Grand Cru Heist (5 page)

6

To celebrate Virgile’s arrival, Benjamin Cooker uncorked a bottle of Bonnezeaux from the Petits-Quarts estate, a 1997 Le Malabé. The honey-colored wine was just as sweet as it should be, full of fruit and flowers. It was the perfect accompaniment to convivial conversation. Virgile admitted that he knew nothing about this wine, which came from three small shale hills overlooking the village of Thouarcé.

Cooker just had to slip outside, his glass in hand, to admire his car. The convertible had not suffered during its absence. It was as shiny as it had been the day he bought it. There was just a little scratch on the right side.

“I had to show my credentials to get the keys, and I almost came back empty-handed,” Virgile recounted, clearly satisfied with having brought his boss’s wheels back.

“The Germans are a bit persnickety, to say the least,” Cooker said, still delighting in his car.

“Worse than that, I’d say, more like pains in the ass.”

“A true German can’t stand the French, but he gladly drinks their wines. I’m not the first person to say this. I’m quoting a German writer. Who do you think it is?”

“Um, I’d say Goethe,” the assistant guessed, looking a little embarrassed.

“Congratulations, Virgile. You always surprise me.”

“I don’t deserve any praise. He’s the only German writer I know. By the way, you have forty-eight hours to change the license plates, or else you’ll have more problems on your hands. There’s a special permit from the Leipzig police in the glove compartment.”

“It’ll be done tomorrow,” Cooker said.

“So we’re not hitting the road tonight?” Virgile asked.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, considering all the miles you’ve just driven.”

“I don’t feel tired at all.”

“But I do,” Cooker said firmly.

“You’re still recuperating, sir.”

“True, but that isn’t the only thing that’s been on my mind,” the winemaker said, knitting his bushy eyebrows. “Strange things have been happening here.”

“What kind of strange things?”

“Two crimes in under twenty-four hours.”

“And that’s all?” Virgile said, whistling. “Yes, strange things, as you say.”

“And I haven’t told you the half of it.”

“Well you have either told me too much or too little. Two crimes—that’s something.”

“I agree.”

The wrinkles on Cooker’s forehead deepened, making him look even more pensive, and then he added, “The Bonnezeaux awaits us. We don’t want it to get too warm.”

“In the meantime, you’re teasing me. What’s the weapon? Who are the victims? Is there a motive?”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“That doesn’t seem like you.”

“And yet that’s the way it is. But this is not a conversation to have without a drink. Quick, let’s go in.”

They stopped at the reception desk, and Cooker reserved a room for his assistant. Then they found a small lounge where they could discuss Oksana’s murder and Gaétan’s supposed suicide. Virgile listened attentively. He looked perplexed. Then he said, “I really like the aromas of ripe, almost candied fruit, the citrus and exotic fruit, along with a hint of toasted…”

Cooker was surprised. This was not what he expected to hear from Virgile. Then he thought better of it and followed his assistant’s lead. “I wonder if I don’t prefer the following year. It’s in the same range, with flattering aromas, concentrated flavor, and a fine finale. It is very representative of the appellation—both intense and light, refined and flowery, without being diluted. It is always refreshing but with a kind of warmth. Bonnezeaux is a sure bet, like the Coteaux du Layon, and they age well. One day, we will come back to explore the Anjou wines under circumstances that are, well, calmer. I am sure you’ll like it here.”

“You are in brilliant form, Mr. Cooker! I’m happy to see you like this, after what you have been through. But I still don’t know if you invited me to the Loire Valley to get your car back or to help you unravel this strange case of an Eastern European whore who was bumped off for who-knows-what reason.”

“You wouldn’t talk like that if you had met Oksana.”

“Which means?”

“The Virgile I know would have been all over her in a minute and not too long thereafter in her bed.”

“No, that is for other men. For an inexperienced concierge, perhaps, or a lonely hotel guest suffering from midlife lust. That’s not my style. You understand, don’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Cooker said, clearly goading Virgile.

“I never was very good at drawing pictures.”

“Then I’ll let you off the hook. But follow through on your thoughts. I’m interested.”

Cooker had picked up the bottle of wine and was preparing to fill Virgile’s glass. The young man stopped him.

“I’m no cop, but I’d bet a case of your Bonnezeaux that this has something to do with Morton, the Morgan Man.”

“What makes you so sure of yourself?”

