Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) (10 page)

16

To launch his Beaujolais Nouveau in a big way, Guillaume Périthiard had orchestrated quite an event. He would inundate the Rue Montergeuil in Paris with his wine. He had received authorization to close off the street and put up stands, placards, tables, and country decorations. Even the mayor would probably attend the inauguration, thanks to the influence of one of Périthiard’s childhood friends, a sophisticated left-leaning ideologist adept at being all things to all people.

“Elisabeth will meet us in Paris, Virgile,” Benjamin told his assistant. “We’ll have to make the drive via Beaujolais. It’s rather out of the way.”

“Well, we do have to taste Périthiard’s
primeur
.”

When they arrived at Maison Coultard-Périthiard, Benjamin was quick to note that Guillaume Périthiard looked triumphant. They joined the warehouse supervisor, the winery manager, the press officer, and the accountant to taste the new wine.

Unlike the early years, when Beaujolais Nouveau had high levels of isoamyl acetate that gave it a characteristic odor of bananas, this wine’s aromas were subtle, oscillating between licorice and berries and combining a range of notes that were hard to discern with the first mouthful.

“Good balance, lively acidity, and bright fruit flavors,” Benjamin said.

“Smells a bit like peony,” Virgile said, glancing at his boss to see if he agreed.

Benjamin nodded. “It leaves a subtle flavor in the mouth and coos in the throat. It has body, and it’s alert and supple.”

Annabelle joined them. “I can only stay a minute,” she said as Virgile handed her a stemmed glass. “We’ve got some shipping issues to resolve.”

She took a sip, smiled, and gave them a wink.

“I’m off,” she said, turning around and heading back toward the door. “Clients on three continents are waiting for us.”

Benjamin, always one to share his knowledge, turned to his assistant.

“You know, Virgile, Beaujolais Nouveau was not, as many believe, the result of a simple marketing strategy, but instead rose naturally, in accordance with ancestral practices. From time immemorial, wine has been celebrated when it’s young, at the start of fermentation. Centuries ago winemakers traded early in the year, and the yeast would complete its job while the barrels were in transit, moving slowly by carriage or boat along the Saône and Rhône rivers or up the Loire. It was distributed in 46-cl bottles called
pots de Beaujolais
.”

Benjamin wasn’t sure when Beaujolais became known as the “third river of Lyon,” but he liked the expression. This convivial wine, served at picnics and during games of
pétanque
, grabbed the attention of Parisian journalists during World War II, when they took refuge in Lyon. When the journalists returned to Paris after the war, they encouraged their own bistros to carry the wine.

In addition to this media attention, Beaujolais won a regulatory break after the war. According to law, AOC wines couldn’t be sold before mid-December, but Beaujolais vintners made a fuss and finally received an exception on November 13, 1951. Regulations covering
primeur
wines from the region were loosened. They could be sold a good month before other AOC wines.

In the years that followed, Parisian cafés did their own propaganda for Beaujolais Nouveau, as did the vintners. Then, in the seventies, the well-known French author René Fallet wrote
Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrivé
—Beaujolais Nouveau is here—which was made into a movie. By then, the arrival of Beaujolais Nouveau every November had become a celebrated event, and the wine was more popular than ever. Sales, however, peaked in the nineteen eighties.

“Today, Beaujolais Nouveau exports are down, while Cru Beaujolais is up nearly six percent,” Virgile said.

“I see you’ve been doing your homework.”

“Still, other regions are trying to get a piece of the action with
primeur
wines: Côtes du Rhône, Gaillac, and Touraine. Even Italy puts out a
vino novello
.”

“Have you ever tried
bourrus
, the
nouveau
wine from Bordeaux?” Benjamin asked.

“Last year I went down to the Rue Notre Dame, off the Rue des Chartrons. It was quite a party, with bands, tons of people, and hundreds of bottles of
bourrus
. We burned our fingers on the roasted chestnuts. But I couldn’t drink more than one glass of the stuff. It was too acidic for me.”

