Late Harvest Havoc

  Praise for the Series

  “The perfect mystery to read with a glass of vino in hand.”

  —Shelf Awareness, starred review

  “A fun and informative take on the cozy crime mystery, French style.”

  —Eurocrime

  “It is easy to see why this series has a following. The descriptive language is captivating... crackling, interesting dialogue and persona.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  “The authors of the Winemaker Detective series hit that mark each and every time.”

  —Student of Opinions

  “Francophiles, history buffs, mystery fans, oenophiles will want to add the entire series to their reading shelf.”

  —The Discerning Reader

  “Intrigue and plenty of good eating and drinking... will whet appetites of fans of both Iron Chef and Murder, She Wrote.”

  —Booklist

  “Another clever and highly entertaining mystery by an incredibly creative writing duo, never disappointing, always marvelously atypical.”

  —Unshelfish

  “One of my favourite series to turn to when I’m looking for something cozy and fun!”

  —Back to Books

  “Wine lovers and book lovers, for a perfect break in the shadows of your garden or under the sun on the beach, get a glass of wine, and enjoy this cozy mystery. Even your gray cells will enjoy!”

  —Library Cat

  “Recommended for those who like the journey, with good food and wine, as much as tthe destination.”

  —Writing About Books

  “The reader is given a fascinating look into the goings on in the place the story is set and at the people who live there, not to mention all the wonderful food and drinks.”

  —The Book Girl’s Book Blog

  “A quick, entertaining read. It reminds me a bit of a good old English Murder Mystery such as anything by Agatha Christie.”

  —New Paper Adventures

  “I love good mysteries. I love good wine. So imagine my joy at finding a great mystery about wine, and winemaking, and the whole culture of that fascinating world. And then I find it’s the first of a series. I can see myself enjoying many a bottle of wine while enjoying the adventures of Benjamin Cooker in this terrific new series.”

  —William Martin, New York Times bestselling author

  “It is best consumed slightly chilled, and never alone. You will be intrigued by its mystery, and surprised by its finish, and it will stay with you for a very long time.”

  —Peter May

  Late Harvest Havoc

  A Winemaker Detective Mystery

  Jean-Pierre Alaux

  and

  Noël Balen

  Translated by Sally Pane

  All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in France as

  Vengeances tardives en Alsace

  by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

  World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2005

  English adaptation copyright ©2015 Sally Pane

  First published in English in 2015

  By Le French Book, Inc., New York

  www.lefrenchbook.com

  Translator: Sally Pane

  Translation editor: Amy Richard

  Proofreader: Chris Gage

  Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

  ISBN:

  Trade paperback: 9781939474599

  E-book: 9781939474605

  Hardback (library edition): 9781939474612

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The intoxicating joy

  of revenge fulfilled.

  —Honoré de Balzac

  1

  In just minutes, death would strike again.

  The wax-colored skeleton, brandishing a heavy scythe in his left hand, would hit the bronze carillon with the ivory femur in his other hand: one clean hard stroke for each hour that had passed.

  Renowned wine expert Benjamin Cooker was waiting, oblivious to the crowd gathering around him. But when the Bavarian tourists began elbowing and pushing him, he could no longer enjoy the moment. He stepped away from the enraptured spectators, who were cooing at the pudgy cherubs, one of them holding a bell and the other holding a sand clock, and oohing and aahing over the intricately carved cabinet, the Latin inscriptions, and the midnight-blue and gold face of the astronomical clock in the Cathedral of Our Lady of Strasbourg.

  Benjamin took refuge at the Pillar of Angels to the right of the gigantic clock. He leaned against it. The coolness of the stone sent a shiver down his spine, and for some odd reason he thought of Virgile, his assistant. Where was he? Already flirting with some pretty young tourist at the back of the cathedral, no doubt. Oh well, he’d show up. Benjamin turned his attention to the tour guide.

  “This was one of the seven wonders of Germany when Alsace-Lorraine was still German territory,” the guide said before putting a finger to his lips to shush a pair of noisy visitors. The hand of the clock was about to reach twelve.

  Death, laughing in the face of time, banged out the twelve strokes of noon, setting off the automata. One by one, the twelve apostles appeared and processed in front of Jesus: Simon, who was called Peter; Andrew, Peter’s brother; James; John; Philip; Bartholomew; Thomas; Matthew, the tax collector; James, Thaddaeus; Simon; and Judas Iscariot.

  A rooster at the highest point of the cabinet crowed and flapped its wings three times during this processional march, and Benjamin recalled Peter’s renouncement of Jesus. “Before the rooster crows twice, you yourself will disown me three times,” Jesus had told Peter the night before his crucifixion. The maker of this theatrical timepiece had been well versed in the Holy Scriptures.

  Another group had gathered near the throng of Germans. They were elderly, and from what he could hear, Benjamin surmised they were members of a club from Provence.

  “Mother of God!” one of them exclaimed each time a new figure appeared in the allegorical theater.

