Foul Play in Vouvray Page 10

  Benjamin didn’t answer and sat down.

  “So, have you thanked our chef for his works of art?” Lee asked. “What am I saying? For his masterpieces!”

  Virgile patted his stomach. His color had returned, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “For starters, I had pine nut and roquette salad. Then I ordered the blue lobster with morels, followed by a cheese platter and crispy grapes covered with foam and grape leaves.”

  “Very good choices, each one,” Lee said. “What about you, Benjamin?”

  “I wasn’t very hungry when we ordered. But the more I watched Virgile eat, the more gluttonous I became. It was contagious, like yawning.”

  “The important thing is to enjoy yourself without remorse,” Lee said.

  “Oh, you can count on me to enjoy myself,” Benjamin said. “Still, I didn’t intend to indulge that way.”

  “In your defense, you didn’t take any cheese,” Virgile said. “What’s more, in this rare instance, we drank only one bottle of wine: a dry Montlouis from François Chidaine.”

  “It was perfection,” Benjamin enthused. “Layered with complex fruit and charged with vivacious minerality. If we have enough time, we’ll visit François with the film crew. He’s a winemaker who pays attention to detail, and, Virgile, I’d like you to watch him up close. He makes his own organic sprays. For him, biodynamic methods are a religion, and his approach is impeccable. He believes in very low yields. In the cellar, he takes great care with his pressings, and he uses only wild yeast…”

  Lee sighed. “You make him sound like a zealot, Benjamin. There’s nothing extremist about him. I happen to think he’s a reasonable man.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Lee,” the winemaker replied with a smile. “Rigor’s an essential component of reasoned viticulture.” He turned back to Virgile. “Unfortunately, we’ve lost a day, and I don’t think we’ll be able to squeeze in Jacky Blot at his Taille aux Loups estate. He has a different style, another way of caring for his chenin grapes. He’s more sophisticated in his presentation. I remember a 2001 Rémus that was very balanced and elegant. I also like his Vouvray and Bourgueil. What an intense taste of fruit!”

  Lee closed his laptop. “I don’t know how you handle so many tastings, Benjamin. It’s a hell of a lot of work and requires an enormous amount of concentration.”

  “It’s all in the discipline. Ironically, it’s in the passion, as well. ‘Too much and too little wine. Give him none, he cannot find truth; give him too much, the same.’ Blaise Pascal.”

  “So that’s the secret.” Lee said. “Tell me, Benjamin. I hear Gayraud’s found a solution to his problem and won’t have to delay filming the movie. They’re replacing Simone.”

  “That’s not definite, at this point, at least. Dr. Molinier thinks Simone may be coming out of her coma.”

  “Now that’s good news! David must be heartened.”

  “I think he’s feeling better. But we still don’t know if she’ll recover fully and resume filming. I’m sure they’ll secure this new actress as a backup. I’ve seen her, and I think she’d do well.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Well, I didn’t see her in the flesh. I just helped in the selection. I was with David when Gayraud showed up with a binder. She was the clear choice.”

  “But is this girl as good as Simone?”

  “I can’t tell you. I only saw her photo and bio. But she appears to be completely charming. She has a little mole close to her lip that reminds me of a famous model. She has long auburn hair. I forget her name, but you know who I mean.”

  “Cindy Crawford, boss.”

  “Of course, you’d know her name.” If only Virgile could so easily remember every beautiful wine he’d ever tasted.

  “Well, she has been around for a while,” Virgile said. “And there aren’t that many actresses or models with moles close to their lips.”

  “I suppose.” Benjamin wanted to backtrack. “Lee, you’re familiar with mysteries. Do you have a theory on what happened to Simone?”

  “No, not really,” Lee said. “If she never recovers, that’s too bad, but you know as well as I do that starlets come and go.”

  Benjamin saw Virgile stiffen at the insensitivity.

  Immediately, Lee tried to soften his words. “To be honest, I haven’t thought about Simone that much. You do have to wonder about the GHB. Who’d have the stuff, and did the perpetrator use it to rape her or kill her—or both?”