“I’m the same, but sometimes wine doesn’t have to be such a serious thing.”

“You’re right, boss. And I’m guessing that this was the first time many of the young people there had even tried wine. As long as they didn’t overdo it and weren’t getting behind the wheel of a car, what was the harm?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Virgile. Of course, I’m all for initiating young people to light, fruity vintages. Why not—as long as it’s done at an appropriate age and in the right circumstances. It’s a good introduction for a generation that grew up on soda, but young people also need to understand the culture behind wine, to broaden their tastes, and to understand the subtle difference between
terroirs
, grape varieties, and winemaking choices. They need to learn that they’re drinking more than fermented grape juice, that wine is a whole civilization, an
art de vivre
, a worldview. In any case, Beaujolais is a lighthearted wine that makes people happy. And what makes people happy is fine with me…”

Benjamin and Virgile talked for quite some time, and Guillaume Périthiard stepped away to go over final preparations and shipping with his staff. It was getting dark when he rejoined the winemaker and his assistant, who were discussing floral notes, yield, and copper sulfate.

“Don’t you ever get tired of talking about wine?” he said. “We’re closing, and I’m exhausted. I’ll walk you out to your car.”

Périthiard ushered the two men outside and locked the door. The three began walking through the parking lot. Just as they were reaching Benjamin’s car, Virgile started and grabbed the winemaker’s elbow.

“Shit!” he yelled. “What’s that thing?”

“What thing, Virgile?” Benjamin responded. “Did you see a ghost?”

“It certainly looks that way. Look over there,” Virgile said, pointing into the darkness.

“Where?”

“There, near the garage, to the right, in the back.”

“I don’t see anything,” Périthiard said.

Virgile rushed into the darkness, leaving his companions behind.

“What’s he chasing?” Périthiard asked.

“I have no idea,” Benjamin said calmly. “But with his rugby thighs and those fancy sneakers of his, we’d be foolish to try to catch up with him.”

“Does he take off like that often?”

“Shh. Listen.”

They heard muffled cries from the back of the property, clanking metal, and the thud of a body falling to the ground, all punctuated with curses. Then nothing. Benjamin and Périthiard perked their ears and scanned the darkness.

A moment later, Virgile reappeared from the shadows, panting and looking furious.

“What happened to you, son? Look at the state you’re in.”

Virgile bent over as he tried to catch his breath. “That asshole slipped through my fingers. He jumped over the fence. I think I know who it was.”

“Who?” Périthiard asked.

“Look at my clothes. They’re all dirty and gunky. Gross.”

“Who was it?” Périthiard raised his voice this time.

“I’m not positive. I caught a glimpse of his face, and I recognized the sound of that engine.”

“For God’s sake, spit it out.”

“It was an Audi. It was Mr. Chavannes.”

“Are you serious?” Périthiard said. “Maybe you’ve had too much Beaujolais.”

“Go ahead and tell me I can’t hold my booze while you’re questioning my faculties,” Virgile shot back.

Guillaume Périthiard stormed off, jumped into his car, and revved the engine. As he sped away, Benjamin handed Virgile a handkerchief to wipe off his clothes. They were covered with a gooey substance and spattered with gravel.

17

“Road closed for Beaujolais Nouveau Festival.” A red and yellow banner flapped at the corner of the Rue Etienne-Marcel and the Rue Montorgueil in Paris. The staff of Maison Coultard-Périthiard had spent a large part of the day deploying signs announcing the introduction of the wine. Radio and television reporters had already been given samples and asked to weigh in. Most agreed that the Beaujolais Nouveau was an “easy-drinking wine” with more raspberry than licorice and no banana overtones.

The shops and cafés had all signed on. They had posted the price per glass on their blackboards. And on this day, at least, the unpretentious Beaujolais was a bit pricey. Meanwhile, all the fine food shops were planning to feature Coultard-Périthiard wines, rather than Dujaray’s. There were posters, displays, corkscrews, strings of lights, and smiling hostesses wearing aprons bearing the Maison Coultard-Périthiard logo. Everything was ready to mark the midnight arrival of Beaujolais Nouveau.

