Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (8 page)

G
RANGEBELLE 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 under 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 17
^th
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.

B
ENJAMIN 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.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cooker! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You asked me for a picture to redo that cellar master’s portrait on the Toussaint Roussy.”

“Indeed, show me.”

The winemaker held out the photo-booth pictures and waited for Pascale Dartigeas’ reaction.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Cooker, but you look horrible in this picture. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Cooker?”

“I haven’t even seen these. Show me,” she said. “Yuck, it would have been hard to make you any uglier.”

“What am I going to be able to do with a face like that?” Pascale said, a little vexed.

“I’m counting on your talent to tidy it up,” Benjamin said with a laugh. “You speak the truth, so paint me with the same honesty.”

“I’ll work from memory,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, as if she wanted to grab her client’s mischievous expression and natural distinction.

Elisabeth had wandered to the back of the workshop and was examining the soft pink flesh of a Baroque angel that was flying in the swirls of a long purple scarf.

“Have you made progress on the overmantel?” Cooker asked. “I don’t see your intern.”

“Julie is not here today, but she is working on it, don’t worry,” the restorer said. “It will be finished at the end of the month. Your overmantel is intriguing. I just talked to a man who was examining it and said he owns one just like it.”

“Say again?”

“A rather corpulent man in a wheelchair who came in not more than 10 minutes ago.”

“Do you know who he is?” Cooker asked, suddenly nervous.

“Not at all. It was the first time I’d seen him. He just told me that his was in better shape and that all he had done was clean it by rubbing a cut potato on the varnish. A heresy! That’s an old wives tale that never worked and could ruin a canvas.”

“When did he leave?” Benjamin asked.

“I told you. Ten minutes ago. He went toward the bell tower. His wife was pushing the wheelchair. They can’t be too far.”

The winemaker quickly said goodbye, promising to come back during the week. He grabbed Elisabeth by the wrist, tearing her away from the flying angel. “Quick. It’s important,” he whispered into her ear. She barely had time to say goodbye to Pascale Dartigeas before she found herself outside the store, grasping her husband’s arm. They walked quickly through the stands along the sidewalk in front of the Passage Saint-Michel, stepping over piles of old mechanical parts spread on the pavement, bumping into a grandfather clock and nearly knocking over a very kitsch psychedelic lamp.

“What’s happening, Benjamin?” Elisabeth asked, catching her breath.

“We’re looking for a man in a wheelchair.”

“And you think we’ll find him at the flea market?” she asked.

This was not her husband’s first flight of fancy, and she was used to even more comical situations, but she felt completely lost. Benjamin summed up the conversation she had missed while she was contemplating the celestial creature.

“We absolutely have to find this fellow,” Benjamin continued, lifting his hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun.

His wife did the same and slowly turned to examine the surroundings in a broad circular movement.

“Over there, to the right. That looks like a paraplegic,” she said calmly.

“Where?”

“Near the café, on the other side of the square. His wife is helping him get in the car.”

“I don’t see anything!”

“To the right, I said. She is folding up the wheelchair and putting it in the trunk. It’s a white station wagon with an antenna on the roof.”

“I see it. By the time we cross the square, they’ll be gone already. Follow me.”

The couple ran to the convertible that was parked on the Rue des Allamandiers and started it with a six-cylinder roar that scared a crowd of bystanders, who stepped aside like a single person. They sped around the church and came out on the Rue des Faures. The station wagon was already on the street that led to the Capucins market. Benjamin slowed down a little, reassured that he would not lose the car now. Elisabeth was quiet, holding onto her seat. They drove up the Cours de l’Yser after running a red light as they cut across the Cours de la Marne. When they arrived at the Place Nansouty, the white station wagon had already disappeared behind the clump of flowers in the center of the roundabout, having turned onto the street leading to the Saint-Jean train station.

“What the …?” Benjamin spat out, stopping behind a delivery van that was blocking the road.

“They turned left. Calm down,” his wife said, putting a hand on his arm.

Benjamin kept tapping the steering wheel with his fingers as he waited for the van driver to deign to start up again. Then he rushed onto the Rue Pelleport and slowed down to look into the side streets.

