Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Read online

  Benjamin extinguished his cigar under his Lobb. “Methinks that the weather will be at it again, between now and this evening…” Just as he was looking up, he saw a pigeon plop a gray blob on Bacchus’s neck, precisely the spot where Clotilde had drawn blood when she bit her attacker.

  17

  Benjamin gave Virgile the car and headed to a meeting with Inspector Cluzel. The homicide division’s offices weren’t well suited to an informal conversation. Instead, Benjamin had suggested the cozy bar at the Grand Hotel La Cloche. The tanned-leather armchairs were deep and comfortable, and if they wanted to, they could have a quick business lunch at the restaurant.

  The distinguished winemaker and the already jaded inspector were an unlikely duo, but Benjamin had actually begun to enjoy Cluzel’s company.

  Punctuality, however, was not a forte of this inspector, whose informality wasn’t limited to his wardrobe. After fifteen minutes, Benjamin decided to leaf through the newspaper while sipping a glass of Vosne-Romanée from Sylvain Cathiard. It was produced from grapes grown on three parcels of fifteen-, twenty-two-, and thirty-year-old vines. Sylvain’s grandfather had established the domain in the nineteen thirties. His father joined the business in 1969, and Sylvain came aboard in 1985, renting parcels from his father and other landholders and eventually taking over his father’s original vineyards. Sylvain’s son joined the business in 2006, and it became Sylvain Cathiard et Fils. The vintage had aromas of leather and fur enhanced with hints of wood and vanilla that pleased the winemaker’s nostrils.

  Then Benjamin remembered he had better things to do than go through the newspaper. A letter from his father had been waiting for him at the hotel this morning. Benjamin had slipped it into his jacket pocket, hoping to have a moment of calm to read it.

  Now he carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the thick ecru stationary discreetly embossed with PWC in the corner. The handwriting was shaky but determined.

  Dear Benjy,

  For too long now I’ve been holed up with nothing but antiques in my apartment. My life as a family man is over. My career is over. Here in London, I have no one. Not even a partner to play Scrabble.

  The words hit Benjamin hard, and he sat motionless in the leather chair. He completely forgot his Vosne-Romanée, whose initial aromas had disappeared. Benjamin imagined his father imprisoned in his Notting Hill apartment on the second floor of an old house covered with ivy. He pictured the irises on the threshold and the climbing roses reaching for the sash windows facing Portobello Road. How long had his father been wandering like a lost soul through the hallways lined with ancient books—crushed by the epilogue of his life?

  Benjamin pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He returned to the letter.

  You, Benjy, have found the finest woman to share your life. Hold onto her tight. Elisabeth has held my hand through my recent adventure and helped clear my confused mind. For this I will be forever grateful. She has opened my eyes to my loneliness and helped me understand what Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote in One Hundred Years of Solitude: “The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.”

  As soon as Elisabeth leaves, I will get my classic Porsche 911 Carrera coupe sport tuned. I’ll dust off the black leather interior with white piping, and I’ll drive across the Chunnel to rediscover the France I love so much. I’ll visit Paris, the Riviera, and Biarritz. And if you’ll have me, I’ll stop by Grangebelle to stay in your home a few days.

  Paul William Cooker

  Benjamin stared at the letter for a long time. He missed his father’s embrace, his warm breath, his flashes of humor, his disarming cynicism, his vetiver cologne, and the reassuring voice that, ever since he was a child, had protected him from other men’s arrogance and stupidity.

  Yet, here he was now, so lucid about his old age and unreasonable at the same time. What was he thinking? Driving across France on his own!

  Benjamin needed to get this to Elisabeth. He leaned forward in his armchair, spread the letter out on the table, and pulled out his cell phone. He knew it was possible, but he’d never actually taken a photo with his phone. He stared at the device for what seemed like minutes until he found an icon the shape of a camera. He tapped it a few times, ending up with a hazy brown picture of his pant leg. Then he focused it on the letter and took one shot, then another closer up.

  Satisfied that Elisabeth could get the gist of the content, he focused on the device another long moment trying to understand how to send the photo by text message.

  “Oh, hell,” he mumbled, and started tapping icons here and there. He finally had the image of the letter in a text message addressed to Elisabeth. He added a series of question marks and hit send. Then he carefully folded the letter and slipped it into the notebook he kept in his jacket.

  At that moment, the inspector burst into the bar. Breathless and excited, he claimed that he had a good excuse for his tardiness. Benjamin suggested that he have a glass of Vosne-Romanée, but Cluzel preferred a coffee.

  “So what’s the news?” the winemaker said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Age before beauty, my good sir!” taunted the investigator.

  With the talent of a storyteller who delighted in piling on details to delay the dénouement, Benjamin Cooker conveyed Rafael’s sanitized and incomplete confession and the tale of blackmail.

  Cluzel listened and sipped his espresso, nodding now and then as Benjamin shared a disturbing glimpse into the respective temperaments of Marcel, Rafael, and Philippine. The man from homicide ordered another coffee before relating his own story.

  “At the risk of cutting into your busy schedule again, Benjamin, could you come by my office?”

  “Listen, Cluzel, I’ve wasted an hour waiting for you while the Lemoine estate has been paying me dearly to guarantee that their wine harvest doesn’t suffer any more than it already has. They’re on the verge of firing me, and now you’re asking me to spend yet more time in your office. I thought we had agreed that this called for some discretion, given—”

  “You don’t understand, Benjamin. I think we’ve caught the fellow who was prowling around the Saint-Vivant Abbey, the man who tried to pin the blame on you. He matches the description you gave us, although you weren’t very specific about his height. We found fluorescent sneakers, and he has a bruise on the side of his head. The guy claims he had a bicycle accident, but he’s trying to sidetrack us. I’m thinking the moan you heard and the bruise are related. I’d like you to take a look at him through a one-way mirror.