But there was one problem: the wine had not arrived. It was four in the afternoon, and the Périthiard delivery trucks were stuck on the shoulder of the A6 highway, near Auxerre. The trucks’ engines had knocked, pinged, and finally given up the ghost.

“Damn. We must have gotten bad fuel at the warehouse,” Roger, the most senior driver, yelled as he slammed down the hood of his truck. He had been with the Maison Coultard since 1975. “And today, of all days. It’s like someone put sugar in the tanks.”

“That can’t be,” one of the other drivers answered. “My tank was empty this morning, and I filled it up myself.”

“So someone tampered with the fuel in the warehouse tanks.”

When he pulled his Maserati GranSport into a spot reserved for deliveries near the Rue Montorgueil, the businessman could hardly contain his satisfaction at seeing all the banners bearing his logo. That afternoon, at the City Hall, he had been assured that the mayor would be present at the festivities, although the chief of staff couldn’t confirm exactly when this most-important official would walk down the street with his glass in hand. There would be the mandatory photo op, which Guillaume Périthiard’s press officer had insisted on, and it would be sent to news agencies far and wide.

Périthiard looked at his Blancpain watch, got out of his car, and adjusted his jacket. He spotted one of his managers coming to meet him and wondered why he looked so defeated—on this day, of all days. The manager didn’t have time to finish telling him about the trucks before Périthiard was on his cell phone and yelling at Annabelle Malisset.

“You call that an ‘incident’? It’s a catastrophe! We’ll be discredited forever.”

Périthiard hung up before she could get out any excuses. He stomped up and down the sidewalk, continually looking at his watch, whose hands just kept ticking.

Périthiard called each of his drivers. He considered getting a convoy of trucks from a rental agency, but his vehicles were parked on the side of the highway, not at a rest area, so it would be dangerous, if not impossible, to unload them. If he called the highway patrol, there would be bad press for sure. There wasn’t much time left, and his carefully planned inauguration was unraveling, minute by minute.

When Annabelle joined him in the small prosperous café at the Rue Mandar and the Rue Montorgueil, Guillaume Périthiard stared daggers at her. He had his cell phone stuck to his ear. His forehead was sweaty, and his cheeks were flushed with rage. For the first time in his long career, he felt he had lost control of his destiny, a future he had forged with ambition, a little luck, and a lot of obstinacy.

“You should call Mr. Cooker,” Annabelle said.

“What help could that Englishman be? To my knowledge, he doesn’t work in transportation.”

“No, but until now, he’s been your best ally.”

“That’s not the point.”

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

Périthiard looked at his Blancpain one more time before deciding to enter Benjamin’s number on his cell phone. He stood up and walked away to keep the call private.

“I suspect, Mr. Périthiard, that your recent nocturnal visitor sabotaged a fuel tank,” Benjamin told him.

“The bastard.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Benjamin said.

“I’m going to file charges right away.”

“On what basis? Trespassing? I wouldn’t think you’re in a good position to do that. We don’t have definitive proof that he was the one Virgile saw that night, and I don’t think that even you have the influence to get him arrested on just our suspicions.”

“I’m not asking for your opinion on the kind of influence I do or don’t have.”

“If you wish to be out front, then act as if you were behind.”

“What?”

“Lao Tzu.”

“What would you do?” Périthiard asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I’ll do what I can. You do nothing but find someone who can transport some wine from your warehouse to the Rue Montorgueil. I presume you have enough stock in the warehouse, and you don’t absolutely need what’s in the disabled trucks.”

“How am I going to find a trucker at this hour?”

“Pretend you have a blank check.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pretend that you don’t need to worry about the cost. You probably don’t need more than a quarter of an hour to find someone. Ask Ms. Malisset. She must know a trucking company that’s willing to make a last-minute run for the right price.”