“There they are,” Elisabeth cried out. “They parked on the Rue de Cérons. On the left. She is unfolding the chair.”

“It’s one way. I’ll have to take the next street and go around the block.”

It took them only two minutes to drive around the block, but they arrived too late. They barely caught a glimpse of the wheelchair disappearing into a dull-looking building as the entrance door clacked shut. Cooker stopped his convertible in the middle of the street without turning on his blinker or turning off the engine. He walked up to 36 Rue de Cérons and read the enameled sign above the doorbell: “Yvonne Soulagnet. No soliciting.”

“It’s not right to disturb people this early on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said to his wife. “Since we’re in the neighborhood, let’s go buy some
cannelés
from Laurent Lachenal’s bakery, and we can pick up some of his sesame bread. I’m starving after this little adventure.”

BENJAMIN felt a little muddled after spending two hours in traffic jams. He had just driven across all of greater Bordeaux without putting the top of the convertible up, breathing in gas fumes, his hair gathering the dust from the ongoing construction. When he arrived on the Rue de Cérons, he had no trouble finding a parking spot in front of No. 36. He rang the bell several times before an elderly woman stuck her nose through a crack in the door, which was held firmly by a safety chain. He introduced himself, using a fake name. He didn’t bother to provide any lengthy explanations, preferring to get directly to the point.

“I’m looking for a disabled man who was here yesterday. I know that he likes paintings, and I would like to talk to him about a canvas that could interest him.”

“I live alone,” the woman mumbled.

She had a husky voice that didn’t seem to go with her frail body. Her yellowing complexion was wrinkled like a baked apple, and she had sparse hair and hunched shoulders.

“Excuse me for insisting, Mrs. Soulagnet, but I am sure that he will be happy to meet me. I have a painting that I’m certain will interest him.”

“Another lousy painting that does nothing,” the old woman said. “The house is full of them.”

“I promise you that Mr. Soulagnet will really …”

“That’s not his name! He’s my son-in-law. Unfortunately. My poor daughter fell in love with a good-for-nothing, instead of his brother, who knew how to make money. It’s a good thing my grandson was able to take over the business. Paintings don’t feed the family!”

“You are right, Madame, but please, allow me to insist.”

“You are stubborn aren’t you?” the old woman chuckled.

“At least give me his name and address so that I can get in touch with him. I won’t bother you anymore.”

“Gilles Guéret. He is a printer in Bègles. You’ll find him in the phone book. The
Béglais Pratique
free sheet is his. My grandson’s Sébastien Guéret. He’s in charge there now.”

Then she let out a grumble in the guise of a goodbye and slammed the door.

Benjamin walked slowly back to his Mercedes, looking concerned. He turned the key, began to leave the parking space and then suddenly cut the engine. He grabbed his cell phone and called Virgile.

“Where are you?”

“Hello. I’m at Moniales. I’m finishing up with the samples to bring them to the lab.”

“We can see that later.”

“But, sir, Alexandrine is waiting for them.”

“I said later! Does the name Sébastien Guéret ring a bell?”

There was a brief silence and the crackling of the telephone was annoying to Cooker’s ear.

“He was an intern on the list. We went to the same wine school, but I didn’t know him very well. He wasn’t in my class. He is two years younger than I am. We talked to each other occasionally.”

“Excellent. You will need to get in touch with him right away.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Figure something out. He’s running a printing press that publishes an advertising paper. Find something to sell and go there now. It’s in Bègles, the Guéret Press. It’s not that complicated. I’m sure you’ll find it in the industrial park.”

“Something to sell?”

“Anything, it doesn’t matter. Be there in a half an hour.”

“Maybe my car? It’s a rundown Renault 5. I don’t have any idea how much it’s worth.”

“It doesn’t matter, I told you. Run an ad and try to talk to this Sébastien Guéret. Dig around, ask questions and bring back what you can.”

“So I don’t even go to the lab?” Virgile asked.

“It’s urgent! You should be on your way already!”

“I’d say, sir, that things are picking up.”

“It’s about time!”