Cooker was not ready to accept this suggestion. Robert Morton, the refined and cultivated dandy who had been his well-mannered compatriot for a day, had to be an honest man. He would bet on it. He was prepared to stand up for Morton’s integrity. Except that he knew absolutely nothing about this person, who said he worked in wines but had no business card to show for it.

“He said he had to leave right away for an important meeting in Bordeaux,” Cooker said without much conviction.

“In Bordeaux. Well, well.”

“There’s nothing unusual about that for an international wine broker.”

“If you say so,” Virgile said. “Then we just might run into him. You can’t cross the Aquitaine Bridge in a Morgan Plus 8 without being noticed. So, sir, tell me, do you know a lot of English brokers who drive across France in that kind of convertible, when vintage car collectors are hard pressed to take that kind of car out of the garage once a year?”

The winemaker did not like the young man’s tone, but he had to admit he had no arguments to counter Virgile’s line of reasoning. With his innocent air, Virgile had once again found faults in a pristine picture.

§ § §

For the first time since he had arrived in the Touraine region, Cooker had no trouble falling asleep. Calm had returned to La Tortinière. They departed at the first light of dawn. Cooker left a thank-you note at the reception desk while Virgile put their bags in the car. Then the winemaker slipped into the beige driver’s seat. He rubbed the leather-covered steering wheel and the walnut dashboard. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror. Finally, he turned the key and revved the engine. Virgile was already asleep by the time they got onto the A10 highway.

Cooker turned the radio down low, so as not to disturb his sleeping assistant, who had a smile on his lips. He appeared to be having a sweet dream.

Cooker was enjoying the pleasure of driving and the anticipation of seeing Elisabeth and returning to his offices. Yet as the day went on, his anxiety began to rise. His retreat in a setting as refined at La Tortinière was meant to provide him with needed rest, but he was not feeling rested at all. He thought he could heal himself, but had he chosen the right remedy? The time spent in pampered elegance had only put off the fear of once again being in crowds and dealing with the everyday realities of life. Quick, nervous questions shot through his mind. They were choppy, like the white lines on the highway.

Cooker grew tired of the radio commentator’s conventional analysis of the Israel-Palestine situation. He preferred listening to a CD of Marianne Faithfull that was in his glove compartment. The first track was his favorite. It was called “Sleep.”

Virgile had curled up on his seat. He grumbled, sounding just like Bacchus, and crossed his arms. Cooker turned up the heat. He, too, was getting cold. Marianne Faithfull’s throaty voice reassured him. It was warm and vibrant, melding smoothly into the orchestration.

Virgile mumbled, “Where are we?” He fell back asleep before Cooker had time to answer.

Large clouds rolled over the Charentes region, and a hard rain began to fall. The windshield wipers had trouble keeping up. A sign announced “Next Exit, Saint-Jean-d’Angély.” They would be back in Bordeaux in two hours.

When the Mercedes began to shake, Virgile rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch, and then glanced at his boss, who was clearly alarmed. The vibrating was becoming even more pronounced.

“Shit!” Cooker shouted. “What did those bastards do to my car? Was it shaking like this when you drove from Leipzig?”

“No, it was fine, boss,” Virgile responded. “Maybe we blew a tire. We should check.”

Cooker pulled the car to the side of the road and got out to inspect the tires. All four seemed to be okay.

“We’d better find a service station,” Virgile said.

Cooker glanced around and said, “Let’s get off at the Saint-Savinien exit. It shouldn’t be far now, and I’ve heard it’s got just about the only roadside restaurant worth consideration on this road to Bordeaux. At least we could make the best of a bad situation.”

The shaking didn’t let up, and the two men stayed alert while Marianne Faithfull kept vigil. To be safe, when they reached the exit, Cooker took the first road after the tollbooth.

They found a service station that no longer sold gas but did do repairs. A rusty sign read “Dollo et Fils.” A man in dirty overalls pulled himself out from under a rusty van. He was ageless, wore a felt beret too small for his head and had an engaging smile.

“What can I do for you?”

“Everything!” Cook said, sounding like he believed in miracles.

“What a week. All of Europe seems to be stopping by, and like they say on TV, most of it is breaking down. Yesterday, I saw an old Italian clunker from Fiat. Earlier an English car drove by, right before that a Porsche came in and now more German wheels.”

