Late Harvest Havoc (9 page)

“I'm inclined to agree with you, especially because I relayed your boss's information to Captain Roch, and the three confirmed bachelors identified in the Ammerschwihr commune all claimed they didn't know Gaesler. None of them had any dispute with the Ginsmeyers. One of them is in a retirement home. The second lives half the time with his sister in Kaysersberg. As for the third, he's had two strokes and can't use one of his arms.”

“So, as I said, Gaesler's story doesn't hold up,” Virgile concluded.

“Have funeral arrangements for Deutzler and Gaesler been made?”

“Gaesler's is at ten thirty Tuesday. Deutzler's will depend on the autopsy. Are you planning to attend the services?”

“I don't know if I'll be there, but I'm sure my boss will make an appearance at both of them.”

“Why is that?”

“He always goes to funerals.”

“That's unusual—attending the funeral of someone you hardly know just for the sake of going,” Fauchié said. “Some people would say it's morbid.”

“Mr. Cooker says the dead speak to him.”

Fauchié drank the rest of his whiskey. He glanced at his watch and suddenly looked worried.

“I promised my wife I'd… Can I drop you off somewhere, Virgile?”

Virgile politely declined and said good-bye. He put down his beer and headed for the nearby café Gaesler had owned.

On the doorstep of the Père Tranquille, someone had left a bouquet of white yarrow.

10

A ravenous crowd had descended on La Ferme aux Moines. Benjamin took one look at all the patrons, who just a few hours earlier were in church, begging the Almighty to drive the vine cutter from their land, and wondered if they had been fasting a whole week in their effort to banish the evildoer. More than three hundred people were elbow-to-elbow in the immense refectory, which specialized in buffets.

Massive and rustic-looking wrought-iron chandeliers hung above long wooden tables, where patrons—too eager to dig in to give saying grace a second thought—filled themselves with
tartes flambées
, braised sauerkraut, and perch in wine sauce. On the walls, three-dimensional accents depicted Benedictine monks and craftsmen going about their daily duties, which involved the fruit of the vine and good food.

Benjamin spotted Bernadette Lefonte eating by herself. He didn't care to join her, so he worked his way to the other side of the room, found a seat behind a pillar, and tried to avoid making eye contact.

The winemaker wasn't all that hungry. Without enthusiasm and without even consulting the menu, he ordered a duck and sour cherry terrine and a veal fillet served with girolle mushrooms. Then he pulled out the flier and examined all the power tool's technical details.

He was familiar with power shears, successor to the pneumatic shears, although he himself had always refused to use them. No doubt the flier bore a message. Someone wanted him to know the identity of the weapon used in the vineyard vandalisms. But not that many people were aware that he was here in Thierenbach and staying at Les Violettes. Benjamin couldn't think of a single person who could have left it, except…

To accompany his veal fillet and add a note of humor to his meal, Benjamin ordered a glass of Fumant de la Sorcière—Smoking Witch wine made by Pierre Meyer of Orschwihr.

When Virgile burst into the refectory, most of the overdressed customers had left to go strolling along the Route des Crêtes, toward the Alsace hills. It was unseasonably warm outside, far too nice to remain in the dimly lit Ferme aux Moines.

Having finished his wine and dinner, Benjamin was sipping his tepid coffee. He waved to Virgile, who was hurrying toward him, looking famished and excited.

“Boss, I've been searching for you for two hours! I checked the hotel first thing. They told me you were ‘on a pilgrimage.' God knows where. I looked all over and went back to your hotel. Then they told me that you had gone up to your room, only to hurry out a few minutes later.”

“Virgile, are you the one who left me this flier?”

“Yeah,” said the young man, already seated and expecting to be served. “I found it in a hardware store in Colmar yesterday. And I'm afraid I left a trail of mud in the lobby of your hotel. I got my Converses pretty dirty in the vineyards.”

“I presume you haven't had anything to eat?”

“No. I had coffee with Inspector Fauchié this morning. I'm starving!”

“I'm afraid they've stopped serving, Virgile. Maybe you can charm a waitress into scaring up something for you in the kitchen.”

Virgile negotiated a
tarte flambée
and a Château Monastique beer, but not from the young Alsatian woman with the turned-up nose who was clearing the tables and snuffing out the big candles. Rather, it was a boy with a silly grin who worked in both the kitchen and the dining room who took his order.