  Benjamin heard them call their guide by name: Jeanne. She had silver hair and laughing eyes and clearly knew all about this cathedral and its timepiece. Her talk was peppered with intriguing and amusing anecdotes. He perked an ear and bristled when a few club members snickered at her German-like Alsatian accent.

  “Legend has it that when this clock was completed, the astronomer who devoted his life to devising and building it had his eyes gouged out on the order of the city’s magistrate.”

  “Why?” a woman asked, holding her purse close to her chest.

  Jeanne narrowed her eyes and said quietly, “So that the artist could not reproduce such a work of art anywhere else.”

  “Did he die?” the purse clutcher asked.

  “You’ll notice that I said ‘legend has it.’ Not all legends are true,” the guide said, inspecting Benjamin, who had surreptitiously infiltrated her group. “You, sir—you look like an educated man. Do you know if they really gouged out the eyes of the genius who created this clock?”

  Benjamin felt the suspicious stares of the Provençal group, which did not recognize him as one of their own. Jeanne, however, took him by the arm as if to make him a privileged witness to the rest of her talk.

  “So, my good fellow, tell me what you think.”

  “Um, to tell the truth, I have no informed opinion,” Benjamin stammered.

  Jeanne pushed her glasses to the bridge of her aquiline nose, lifted her chin, and began pontificating.

  “As a matter of fact, the astronomer was much too old by then to recreate such a work. He soo
n became deaf and was unable to hear the ticking of this mechanism created for the glory of God. He descended into madness and lost all sense of time.”

  “Really?” Benjamin asked.

  “Do you doubt my word, sir?” She looked him in the eye and smiled.

  “All gifted storytellers embellish their accounts from time to time, and some even fabricate tales. Wouldn’t you agree?” the winemaker said, holding her gaze.

  “You force me to tell the truth,” the guide conceded, clearly delighted that her presentation had struck a responsive chord with this elegant man in a Loden. “So pay close attention, Mr.… What was your name?”

  “Benjamin.”

  “As in Benjamin Franklin?”

  “That’s exactly right. As far as I’m concerned, this clock is as much an enigma as the lightning rod.”

  “Mr. Benjamin, I love your sense of humor.”

  “You are quite witty yourself, Madam,” Benjamin replied with a smile. Then he removed his arm from hers. Enough flirting, he thought.

  By now, some members of the club were whispering and sniggering. Obviously, they weren’t amused by the diversion. Jeanne raised her voice and resumed her talk, addressing the entire group while still keeping her eye on Benjamin, who was so unlike the seniors she was leading through the cathedral.

  From that point on, she punctuated each well-substantiated point with a question.

  “Isn’t that so?” she’d ask, looking at the winemaker.

  “Actually, this is the third clock in the Strasbourg cathedral. The first was built in the fourteenth century, and we don’t know who created it. Parts of it are now in the city’s Oeuvre Museum of Decorative Arts. It was called the Three Kings Clock. The second one was built in the sixteenth century. When it stopped working in 1843, it was replaced by the clock you see here. Now, can anyone tell me who built this third clock?”

  Jeanne drew out the suspense and inched closer to Benjamin, who stood stock still, his hands behind his back.

  “A boy happened to visit this cathedral and was upset that the beautiful clock was broken. He asked one of the cathedral guards why it wasn’t working, and the guard told him that no one in the country had the expertise to repair it. With that, the boy declared that he would be that man. His name was Jean-Baptiste Schwilgué. Fifty years after he vowed to repair the clock he finally got his opportunity. By this time he was versed in clock making, mathematics, and mechanics. In fact, he went on to invent the adding machine. Building this clock took four years and thirty workers.”

  “Is that all?” the winemaker asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Benjamin. By the looks of it, this clock would have required far more time and many more workers. But Schwilgué was a genius. He had spent his entire life studying the astronomical clock. He even dreamed of making one with a glass cabinet that would allow everyone to see the mechanisms inside. But the city deemed the project too costly. Imagine the gem we would have today if he had been given free rein.”

  “Yes, but even as it is, this is a true jewel,” Benjamin said.

  “Indeed, it is,” the Alsatian woman agreed, giving the winemaker a warm smile.

  At the end of the tour, Benjamin thanked Jeanne and tried to slip a bill into her hand. She refused it and instead handed him her business card.

  “Our cathedral has thousands of treasures,” she whispered in his ear. “I would love to show you all of them—the heraldic sculptures, the three Last Judgment paintings, and, of course, the celestial globe studded with five thousand stars. You must see it! Let’s make a date to meet another day. Shall we?”

  “I’m too intimidated by this clock to give you a date, much less a precise time. Let’s leave it to providence…”

  Benjamin hoped she would get the message. But instead of saying good-bye, she took his wrist and clung to it for a few seconds. The winemaker was silent. Finally, she let go and turned around to rejoin her tour group. Benjamin felt a twinge of guilt—was it because he had turned the woman down or because he had actually considered making that date with her? No, what he felt was pity for the guide. He was blessed with his wife, Elisabeth, whose intelligence and wit were beyond match.