An apprentice with a shaved head was fixing a tire in the corner. There were huge holes in his gauged earlobes. Cooker had seen these outlandishly stretched piercings on other teenagers in Bordeaux. The boss probably didn’t like it, Cooker thought, but cheap labor was cheap labor. In this corner of Saintonge, they were not even making good cognac anymore, and customers had to be rare. The winemaker tried to explain the car’s symptoms, imitating the wobbling car.

“Is that so?” the mechanic said, brushing his beret to the back of his head. “I bet it’s the alignment. Hit a hole in the road maybe?”

Cooker looked accusingly at his assistant. “Did you run into any potholes on your way from Leipzig?”

Virgile shrugged. “I don’t think so, boss.”

“No worry,” the mechanic said. “It’s easy to fix. But you’re in no hurry, I hope. With a car like that, you must have all the time in the world.”

“That is not really the case,” Cooker retorted, looking at Virgile. The assistant stood by in silence as the winemaker undertook negotiations that required some diplomacy.

“I don’t mean to pry, but what exactly do you do?” the mechanic asked.

Cooker realized that things were turning sour, and he would not be seeing Bordeaux’s Tour Pey-Berland so soon.

“I’m a winemaker,” Cooker said.

“Are you making those garage wines everyone is talking about these days? You have to tell me how you do it. Maybe it’s the wave of the future for
garagistes
like me,” the mechanic said with a wink.

Mr. Dollo’s face was purple. He clearly liked the fruit of the vine.

“Come on, tell me how you do it, and maybe I’ll become a Saint-Émillionnaire and drive a Mercedes myself.”

Cooker and Virgile both laughed, and the winemaker saw an opportunity to advance his cause. If he wanted this bizarre individual to focus on his car, he would have to uncork one of the bottles of Vouvray he had picked up in the Loire Valley. The trunk was full of them, and the winemaker liked the idea of using it to grease the mechanic’s palm.

“But, sir, before I get to the Mercedes, I gotta finish off the Porsche. The guy’s in a hurry and was here before you. It shouldn’t take long. Just the belt and the hose. He gave me a nice tip to have it ready this afternoon at four. Know what I mean?” the mechanic said with another wink.

“I believe I do,” Cooker said, taking a Taille aux Loups 1993 Clos de Venise from his trunk.

The mechanic grinned and wiped his hands on his overalls.

“I won’t say no to that. You’re not the kind to run out of gas, that’s for sure.”

7

At the back of the garage, behind dirty windows and walls decorated with old calendar pinups, sacrilege was occurring. The precious Clos de Venise was foundering in red plastic cups. Virgile had trouble making out the aromas of mangos and pineapple that had enchanted Cooker during the blind tasting some time ago in Amboise.

As rough as he seemed, the mechanic was jovial and even likable. He had improvised a cocktail hour in his office, where oil cans and old tires mixed with a jumble of papers. He thought it polite to serve up stale peanuts in a promotional ashtray.

The mechanic emptied his plastic cup three times, wrinkling his nose and clicking his palate to mimic an expert right under Cooker’s nose. The winemaker found it amusing but did not react, hoping that his knowledge of mechanics would surpass his talent as a wine taster.

The mechanic raised his voice and waved a dark, greasy hand to invite his apprentice to join them for the shipwrecked dry Vouvray.

“Come on, taste a little. It’ll make a man of you.”

The teenager came over and waited for the mechanic to fill his cup. Virgile tried to make conversation, in vain. The boy lifted his cup and emptied it. In one gulp, the clear Vouvray from Montlouis-sur-Loire disappeared. The apprentice held back a burp as he put his cup down. Cooker asked him how old he was, and the mechanic was quick to answer for him. “Sixteen and nothing in the noggin. Just gigantic holes in the ears for the birds to fly through.”

The apprentice lowered his head. He managed a small smile as if to apologize for not belonging to the world of adults, and then he made his way behind a wall that served as a closet.

Now that the bottle was empty, and introductions were over, would the mechanic finally decide to get his calloused hands on the convertible? This side trip was taking an unexpected turn. The Cooker-Lanssien team was no longer in a hurry.

The mechanic promised to look at the sick car at the beginning of the afternoon but would not get down to surgery until later in the day, as the Porsche had to get done first.

“He had no wine for me, but he’s not too tight-fisted, if you get my drift.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Cooker said, adding, “Tell me, my friend, isn’t there a place to eat around here of some repute? I can’t remember the name.”

“Here, all you’ve got is the truck stop, the Platanes. It’s just over there at the intersection,” the mechanic said, pointing in the direction of the restaurant. “It’s run by Yvette. Nothing fancy, but the steak
à la bordelaise
is good.”

