Tainted Tokay Read online

  Praise for the series

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

  —Shelf Awareness, starred review

  “Light and enjoyable… If you feel like taking an armchair tour of France, they hit just the right spot.”

  —Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Masterful.”

  —Star Tribune

  “Beautifully done.”

  —Bookloons

  “Decadent, delicious, and delightful, The Winemaker Detective series blends an immersion in French countryside, winemaking and gourmet attitude with mystery and intrigue.”

  —Wine Industry Network Advisor

  “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

  “One of my favorite 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 the 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.”

  —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

  Copyright information

  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 Buveurs en série by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

  World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2006

  English adaptation copyright ©2016 Sally Pane

  First published in English in 2016 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

  ISBNs:

  Trade paperback: 9781943998005

  E-book: 9781943998012

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

  Wine is sunlight, held together by water.

  —Galileo

  1

  “Florence, I’d envy your life in this immense château if it weren’t for the ghosts. I’m sure you have one or two lurking in there,” Benjamin Cooker said as he dropped a packet of artificial sweetener in his coffee.

  “Benjamin, you always surprise me. I would have never guessed that France’s most celebrated authority in matters of winemaking would be superstitious.”

  Benjamin sipped his coffee and tried not to grimace at the bitter taste of the sweetener. Elisabeth was nagging him to lose weight again, and he had reluctantly given up sugar in his coffee to please his wife.

  “Do you, of all people, really believe in ghosts?” Florence Blanchard continued.

  “That would depend on what kind of ghost you’re talking about. If you mean a disembodied soul, well, I do believe in the soul. It’s the seat of life and intelligence itself.”

  Florence nodded. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. If I recall correctly, the Marquise de Deffand, the famous seventeenth-century hostess, was asked once of she believed in ghosts. She answered, ‘No, but I’m afraid of them.’”

  “I have to say that I’m more afraid of the living and our small-mindedness, which leads to so much deception and duplicity. To respond to your quote, I’ll cite Pierre Corneille, who said, ‘Deceit is a game of petty spirits’—those are the ghosts I fear.”

  Sitting in the garden with his host, Benjamin looked up and studied the small cupola atop the château’s slate roof. The morning sun was blazing down on the mansion, bleaching its Charente-stone exterior.

  Dating to the 1870s, Château Blanchard reminded Benjamin of the expression “castle in the sky.” It was the kind of estate that landowners with aspirations once dreamed of building. Only a few, however, could afford such opulence. The exterior was ornate and fascinating, with its intricate pinnacles above the top-floor windows. But as far as Benjamin was concerned, the place was entirely too impractical to live in.

  “I’m thinking we should restore the pond. You saw how overrun it is with algae and weeds,” Florence said, setting her cup down and casting her eyes over the landscape.

  At times Florence seemed overwhelmed by the family legacy. Château Blanchard was too large and its amenities were too few, especially in the winter, when it was impossible to heat. But she loved it in the summer, when children overtook the grounds and dinners under an old magnolia tree at the edge of the pond extended well into the evening.

  “One day I’ll have the grounds looking like Versailles,” Florence said, turning back to Benjamin. “I remember how well my grandfather maintained it.”

  As the estate’s winemaking consultant, Benjamin knew all about the family’s history. Florence Blanchard had been born into a family of farmers who had left Algeria during the war of independence in the early 1960s and had ended up in this corner of the Gironde, not far from Château Margaux. This pied-noir family had poured all of their resources into their land in the Médoc, and the wines they produced were their pride and joy.

  Florence and her brother, Jules, had lost their parents when they were young and had inherited the Blanchard estate from their grandfather. Of the two of them, Florence was the more attached to the fairy-tale château. In her youth, she had spent hours with her grandfather, whose passion for the vine was tireless and unconditional. His cru bourgeois, generated on thirty hectares in the heart of the Listrac appellation, was an elegant and velvety wine approaching the nobility of a Margaux or a Pauillac.

  Under her grandfather’s tutelage, Florence had developed a love for wine and the land. And as an adult, she had nurtured the vineyards, lush with merlot and cabernet sauvignon rootstock.

  “Enough about my plans for the future,” Florence said, leaning toward the winemaker. “I have something more pressing on my mind at the moment. Didier seems on edge these days.
Should I be worried?”

