Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series)

by Alaux, Jean-Pierre

  The Moniales estate owner would have chuckled, were the situation not so serious, and Virgile held back a quiet laugh himself for fear of appearing mean-spirited. “Denis, I’m going to talk to you as a friend and certainly not as a client,” the winemaker said suddenly. “In any case, you’re not a client, and you never will be. Don’t even expect to get a bill!”

  “But I insist!” Massepain said firmly.

  “We can talk about that later. We have another matter to discuss. I would like you to tell me very frankly if you have had any trouble with a member of your staff.”

  “No, not at all. I even gave some raises not so long ago. Overall, my employees are not complaining, and I must say that I have been very touched by their reaction to this problem.”

  “Are you absolutely sure there hasn’t been any problem?”

  “No, I told you. You have seen their attitude. Everyone is working late and not counting their hours.”

  “Who is responsible for the cellar keys and the security system?”

  “Why are you asking me all these question?” Massepain asked.

  “Answer me. Who has the keys? Who knows the code to the alarm?”

  “Two of us: the steward and I.”

  “Nobody else? Not even your secretary?”

  “No. And I don’t even want to hear what you are trying to insinuate. Jean Laborde has been my steward for years. He’s a wonderful man and has my total trust. It sounds like you …”

  “I have to, Denis,” interrupted Benjamin. “We are more and more convinced that this infection did not get here on its own. I don’t want to make any accusations, but it could be an act of treachery. Virgile agrees with me, isn’t that so?”

  The assistant nodded, without commenting.

  “But you’ve seen infections like this in other cellars, haven’t you?” Denis Massepain asked. “This is something that happens to others. It was my turn.”

  “This is true,” acquiesced the winemaker. “And I won’t tell you the names of the estates where I’ve had to intervene. But each time, it was a result of negligence or questionable sanitation. That is totally impossible here.”

  “What do you plan to do then?”

  “Have there been any people visiting the estate recently who had access to the cellars? Reporters? Salespeople? Interns? Visitors? You get the picture, any comings and goings from people outside the estate?”

  “There was a magazine reporter this winter, with a photographer. They interviewed me for an article, but we only went through the cellars to take some pictures. That’s all.”

  “Have there been any visitors?”

  “Very few, and they stayed mainly in the tasting room. I don’t like to have people in the barrel room. Most of the time it is locked, as you know.”

  “Have there been any interns from the wine school? You must get some in from time to time.”

  “I’ve had four since last year, each for a month and no longer. You know that if you really want to train young people, you need to take time, and I don’t have a lot of it to spare. We don’t have enough staff.”

  “What became of these interns? Have you seen them since?”

  “What do I know? Some must have graduated, and others are probably still at school.”

  “Could you give me their names, along with the members of your usual staff and their addresses?”

  “My secretary will have all that information. Follow me.”

  They went to the reception area near the entrance gate. They climbed the stairs, consulted a large green notebook and made several photocopies that Benjamin gave to Virgile.

  When they got back to the Mercedes, they heard thunder. The ocean must have been rumbling in the distance. A west wind carried rolling clouds that were dark and threatening. A few heavy drops of cold rain came down on the two men, who hurried to put the convertible top up. The assistant held the handful of photocopies over his head to protect himself. Cooker grabbed them out of his hands and sheltered them under his jacket. The pavement gave off the sweet aroma of wet dust.

  “Hurry, Virgile! Get this car covered up. This is good weather for winemakers. Here you could say ‘April showers, good for wine and flowers.’ ”

  10

  GRANGEBELLE GLISTENED BEHIND THE flowing shapes of the poplar trees. Elisabeth lit tens of small candles and placed them along the front of the house, on the windowsills and in the window boxes full of white geraniums. Benjamin parked his convertible near the wine cellar, checked the date on his watch and suddenly realized that he had turned 50 at exactly 12:15 p.m. He had crossed that critical threshold of a half a century, which he had long worried about. Bacchus celebrated his arrival as he did every evening, and just as always, he jumped up and put his muddy wet paws on his master’s light blue shirt. Benjamin brushed him off and hurried to the house. His wife waited for him in the hallway with an amused smile. He hugged her and whispered in her ear, “I can’t believe it. The big five-zero, can you imagine?”