“That’s the place, Virgile. I recall now, there’s not much choice, but they apparently make a mean red wine sauce with just the right amount of bone marrow, butter, and shallots.”

The apprentice, who had come out from behind the wall, opened the enormous garage door, which made a loud and annoying squeal as it went up. He had taken off his overalls and was wearing a sweatshirt with English writing on the back. It read “Fuck the boss.”

Cooker called out to him, as if he wanted directions, “Hey, kid, what’s your name?”

“Rodolphe, sir.”

“Nice name,” the winemaker said, accompanying the compliment with an unexpected and substantial tip, in another attempt to get the repairs done before day’s end.

“Thanks, sir. Have a good meal. You’ll see. Yvette is really cool.”

As they made their way to the restaurant, Virgile walked with a light step and lifted his nose to sniff the heady odor of wet earth. Cooker stomped along, his head down and his hands deep in his pockets.

Cooker didn’t look up until they reached the restaurant parking lot. And parked right in front of him was the beauty with shiny chrome.

“That’s Morton’s car,” Cooker said to Virgile. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“What did I tell you, boss,” Virgile responded. “I said we’d probably meet up with him. But here, in this little hole in the wall, now that’s a surprise. And days after he was supposed to be in Bordeaux? I mean, seriously, how does that happen? We break down, take the car to a garage that doesn’t sell gas, waste a bottle of Clos de Venise, and find the Morgan at a truck stop.”

“Coincidence, my dear Virgile, coincidence. And besides, there really isn’t any other place to stop for a decent meal on this road between Tours and Bordeaux. Is it that surprising?”

“What will you say to him? Do you think he knows his girlfriend Oksana is dead?”

“I don’t know, Virgile. Why don’t we go inside and find him first.”

Walking into the restaurant, Cooker scanned the bar and then the dining room, where a waitress was flitting from table to table. Robert Morton was not there.

“Two?”

“Yes, please, miss.”

“Near the fireplace?”

“No, next to the man over there.”

“As you wish, but you’ll be near the door. There are drafts.”

“That’s fine.”

The waitress smiled at Virgile as she handed him the menu.

“A drink, perhaps?”

Having failed to spot Morton, Cooker was in a foul mood. “Two steaks,
à la bordelaise
. How’s that, Virgile?”

It was not a good time to contradict his boss, so the assistant responded, “Yes, perfect.” Then Virgile tried to smooth things over. “Perhaps he’s in the restroom. He’ll be out in a minute.”

Cooker grumbled.

“Some wine?” the waitress asked. “I could recommend something from the Loire Valley.”

“God forbid, no Loire wine,” Cooker mumbled under his breath.

“A Château de La Salle, then?”

Virgile nodded at Yvette, who smiled at him in return.

Cooker paid no mind and just complained about the water, which wasn’t cold enough. He took a pen out of his pocket and started scribbling on the paper tablecloth. His assistant sat in silence. Cooker imagined that he was just trying to get along.

All things considered, Rodolphe had been right. Yvette was cool. She had long legs, accentuated by shiny heels. Her hips were full, and her heavy breasts swung freely under her shirt.

From where they were sitting, they could hear shouting in the kitchen and smell the hot oil. Cooker examined the other diners, as he kept an eye on the restroom door. He tried to intercept bits of conversation and decrypt their ways of eating, drinking, and speaking. He made a face. Nobody here matched the man who had so appealed to him on the banks of the Indre. Especially the person with the large mole on his left temple who was sitting next to them. The gangly fellow was reading
Le Figaro
and drinking a glass of rosé from Provence. He was wearing tortoiseshell glasses, had a signet ring on his left hand, and he was decked out in a sweater with a horrible multicolored geometric pattern.

Virgile kept following the waitress with his eyes. Cooker couldn’t help thinking that the place had gotten its reputation as much from her shape as the steaks.

Their steaks
à la bordelaise
arrived, and Morton was still nowhere to be seen.

“Tell me, Virgile, what do you think of that man drinking rosé next to the wall? No, not that one, to the left.”