  Benjamin and Virgile exchanged a glance.

  “It seems you know more about it than I do,” Lee said.

  “Not really,” Benjamin answered. “I was also at the château when Dr. Molinier told David about the GHB. How did you know?”

  “Simone’s a celebrity. Where there’s a celebrity, there’re leaks.”

  Benjamin waited for Lee to divulge more about his source, but he didn’t.

  “Obviously, the police are taking the GHB connection seriously,” Lee said. “Otherwise they would have gone with alcohol-induced coma. That would have made it simple: she drank too much. Case closed.”

  “I didn’t even know there was such a drug before this happened,” Benjamin said.

  Lee shrugged. “You can find it at any night spot. Guys are out on the hunt. They figure, ‘Why spend all your money and energy on seducing a girl, when you can plop something in her drink, take her into a back room or her apartment, and be done with it.’ Not that I approve, mind you. But I’m not surprised that someone—or more than one person—would have been using it at the party that night. All you had to do was look around, and you could see that half of them were wasted.”

  “So, as far as you’re concerned, who are the main suspects?” Virgile asked.

  “Everyone’s presumed guilty—even the host himself,” Lee said.

  “But Simone’s his girlfriend. Why would he slip GHB into her drink?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he wanted her to enjoy herself, and considering what happened, he doesn’t have the guts to fess up. Then again, he’s a man with a big ego. Perhaps he saw Simone flirting with you and wanted to hurt her.”

  “Could he have been that angry—so angry he’d drug and rape her—or, even worse, allow someone else to assault her?” Virgile asked. “You’d have to be a despicable person to do something like that.”

  “Men who’ve claimed to love the women in their lives have done terrible things,” Lee answered. “Men you’d like if you met them in a café.”

  “Who else could have done it?” Benjamin asked.

  “It could have been anyone, I tell you.”

  “Jean-Paul Gayraud?”

  “Why not? He’s capable of anything, especially if it benefits his wallet. But he’s a harder person to pin it on. I can’t see why he’d kill the goose that laid one of his golden eggs. Besides, he left early that night.”

  “So then, who else?”

  “You... Me... Who knows? Maybe an envious woman, a vengeful ex-lover, a rejected suitor. A stage hand or a makeup artist who’s been mistreated. A nasty journalist. A bitter director. Hasn’t it ever crossed your mind to bump someone off?”

  Benjamin leaned back and folded his arms. “But was this a murder attempt or a sexual assault with life-threatening consequences? Or could it have been an innocent mistake?”

  Lee seemed fatigued. He reached into a back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small round box. He opened it and took out two capsules, which he swallowed with the remaining drops of his Armagnac. Benjamin watched and waited.

  “Attempted murder is certainly a possibility,” Lee said. “But you can’t deny there are more tried-and-true methods if you absolutely want to bump someone off. I understand what you’re getting at, Benjamin, and it’s an important point. In the case of Simone Margerolle, it’s difficult to tease out the real intentions of the perpetrator. But we must remember that the dose was probably very high, since she’s been in a coma, and for that reason, I don’t think it was an innocent mistake.”

  �
��I think this real-life mystery has the makings of a first-rate screenplay,” Benjamin said. “Just consider the number of suspects. And with all the possible perpetrators you’ve ticked off, you haven’t even mentioned someone who, for all intents and purposes, didn’t even know her before the night of David’s party.”

  “If that’s the case, someone else will have to write it,” Lee said. “Not me. I’m in the mood for something more escapist.”

  “That’s your right,” Benjamin said. “Sometimes I turn down collaborations with property owners I don’t much care for or terroirs that don’t interest me. I’d never produce a wine that I’ve no desire to drink.”

  The men fell silent. Moments later, Virgile sighed and got up. “Boss, it’s been a long day, and I want to catch up on some of the shut-eye I lost while I was Inspector Blanchet’s guest. The accommodations weren’t exactly conducive to sleep.”

  “Go ahead, Virgile. We have a busy day tomorrow. I’ll spend a few more minutes down here.”

