Grand Cru Heist (6 page)

8

In Bordeaux, the Place Saint-Michel was the site of an odd makeshift setup that morning. Antique vendors fought gusts of wind to raise their gigantic green-and-yellow parasols. Large drops of rain coming from the west jeopardized an improvised Oriental carpet sale. Cautious vendors covered their goods with see-through tarps. There were few passersby, and little chance of making a deal.

Cooker made his way quickly through the flea market without even glancing at the stands. He nodded at a few vendors with whom he sometimes haggled for still lifes, winemaking tools, old postcards, and mismatched crystal glasses.

His coat collar was up around his ears, and he took care not to slip on the cobblestone walkways in the Saint Pierre neighborhood. He turned on the Rue Saint-Rémi, stopping at the Grand Théâtre newsstand, where he intended to get back into his old routine.

“Hello Mrs. Camensac,” he said. “I’d like the
Sud-Ouest
,
Le
Figaro
, the
RVF,
and the
Herald Tribune
, please. Nasty weather, isn’t it?” And then he headed up the Allées de Tourny.

He paused when he reached number 46. The copper plaque that read “Cooker & Co.” was dripping in the rain. The bronze doorbell was still shiny, but he would have to paint the door next spring. He pushed open the porte-cochère.

Nothing had changed. Benjamin Cooker had not been in his offices for over a month. The staircase felt steeper, and he had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. He would not admit it, but he was nervous about getting back to work. It took his secretary Jacqueline’s candid smile, purple suit, and perfect education to dissipate his anxiety. How could he have forgotten the heady smell of beeswax that always hovered in his somewhat quaint offices? And the discreet whistle of the kettle that Miss Delmas used for her god-awful herbal teas? If only he could convert her to regular tea.

“Mr. Lanssien will swing by around ten this morning,” Jacqueline said, helping her boss with his rain-logged Loden.

“Mr. Cooker, I arranged all your mail in file folders on your desk,” she said, spreading his jacket over two coat hooks.

“Thank you, Jacqueline. What would I do without you?”

Several piles of letters awaited him on the Empire-style desk. A carefully tied package was sitting next to his old Napoleon III inkstand. A felt-tip marker had been used to write “Personal” on the outside. The handwriting was thick and contorted. Cooker looked for the sender’s address but found nothing. He ripped off the brown paper wrapping. Inside, he found his notebook.

He examined the packaging again and found a postmark. It was the only clue: the notebook had been sent three days earlier from the Champigny-sur-Marne post office. In the end, it did not really matter, now that he had recovered his car and his precious notebook. He called Elisabeth right away. She suggested that they celebrate the event at noon at the restaurant Noailles.

“That is, unless you invite me to the Saint James in Bouliac.”

“Done deal,” Cooker said, rubbing his cigar box before pulling out a D Number 4 from Partagas.

The wall clock hanging above the mantel had just announced ten o’clock when Virgile barged into Cooker’s office. His coat was too big for him, and he looked pale. He wore a colorful turtleneck, and dark bags under his eyes indicated that his night had been too short. He plopped into an armchair in front of the desk and registered his boss’s good humor.

With gray cigar smoke encircling his head, Cooker was busy putting checkmarks on some of the letters encumbering his desk. He removed his reading glasses, which gave him a certain professorial look, and told Virgile about the fine surprise that had been waiting for him. The winemaker had to cut his story short, though, when an unexpected visitor stuck his head in the door.

“Hubert! What brings you to Bordeaux?”

The owner of the Château Angélus did not look his best.

“Come in. You know Virgile, my assistant, don’t you?”

Hubert de Boüard shook the young man’s hand. His friendship with Cooker was longstanding, and there had never been any snags. Angélus got fantastic notations in the
Cooker Guide
, especially after the premier grand cru heir took on the services of the renowned winemaker Michel Rolland while also following the less official advice of his friend Cooker. The two men had a very cordial friendship and shared a passion for Cuban cigars.

“What are you smoking at this hour of the day, old devil?” Hubert asked.