  “Happy birthday, my Benjamin. I can’t wait to open that 1953 Gruaud-Larose that you’ve been hiding away all these years.”

  “We’re going to enjoy that one,” Cooker said, sniffing the aromas coming out of the kitchen. “It smells like the seaside, like we’re on vacation, my love.”

  “I prepared you an Arcachon stew. The sea scallops were superb. And I invited the Delfrancs.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. I haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll bring up a few bottles of white too. We’ll start with the Gruaud-Larose.”

  He went down into his sanctuary, a small, well-ordered cellar, meticulously—almost compulsively—arranged, where he kept his best stock, the rare vintages, bottles from prestigious estates and exceptional wines few people ever got to taste. Alain and Chantal Delfranc were among the privileged few who could appreciate such an honor. The couple had recently moved to Saint-Estèphe and opened a bed and breakfast whose reputation had quickly spread across the Médoc. Alain had worked for years in the French intelligence service before an early retirement, when they decided to leave Paris and launch the venture they had dreamed about for years. The two men had met in the 1970s, during the carefree days when Alain was still a police intern, and Benjamin was tending the bar at the Caveau de la Huchette. They had remained in touch since, and when Alain’s project took form, the winemaker helped the couple find an old manor house that they transformed little by little into an upscale guesthouse before opening one of the best restaurants in the area.

  Alain was a refined epicurean and an inventive cook who dug up unjustly forgotten heirloom vegetables and loved promising small-estate wines. He now spent his time in the cozy warmth in front of the stove, convinced that a passion is not fully experienced until it has been shared. His wife Chantal followed along, bringing with her a perpetual good mood. She decorated the premises with a clear taste for simple furniture, worn leather and metallic accessories, balancing beige and chocolate brown to produce a rare, authentic feel and old-world charm. Chantal was graceful, despite her plump waistline, sassy nose and mischievous eyes. She lived life with a candid sensuality that threw some people off—those who couldn’t see beyond appearances. What could be construed as easy virtue was simply a genuine, open interest in all the pleasures that came her way.

  Benjamin grabbed two bottles of a dry white Château Haut-Brion. It was criminal to open this 1989 now, but to hell with expert recommendations! Life was too short, and he would not wait another 50 years before tasting it. When he came back up from the sanctuary, the Delfrancs had just arrived. Bacchus was barking. Elisabeth was untying her apron, and Chantal was already joking about Benjamin’s respectable age. Alain smiled as he set his raincoat down on one of the armchairs in the entrance.

  The bottles of white wine went into a bucket of ice, and everyone sat around a coffee table in the living room to taste the illustrious 1953 Gruaud-Larose that the winemaker had decanted much too late. This evening, every sacrilege was permitted. Benjamin slowly unwrapped
the gift the Delfrancs offered him. He was intrigued by the medium-sized flat box, undid the ribbon and was careful not to tear the wrapping paper. He slowly opened the cardboard and discovered a bright ink drawing dating from 1933.

  “You’re out of your mind! You shouldn’t have!”

  “Of course I had too!” Alain said. “I’m no crazier than you are opening that Gruaud-Larose as old as your arteries.”

  “You’re mad,” Cooker said again, holding the sketch along its edges. “I can’t believe it. An original from the Nicolas catalog illustrated by Jean Hugo. You can’t find these anywhere.”

  “That’s proof you’re wrong,” Chantal said, lifting the glass to her lips. “You know that Alain can find anything, anywhere, whenever and, well, however!”

  Benjamin seemed almost uncomfortable and did not know how to thank his friends. He took a sip of wine, with the full tasting ritual, because he had to find a way to calm his emotions. Elisabeth disappeared and returned with a steaming tureen.