Meanwhile, the winemaker had taken a Quai d'Orsay Imperiales from his leather case. The Havana had been carefully rolled in a Cuban factory and brought back into fashion by its French importer. He intended to smoke the cigar later, after Virgile had finished reporting all the conclusions of his independent investigation.

Benjamin took pleasure in watching Virgile devour his extra-large portion of
tarte flambée
as though he were celebrating the end of Lent. Happy to be reunited with his sidekick, the winemaker ordered a glass of chartreuse liqueur to better enjoy Virgile's revelations.

But instead of conclusions, the conversation was soon filled with conjecture. Benjamin was angry with himself for not grilling Gaesler the morning he visited the café. Now he'd have to start from scratch. He was inclined to believe that the Ammerschwihr vandalism, along with the others, had nothing to do with the war. But he hadn't ruled out the possibility. And Roch didn't have a clue. He had abandoned the lead altogether, saying any suspected culprits were far too old.

“In the countryside, Virgile, grudges can go on for generations, and it's always the most disreputable family member who refuels an old quarrel. A grudge over a torn-down boundary marker, a blind horse sold at full price, or a grape picker who abandoned a neighbor's daughter can be passed down from grandfather, to son, and finally to grandson. Some grudges can go back much further. As Paul Gauguin said, ‘Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.'”

“You're telling me? I know all about resentment in rural life.”

“Of course you do, but you're too good-hearted, son, to understand the rancor that motivates those the world rejects.”

“Still, there's no evidence to show that any of those destroyed vines were owned by the descendants of collaborators. Fauchié is clear on that point. The Kipsherrers in Eguisheim bought their property ten years ago, after making a fortune in the Yellow Valley in Australia. The Flancks had two family members who died at Buchenwald. I don't think you can accuse them of sleeping with the enemy. No, boss, following that lead will get us nowhere. So we're left with the weapon as our lead.”

“Agreed,” Benjamin said. “But Roch isn't about to call in all the owners of power shears. Only catching someone in the act will save him.”

“A little lesson on viticulture, boss. How many acres of vineyards are there in Alsace?”

Benjamin appreciated his assistant's quick thinking and didn't take offense when his youthful manner bordered on insolence.

“I'd say a little over thirty-seven thousand acres,” the winemaker replied.

“Precisely! You wouldn't happen to be the creator of France's most authoritative guidebook on wines, would you?”

Benjamin smiled and looked around. La Ferme aux Moines had emptied out.

“Let's go for a walk, Virgile. I'd like to enjoy my cigar, and I want to take another look at the church.”

Benjamin blinked in the bright sunlight. As they headed toward the church, its onion dome gleaming, the winemaker and his assistant continued to discuss the case.

“I understand Roch has called for reinforcements,” Benjamin said. “It seems this matter is greatly irritating the higher-ups in Paris. The minister of the interior was summoned by the prime minister just this morning.”

“So?” asked Virgile.

“So, I don't think that a Mass like this morning's will make any difference. I think our madman will either take a break, or else he'll walk into the lion's den.”

“I'm willing to bet he'll strike again. What will you wager, boss?”

“I'd bet a bottle of Albert Seltz's Zotzenberg grand cru sylvaner—late harvest,” Benjamin answered before taking two puffs of his Imperiales. They had reached the square in front of the basilica.

“Do you want to ruin me, boss?”

“One must either be sure of his instincts or keep quiet,” Benjamin answered.

“I'd agree with you on that score. But some people's instincts are way off. Take Roch. His men busted that young hunter and then had to release him. The poor fellow was just rendezvousing behind the chapel of the Quatorze-Auxiliaires. Not exactly a good place to screw, if you ask me. He accidentally set off the bird cannon. That's why they went after him.”

“He set off the bird cannon? That part of the story wasn't in the news. You have some good sources, Virgile.”

“Fauchié told me this morning. Yeah, there are so many birds up there trying to loot the grapes, they installed those repeaters near the chapel to scare them away. Considering the price of a bottle of grand cru Steinklotz, you can imagine the damage the birds can do.”

The winemaker nodded. “I'm glad the boy was cleared so quickly.”

“It seems he had more than one thing going for him. And they wound up causing our gendarme a lot of embarrassment,” Virgile said. “The hunter is also a volunteer firefighter, and the night the vines in Ammerschwihr were attacked, he was called to an accident in some godforsaken place to extricate a poor guy from his car. As for the other…”

“Yes?” Benjamin urged his assistant on as he played with his cigar.