  Didier Morel was the cellar master for Château Blanchard. After finishing his oenological studies, Didier had interned at Château Pichon Longueville Baron and then at Lynch-Bages. Benjamin had met Didier at Lynch-Bages and was so impressed, he advised the Blanchard family to take him on. They hired him on the spot.

  The young man had much in common with Benjamin’s assistant, Virgile Lanssien. They both had a deeply ingrained passion for rugby, as well as the crafty intelligence of people of the earth. Each had the same diploma signed by the same director of the Institut d’oenologie, the winemaking institute of Bordeaux. These commonalities, however, did not make them allies. Benjamin knew that Virgile was a tad jealous and even reluctant to give his opinion when Florence, Didier, and he presided over the Blanchard blendings. He had concluded that the two were cut from the same cloth, consumed by the same ambitions, and blessed with the same instincts and charm that young women just couldn’t resist.

  Benjamin smiled. “I wouldn’t be concerned. A winemaker’s nerves are always on edge during malolactic fermentation. Didier’s as vigilant as a lighthouse keeper in a hurricane. His watchfulness is a sign of his commitment.”

  Florence picked up the silver coffeepot, which was gleaming in the bright sunlight. “Another cup, Benjamin?”

  “Gladly,” he answered, his gaze once again drawn to the cupola on the slate roof. It seemed pretentious.

  Florence followed his gaze. “What do you think of the cupola? I find it rather elegant. It was actually an observation post at one time.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Landowners used cupolas to watch over the vines during harvest. From up there, my grandfather could see as far away as the Garonne and spot any evildoers intent on stealing his grapes. It seems that grape theft was once fairly common.”

  “Unlike the vines, trust has never thrived in the Médoc,” said Benjamin. “The people here are capable of fighting over a single vine stalk for generations. They’d even kill over one.”

  Florence sipped her coffee. “Something seems to be on your mind, Benjamin.”

  The winemaker did not respond, mostly because he didn’t think he was being overly pensive. Actually, he had arrived early so that he and Florence could have a conversation before her brother and Didier joined them for their tasting. He liked her quick wit, her candor, and her graciousness.

  Finally, Benjamin decided to weigh in on the cupolas. “Florence, I don’t believe this story about lookouts for the vineyards. In Bordeaux, above the Palais de la Bourse, you see the same cupolas, and as far as I know, there aren’t any vineyards around there in danger of being pillaged.”

  “Benjamin, in the city those cupolas served another purpose altogether. They were for spotting the arrival of merchant ships, which were so vital to the city’s economy. Did you know that in the port’s heyday there were as many as two thousand ships trading in front of the rostral columns at the Place des Quinconces?”

  “Your knowledge impresses me, Florence.”

  “I do enjoy putting the famous Cooker Guide author in his place when I have the chance. After all, your expertise is said to be beyond compare.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be infallible,” Benjamin answered.

  “I should hope not. However, I worry about anyone who believes in ghosts, has no faith in humankind’s integrity, and uses artificial sweetener in his coffee.”

  The Blanchard heiress capped this string of reproaches with a warm smile that spoke volumes about their friendship.

  Before the winemaker could respond, he spotted Jules and Didier heading their way.

  2

  Virgile Lanssien’s bachelor pad on the Rue Saint Rémi was one of those small apartments without much character behind old Bordeaux’s beautiful eighteenth-century facades. It had a tiny living room with a modest amount of molding, a fireplace with a cracked marble surround, a wood floor, a hallway leading to a cramped bedroom with a window, a bathroom, and a kitchen barely larger than a telephone booth.

  The best feature of this home was its balcony. The landlord had described it as a “gorgeous little balcony with a view of the Place de la Bourse and the Fountain of the Three Graces.” Actually, it was a merely an opening with a metal barrier in front. From it, Virgile could see a muddy strip of the Garonne River and the plump hips of the muses sculpted long ago.

  No matter. Virgile was fine with it. The apartment was neither spacious nor comfortable, but it was two steps from the Allées de Tourny and a stone’s throw from the laboratory on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge. Good thing, too, because he was late. He was supposed to meet Alexandrine de La Palussière—Cooker and Co.’s lab director. She wanted his help because of his ability to discern TCA, or 2,4,6-trichloroanisole, in wine at about two parts per trillion. Not all tasters could pick up cork taint in such small quantities.