Virgile remained silent for a while and then said, “Married, around fifty, four children, Catholic, a little noble blood in his veins. He sells corks made in Portugal, has never cheated on his wife, bought a lot of Eurotunnel shares, and is still trying to convince his wife that he’s going to earn his investment back. She doesn’t really care, because she is sleeping with one of their oldest son’s friends. Yes, yes. Gontran’s best friend, who teaches her to play golf every Saturday afternoon. She just finished rereading
Ripening Seed
by Colette and says that her husband is a loser and a bad lay, that she has the right to some pleasure, that tomorrow she will definitely leave him, and that her mind is made up. He’s entirely preoccupied with the stock market, which is slow to rise, the promise of a vacation with the Arteuil family in their dusty old château in the Poitou, and Eléonore, who is doing her first communion next Sunday. He’s a nobody. He can’t lie. He doesn’t even like nice cars. I bet he drives a Japanese rig that he’s still paying off.”

Cooker broke out laughing and nearly choked on his Château de La Salle. Some of the other diners, hacking away at their solitude as they emptied their plates, looked at him with disapproval. Cooker felt like he had just become the center of a number of conversations in this lapse from his usual reserve.

Their neighbor on the right got up to leave. Like a fussy old bachelor, he brushed the bread crumbs off his sweater. Cooker noticed his slender fingers and long nails. The man buttoned up his cardigan, adjusted the silk scarf stuffed into the collar of his pale pink shirt, and left a ten-euro tip on a cracked dish. He then carefully folded the receipt and slipped it into his wallet.

Cooker watched him walk out the door and across the parking lot. Then, to Cooker’s amazement, the man in the colorful geometric sweater got into the Morgan and started pulling out of the parking lot.

“Quick, Virgile,” Cooker yelled, pushing himself away from the table and racing toward the door. By the time they reached the parking lot, the Morgan was speeding down the road.

“That man just took off in Morton’s car,” Cooker said, out of breath.

“What could have happened, boss? Do you think he stole the car, maybe even before Morton got to Bordeaux? And if he did, what happened to Morton?”

“We’re not going to get the answers to those questions now,” Cooker said and sighed.

Cooker and Virgile went back into the restaurant, a little embarrassed by the scene they had made when they ran out without paying their check. They returned to their table, figuring they had time to kill before retrieving their car at the Dollo garage. Cooker ordered a cognac and offered his assistant a cigar. Virgile accepted, for once.

“This one should be gentle enough for your delicate palate,” Cooker said, carefully cutting off the top of a light-colored and slightly veined wrapper and lighting Virgile’s cigar.

“Did you say it was a Santa Damiana?”

Virgile seemed slightly drunk on the cut-hay and dried-alfalfa aromas of the cigar. Just as they did with wine, the smells of his childhood came to the surface.

“Undergrowth, humus, ferns.”

Cooker nodded, as he did when he pulled the first olfactory sensations from a glass of wine. Virgile was no longer his assistant, but an applied and determined student.

Virgile continued, hitting his stride. “Pepper, leather, horse manure.”

“So far, I agree,” Cooker said, puffing his Lusitania. “I think you may be ready for one from Cuba.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Let’s just say that you’ve lost your innocence. Yes, that’s it.”

A young man in a white toque and stained apron came out of the kitchen and put his arm around the waitress’s waist. Yvette adjusted her shirt and simpered at Virgile. Her lipstick had lost some of its shine, and her tight black skirt was hiked up a bit.

The restaurant was now nearly empty, abandoned to the swirls of gray smoke that seemed to stick to the still blades of an old fan. Two cigar butts sat on a blanket of ashes in a shell-shaped ashtray. At this time of day, Cooker and Virgile were no longer wanted here. The cook had removed his toque and had cleared his throat a number of times before saying, “We’re closing.”

Yvette puckered her lips. “It’s not that we’re chasing you away or anything, but—”

“It’s fine,” Cooker said with an amused smile. “It’s time for a nap.”

Outside, the rain was working the fields again. Cooker walked quickly in an effort to stay dry, and Virgile kept pace. When they arrived at the garage, the Mercedes was right where they had left it. Cooker felt his temple begin to throb as he faced the prospect of spending even more time waiting for his car. The mechanic came out of his office. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“Don’t get worked up, now,” he said. “The Porsche is done, and I can get going on the Mercedes. Out of alignment. I knew it. Must have been a hole in the road, like I said, eh?”

He went back into his office and came out again, carrying a grimy dog-eared book with “Mercedes” written on the cover.

“You’re in luck, my friends. I still have the manual for your vintage car.”

He opened it, and Cooker watched as he checked the calibrations for the wheels.

“Two hours, and you’re on the way back home. One hour, if you must hurry. The Porsche owner, he was in the hurry, and he was not cheap.”