“The woman he was with was none other than the wife of the president of the local wine cellar. It was a big scandal. Said president convinced Roch that the guy in question was the one he was looking for. And Roch didn't bother to do his legwork. All he wanted to do was appease the prefecture. But it backfired, and the higher-ups were very unhappy when they learned what Roch was doing. I think you were right when you predicted that he would soon end his career in Lozère or in Guyana.”

“What does Fauchié think of Roch?”

“In my opinion, he doesn't hold him in high esteem.”

“Perfect. Tomorrow, let's go back to Colmar. I know there are a few samples waiting for me at Le Maréchal. And then we'll decide.”

“Why not go back right now?” Virgile asked.

“Because you don't turn down the opportunity to spend a night at Les Violettes. Also, I'd like to show you the owner's collection of roadsters. Real gems, with engines that run like clockwork. And since there aren't any nightclubs for twenty miles around, I'm sure you'll get a good night's sleep.”

“That's a plan,” Virgile agreed.

“Glad to hear it.”

No sooner had Benjamin said this than he started feeling woozy. He lost his footing as he began climbing the stairs to the church, and a second later he was sprawled at his assistant's feet.

“Are you all right, boss? That was a nasty spill.”

Virgile helped the winemaker get back on his feet. Benjamin felt his left hip and elbow, brushed off his Loden, and didn't bother to pick up his half-consumed cigar, which had rolled like a Musketeer's rapier to the bottom of the monumental staircase.

“I seem to be in one piece, although I'll probably have a bruise or two tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, Virgile, nothing. Just a little dizzy spell…”

“Are you sure? You didn't break anything? This streak of bad luck is lasting a bit too long, if you ask me.”

“I'm fine. Let's just go back to the hotel.”

“You seem to be limping, boss.”

“As I said, Virgile, I'm fine!”

Annoyed, Benjamin declined Virgile's invitation to take his rented car back to the hotel.

“I'll just walk, Virgile. The hotel's close by. You go on ahead of me.”

Benjamin waved his assistant good-bye and waited for him to take off before he started walking back to Les Violettes. He didn't want Virgile to see that he was, indeed, limping.

11

Dr. Gildas Cayla

General Medicine

Office Hours: 9:00 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

House Calls: Afternoons

The mottled-brass plaque had to date back to the opening of the esteemed doctor's office at 15 Rue des Tonneliers in Ribeauvillé. Nearly lost on a façade covered with ampelopsis vines, the sign, it seemed, hadn't been polished in ages.

The physician's reputation was well established, according to those who had recommended him, and his office was never empty. Faithful to the spirit of country doctors, he treated poor patients free of charge. Never, ever, would Dr. Cayla be responsible for the endemic deficit of the National Health Care System.

“Wait for me in the café across the street,” Benjamin told Virgile as he extricated himself from the convertible with some difficulty.

“Don't you want me to go with you, just to keep you company if you wind up waiting three hours to be seen?”

“Go on, I said! And stop treating me like a cripple.”

Despite his bum leg, Benjamin had already disappeared behind the heavy door with a magnificent wrought-iron knocker.

Why the devil are waiting rooms so inhospitable, Benjamin wondered as he took in Dr. Cayla's office. A dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs lined the walls. Ragged gossip magazines were piled on a low table in a corner, and under a window that lacked curtains, a dried ficus begged for water, if only a few drops. Three other people were waiting.

“Hello,” the winemaker said, trying to sound cheerful. Two people looked up from their magazines. The third didn't bother. His eyes were glued to his cell phone. He appeared to be a businessman, as he was wearing a gray three-piece suit. He was thin, and his coloring was sallow. To his left, a girl with short hair, a navy-blue sweater, and tight white pants reminded Benjamin of the actress Jean Seberg, one of his favorites. The third patient gave Benjamin a surprised look.

“Why, hello,” she said, venturing a smile.

Although her eyes were the same lichen color, her face was gaunt and white. Her right arm was in a sling, and Vincent Deutzler's daughter-in-law seemed to have lost the youthful charm he had seen the day he had visited the home of the Ribeauvillé winemaker.

“What happened to your arm?” Benjamin asked as he slowly lowered himself into one of the rigid chairs. He was careful to keep the leg that was throbbing fully extended. He felt a bit ridiculous, as he couldn't get his Lobb on the bad foot. He had been forced to wear his wool slipper.

“Nothing serious,” the Deutzler daughter-in-law answered tersely. “Just a little problem with my wrist. The doctor thinks it's a flare-up of my carpal tunnel.”

“Carpal tunnel at your age?” Benjamin asked.

