Grand Cru Heist (2 page)

“And you’ve got all those notes in your head,” Virgile added, also putting his hand on his boss’s shoulder.

Just then, a cell phone rang.

“It’s probably Elisabeth worrying about me,” Cooker said. “Oh, it’s you, darling? My little Margaux. I’m happy to hear your voice.”

A smile came over his face. Virgile and Carole caught each other’s eye and left Cooker, who was already looking more optimistic.

2

At the bottom of the valley, the Indre River flowed through patches of reverent willow trees. It was January, but it felt like an aging autumn in this part of the Touraine region. Lazy cows grazed in the pasture, just as they had in the summer. From the terrace of the Château de La Tortinière, Benjamin Cooker stared at the blurry lines of the landscape. In the distance, the Montbazon castle showed off its tower from another era. The Virgin Mary that rose above the edifice would have been demoralized by the ruins of the fortress. Recently, city workers had pulled off the ivy that had overgrown the fortifications, perhaps offering some redemption to the copper statue.

“Rest.” Everyone—his doctors, of course, but also Elisabeth, Margaux, Virgile, and the others—kept saying the same thing. Sometimes Benjamin Cooker showed worrisome symptoms, with long silences that nobody dared to interrupt.

“This kind of attack is a violation, Mr. Cooker,” a psychiatrist had told him in the hospital. “You will need weeks, perhaps even months to move on.”

Cooker had closed his eyes. He was not convinced that Grangebelle, his retreat-like home in the Médoc, was the ideal spot for his convalescence. He needed new surroundings and new people.

He told Elisabeth and Virgile that he had chosen the Touraine because he still had a lot to learn about the wines in that region. He had visited the Loire River valley several times in the past. Vouvray, Bourgueil, and Chinon had pleased his palate, and he had often promised himself that he would explore this area further. It was known as France’s garden, and the vineyards grew in the shadow of stone lacework castles. His stroke of bad luck had actually become an ideal pretext to wander the vineyards, even though they were bare at this time of year.

Cooker intended to stay until January 22, Saint Vincent’s feast day. It was a symbolic choice. Saint Vincent was the patron saint of winegrowers, and with a little luck, the day would be “clear and beautiful” for “more wine than water,” as the saying went. Elisabeth arrived with him and spent a few days, but she had to return to Grangebelle to take care of their dog, Bacchus, who did not appreciate it when they were away too long.

“Can’t you come home, Benjamin? I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone. You’re going to be bored in that hotel during the off season.”

“Me, bored? With everything there is to see and drink? Don’t worry, my love. I need to get my head together before I go home. If I set one foot in Grangebelle, I’d have to go to the office. I couldn’t resist.”

Aware that Elisabeth was not particularly reassured, Cooker saw her off on the bullet train from Saint-Pierre-des-Corps to the Bordeaux-Saint-Jean station, where Alicia Santamaria, the Spanish immigrant who lived with Grangebelle’s gardener, came to get her.

Elisabeth called her husband to say she had arrived safely and told him that Alicia had once again railed against France’s lax immigration policies. Alicia blamed them for the country’s rise in violent crime. In her mind, the assailants were probably North African.

“
Por Díos
, I can’t believe what happened to monsieur!” Alicia had said, her Spanish accent tinged with Gascon. “They let everyone into France.
Qué misería
.”

At Château de La Tortinière, Cooker knew he would find the solitude he needed to get over his fear of driving in cities and people asking him for a light. But he didn’t quite know how he would get through the weeks ahead of him.

He dropped into a rattan chair that beckoned in front of the balustrade. He wasn’t feeling faint, but he did need to catch his breath. Cooker was about to ask for a glass of water but thought better of it. The concierge, Gaétan, was right there, looking concerned.

“It’s nothing. I’d like a Bourgueil from the Domaine du Bel Air. Do you have some?”

He felt better when he saw Gaétan rush off, taking the stairs two at a time and then returning promptly. Cooker seemed to regain his sense of self before the wine glass was even full of the dark red liquid. He lifted the glass to his nose, while Gaétan, looking like a dignified Greek statue on a spacious estate, held the bottle, waiting for a verdict that would be brutally honest. The winemaker sniffed aromas of berries and spices and picked up a few woody notes before bringing the glass to his lips. He savored the Bourgueil with the mannerisms of an experienced wine taster. He rolled the mouthful like a billiard ball on a pool table, lining his palate so as not to miss any of the full, round, ripe tannins in this excellent wine. From time to time, he clicked his tongue to refine his judgment. The concierge waited for the final decision. Cooker patted the chair next to him, beckoning the young man to sit down.