  Benjamin waited until Virgile was back in the château before saying anything. “Forgive me for prying, Lee, but I’m concerned. You told me about your troubles, and you aren’t looking well. I also see that you’re on medication.”

  “I’m fine, Benjamin. Really. I’m working with a new therapist, and he prescribed a different anti-depressant. My old one wasn’t working.” Lee looked at his watch. “Well, it’s past midnight already. I should hit the sack too.”

  As he started gathering up everything, he pulled out the round pill box from beneath his papers. “I almost forgot this. I didn’t even close the lid.”

  Lee placed the papers in a cardboard folder. He capped his pen and picked up a paperback opened to a page with paragraphs highlighted in pink. “A few pages of reading to maintain my form, and then it’s nighty-night.” Covering his mouth, he yawned.

  “Balzac.” Benjamin said, tilting his head to read the title. “A Woman of Thirty. I love that novel.”

  “So do I. I bought it for my visit here. He writes about this area. There are some beautiful passages, especially this one about Château de Moncontour. Did you know Balzac wanted to live in Vouvray?”

  “Yes, so it seems.”

  “Listen to this: ‘Moncontour is an old manor house built upon the sandy cliffs situated on one of those white rocks above the Loire… It is a picturesque white château, with turrets covered with fine stone carving like Mechlin lace; a château such as you often see in Touraine, spick and span, ivy-clad, standing among its groves of mulberry-trees and vineyards, with its sunken paths, its openwork balustrades, and cellars mined in the rock escarpments mirrored in the Loire. The roofs of Moncontour glisten under the sun’s rays.’ And then, further on, at the bottom of the page, there are some phrases that I find still true: ‘a fair, sweet-scented country, where pain is lulled to sleep and passion wakes. No heart is cold for long beneath its clear sky, beside its sparkling waters. One ambition dies after another, and you sink into serene content and repose, as the sun sinks at the end of the day swathed about with purple and azure.’”

  “Very true,” Benjamin said. “There’s something in the air that rocks and soothes you.”

  “That’s how Balzac writes about Vouvray. I’ve bookmarked a passage: a letter to Countess Hanska, dated June 10, 1846: ‘Moncontour is my predilection, I’d like you to come and see it, it is so lovely. It’s one of the most beautiful views of the Touraine.’ He was born in Touraine, and he hoped to acquire the château. But he never had the money. I’m afraid that’s also my fate. I’ll have nothing left after I pay off my wife and lawyer. That’s if Gayraud coughs up what he owes me.”

  “I’d say hitch your wagon to another producer the next time around.”

  “Sage advice, Benjamin.”

  The two men parted ways, with Benjamin shaking Lee’s hand. As soon as Lee was out of sight, Benjamin opened his left hand and slipped the capsule that had fallen out of the pill box into his pocket.

  20

  “The sound of the waters lapping in the Loire will add some ambiance, I think.” Liza Stechelmann scanned the river and the gently rising banks lined with trees, which were flaunting their leaves in full springtime splendor. She looked back at Benjamin and Virgile, waiting for confirmation.

  “Yes, I agree,” Virgile said. “I’ve always loved the sound of water. I belonged to the Bergerac rowing club when I was a kid.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s true,” Benjamin said. “He was one of its most promising members.”

  The production team had borrowed a boat, and they were steadying it so the winemaker and his assistant could get in. Liza had equipped the two oenologists with clip-on microphones. Fabrice would stretch out on the bank and follow them with his camera. “I’m miking you, but I probably won’t use anything you say,” Liza said. “These are just atmospheric images to mark breaks in the action. Feel free to say whatever.”

  Virgile turned to Benjamin. “I wonder if it’s okay to swim here. I wouldn’t mind jumping in after the filming.”

  “I wouldn’t know, son. The Loire’s been called the last wild river in Western Europe. It’s a haven for rare and threatened wildlife. But it can also have high levels of algae and bacteria. I wouldn’t swim in it.”

  “You really think it’s that big a concern?”

  “I wouldn’t take a chance. Some of the river’s more popular swimming spots were closed last year.”

  “But that was in the summer, boss.”

  “Correct. So you decide for yourself.”