  Benjamin decided to look for Virgile and spotted his assistant ducking into a confessional to answer his cell phone. He’d have a word with him about that. But before he could give the reprimand a second thought, screams rose from the group gathered near the clock.

  “Oh my God,” someone shouted. “Get help, quick!”

  “It’s too late,” a bald man said.

  The winemaker retraced his steps and with some difficulty made his way through the crowd gathered around a small figure on the floor. Above the bloody forehead, he could see a mass of silver hair. Beside the body lay a pair of gold-framed glasses with broken lenses—Jeanne’s glasses.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “All of the sudden she just clutched her chest and dropped. She hit her head in the fall.”

  From his vantage point on the clock, the Grim Reaper attended the scene, a satisfied smile carved on his jaw. He waved his femur and struck the bell. It was exactly one o’clock in the afternoon.

  When Benjamin Cooker pulled open the door of the centuries-old confessional, Virgile, as he suspected, was still on his device, cooing sweet nothings in the dark to a faraway lover.

  Benjamin gestured toward the door, indicating he would wait outside. He made his way to the square in front of the cathedral. The holidays were approaching, and soon wooden chalets would fill this space and spill onto the neighboring side streets—they had since 1570. This was the site of France’s largest and oldest Christmas market. Benjamin smiled at memories of strudel, wooden toys that delighted his daughter, Margaux, when she was young, and spices filling the air.

  2

  The Kammerzell House, where Benjamin and Virgile were dining, was one of Strasbourg’s architectural splendors. It had been converted from a pub to a fine restaurant at the end of the nineteenth century, and recently a hotel had been added. Over the course of six centuries, thousands of patrons, both little-known and celebrated, had climbed the spiral staircase connecting the five floors of this food-lovers’ temple. It was said that Guttenberg, Goethe, and Mozart had frequently eaten here. Now it was the winemaker’s turn.

  Benjamin, whose trek up the stairs had left him panting and feeling heavy, surveyed his surroundings. He admired the woodwork, the bottle-glass windows throwing iridescent colors on the white table linens, and the frescoes signed by Léo Schnug, an Alsatian painter known for his ruddy faces and naughty scenes seemingly right out of Boccaccio’s Decameron.

  Once they were seated, the maître d’ was on guard. No wonder. Benjamin was examining the wine list and menu and pointing out the establishment’s specialties as if he were already quite familiar with them. His serious-diner look could make any headwaiter jumpy, even one at such a legendary restaurant. His tailored British jacket and Virgile’s casually classy attire—gray slacks, ash-rose shirt, and light-gray blazer—would only amplify the mistrust. The man probably suspected that he was a critic for an important food and wine guide—like the Cooker Guide! No matter. Benjamin had a way of making friends sooner or later with a good restaurant’s staff. For him, dining was an experience to be savored from start to finish.

  “I’ll begin with the foie gras de canard in gewürztraminer aspic. What about you, Virgile?”

  “A dozen escargots Kocher—”

  “Kochersberg,” Benjamin clarified. “That’s an excellent choice.”

  Ever since they had arrived in Alsace, Virgile had been mangling Alsatian words—for fun. He even suggested they were invented solely for the purpose of winning points in Scrabble.

  “And next, may I suggest—”

  Benjamin undermined the maître d’s obsequiousness by immediately choosing a cuissot de porcelet rôti aux épices douces.

  “Ah, our delicately spiced suckling pig is a fine choice. It’s precisely the dish that I—”

&nbs
p; “Excellent.” The winemaker grinned at the waiter, pretending to be pleased that they had the same selection in mind. Virgile, meanwhile, was still trying to decide between beef tartar and the three-fish sauerkraut.

  “That is the house specialty,” the maître d said.

  “Let’s honor Alsace. Right, boss?”

  “Absolutely,” Benjamin said with a nod. “Provided, of course, that the three fish were caught in the River Ill or, failing that, in the Rhine.”

  “Alas, sir, I cannot guarantee that. May I leave you in the hands of our sommelier, who will guide you in—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Benjamin interrupted. He ordered a Frédéric Mallo grand cru Rosacker vieilles vignes. “A two thousand five, if you please.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And water for you, Virgile? You must be very thirsty, even penitential, after your lengthy conversation in the confessional today.”

  “Don’t blame me, boss. If you remember, I answered the call. I wasn’t making it. Before I left Bordeaux, I met this German chick who was harvesting grapes in Beauséjour Bécot. I was just helping her out, and now she won’t stop calling.”

  “Right. You were just helping her out. Whatever you say.”

  “She’s a real babe, but—”

  “How you talk about women, boy. You met some chick who’s a babe? Come now, Virgile. You have a refined palate, and you love wines with great subtlety, and yet you talk like a stable boy who tumbles in the hay with anything in a skirt.”

  “Boss! You don’t give me enough credit.”

  “Well, then, prove me wrong.”

  As the winemaker and his assistant waited for their dishes to arrive, the pale yellow riesling with green reflections was awakening their senses. Benjamin changed the subject and started describing the wine’s aromas of flowers and spices. Virgile, for his part, commented on the peppery notes coming through in the finish.