“I cannot enjoy this pleasure alone,” Cooker said. Gaétan looked flattered by the invitation.

Cooker was the only guest at the hotel, so they could enjoy this luxury. La Tortinière would close for the season shortly, and the staff had been cut back.

Cooker shared his impressions of the wine. The concierge was hardly a novice and had a fairly refined palate himself. Cooker had found an ally, not unlike Virgile. Gaétan and Virgile were both about the same age, with expressive faces, a sense of humor, and a little clumsiness that made them charming.

Cooker and Gaétan chatted until the sun had disappeared behind La Tortinière’s turrets. Cooker could no longer see Montbazon, and the cows had disappeared from the pasture as if by magic. The winemaker felt a chill and returned to his room. He would order dinner from room service before calling it a night. Tucked in his pocket was the hotel chef’s recipe for saffron honey ice that Gaétan had gotten for him. Elisabeth would enjoy it.

Cooker went to sleep with Madame de Mortsauf. He had stopped at an antique book stand in the city of Tours and picked up a leather-bound copy of Honoré de Balzac’s
The Lily of the Valley
that, curiously, had been used to dry flowers. Yellowed linden leaves and flower petals garnished every chapter, like exquisite bookmarks. The book gave off faded floral aromas, and Cooker devoured the novel. La Tortinière was his. He was alone in this manor that smelled of wax polish and holly. The owners lived in another building a hundred yards away.

“You’re the master of the house,” owner Anne Olivereau had said with a genuine charm that impressed the wine expert.

He had no bad dreams that night. Cooker was healing. The next day, he would get back to writing his guide. He had not told his editor what had happened and did not intend to. Saying nothing about it was a matter of pride.

§ § §

When Cooker woke up, he spotted a Morgan Plus 8 parked majestically in front of La Tortinière. It was deep green, very English, and gleamed on the white gravel. The winemaker smiled and left his room to admire the sports car. Such a jewel deserved respect. He was sure that its owner was a subject of Her Majesty the Queen.

The license plate proved Cooker correct. He caressed the chrome, as he would a sleeping tiger. He walked around the car several times, peering in the windows to examine the convertible’s interior.

A Morgan! He had dreamed of this car since he was a kid. The mechanics were way too fragile, but nothing could top it for luxury and elegance. Twenty years earlier, he had almost bought a very fine model that had belonged to French novelist André Malraux’s son. But by the time he had convinced the bank to lend him the money, the beautiful English car had been snatched up by some fifteen-minute celebrity. The winemaker had never gotten over it and had fallen back on his Mercedes 280SL, which he now missed.

The concierge came to greet him and listened to Cooker expound on the car: how it could hold the road, the custom interior, the fine cylinders, and the specific sound its exhaust made. Gaétan was not particularly passionate about vintage cars but nevertheless asked a number of questions that Cooker was happy to answer. In exchange, Gaétan gave Cooker the name of the owner, a certain Sir Robert Morton, a middle-aged man accompanied by a gorgeous young blond woman who spoke “approximate” French and seemed to come from some Eastern Bloc country.

“They arrived at dawn, demanded a copious breakfast served with champagne—he wanted nothing but Moët—and asked not to be disturbed under any circumstances,” Gaétan said, lifting an eyebrow.

The young man looked up at the lovers’ room, where the shutters were closed. Cooker imagined the couple intertwined under wrinkled sheets. Surely, it was some secret liaison that had found refuge in this isolated hotel.

“I’ll take my tea in the small dining room,” Cooker said, rubbing his hands in anticipation of meeting this Mr. Morton.

He was impatient to see the mysterious owner of the Morgan and his conquest. He wolfed down two croissants and drank three cups of tea. Then the winemaker had to go see the car again. The air was brisk, but the sight of the chrome reflecting the January sun revved Cooker’s imagination. With his British background, he would find the right civilities and some common ground with these people, who shared his passion. He was already imagining himself riding through the countryside behind the wheel of that convertible. But the shutters remained hopelessly closed.