“Yes, it comes and goes.”

“I'm sorry,” Benjamin said. “I was also saddened to hear about your father-in-law. How are you holding up?”

“We're all right. Thank you for asking.” Véronique lowered her eyes and plunged back into her gossip magazine.

Benjamin eyed the young woman, recalling she was pregnant, and smiled, remembering the joy he felt when he held Margaux in his arms for the first time. Then he winced. The pain in his right foot was getting worse. Strain, sprain, dislocation, fracture—all these terms danced in his head. He dreaded Dr. Cayla's verdict, although he knew nothing of the man in whose hands he was entrusting himself.

He thought about picking up one of the magazines, but he had no interest in celebrities and their cheating scandals. Why didn't doctors ever have anything more intellectually stimulating to read? Like the man in the three-piece suit, would he have to resort to checking his e-mails and browsing the Internet on his cell phone? Benjamin groused to himself and looked around the room for something to catch his attention.

The door to the inner sanctum opened. “Mr. Hamecher? Dr. Cayla will see you now. How are you doing today?”

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Hamecher walked out of the office, and the inner door opened again. The receptionist beckoned to a woman named Mrs. Koenig.

Like clockwork, Mrs. Koenig emerged fifteen minutes later, and Deutzler's daughter-in-law was ushered in. She rose from her chair and gave Benjamin a nod before walking through the door. This consultation, however, lasted longer than fifteen minutes—much longer. Benjamin took heart in the time Gildas Cayla was spending with the young woman. It appeared that when a patient needed extra attention, he gave it.

When it was the winemaker's turn, Benjamin hobbled in, taking care not to put too much weight on his foot. Dr. Cayla, bald and bespectacled, shook Benjamin's hand, but instead of asking him why he was limping, he stared at his face.

“Maybe my age is playing tricks on me, but you remind me of a man I saw recently on television. He was talking about wine. His name was Déquerre or something like that. He comes out with a book every year on the best wines in each region of France.”

“Cooker,” Benjamin said, correcting the doctor.

“Yes, that's it. Your resemblance to each other is as close as two drops of water.”

“… of wine, you mean.”

“Excuse me? I'm a little hard of hearing.”

“Like two drops of wine,” Benjamin said, not displeased that his reputation had gained him a certain following in the medical profession. The winemaker had recently experienced a similar encounter with a physician in the Beaujolais region.

“Oh my, I can't believe it. Benjamin Cooker right here in my office,” Gildas Cayla enthused. “If someone had predicted that one day the greatest wine expert would come to see me as a patient, I never would have believed him.”

“Let's not exaggerate,” said Benjamin, who, in fact, felt a tad embarrassed every time someone called him the greatest wine expert. “Today I'm merely your patient—a patient who knows full well that stemmed wine glasses sometimes break, the same way our own legs can fail us from time to time.”

“So tell me. What happened?”

The winemaker told the doctor about the bad fall he took after a dizzy spell. He recounted the swelling in his ankle, his difficulty walking, and the sometimes excruciating pain that ran from the ball of his foot to his femur.

“We'll do X-rays.”

Benjamin suddenly realized that he wouldn't be able to attend Séverin Gaesler's funeral. All the standing up, sitting down, and kneeling during the service, followed by the walking in the cemetery, would be more than he could bear.

“In your opinion, what's wrong with my foot?” Benjamin asked.

“Frankly, dear friend, I'm leaning toward a trauma to the joint. A musculoskeletal injury caused by the stretching or possibly the tearing of ligaments in your ankle. Simply put, I'm betting on a sprain. But again, we need to take X-rays.”

Benjamin let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that's a relatively simple thing to treat, isn't it, doctor?”

“Yes, in fact it is. Do you have anyone who can drive you to Colmar for the X-rays? If not, I can take you there after lunch. I'll be done with my patients by then.”

“That won't be necessary, doctor. My assistant can do it.”

“You'll be fixed up quite easily. You might need a brace and crutches, but if the sprain is mild, ice and rest may do the trick. You'll be back on a good stem in no time. But I do advise you to see your doctor when you get back home. You should try to find out what caused that dizzy spell.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Benjamin could already feel the color coming back to his cheeks and the tension draining from his neck and shoulders. Although he'd need to go easy on his ankle, the injury didn't appear to be anything serious.

