Mayhem in Margaux (9 page)

17

The outline of the château stood out, imposing yet elegant, against a dark-blue sky so intense, it seemed to be painted with the broad strokes of a brush. The countryside was dozing amid murmuring insects. In the distance, workers were bent in the vineyard, removing undesirable shoots, spraying copper sulfate, and cutting the tops of the vine stocks. Between the flowering and the onset of ripening, work on the vines was ceaseless. There was the continual threat of infestation, and couch grass and bindweed had to be pulled up.

Virgile slowed down when he came to the right spot, out of sight, where the drive to the estate met the road. He popped the hood of the Peugeot and followed Stofa’s instructions. In case someone was watching, he slid back behind the wheel and tried to start the engine several times. He got out quickly, acted annoyed—swearing louder than necessary—kicked the tire, and headed up the drive to the château. Stéphane Sarrazin gave him a friendly wave when he saw him and walked over to see what was wrong. Sweating and anxious-looking, Virgile told Sarrazin why he was there.

“No need for that long face,” Sarrazin said. “It’s a good thing you broke down here. Let’s see what’s going on.”

Sarrazin told Virgile to follow him to a nearby spot in the vineyard where Gilles Moncaillou, old Georges’s son, was working on supports for the vines. According to the cellar master, Gilles wasn’t exceptionally smart and was even a little backward, but he could spend hours tinkering with his moped. He did an adequate job of maintaining the estate’s equipment and repairing the farm machinery.

Virgile was surprised when he realized that the younger Moncaillou had no memory of his internship. It hadn’t been that long ago, and Virgile and Gilles had gotten along reasonably well under the tutelage of the father, whose swearing was sorely missed among the vines. The vines seemed almost too reined-in these days. Stéphane Sarrazin asked Gilles if he could try his hand at repairing the Peugeot 403 at the end of the drive.

Gilles continued working on the vines and didn’t even look at Virgile. Finally he said, “Got any tools in the car?”

Virgile, taken aback, nodded, and Gilles followed them.

It took them a long time to find the problem. With the help of Sarrazin, whose mechanical knowledge was rather limited, Gilles Moncaillou attacked the carburetor and the gas line before looking at the air filter, spark plugs, and battery connections. They carefully and methodically tightened and untightened the nuts, bolts, and screws. Their hands became dark with grease, but they never lost patience. Some of what they did totally escaped Virgile’s attention. He was getting parched under the merciless sun. But eventually Gilles and Sarrazin unscrewed the distributor cap, removed the ignition rotor, and took care of the issue. The unremarkable heir of Georges Moncaillou had no particular reaction when Virgile slipped behind the wheel and turned the key, and the Peugeot once again hummed.

“Thank you. You saved me, guys!”

“That car of yours was a pain in the ass,” Gilles spit out before returning to his vines.

Stéphane Sarrazin invited Virgile to come and wash off under the tap in the wine cellar. They splashed themselves with cool water, drinking as much as washing, and finished by tasting the château’s last vintage, whose tannins were not as poorly extracted as Benjamin Cooker had claimed in his guide.

“You must admit, we’ve made progress since the last edition of the
Cooker Guide
,” said the cellar master. “Here, take a case. Keep half for yourself, and give the rest to your boss. He’ll surely change his mind.”

18

Benjamin enjoyed meeting his readers. It gave him the opportunity to put faces to at least some of the people who made the effort to consult the more than eight hundred pages of the
Cooker Guide
. And the winemaker was especially fond of this particular bookstore. The Alice Bookstore had the enormous appeal of providing not only a large range of publications, but also a very well-stocked wine cellar. The winemaker was seated in front of the store window, behind a long wooden table. He was in high spirits as he signed his guide, making sure each was personalized and happily answering even the most absurd questions.

The patrons at the bookstore were a reflection of Cap Ferret as a whole: friendly and cultured. Conversations were polite and well informed. Besides the old Bordeaux families who had owned rustic vacation homes with large windows overlooking the water for many generations, Cap Ferret was populated with a chic set who liked to have a sense of belonging. Anyone who worked in fashion, media, advertising, entertainment, wholesale clothing, retail jewelry, public relations, or financial advising in Paris’s monied neighborhoods was certain to find at least one colleague from the Trocadéro office, a neighbor from Passy, an antique dealer from Neuilly, a tennis partner from Auteuil, or a competitor from Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

But despite the old and new money and the celebrity of many who spent their summers on the peninsula, Cap Ferret was still a place where families could vacation and where bicycles were often the preferred mode of transportation. Mothers didn’t have to worry about their hair and makeup, and the food grilled at backyard barbecues was frequently better than the daily specials at the best restaurants.