The concierge told Cooker about the pleasant walks in the area, down by the river. He opted for just a short walk around the hotel grounds, which were covered with moss and ivy. A number of trees watched over the La Tortinière manor. Lebanese cedars, Japanese pagoda trees, sequoias, and several varieties of evergreens formed a huge nave that even bright sun had trouble penetrating. The solitary walker tried to see the tops of each, but clearly the trees that surrounded the hotel were much older than the building.

The winemaker remembered what Gaétan had told him the evening before. La Tortinière’s architect had been inspired by Charles Perrault’s legendary
Sleeping Beauty
, even though the author had set his fairy tale in the Château d’Ussé, which was not far away. Cooker, however, refused to transform Mr. Morton into Prince Charming. He imagined him plump, slightly potbellied, wearing designer clothes. His Gold Card had to be the source of unimaginable charm, capable of seducing a Lolita who had managed to escape the streets of Budapest. But this Morton fellow did get the benefit of the doubt. He could not be completely lacking in taste if he drove a Morgan Plus 8.

Cooker walked deeper into the vegetation. Frozen leaves crackled under his shoes. A squirrel caught his attention and then took off on a path festooned with red berries. A slate-roofed farm appeared among the trees. Leading to it was an old drive lined with what looked like two-hundred-year-old holly bushes. Cooker was about to investigate when he heard steps behind him. He winced before recognizing a familiar voice. “Mr. Cooker, Mr. Cooker. There’s a phone call for you.”

Gaétan was out of breath, and his nose and cheeks were bright red from the cold. He asked Cooker to return to the hotel. The caller hadn’t given his name, but he wanted to talk to the winemaker right away.

“It’s urgent and personal,” the young man said. “That’s all that he told me.”

Walking quickly, Cooker followed Gaétan but soon had to ask him to slow down because he couldn’t keep up. When they arrived in front of the hotel, Cooker was disappointed to see that the Morgan was gone.

“Have Mr. Morton and his protégé already run off?” he asked.

“Rest assured, he’s just gone to Tours in search of cigars, leaving his princess to sleep,” Gaétan answered with a wink.

Cooker was liking this Morton more and more. Not only did he appreciate English cars and pretty women, but he also had an affinity for cigars. The man had to be an epicurean. With so much in common, they were destined to meet.

Cooker took the phone that sat on the marble reception desk.

“Hubert? What a surprise.”

Cooker was happy to have his friend on the line. They hadn’t spoken since some international tycoon had the gall to make an offer on his estate. Hubert had refused, of course. Château Angélus had been in the family for eight generations.

Hubert asked him how he was feeling. Yes, Cooker told him, he was feeling better. Yes, he was recovering his appetite for life. No, he had no news about his convertible, nor about his briefcase, but he still hoped to get his tasting notes back. They were of no interest to anyone but himself.

“But tell me, Hubert, what wouldn’t you do to get people talking about your wine? I read in the paper that your Angélus is popular with thieves. Great publicity!”

Cooker noticed Gaétan listening discreetly as he arranged bottles of brandy on the shelves behind the bar. But he continued to speak loudly, as if he were alone in the hotel.

“It’s a strange thing that happened. What is that you said?”

After every pause, the winemaker responded, “No! That’s unbelievable.”

Cooker saw that the concierge was even more curious about his mysterious half-sentences.

“It’s a joke! Someone sent you a cryptic play on the Angélus devotion to the Virgin Mother—‘Hail Hubert, full of grace. The Lord is with you, but your wine is not.’ Whoever it is, he has a wicked sense of humor. I’m surprised he didn’t send a bell, along with the card. It’s too bad I only write guidebooks, because this would make a great novel, my friend.”

The winemaker was now sitting in the golden leather armchair, as if to better enjoy the comical story his old friend Hubert de Boüard de Laforest was recounting.

But as Cooker continued to talk, he realized that Hubert didn’t think that this was anything to joke about.

“Really, Hubert, it’s just a prank. Why are you taking it so seriously?”

The two friends spoke for a long while, until an elegant figure made a noisy entrance in the château lobby. Cooker supposed it was the infamous Mr. Morton and gave him a slight nod while continuing the commentary on his friend’s story. Then he cut the conversation short. “All you can do now is wait. If more of your wine is stolen, I suggest that you go talk to the police.”