Dr. Cayla, however, wasn't done with him. In fact, he was quite curious. What winds had brought the winemaker to the land of Alsace? What did he think of the most recent vintage that was already being praised? What did he predict for this year's late-harvest wines? The wine expert was happy to answer. He sensed a man with refined taste and a reliable palate. This was someone who most certainly had more than a few good Burgundies in his wine cellar, as well as wines from across the Rhine, probably bottles of Palatinat, Wurttemberg, and Hesse-Rhénanie.

“How fortunate you are to be practicing medicine in the heart of a region that produces the best wines in Alsace.”

“I'll drink to that,” the old physician joked as he scribbled a prescription for a pain reliever.

“Take the Deutzlers,” Benjamin continued. “Now there's a family that fate hasn't spared, and yet they produce impeccable grand crus, like Kirchberg and Osterberg. Speaking of the Deutzlers, I was sorry to hear about Vincent Deutzler, and I just saw Véronique in your waiting room.”

“Yes, Véronique is one of my patients,” the practitioner said, pushing up his glasses. “That poor girl has been under a cloud of bad luck for some time now.”

“In the waiting room she said she was having a flare-up of her carpal tunnel. That's a repetitive-motion injury, isn't it? Estate owners are always telling me about their day laborers with sore arms and wrists. The workers say they can't sleep at night, and their hands and arms are either numb or they tingle.”

“Musculoskeletal problems in the world of winemaking aren't something to take lightly, Mr. Cooker. Wrist and hand injuries from vine pruning are common. But workers are at risk of developing other health problems, as well—asthma from exposure to pesticides, for example.”

“Asthma—that's something that hadn't occurred to me, Dr. Cayla. But let's get back to the musculoskeletal problems.”

“Yes, of course. Thirty percent of these injuries are related to pruning activities, but we're talking about other parts of the body, in addition to the arms and hands. Seven to ten percent of all pruners have shoulder pain. Twelve percent suffer from epicondylitis—”

“From what?” asked Benjamin.

“That would be elbow pain, what some people call tennis elbow. According to some estimates, a quarter of all pruners have chronic pain in the hand or wrist, or both. More than ten percent have nocturnal paresthesias, the pins-and-needles tingling that interferes with sleep. This is a common symptom of carpal tunnel syndrome, which is compression of a nerve in the wrist. Some people don't have any feeling at all in their hands.”

“So can surgery alleviate some of the symptoms?”

“Yes, it can. And the surgery is a relatively simple procedure.”

“Tell me, Dr. Cayla, when is this type of surgery performed?”

“Usually, surgery is a last resort. First we advise the patient to apply cold packs and take frequent breaks, which isn't always easy if you're working in a vineyard. Sometimes we splint the wrist. If that doesn't work, we often prescribe anti-inflammatory medications. If the symptoms are severe, we advise surgery.”

“That's not exactly what I'm trying to get at, Dr. Cayla. When do these repetitive-motion injuries tend to flare up?”

“Oh, I'd say I see most of my carpal-tunnel patients during the pruning season. In the winter, after the first frost. They start coming to see me in January. From then on, my office is never empty.”

“Wouldn't you say it's unusual to have a flare-up at this time of year?”

“Unusual, maybe. But not necessarily unlikely. Remember, any kind of activity, especially strenuous or out-of-the-ordinary activity, can exacerbate an existing condition. For example, I wouldn't advise you to take up the violin, Mr. Cooker, if you already had carpal tunnel.”

“I can assure you, I won't be taking up the violin, even though my wrist is just fine.”

“Tell me, Mr. Cooker, you wouldn't happen to be some kind of detective on the side, would you?”

“You might say that,” Benjamin replied, glancing at the mantel of the doctor's small fireplace. It was piled high with medical journals and pharmaceuticals. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“It was no problem at all.” The doctor got up and gave Benjamin the smile that had certainly reassured hundreds of patients over the years. He accompanied the winemaker back to the waiting room and asked him to return the following day with his X-rays.

“Soon the sprain will be just a troublesome memory, Mr. Cooker.” The two men parted with a warm and firm handshake.

The café was nearly empty, and Virgile had settled himself on a stool at the zinc counter. From there he had a clear view of the door to the doctor's office across the street and Benjamin's car, which he had parked along the curb. He ordered a coffee and struck up a conversation with the woman running the place. Although her brown hair and slim figure were attractive, she looked like she was forty going on sixty. The bitterness in her eyes aged her considerably.

The conversation inevitably turned to the vineyard destruction, but the woman had nothing new to tell him. As she was speculating on the next targets, a man caught Virgile's eye. He had walked up to the Mercedes, and now he was crouching near the rear wheels.