There were only a dozen copies of the
Cooker Guide
left on the table when Benjamin said good-bye and left the Alice bookstore. The event had been a clear success, and he promised to return for at least one more signing before the end of the season.

When the winemaker arrived at La Planquette, Virgile was back from his expedition. He was in the living room with Margaux, who was giving him a lesson on painters who had been seduced by the Arcachon light. The walls of the room were filled with reproductions and prints depicting various perspectives of the bay. Virgile seemed taken with a watercolor by Jean-Paul Alaux that evoked the Côte de Piraillan in delicate strokes reflecting a Japanese influence. He lingered before a sunset by Adrien Dauzats, an etching by Léo Drouyn, an oil painting of the forest in La Teste by Louis Augustin Auguin, and a shipwreck by Amédée Baudit. A beautiful interior scene by Édouard Manet seemed to captivate him the most. A figure in dark attire was leaning on a pedestal table, giving an impression of idleness in the delicate light streaming through an open window.

“Papa, did you know that Virgile had such a sharp eye?” Margaux said, kissing her father hello.

“No, but I’m not surprised. To be a wine taster, you must have heightened senses.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Virgile said, looking embarrassed.

“You seem surprised, Virgile. Is it that unusual to get a compliment from my father?”

Benjamin wasn’t about to let Virgile answer the question. Besides, he wanted to hear how his assistant’s trip had gone.

“So tell me, Virgile, what did your little subterfuge turn up?”

“Hit a brick wall, sir. I spent the afternoon with Stéphane Sarrazin and Gilles Moncaillou, and I doubt that either of them has a future in auto repair. Quite honestly, if they were as talented as Barbaroux thinks, they would have found the problem in ten minutes. We’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“At any rate, it wasn’t a waste of time. Two fewer suspects on the list. By the way, your friends Stofa and Salem still haven’t come back from the port. It’s starting to get dark, and I have the feeling the motor is really done for.”

“I know Stofa, and I’d be surprised if he couldn’t fix it.”

At that very moment, Ludovic came running into the room, pulling his polo shirt over his head like a victorious soccer player, a big grin on his face.

“There, what did I tell you?” Virgile said, beaming at Benjamin.

“Yes, yes, yes! The boat is going full blast! Yes, Virgile, your Bordeaux friends are fantastic!”

Stofa and Salem followed him in, their tool boxes under their arms. Benjamin, Virgile, Ludovic, and Margaux gave the pair a hero’s welcome. Then Benjamin showed them to the bathroom, where they could clean up, and invited them to join everyone else on the terrace.

“Gentlemen, I don’t know if it’s cocktail hour yet, but you’ve certainly earned a drink,” Benjamin said as soon as Stofa and Salem appeared on the terrace. “I’m sorry we don’t have a drop of Ricard in the house. But we have a lot of wine. Let me check on our chilled white and rosé.”

“Uh-oh. I completely forgot to put them in the fridge this morning,” Ludovic said. “I was so preoccupied with getting the boat motor fixed.”

“In that case, we’ll make do with red. I hope you gentlemen don’t mind.”

“Red it is,” Stofa said, plunging his hand into a ramequin filled with peanuts.

“What would you say to a Gayraud-Valrose? Our dear Virgile brought us some today.”

“What’s that you said?” Stofa asked. “A Gayraud-Valrose?”

“Yes, a Gayraud-Valrose. Would you prefer something else?”

“Oh, no! I don’t know much about wine, but that one’s a standout. An old friend of mine has been working at that estate for years.”

“Oh, really?” Benjamin said, stopping short. “And do you still see this friend?”

“I haven’t seen him for a while, but we worked together more than twenty years ago. An amazing mechanic, believe me.”

19

Behind the wheel of his Mercedes, Benjamin followed the police cruisers up the drive to the château. Ordinarily, Inspector Barbaroux would have balked at letting the winemaker accompany him on an arrest. But Benjamin insisted—almost politely. After all, his daughter had nearly been killed, and he had helped out on this investigation. Barbaroux had even admitted that his hint about giving the château a more careful reading broke the case: they found out who was next on Rinetti’s firing spree. Still, Benjamin had to add to his arguments a promise to share a few bottles from his own cellar with the inspector.