  “Let’s eat. It’s hot. I made a stew, so there are no starters.”

  “I’ve been waiting to taste this famous stew of yours!” Alain said, rubbing his hands.

  He immediately asked for the recipe. Elisabeth didn’t hold out on him and told him every detail: the puree of carrots, leeks, tomatoes, onions and shallots that she cooked over low heat for 20 minutes before she strained it through a fine sieve; the salt, pepper and saffron she dosed with care, along with the hint of cayenne pepper; how to cook the mussels in a white Graves and strain the juice before adding delicate langoustine tails and sea scallops sautéed in hot butter; and the crème fraîche she used to thicken the sauce that reduced for at least three minutes.

  Everyone got a generous serving, and there was a moment of silence before the compliments started flying. As usual, Elisabeth accepted her triumph with modesty and raised her glass of white Haut-Brion. They toasted Benjamin and then talked about all manner of things, about time flying too quickly, about children living too far away, about vacation memories, bottling in Bordeaux, about wine, as always, and about gastronomy too, about old English cars, unreadable books and boring movies, about all those little essential and useless things that tightened the bonds among the four friends a little more each time they met. They ignored politics, however, not because they weren’t interested, but mostly to avoid chancing miry paths where friendships can get stuck. Spiritual concerns were also only mentioned in passing, with just a few allusions tainted with irony. Benjamin knew his friend was resolutely atheist, and he himself believed that you cannot reasonably talk about God with a flute of Champagne in your hand.

  Dessert was sumptuous, without any candles or ritual song. Benjamin hated those childish manifestations. Elisabeth knew him too well to commit that faux pas, which would have ruined their enjoyment of the Bavarian cream presented on a caramelized sheet of puff pastry and covered with roasted chopped pistachios. They drank coffee in the living room, and no one wanted an after-dinner spirit. Alain lit a pipe of Amsterdamer, and Benjamin dug around in his little rosewood box to find a Lusitania from Partagas, which he then lit with relish. The women stayed at a distance, complaining about the smoke that kept them from enjoying the perfume samples they extracted from their handbags. Cooker took advantage of the moment to remove a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and held it out to his friend.

  “Do you still have any contact with your former colleagues in intelligence?”

  “With some, yes. I’ve got a friend from Paris who was transferred to Gironde. We see each other from time to time.”

  “Could you get me some information about these people?”

  “What kind of information?”

  The winemaker briefly summarized what had happened to Denis Massepain, and without going into the details, he shared his suspicions. He didn’t want to incriminate the staff on the list; he just wanted to make sure there was no doubt about their moral standing. He insisted that any inquiries be made with complete discretion in a totally unofficial way.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Alain said. “Don’t tell me anything else, or I’ll end up becoming interested.”

  THE following day dragged out. It was both lethargic and feverish. Benjamin waited for Alain’s phone call and couldn’t concentrate on his writing. He had gotten up rather late and had drunk his tea mechanically, nibbling on a few broken pieces of Melba toast. He ended up locking himself in his office to outline the nth draft of his text about the citadel.

  “The rocks of Blaye have seen many battles. This city, perched 120 feet up on a sharp cliff overlooking the Gironde Estuary, has been the object of everyone’s desire. Since the time of the Gauls and the Romans, the Visigoths, the Vikings and the Plantagenets, there have been bloody battles, distant echoes of which …”

  “Elisabeth,” Benjamin shouted down to the living room, “Don’t stay on the phone long. I’m waiting for a call.”

  He walked out to the deck that overlooked vineyards and played with Bacchus for quite a while, showing a clear lack of enthusiasm as he threw and threw again a florescent blue plastic bone that Margaux had brought from the United States the previous summer. Then he tossed the hideous object into the garbage can as his dog looked on in disbelief.