“A D4, as you can see. It’s a bit strong, but the day has gotten off to a good start. My tasting notes that were stolen in Paris came back to me in the mail. I don’t know if it was the thief or a Good Samaritan who found it somewhere. I suspect it’s the latter. It’s comforting to know that someone, somewhere took the time to wrap it, stick postage on it, and drop it in a mailbox. And to do so without asking for a dime, but just because it was the right thing to do. You see, Hubert, acts like that make me believe in people.”

“I’m really very happy for you, Benjamin.”

“I can assure you right away. Angélus got a good rating in the new guide,” the winemaker said. “You, of course, know how highly I regard your 2000 vintage. Perhaps you would like to know the final score I gave it, unless you’ve come to tell me you got another mysterious message.”

“That’s exactly it,” Hubert de Boüard said, holding the white envelope out to his friend.

Virgile leaned in as Cooker examined the address. Biting his lip, he said, “This friend of yours might be a neighbor. The card was sent from Saint-Émilion yesterday.”

“That is what worries me,” Hubert said.

The tick-tock of the clock was the only sound in the room. With just enough affectation, Cooker set his cigar down in a white porcelain ashtray. He removed the card from the envelope and read the terse message: “Cave de l’Angélus. Does that ring a bell?” Then, in all capital letters, “AND THREE FOR ME.”

Cooker quickly closed the card, as it was clearly disturbing his friend, one of Saint-Émilion’s most emblematic winemakers.

“Now, Hubert, I’m afraid you have no choice. You have to tell the cops. When did you get it?”

“In the morning mail.”

“Virgile, were there any break-ins on the news last night or today?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Did you listen to the radio this morning?”

“Yes, well, no, I mean, not exactly.”

“So actually, you aren’t really awake. Go home and take a good shower, and this afternoon I want a detailed list of all the wine auctions planned for the next month.”

“Throughout France?”

“France and beyond, including London, New York, and Geneva. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and I almost forgot. Tell your lady of the moment to give you a break. Don’t forget to mention that your boss is back from vacation.”

Cooker’s sudden frivolity seemed to cheer Hubert de Boüard up a bit. He put his cigar back in his mouth and took two puffs before reading the morning newspapers with his friend. The Angélus gang had not struck again. Or at least not yet.

§ § §

An hour later, Elisabeth Cooker walked into her husband’s office without knocking. Cooker knew that she rarely did this, and it reflected just how happy she was that he had recovered his notebook. She greeted the Angélus estate owner with effusive kisses on his cheeks.

“What? Where’s the champagne?”

“True, after all, why not?” Cooker said affably.

“Jacqueline, please, four champagne glasses. Let’s uncork that Dom Pérignon that’s been waiting in the storeroom refrigerator.”

They all raised a toast to Cooker’s health, the returned notebook, the rating given to the 2000 Angélus, and all others who praised that exceptional wine. Hubert forgot his worries and promised to drop the three cards off at the Libourne police station. Cooker invited him to join them at the Saint James for lunch.

“Hubert, I’m sure it’s just some bad joke. You need to get your mind off it. A good meal is exactly what you need.”

“I don’t want to get in the way of you two lovebirds.”

“Oh come on, you’re like family.”

The three friends crossed the Allées de Tourny under a golf umbrella to reach Hubert de Boüard’s Range Rover, which was double parked on the Rue de Sèze. A soppy, barely legible parking ticket on the windshield did not even dampen the trio’s mood.

“Some more mail,” Cooker said with a smirk.

§ § §

Lunch at the Saint James lasted well into the afternoon. It was a pretext for the head sommelier to get the famous and expert diners to taste some of his wines. Elisabeth listened, tasted, and added her two cents. She seemed happy to see that her husband’s enthusiasm had returned. In the restaurant parking lot, Cooker contemplated not returning to his office and going home to enjoy Grangebelle under the rain. He pictured a fire in the fireplace, Bacchus at his feet, a call to Margaux—it was only noon in New York—and a cup of Nepalese tea, the one his tea-loving friend Gilles Brochard had sent him.