  Benjamin leaned over side of the boat and stared at the water. It was bringing back memories of his childhood: August, when his family vacationed in the Médoc, and the sun would darken freckles faded by overcast winters in London. Back then, the Médoc’s famous wine estates—Margaux, Latour, Petrus, and Mouton-Rothschild, to name a few—didn’t interest him the way they would later. When his father, Paul William, drove them to the ocean, Benjamin couldn’t wait for the familiar curves in the road announcing the promise of a swim.

  Paul William shunned the water himself, but he allowed his children to frolic in the waves. While Benjamin’s mother read magazines and sunbathed, without undressing too much, Paul William would watch his children with the austere dignity of an officer in the Royal Navy—taking care to keep his deerskin Lobbs dry. Much earlier, he had advised Benjamin and his siblings to watch out for eddies and shifting sand banks, as the currents were often treacherous.

  Liza interrupted his reverie. “Would you please make a U-turn, but not too quickly,” she yelled from the river bank. Apparently, she wanted to get the bridge in the background.

  “I’d like to see you do this!” Virgile called out. “You’re making me row against the current!”

  “Put in the effort, please,” the director yelled back, cupping her hands around her mouth like a megaphone.

  “My hands are already blistered. I’m out of practice.”

  “Come, come, Virgile. Don’t be a sissy!”

  Liza’s words stung. Virgile heaved and executed the maneuver without a word.

  Benjamin, meanwhile, had closed his eyes and was letting the gentle waters lull him. His young gondolier was seething and chastising himself for going along with this little boat trip, and the winemaker wasn’t about to get in the middle of it.

  § § §

  Still muttering, Virgile climbed out of the boat and let Benjamin huddle with Liza. They walked over to a cluster of trees and didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t following. Instead, Virgile stayed where he was and watched as Fabrice dusted the dirt and grass off his jeans and polo shirt and changed lenses. Then, as if sensing that he was being studied, he looked up from his camera and locked eyes with Virgile.

  Virgile didn’t want to wait any longer. He climbed the river bank and joined Fabrice.

  “I think we’re almost done with the filming phase of the documentary,” he said, attempting a casual conversation as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with th
e cameraman. “Will you be glad to get back to Paris?”

  “No, not really,” Fabrice said. “The countryside’s nice, and the pay’s okay. As long as I can get my workouts in, I’m good.”

  “So, is it hard to stay in shape while you’re traveling?”

  Fabrice looked over at him. “I learned a long time ago that the secret’s bringing your own equipment. I’ve got a suspension trainer, a speed rope, resistance bands, an ab wheel… I even have a medicine ball you fill with water when you use it and drain when you’re done. And I eat right. I pack a lot of my own food.”

  Virgile put his hands in his pockets and fell silent for a moment. Then: “Just wondering—do you ever compete in bodybuilding contests?”

  Fabrice’s expression turned curious. “It’s not my thing. I care about staying fit, but I’m not someone’s eye candy. And so many bodybuilders in those competitions take enhancers. I don’t. Why are you asking?”

  Virgile had a gut feeling. The guy was telling the truth. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’ve got to ask, Fabrice. I was at the hospital the day after Simone was admitted. The nurse told me you visited her too.”

  Fabrice looked shocked. “How did she know it was me? I didn’t give her my name.”

  “You didn’t have to give her your name. You’re someone who stands out in a crowd.”

  Fabrice sighed and hung his head. “Yeah, I was at the hospital. I had to see her. After we finished filming at the party, David said we could stay. I packed my gear and just starting mingling. Then she came up and asked me to dance. Virgile, it was a dance I’ll remember the rest of my life. A gorgeous girl like her, looking at me that way, like I was the only man in the world. I was walking on air. Then, before I knew it, she vanished. The next morning, they told me she’d been found unconscious in the cellar. I couldn’t believe it.” The cameraman kicked the dirt. “So that’s why I was at the hospital. I really hope, by some miracle, that she recovers. I’ve been praying for her.”

  Virgile understood. “I know, Fabrice. I hope she recovers too.” He patted the cameraman’s shoulder.