  Elisabeth offered him a light meal, which he refused. He preferred to close himself up again in his office, where he reread some juicy passages of Le Chic Anglais, James Darwen’s precious guide for the perfect gentleman. The author’s sharp witticisms, peremptory precepts and delicious bad faith hardly made Benjamin laugh. He set the work down with exaggerated nonchalance in an attempt to control his nervousness. He thought that maybe if he forced himself to relax, his annoyance might be dampened. After five minutes spent drifting, his feet up on his leather Empire desk, he decided to waste away the afternoon of waiting by focusing on the upkeep of his footwear. A John Lobb lover, no matter how wealthy and how many people he has on his staff, cannot entrust his shoe polishing to anyone. What could be more personal than shining his black leather Oxfords and buffing his brown loafers? He had bought each pair with great care on trips to Paris, and he never missed an opportunity to visit the shop on Boulevard Saint-Germain to explore new collections and find old classics. He preferred, however, the store on St. James Street, which he visited every time he went to see his parents in London.

  Cooker spent more than three hours polishing his Lobbs, tirelessly massaging the leather with a light, concentric movement that accentuated the shine. He took pleasure in observing the fullness of the grain, the hue and the amber transparency of his shoes, a harmony just as subtle as the one experienced by the eye, nose and mouth when tasting a grand cru wine. The winemaker was almost calm when the telephone finally rang.

  “I handled your list,” Alain said. “My former colleagues still remember me, and they took care of it in a day. Maybe you could send them a case of Médoc.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t have much to say about the staff members. The steward got a speeding ticket, and one of the workers has filed for divorce, but other than that, there is nothing on the record. They all lead rather calm lives.”

  “And the four interns?”

  “No problem there, either. None have records. They work hard and don’t make any waves. Edouard Camps is still in school and is preparing his dissertation, Antoine Armel found a job on an estate in the Touraine, where he is assistant cellar master, Sébastien Guéret took over the family printing press after his father had a car accident, and David Morin works in sales for a Cognac merchant.”

  “So there’s nothing that stands out, then?” Benjamin said, disappointed.

  “Sorry, bad luck.”

  Cooker hung up after promising to stop by the Delfrancs place to taste his sweetbreads cooked in a Bordeaux sparkling wine. Then he tried to rewrite the piece on the Blaye fortress, although he knew the end result would not be the best.

  “Some say that the body of Roland de Roncevaux lies u
nder Blaye. Charlemagne’s troops transported his corpse in a gold coffin on the back of two mules to the Saint-Romain de Blaye basilica, which was buried in the 17th century by Vauban’s landfilling work. Were you to dig, you would perhaps find Durandal’s sword and the valiant knight’s ivory horn that was immortalized by the song …”

  Benjamin threw the paper into the trash and finally joined his wife, apologizing for being so disagreeable.

  11

  BENJAMIN AND ELISABETH COULD barely hear the bustling Place Saint-Michel on the other side of heavy church doors. They were kneeling near the central aisle, observing the sanctimonious in Sunday dress deserting the benches. The Cooker couple waited until the organist’s last notes had fallen silent before leaving. The Mass had been mediocre, the sermon lacked verve, and the flock dozed or was distracted. When the service was over, they went into the square in front of the church. A flea market had invaded the space at dawn. A colorful crowd moved around the dozens of improvised stands. A huge variety of objects was laid out on the ground: coffee grinders without handles, scratched vinyl records, Louis-Philippe armoires that had been too well restored, stolen car radios, garden ironworks, dusty engravings, windproof lighters and military medals. Benjamin nosed about but didn’t find anything that caught his eye, with the exception of a corkscrew with a brass handle shaped like a pair of legs, one of them with a garter belt. He paid next to nothing for it. Elisabeth followed him, looking detached, and then stopped suddenly in front of an Art Deco sugar bowl that she bought without bothering to haggle.

  “I need to stop in to see the art restorer,” the winemaker said. “Her workshop is open on Sunday mornings.”

  “Let’s be quick about it, Benjamin. I’d like to get home.”

  Pascale Dartigeas greeted the couple with a smile that lit up her face and highlighted her blue-gray eyes. She was standing in front of a seascape whose colors were in dire need of cleaning.