Late Harvest Havoc Page 10

  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.

  “I’ll be right back he said,” Virgile said, jumping up from his stool and rushing toward the car. Virgile recognized André Deutzler. Seeing him coming, André sidled over to his motorcycle—an old-model Yamaha. He put on his helmet, pretending not to recognize Virgile, and straddled his cycle.

  Three minutes later a woman wearing a leather jacket and an arm sling walked over and got on the cycle behind him. Virgile was even more shocked when he realized who it was: Véronique Deutzler.

  Wondering what that was all about, Virgile returned to the bar.

  “Well, surprise, surprise,” the woman behind the counter said. “Véronique Deutzler making another visit to the good doctor.”

  “You know her?”

  “Yeah, I know her.”

  “I understand she’s had a rough time of it,” Virgile said, hoping to draw out some gossip.

  The woman harrumphed and continued wiping down the counter.

  “First, the family’s vines were destroyed, and then she lost her father-in-law,” Virgile said. “It must be tough on her, being pregnant and all. Good thing she’s got her husband at her side.”

  “At her side maybe, but I’m not so sure he’s the one in her bed.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Let’s just say there is some question about the baby being his.”

  “My grandfather used to say, ‘Infidelity is an itch that it’s best not to scratch.’ Are you telling me that she scratched the itch?”

  The barista smiled. “There’ve been lots of stories since she married Iselin. He doesn’t have much in the looks department, and you couldn’t blame a girl for checking a guy out from time to time. But jumping in the sack with your husband’s own brother? Now that’s something you just don’t do. I’ll say this for André: he’s shy and doesn’t have much to say, but he can put in a good day’s work.”

  “And old man Deutzler?” Virgile asked. “Did he know what was going on?”

  “He seemed to put up with the whole situation, although it had to grate on him that André was cuckolding his golden boy, Iselin. Actually, I heard Deutzler’s nurse was keeping him preoccupied. She was devoted—that one.”

  “I’m sure he enjoyed his sponge baths,” Virgile said. “I’m guessing she threw in a massage every once in a while.”

  “He threw in something, too, if you get my drift. I heard she made a trip to the hospital in Strasbourg to nip that in the bud. But who knows? Maybe the old bugger had a third son we don’t know about.”

  “What a family,” Virgile said. “And what about the child Véronique is carrying? Do you think it is Iselin’s or André’s?”

  “I’d guess André. He’s the one she seems
to love. As for the other one, he just sits back and plays with his corkscrew.”

  At that moment, Virgile saw Benjamin on the office doorstep. He paid his bill, thanked the woman, flashed her one of his smiles, and headed across the street.

  “We need to go to Colmar. I have to get my foot X-rayed,” Benjamin said.

  “Boss, I just spared you another incident,” Virgile said, as they slowly made their way to the car.

  Benjamin lowered himself into the passenger seat. “I’m listening, my guardian angel.”

  “I was careful to park your car within view of the café. Well, about forty-five minutes later, a guy began to prowl around it. I watched his every move. When he started taking too close a look at the rear tires, I jumped up and scared him off. You know who it was? Guess! You won’t believe it.”

  “The younger Deutzler son,” Benjamin replied.

  “How did you know?”

  “My injury hasn’t affected my brain, Virgile.”

  “Well, then, guess who he took off with.”

  “His sister-in-law.”

  Virgile stared at his boss. Even with a bum foot, the winemaker was always one step ahead.

  12

  Virgile had no interest in waiting while Benjamin had his X-rays done. The bench in the waiting area was hard. The fluorescent lights were harsh, and he had better things to do. With Benjamin’s blessings, he decided to pay Inspector Fauchié a visit.

  The police station on the Rue du Chasseur was relatively calm. Nobody was waiting around in handcuffs. The green plants in the corridor were perfectly watered, and the female officer behind the reception desk was bent over the horoscopes in the Dernières Nouvelles d’Alsace. When Virgile’s arrival was announced, the inspector emerged from his office right away. In a gesture of friendship and perhaps affection, Fauchié even put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “How have you been since yesterday morning, Virgile? And how is Mr. Cooker?”

  Fauchié motioned Virgile into his office. Virgile sat down and gave the inspector a brief but comprehensive summary of the previous forty-eight hours. He didn’t omit a single detail: the trip to Thierenbach, the winemaker’s unfortunate fall, the consultation with Dr. Cayla, the information regarding repetitive-motion injuries, Véronique Deutzler’s wrist problems, the scene with the Mercedes convertible, and André’s suspicious behavior, including his escape like a bat out of hell on a Yamaha 350, with his sister-in-law clinging to his back.

  “A motorcycle, you say?”

  “Yes, orange. An old model. Not very classy, but it really hauls ass!”

  “I see,” Fauchié said, playing with a paperclip.

  Virgile was fully enjoying the moment. He had delivered the solution to the mystery on a silver platter. All that was left to do now was trail and then snatch the couple like ripe grapes. Catching them in the act was Roch’s job. He alone, along with the public prosecutor, of course, could deal the final blow.

  “Unless,” suggested the inspector, his gaze lost in the black-and-white photo where he stood beaming with his wife and the young Damien.

  “Unless?” Virgile asked.

  Watching the way Fauchié was playing with the paperclip, undoing every bend and working out each kink, Virgile could only imagine the strategy the police inspector was silently formulating. The law-enforcement machine was far too complex for Virgile. He didn’t even want to think about it.

  Hailstones began hitting the windows of the inspector’s office. A storm had been threatening for an hour, and the city had been blanketed in a thick veil of dark crepe. Now it had started.

