a jar. It’ll keep better that way.”
“My wife is going to be very happy,” Benjamin replied, embarrassed by such generosity.
Benjamin took a look around the simple kitchen. His smile disappeared and a chill ran down his spine when he spotted the photograph on one of the cabinets. He picked it up to get a closer look.
“That’s the young man who made the wine you just tasted and, it seems, enjoyed,” said the father, a tinge of pride in his voice.
Standing next to his wife was a well-built male with a shaved head and tattoos running up both arms. He was holding a little boy whose eyes were two different colors.
Huguenard took the photo out of Benjamin’s hands. “She had the baby almost right after they were married. A preemie, they told me. He’s healthy enough now. I took this picture just last month. A good-looking little guy, that one. But I’ve never seen eyes like that. Have you?”
13
The Cookers left Rochegude happy and relaxed. The conference at Suze-la-Rousse had been a resounding success. The focus was on globalization, reviewing developments since the release of Jonathan Nossiter’s film Mondovino in the early 2000s. The movie examined the impact of international wine producers on small estates and caused quite a stir in France at the time. Benjamin’s presentation had covered changes in France’s regional wines and had given attendees hope for the future.
With his humor, bicultural background, and expertise that no one dared to challenge, Benjamin had received a burst of applause when he said: “If we work together, our future is without limits. Just imagine the possibilities. We have endless terroirs, wines, and growers. We also have more wines than connoisseurs and potentially more drinkers than wines. Our mission is to expand our knowledge and continually encourage the appreciation of our abundant grape varieties. We must step up our efforts, my friends. Otherwise, our entire profession will be in jeopardy. And all we will be able to do is get drunk on wines we no longer make in order to forget what happened to us.”
After the conference, Benjamin and Elisabeth managed to have their candlelight dinner, along with a winter stroll in the village of Rochegude and private moments in their chateau bedroom, all of which renewed their sense of intimacy.
Ever the winemaker, Benjamin couldn’t resist giving Elisabeth a detailed account of the history of this region, nestled between the Rhône and Mont Ventoux, a kind of Mount Fuji playing the role of lookout in the middle of this patchwork of vines. He told her how the Roman emperor Domitian had ordered the planting of the first vine stocks. Benjamin talked about the magnificent statue of Bacchus unearthed by archeologists in Aubignan a few years earlier. The statue was on display at the Museum of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, near Paris. He promised his wife that he would take her to see it during their next excursion to the capital.
“Let’s make that trip sooner, rather than later, Benjamin,” Elisabeth said, stroking his cheek.
This closeness so far from Grangebelle had reawakened their love of everything that had united
them for a quarter of a century: history and architecture, good food and wine, friendships—
including Benjamin’s friendship with Jean-Jacques Dost—and, of course, their daughter, Margaux, now all grown up and living in the United States.
With his slightly obsessive sense of organization, Benjamin had arranged the various suitcases in the trunk of the Mercedes. The old convertible with gleaming chrome had gotten many compliments from members of the hotel staff.
“We hope to see you again soon, Mr. and Mrs. Cooker,” the valet said as he opened the car door for Benjamin.
“We had a wonderful stay,” the winemaker answered as he slid behind the steering wheel and revved the engine of his 280 SL. “But God only knows when we’ll be able to make it back. I’m tethered to my schedule.”
His cell phone rang.
“Benjamin, give me a break. People should respect your Sundays.” Elisabeth was glaring at both him and the phone.
Benjamin glanced at the screen. It was Virgile.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. It’s Virgile.”
Elisabeth sighed. “Okay, go ahead. He’s an exception.”
Benjamin smiled, patted her knee, and took the call.
“I have good news for you, boss!” He sounded breathless and excited.<
br />
“Tell me, Virgile.”
“I finished second in the Bergerac triathlon!”
“And why not first?” Benjamin replied, turning to Elisabeth and giving her a wink.
“You can’t be serious. There were runners from all over Aquitaine.”
“I’m very proud of you, Virgile. And Elisabeth, who’s right here with me, sends her congratulations too. You must be exhausted.”
“Actually, not so much.”
“I thought you were going to beg me for another day off to recuperate.”
“No, no. On the contrary, I need to see you. Gabriela called.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she likes me.”
“You can’t do that to poor Arthur.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s about him. There’s news. Apparently Julia, Arthur’s old girlfriend, got wind of the attack—I don’t know how—and called her husband, who’s in Paris. She was afraid he did it. His name’s Thomas, and apparently he’s the jealous type.”
“I met his father.”
“You what?”
“It’s a long story. He might have good reason to be jealous.”
“Well, he wasn’t the attacker, and he went straight to the police to clear himself. He gave them a DNA sample, and it didn’t match any of the blood stains on Arthur’s clothes. He also had an alibi, which checked out. Sorry, boss. We have to cross the distrustful husband off the list.”
Elisabeth uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. Benjamin could sense she was getting annoyed. He looked at her, and she silently told him to end the call.
The winemaker tried to conceal his disappointment. “In any case, the idea of Julia’s husband as a suspect didn’t make sense, even if he is the suspicious or insecure kind. He’s quite a winemaker, and he would have jeopardized a very promising future by doing something as stupid as that. We were on the wrong track, my son.”
“Let’s face it, boss. We have no idea who did this and no leads.”
“I suppose we need to go over the case again, from the start.”
“You’re sounding like a detective, not a winemaker. If you really want to know where things stand, why don’t you call the police and find out what leads they’re working on. Use your contacts.”
Montmartre Mysteries Page 8