“Okay, okay. I suppose it’s only right that you witness the arrest,” Barbaroux had finally conceded over the phone. “It’s personal, right? Just remember, Mr. Cooker, keep your distance, and no funny business!”

“You have my word, Inspector,” Benjamin answered.

He parked the convertible by the rosebushes and watched as Barbaroux led Stéphane Sarrazin out of the wine cellar in handcuffs. Sarrazin looked up just before the inspector pushed him into the backseat of the cruiser. Meeting Benjamin’s eyes, he smirked. For a few seconds, Benjamin was glad he wasn’t alone with the man. He didn’t want to think of what he was capable of doing.

“I figure he’ll get at least fifteen years behind bars,” Barbaroux had said during their phone conversation. “And he might just spend the rest of his life there.”

“I have no problem with that, Inspector.”

Benjamin had been suspicious of the cellar master from the start. There was something disturbing, or rather disturbed, in Sarrazin’s eyes. Too much cynicism and egotism. The cellar master was smart, but he had made a fatal mistake when he gave Virgile the case of wine.

“He never imagined his own bottles would betray him,” Benjamin told the inspector. “When Stofa recognized the label, that was it. Dumb luck, but case closed.”

Stofa and Sarrazin had worked together twenty-three years earlier in a garage on the Allées de Brienne. Sarrazin was talented, and everyone was surprised when he quit. Most of all Stofa. As it turned out, Sarrazin had been taking night classes to become an oenologist.

“He wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life with grease under his nails,” Barbaroux said. “He studied, worked hard, and took a bottom-rung job in a vineyard. After a few years with his nose to the grindstone, he landed the job of cellar master. You gotta give the guy credit for that.”

“Too bad for him, he was about to lose his job too. That was the straw. The firings, the way the Moroccans were treated, Georges Moncaillou’s suicide, and he was going to get shoved out the door like everyone else. He couldn’t take it.”

“Yes, it was as simple as that,” Benjamin said. “And when he finally made the decision to get rid of Rinetti, his skills as a mechanic came in handy.”

“For a while there he fooled your assistant,” Barbaroux said. “Sarrazin didn’t seem to have any mechanical know-how when they tried to repair the Peugeot.”

“Indeed. He was a shrewd man. At our first meeting, he convinced us that he was one of the lucky few who hadn’t been fired, and then when Virgile showed up, he wouldn’t have dreamed of fixing the car. He didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize his cover. The French writer Paul Léautaud wrote something fitting on this very subject: ‘It seems to me that being intelligent is, above all, being mistrustful, even of oneself.’”

“Is that so, Mr. Cooker? In my line of work you’re always suspicious. But I make one exception: I trust my gut. Instincts, Mr. Cooker.”

Benjamin watched as the cruiser with Sarrazin in the back pulled away, followed by another cruiser. Barbaroux walked over to him.

“Thank you for keeping your word. By the way, we got to the bottom of that note. It wasn’t Sarrazin. It was Moncaillou’s son. Like everyone else, he didn’t like what was going on at the château, and he wanted to alert someone who might have some clout. It ended up being you. He had seen you on the property, and he knew who you were.”

“Ah, so the last piece of the puzzle falls into place.”

“Yes, so now I’ve got to get back to the station.” Barbaroux pulled a wadded handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Hope this heat wave breaks soon.” He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and extended his hand to the winemaker. “See you around, Mr. Cooker.” He walked back to his unmarked car and drove off.

Left alone, Virgile gave the château a long look. It was perfectly quiet. No one seemed to be there. And he decided to do what he hadn’t been allowed to do before. He walked toward the building and pushed open the heavy door leading to the Gayraud-Valrose wine cellar. Inside he found a scene that looked like many others. Dim lights. Crates of bottles lined up along the walls. Barrels stacked almost to the ceiling.

“An ordinary wine cellar,” he said to himself. “Very ordinary.”

But he thought again. Could any wine cellar be ordinary? After all, this was the place where celestials hovered above, biding their time. This was the place where miracles sometimes happened, and transformation was an everyday occurrence.

The winemaker looked up, where the angels were waiting to take their share.

“Please give your compatriots—the ones who were watching over my daughter that night—a message for me. Tell them I’m forever in their debt.”