Late Harvest Havoc (11 page)

As Benjamin left the doctor's office, he tried to pay the man his well-earned fee. The doctor wouldn't hear of it, so Benjamin promised him some bottles of wine he had just had the pleasure of helping to produce in Germany, along with a bottle of Saint Émilion grand cru classé. Benjamin had recently learned that the property was in the process of changing hands.

Saying a warm good-bye to his new Alsatian friend, the winemaker added, “Don't drink to my health, or else we might never see each other again.”

Benjamin sniffed the crisp air and sensed that snow was on its way. He had intentionally parked his convertible on a dead-end street across from the Rue des Tonneliers. From the Café des Sports, he watched the comings and goings of Dr. Cayla's office. He saw Véronique Deutzler go in, her arm still in a sling. When she came out, the winemaker improvised a chance encounter. The young woman backed away and tried to cut short any small talk.

“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Deutzler.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Maybe not to me. But you do owe the police an explanation.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Benjamin simply looked at the wrist in a sling.

“It's cold out here. Let's go have a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

Véronique looked down and didn't say anything. Finally, she nodded and let Benjamin lead her to the café. They seated themselves at the back, on garnet-colored benches, facing each other across a table. All around, posters advertised various brews: Lutèce, Abbaye de Leffe, Affligem, and Amstel.

“How is André doing?” Benjamin asked.

“I don't know. None of us have been approved for visitation yet. His lawyer says we have to be patient.”

“Has he finally confessed?” asked Benjamin.

“Yes,” the young woman answered. She hadn't touched her coffee.

“Has he told them everything?”

“I don't know…”

“He's protecting you, isn't he?”

Benjamin looked closely now at the woman who was finally, awkwardly, bringing the cold cup of coffee to her lips. Her hands were shaking, and there was something otherworldly in her gaze.

“I have nothing to do with this business…”

“No, you're not responsible for your brother-in-law's mental illness—a brother-in-law who, I believe, is also your lover. On the other hand, you became an accomplice to the acts for which he is in jail today. And it would be useless to deny it.”

The young woman, whose back was to the rest of the room, burst into tears.

“You helped him when there were two attacks several miles apart. You even ended up hurting yourself. He never showed you how to use those power shears, did he? And you already had carpal tunnel syndrome.”

Véronique Deutzler, her eyes still teary, stared at one of the posters on the wall.

“It wasn't my idea. It was André's. He became completely absorbed in what he was doing. Every morning he'd run out to buy the papers so he could read what they were writing about him. He reveled in being the most-wanted man in Alsace. He thought he was indomitable.”

As she confided in Benjamin, Véronique slipped her wedding ring off her finger and put it on again.

“I never loved Iselin. I was still living in my parents' home, with no prospects. Then Iselin showed up, and for the first time I saw a future for myself. That didn't last long. He wasn't a good husband. I wound up falling in love with André, who wasn't anything like his brother. I even dreamed of having a baby with him.”

“And so you just gave up on Iselin?”

“Yeah, you could say that. He has just one love: his wine. The only thing he wants me for is making his supper at night. And his arrogance is insufferable. He's his daddy's boy, and he knows it. He was sick for three months the year you gave him a bad rating. He hated you for doing that. And guess who slashed the tires on your fancy Mercedes? It was Iselin.”

The winemaker didn't react. He simply went from one question to the next.

“And why did André vandalize the Ginsmeyers' vines in Ammerschwihr?”

“To get even with Laetitia, the Ginsmeyer daughter who snubbed him in ninth grade.”

“Your André knows how to hold a grudge, doesn't he?”

“He's not a bad person, Mr. Cooker. It's just that he's been hurt. And he remembers each one of his hurts, from the day his mother committed suicide. How different things would have been if she had lived. He just wanted to even the score. He thought it would make him feel better. I told him it was no way to deal with his pain. I told him he'd wind up getting arrested, but he wouldn't listen.”

“From there to destroying his own vines, now that's a big leap. Unless it was to quell suspicions,” Benjamin said, looking into the bottom of his cup, where the traces of coffee grounds remained.

“That's easy to explain. The night before, the old man had drawn up a new will. He was planning to give all the young vines, plus the best parcels of Osterberg, to Iselin. André was getting his least-productive vineyards, and he was furious. He wanted to kill the old man, who was already talking about marrying that bitch of a nurse who was wagging her tongue all over the place about André and me.”

“You don't have her to worry about her anymore, do you? She's in jail too. The medical examiners found fibers in your father-in-law's nose. The fibers were from the pillow she used to smother him.”

“Like I said, she was a bitch. She didn't like the will either. She and the old man had a son nobody knew about, and Vincent made no provisions for him in the will. Yeah, those two—the old man and the nurse—were a real piece of work.”

Benjamin couldn't help thinking about the nurse's limp. Bitch or witch doing the devil's bidding—which was she? Maybe both.

“Getting back to André, why did he go on to vandalize the Klipsherrers, the Flancks, and all the others?”

“It was them or someone else. It didn't matter. André was too crazy by that time. He said he had to make the vines bleed every night. It was an addiction. And he was getting more reckless. I knew it would end with him in handcuffs.”

Véronique's lichen-colored eyes reminded Benjamin of the moss on dead trees. She had stopped crying, but her face was pale, and her hands were still shaking.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Deutzler?”

“It's just the stress of everything. It's gotten to me. I can't stop shaking.”

“A little Alsatian cognac might help you feel better,” Benjamin suggested, putting his hand on Véronique's wrist.