Then he changed his mind. He had too much work to do. Hundreds of tasting samples awaited him, and he needed to swing by the lab and make sure Alexandrine de la Palussière was on those cases of eutypiosis in the Côtes du Marmandais and the Entre-Deux-Mers. The vines were rotting, and radical treatment was needed. New regulations forbade the use of sodium arsenite. Virgile would have to monitor the endemic proliferation of the damned fungus that was eating away at the vine stock. No French vineyard had been spared. And the recent rain was not helping. It was pruning season, and shears propagated the infection. Naturally, Cooker & Co. recommended the intensive use of a fungicide like benomyl to at least contain the spread, but that required time and a lot of meticulous work. His office was drowning in calls for help, and dawdling at home would be criminal. Cooker was starting to feel guilty.

He gave Elisabeth a tender kiss and reassured her that he would be all right. On the left bank of the Garonne River, behind a curtain of rain, Bordeaux looked like a bad watercolor. Cooker would have to face the traffic on the Pont de Pierre. When would the work be done on the tramway?

§ § §

Cooker did not recognize him at first. Wearing an off-white raincoat, a long woolen scarf, and a checked hunting cap, the man looked like a wading bird emerging from a marsh. He was waiting in the reception area. When he saw the winemaker, he smiled to hide his discomfort.

“This gentleman has been here since the beginning of the afternoon,” Jacqueline was quick to say. “He would like to see you. He says he knows you.”

“We do know each other, in fact,” Cooker said. “Please come in, Mr. Morton.”

The visitor had clearly left behind the self-assurance and elegance that had so appealed to Cooker at La Tortinière. He seemed hesitant. He talked in starts, and his outfit was ordinary, to say the least.

“Please, do sit down,” the winemaker said, with a touch of condescension. The man looked clearly bothered by something.

Cooker examined him, his gaze lingering conspicuously on Morton’s shoes, which were very well-polished loafers with worn-down heels. He guessed the size to be forty-three, perhaps forty-four.

“Would you like a whisky, my dear man?”

“No, thank you,” said the intruder, who did not remove his raincoat.

“It’s been awhile since our stay at La Tortinière. I’d say a lot has happened since, hasn’t it?”

Morton sank into the armchair. He was very pale, and his features were tense.

“What about a Macallan 1946 from my personal collection?”

“That would be hard to refuse,” Morton said.

Cooker filled two finely chiseled glasses.

“Thank you, Benjamin. Do you mind if I still call you Benjamin?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Because you must think that you have a murderer sitting in front of you.”

“Why would I be thinking that?” Cooker asked, barely sipping his whisky. “As far as I’m aware, you drove off in your Morgan long before Oksana’s body was found. And, by the way, I spotted your Morgan in a small town about two hours from Bordeaux. Someone else was driving it. Was it stolen?”

Cooker noted the surprised look on Morton’s face. He seemed to be fumbling for an answer.

“Why, uh, yes,” he said. “It was stolen. I’ve reported it to the police. You spotted it? I’ll have to tell them. But I’m not here about the car. I’m here to convince you that I had nothing to do with Oksana’s death.”

“I’m listening.”

The Englishman took a swig of the Scottish malt, and it seemed to revive him. He unbuttoned his raincoat and untied his scarf.

“I didn’t kill Oksana or the concierge—and yes, I do know that he was found hanging from a tree. Please, Benjamin, don’t doubt what I’m saying.”

“I would like nothing more than to believe you, Robert. But your name is not Robert, is it? Nor is it Morton?”

“How do you know?”

“I’m not one to confuse a Bordeaux wine with a Burgundy. The same goes for my friends. I’m quick to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“Where do you put me?”

“For now, among people who need help. That is, if you give me some proof of your good faith, starting with your real identity.”

“My name is James Welling and—”

“You were not born in London, were you?”

“That’s right. I come from Canterbury.”

“That might explain your ease at telling tales.”

The Englishman smiled. He had never read Chaucer, confessed his ignorance, and promised to remedy it someday.

“I won’t ask that much of you,” Cooker grumbled. “Did you know that Geoffrey Chaucer was the son of one of London’s largest wine merchants?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you at least a wine broker?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“If you want to stay friends with me, you had better start giving some straight answers.”