  Thank God—anything to get out of going to Château Blanchard. He couldn’t stand Didier Morel. His boss loved to compare them, but all Virgile could see was that Didier’s shoulders were just that much wider than his, his features a tad more chiseled, his legs stronger, and, worse, everything Virgile did, Didier tried to do better. It had started at wine school. Virgile would propose a project about organic farming and the effect on wine production in Bordeaux, and two weeks later Didier would hand in something on biodynamic grape husbandry in Burgundy. Even at the bar, Didier would hit on the same women. It was annoying—like being trailed by a gnat. And now that bloodsucker was hanging around the lab—where Virgile was supposed to have been fifteen minutes ago.

  Virgile rummaged through the jeans and underwear strewn all over the floor for something clean to wear. Housekeeping wasn’t in his wheelhouse. Sometimes he paid his next-door neighbor to tidy the apartment, but she hadn’t been there in a while. She was out of town, visiting her sister in Mimizan. The place was even grubbier and more cluttered than usual, a dump where a mother cat wouldn’t be able to find her kittens.

  He tripped on an empty wine bottle, catching himself on the coffee table, where he knocked over a box from the Indian takeout place.

  “Dammit.”

  After brushing his teeth and splashing on some Gentleman by Givenchy, he headed to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Three days of dirty dishes were piled in the sink. He opened the refrigerator, and a rancid odor hit him in the face. His phone buzzed.

  It was Alexandrine.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Alex. I’m on my way.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Alex?”

  “Is this Mr. Virgile Lanssien?”

  “Who’s this? What are you doing with Alexandrine’s telephone?”

  “This is the emergency room at Saint André Hospital. Ms. de La Palussière is here with us. She asked that we call you.”

  3

  “Benjamin! It’s good to see you. How’s that beautiful wife of yours?” Jules asked.

  “Elisabeth’s positively giddy. My publisher is whisking us away to Hungary via Vienna.”

  “Lucky dog. Good thing you could come to see us before you go tasting the king of wines and the wine of kings.”

  “Yes, that is the reputation of the Tokay wines—ever since the Prince of Transylvania gave a bottle to King Louis XIV, and the king called it vinum regum, rex vinorum. I admit I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Tokay or Tokaji, Mr. Cooker?” Didier asked.

  “Good point, young man. Tokay refers to wines from the Tokaj region in Hungary, although for centuries that name had been used for other wines: neighboring Slovakian wines, a pinot gris in Alsace, an Italian grape variety, and even an Australian sweet. Then in 2007, the Eastern European wine region won the right to be the only ones to use that name, no matter how you spell it. The ‘i’ at the end of Tokaji means “from” Tokaj, where they make more wines than just the sweet nectar we commonly refer to as Tokay.
So, you are right. Tokaji it is.”

  Didier flashed a grin and ran his hand over a head of curls. Then he added, “How’s Margaux?”

  “My daughter isn’t budging from New York,” Benjamin said. It came out sharper than he had intended.

  “So you’re still keeping her away from the locals like Didier here?” Jules said with a wink.

  “Going by the scratches on his forearm, I’d say that’s a good thing,” Benjamin said, pursing his lips. As much as he liked the boy, neither he nor Virgile were suitable matches for his beloved daughter. They were still busy playing the field.

  Didier looked down, then shrugged. “Rough match last night.”

  Florence cleared her throat. “Why don’t we start? Where’s Virgile?”

  “He won’t be joining us,” Benjamin said. “A cork-taint problem.”

  “Too bad,” Didier said. Benjamin couldn’t tell by his tone if he was disappointed or relieved.

  The three men and Florence walked over the grounds to the wine cellar. Benjamin welcomed its coolness. He put on his glasses and took out his notepad.

  On a pedestal table covered with an oilcloth, several bottles awaited the verdict of this jury of tasters, just as several other bottles had awaited them the previous year, when, after a gloomy spring and a hot, dry summer, the grapes had been harvested under a copper sun, yielding a perfectly balanced wine blessed by the gods.

  What would this tasting bring? Benjamin was eager to find out. His conclusions would make their way into his updated Cooker Guide. The guide, five hundred pages long, had become the definitive wine bible, as well as a bestseller, to the great satisfaction of Claude Nithard, his publisher.

  Florence filled the wineglasses without spilling a drop. Benjamin plunged his nose into his glass, sniffed, and scribbled in his notebook. He sipped. Silence. Just as he was about to say something, his cell phone vibrated. He frowned and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was Virgile. “Bad news,” the screen read. “Serious! Call me, ASAP.”