“Probably it would, but just order one for yourself. I'll take some water.” Véronique was staring out the window, where snowflakes were softly falling.

A shimmering shroud of snow covered the Rue des Tonneliers. Ribeauvillé had reclaimed its purity.

Epilogue

Charming wooden cottages, all of them hastily constructed and given over to holiday commercialism, are everywhere, offering the merchandise of master glassmakers, cabinet makers, liquorists, wood carvers, milliners, jewelers, confectioners, butchers, and beekeepers. Above these makeshift structures, garlands of holiday lights add to the fairyland ambiance that delights both children and young-at-heart adults.

In this resplendent souk appealing to the eye and tickling the nose, a woman threads her way to the Strasbourg cathedral. Her long black coat is sprinkled with snow, as is her curly hair, which peeks out from a thick woolen cap.

Her pace is urgent, and her eyes seem reddened from the cold. She lowers her head as if to avoid the delighted faces of children hanging onto their mothers' hands. This overwhelming feast, with its lacquered toys and smells of licorice and honey nauseates her. She heads for the entrance to the cathedral, and without even looking at the tympanum, she enters the massive space.

Obviously, a Mass has just ended. Two acolytes in white vestments are cleaning the side table and extinguishing the candles. In the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, a woman is arranging Christmas roses in a huge vase. When she bends down to collect a few stems that have fallen to the floor, the old woman reveals her swollen ankles and the pale flesh of her calves. She's quietly chanting a prayer.

The woman in black is much younger than her somber coat suggests. She plunges her fingers into the holy water and makes the sign of the cross. She slips into a pew in the back and kneels for a moment. Then she quickly stands again. The baby's movements in her womb are too strong. She covers her face with her clasped hands, but doesn't pray. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, still rosy from the cold. She doesn't hear the tourists who, under the tutelage of their guide, are gathered in front of the monumental clock.

The woman learned this morning that her unborn child will never know his father. The previous night, André Deutzler slit his wrists in his prison cell in Oermingen. His cellmate, a young Madagascan with cauliflower ears, heard nothing and discovered him at dawn, lying in a pool of blood.

The visitors are hanging onto the words of the young guide, who's reciting a memorized presentation. He's talking about angels, the four seasons, calendars, movable feasts, apparent solar time and mean solar time, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, the lunar globe, Copernicus and Galileo…

The Grim Reaper interrupts the guide. He strikes the bell with his ivory femur. It's noon.

The Schwilgué clock's parade of apostles can now begin. As the tourists marvel at the sight, Véronique begins to sob. She has made up her mind: she will never return to Ribeauvillé. At two o'clock she will take the train to Germany and carry with her nothing but this new life in her womb.

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The Winemaker Detective Series

An epicurean immersion in French countryside and gourmet attitude with two expert winemakers turned amateur sleuths gumshoeing around wine country. The following titles are available in English.

Treachery in Bordeaux

Barrels at the prestigious grand cru Moniales Haut-Brion wine estate in Bordeaux have been contaminated. Is it negligence or sabotage?

www.treacheryinbordeaux.com

Grand Cru Heist

Benjamin Cooker retreats to the region around Tours to recover from a carjacking and turns PI to solve two murders and a very particular heist. Who stole those bottles of grand cru classé?

www.grandcruheist.com

Nightmare in Burgundy

The winemaker detective leaves his native Bordeaux for a dream wine tasting trip to Burgundy that turns into a troubling nightmare.

www.nightmareinburgundy.com

Deadly Tasting

A serial killer stalks Bordeaux. To understand the wine-related symbolism, the local police call on the famous wine critic Benjamin Cooker.

www.deadlytasting.com

Cognac Conspiracies

The heirs to one of the oldest Cognac estates in France face a hostile takeover by foreign investors. In what he thought was a sleepy provincial town, Benjamin Cooker and his assistant Virgile have their loyalties tested.

www.cognacconspiracies.com

Mayhem in Margaux

Benjamin Cooker is focused on solving a mystery that touches him very personally. Along the way he finds out more than he'd like to know about the makings of a grand cru classé wine.

www.mayheminmargaux.com

Flambé in Armagnac

The Winemaker Detective heads to Gascony, where a fire has ravaged the warehouse of one of the region's finest Armagnac producers, and a small town holds fiercely onto its secrets.

www.flambeinarmagnac.com

Montmartre Mysteries

The Winemaker Detective visits a favorite wine shop in Paris and stumbles upon an attempted murder, drawing him into investigation that leads them from the Foreign Legion to the Côte du Rhône.

www.montmartremysteries.com

Backstabbing in Beaujolais

Can the Winemaker Detective and his assistant keep calculating real estate agents, taciturn winegrowers, dubious wine merchants and suspicious deaths from delaying delivery of the world-famous Beaujolais Nouveau?

www.backstabbinginbeaujolais.com

About the Authors

Noël Balen (left) and Jean-Pierre Alaux (right).

(©David Nakache)

Jean-Pierre Alaux
and
Noël Balen
came up with the winemaker detective over a glass of wine, of course. Jean-Pierre Alaux is a magazine, radio, and television journalist when he is not writing novels in southwestern France. The grandson of a winemaker, he has a real passion for food, wine, and winemaking. For him, there is no greater common denominator than wine. Coauthor of the series Noël Balen lives in Paris, where he writes, makes records, and lectures on music. He plays bass, is a music critic, and has authored a number of books about musicians, in addition to many novels and short stories.