  Having been manipulated too much, Fauchié’s paperclip finally broke. Fauchié leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled. Virgile thought he saw a trace of mischief—even cunning—on Fauchié’s face when he opened his eyes again.

  “Virgile, it’s my turn to give you some first-hand information, which should please you.”

  “I’m eager to hear it.”

  “I’ve been forcing myself to drink two glasses of Bordeaux at each meal, and I have to admit I derive a certain pleasure from it.”

  “It’s about time,” replied Benjamin. Virgile turned around and saw the winemaker standing in the doorway, the blue envelope containing his X-rays peeking out from under his drenched Loden.

  Dr. Cayla had been entirely correct. The X-rays confirmed a mild sprain, which would heal nicely as long as Benjamin used a crutch, iced his ankle as often as possible, and put his foot up whenever he could. He had promised the blond technician that he would do just that before taking the large blue envelope and saying good-bye.

  “Delighted to see you again, Mr. Cooker,” Fauchié said, inviting Benjamin into his office. “Please take a seat. Virgile told me all about your problems. There’s no fracture, I hope.”

  “Just a sprain,” the winemaker answered, leaning his crutch against a side table.

  “Your timing couldn’t be better, in light of the information your assistant has just relayed. It’s invaluable. To reach our goal, however, I need what you might call…”

  “A bending of official procedure?” Benjamin could read the inspector’s mind.

  “A bending of procedure?” Virgile said. “I’m not following.”

  “We’re not talking about a bending per se, son,” the winemaker said. “It’s more of a dislocation involving the two arms of law enforcement. I believe Dr. Cayla would describe a dislocation as the displacement of two articular surfaces that have lost their natural connection. In this case, we’re talking about the gendarmerie and the police. They work together most of the time, but their connection isn’t compulsory.”

  “My friend, I see that you understand me completely,” said Fauchié.

  “To put it plainly, Virgile, the police inspector does not intend to give any new ammunition to Roch. Especially since the little twerp… Pardon me, Inspector Fauchié. I hope you’ll excuse the term.”

  Fauchié chuckled and picked up another paperclip.

  “Especially since Roch is already passing himself off to the prefect as the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker,” Benjamin said.

  Virgile got up from his chair and began pacing around Fauchié’s desk. The inspector made no objection. He then picked up Benjamin’s crutch and pointed it at a large wall map of Alsace, stretching from Strasbourg to Colmar.

  Like a general brandishing his baton at the mock-up of a battlefield, Virgile aimed the crutch at Ingersheim, a winemaking village on the edge of Colmar.

  Benjamin and the inspector looked at each other, speechless.

  “Could you be more explicit, Virgile?” Benjamin asked.

  The stormy weather had dissipated, leaving an ashen sky and a barometer pointing to dry cold. Snow had even made an appearance in the Vosges Mountains and would reach the plains and valleys in a matter of hours. The old winemakers watched the winter weather arrive as they checked their vines and prayed that the maniac with the power tool would spare them.

  Benjamin remained cloistered in his room the entire day, putting his tasting notes in order, reflecting on his evaluations of some rather unpromising samples of sparkling wines, and keeping his leg up. He had called Elisabeth to tell her about his accident, and she had made him promise to take care of his ankle.

  “Promise or I’ll call Virgile,” she threatened. “You know what a nag he can be.”

  “I promise, dear. I’ll be almost as good as new by the time I get home. I can’t wait to see you.”

  When the church bells rang, Benjamin had a compassionate thought for Séverin Gaesler, who was being buried in a cemetery plot without many flowers or wreaths. Perhaps there might be some yarrow pulled from the hills near the Koenigsbourg castle. Benjamin also thought of Jeanne and pledged to say a prayer for both her and Vincent Deutzler near the Pillar of Angels before leaving Alsace. He didn’t think he had the courage to look at the Grim Reaper in the clock. He’d make it a point not to be there on the hour
, when the Reaper banged the bronze bell. He was sure Virgile wouldn’t join him. His assistant had already seen the clock, and he’d be more interested in the holiday market stalls on the square.

  All day long, Benjamin Cooker was feeling a nostalgia that bordered on depression. He’d put his pen down and look out the window. Then he’d pick it up again and look blankly at his notes. His ankle was hurting, even though he was keeping it up and icing it. “I should have gone back to see Dr. Cayla,” Benjamin muttered. “And here I thought I was a hale and hearty English-gent-turned-Frenchman. What a joke that was.”

  Benjamin realized he had to face facts. Yes, he had many good years ahead of him, but he was getting on and had to pay more attention to his health. And the three deaths he had encountered during his stay in Alsace had certainly delivered the message that he was mortal. He thought about Jean de la Bruyère, who wrote: “Death happens but once, yet we feel it every moment of our lives; it is worse to dread it than to suffer it.”

  The motorcycle was racing toward them, along the secondary road connecting Colmar’s industrial zone and the town of Ingersheim. Wearing bulletproof vests and fluorescent armbands, Inspector Fauchié’s men had placed a spike strip across the road. All of the officers were armed with submachine guns. A few yards uphill, a camera mounted on an unmarked car had been activated fifteen seconds earlier.

  Coming upon the roadblock, the motorcyclist braked hard and started losing control. He tried to make a U-turn, but two officers on motorcycles and three in a cruiser quickly overtook him. The motorcyclist’s last attempt to escape failed. The machine skidded on the asphalt, sending out a shower of sparks before hitting a tree.

  When the groggy motorcyclist tried to rise to his feet, two officers pounced on him and cuffed his hands behind his back. As they started to hoist him up, one of the officers shouted to his superior.

  “All right, boss, we’ve got him!”