Very unlike himself, Guillaume Périthiard didn’t know how to respond. “I’ll do what I can,” was all that he could say.

Benjamin said good-bye and called his assistant.

“Virgile, what are you doing?”

“Installing that new software you made me buy. You said we weren’t leaving until later in the day, so I’m keeping myself busy.”

“We’re going to invite ourselves to tea at the Chavannes agency. Get ready.”

Benjamin knew that Virgile didn’t like driving into Lyon, with all the traffic circles, red lights, and radar. The impediments kept him from making time. Nevertheless, Virgile drove quickly, ignoring as many rules of the road as possible. Benjamin didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes on the screen of his cell phone and occasionally on his Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, whose steel hands were moving too fast to suit him.

“Still no call from Périthiard,” he finally said.

It was four forty when the convertible pulled up in front the posh mansion that served as the office of the Chavannes Agency on the Quais de Saône.

Through the front window, Benjamin saw a secretary talking to a very proper couple. There was a light in Mr. Chavannes’s second-floor office. The winemaker and his assistant hurried out of the car and into the agency. Benjamin told Virgile to stay downstairs. Seeing Benjamin heading for the stairs, the secretary tried to intervene.

“I know the way,” Benjamin said, pushing past her and starting up the stairs.

When the winemaker burst into Eric Chavannes’s office, the real estate agent was on the phone, negotiating a sale.

His voice trailed off when he saw Benjamin, and his face went pale.

“Yes, fine. I’ll call tomorrow. My best to your wife. That’s right, tomorrow at three thirty.”

Eric Chavannes hung up and leaned back in his Empire chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“You can’t do anything for me. But for yourself, you may still have time to save your skin before—”

“Before what?” Chavannes said.

“Before charges of sabotaging Maison Coultard-Périthiard are brought against you. I believe you will be visiting the Lyon jail shortly,” the winemaker said.

The man’s hand trembled as he smoothed his white hair. He looked at Benjamin and then away, muttering something incomprehensible.

The cell phone in Benjamin’s hand lit up, and the name Périthiard appeared on the screen. The winemaker put the phone to his ear and listened.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll have the check made out to Transports Eychenne in Caluire-et-Cuire. And how much will it be? Fine.”

Chavannes looked back at Benjamin.

“Of course, Inspector,” he said. “If he refuses, there will be serious consequences.”

Benjamin cut Périthiard’s confused questions short, saying only “thank you, Inspector,” and ending the call.

Virgile joined his employer just as Eric Chavannes was pulling out his checkbook.

“The first check will cover the cost of renting the replacement trucks, and the second will cover the cost of repairing the three trucks stuck on the highway not far from Auxerre and emptying and cleaning the gas tanks at the warehouse,” Benjamin said. You see, it’s like buying an old house. There are always expensive surprises.”

Benjamin and Virgile left Lyon as the sun set behind the Fourvière hill and the rooftops of the old city slipped into soft, foggy shadows.

Once again, Virgile was driving, and Benjamin found the moment too delightful not to light a cigar. He took out two Davidoff robustos and offered one to his assistant.

“No thanks, boss. Maybe later.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, son. Benjamin capped his robusto and flicked his lighter. The smell of fresh humus soon filled the car. He opened the window and switched on his favorite classical-music station. In the distance, he could barely make out the Saint Jean des Vignes steeple and the foliage on the Mont d’Or.

“So Chavannes blamed Périthiard for his wife’s death.”

“Yes. Just one more obstacle for Guillaume Périthiard to overcome.”

“You must have some quote, as he’s had quite a hard run.”

“‘Perseverance, the secret of all triumphs.’ Victor Hugo.”

At the toll booth, a large blue sign read, “Paris 444 km.”

“Don’t panic, boss. We’ll reach the Rue Montorgueil before midnight.”

“But midnight will be too late. The Beaujolais will already be flooding Paris.”