  “But I’ve never seen him up close, Cluzel.”

  “Yes, but a suspect’s more than a face. It’s a body type, a way of moving, smiling, staring…”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Benjamin muttered. “Who is this man? I mean, what is his background?”

  “He’s originally from Dijon, and he lives with his uncle. His father died four or five years ago. He hasn’t heard from his mother in as many. She took off a while ago with some rich guy. In his free time, he’s an archeology buff, and—get this—he works in insurance.”

  “So you’re saying that the man who’s been prowling the Saint-Vivant Abbey is a certain Romain Burit? The same man who handles the Lemoine’s insurance.”

  Cluzel immediately lost his bravado. “How did you know? Are you psychic or something?”

  “Not at all, Inspector. Simple deduction. I saw the insurance agency’s name on the car when the young man came out to assess the damage and guessed that his uncle and he had the same last name. I didn’t know his first name until just a little while ago, when Virgile and I were meeting with the Lemoines. Romain talked Rafael into a lousy policy without Marcel’s approval. And he’s connected to the case—he was Clotilde’s boyfriend.”

  “So you knew more than you were letting on.”

  “It was just a supposition, but when you said he was an archeology buff, I made the connect
ion. How did you nab him?”

  “I sent men to the monastery two nights in a row.”

  “The abbey,” Benjamin said.

  “The abbey, if you insist. They drew a blank the first night. They spotted him the second night, but he lost them in the woods. And then they were interrupted by a guy who was roaming around the ruins, a hiker, a real one this time. He was the spitting image of your assistant, Virgile Lanssien.”

  Benjamin didn’t react.

  “In fact, it turned out that this guy was your assistant. So, did you think you could grab the fellow with the sneakers before we did? That’s why he slipped away last night, while you distracted me with drink and cigars? Is that it?”

  “Virgile sometimes does things without my knowledge. Until now, I haven’t had any complaints,” Benjamin picked up his empty glass and sniffed the remaining Burgundy aromas: hawthorn and wilted roses.

  “According to my men, he spoke with the fellow.”

  “Strange, he didn’t tell me,” Benjamin muttered, annoyed that Virgile had kept all this to himself.

  “When your man left, my guys swooped in and picked up the suspect.”

  “Quite impressive, Inspector. Had your division had any previous run-ins with him?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Did he confess?”

  “Confess what?”

  “Well, that he hid Clotilde’s clothes in my car?”

  “He completely denies it. That’s why I need your input to determine if it’s the same person. Otherwise, we’ve got nothing on him. If we can connect him to the underwear drop, then maybe we can push him to confess the murder.”

  The inspector folded his arms, conveying his impatience.

  For his part, Benjamin wanted to be done with the barroom speculation. He agreed to follow Cluzel to his office.

  “One thing before we go,” Benjamin said, handing Cluzel a plastic bag. “This is for you. Open it later, when you’re wearing gloves.”

  “What’s inside? More clothes?”

  “Rafael Lemoine’s scarf. He left it at the café. I thought you might find it useful.”

  The atmosphere in the bar was becoming oppressive. Benjamin needed some air, some answers, and an explanation from Virgile.

  18

  Elisabeth put her phone down and looked over at her father-in-law, who was sitting at his mahogany secretary desk, scribbling in a notebook. His back was straight, his gaze intent. He was making a list of what he’d need for his French road trip, no doubt. One of the drop-front drawers, containing pens, was open, as was the middle storage door, which had a central secret compartment. How like Beau-papa. The desk, with is flame-grain wood and aged brass drawer pulls, was a fine antique, claw feet and all, just like the man.

  She shook her head and sighed, feeling both sadness and great tenderness. Yes, Paul William’s disposition was improved. He had given her much of the credit, but she wasn’t having it. Beau-papa was a resilient man with an enterprising spirit, much like her husband. But just like Benjamin, he was also stubborn, and he wouldn’t take kindly to what she was about to tell him.

  Well, she could put her foot down too. And nobody could put a foot down like Elisabeth Cooker in a spike heel.

  Elisabeth didn’t blame Paul William for his dream of one final tour de France. But it was out of the question. His eyesight was dimming, and his reflexes were slow and unpredictable. Who knew what other health conditions he had? She guessed he was diabetic. And even if he did go, he didn’t have a cellphone to call them if he got lost or had a flat tire.

  No, an extended road trip was entirely out of the question.

  She walked over to Paul William’s desk and put a hand on his shoulder. “Beau-papa.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. As if he could read her thoughts, the glimmer in his eye faded. She stepped back and waited for him to set down his Mont Blanc pen, arrange his papers, and turn around.

  “Benjamin sent me a copy of the letter you wrote to him,” she said. “So you’re planning a trip?”

  Paul William frowned. “That was a private letter to my son, Elisabeth. It wasn’t yours to read.”

  “Oh, but it was, Beau-papa. Benjamin sent it to me. He wanted me to read it, and it’s a good thing, too. If you think you can handle a trip like that, think again. I’ve been here with you. I’ve seen the way you tire easily, your mind gets foggy, and you’re so thirsty—are you going to tell me what you’re being treated for? And when was the last time you had your vision tested?”

  Paul William got up from his chair. He was red-faced now. “See here, young lady. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I’ve enjoyed your company, but that doesn’t give you the right to manage my life. I’ve got some years left in me, and I intend to enjoy them. If you have other thoughts, you can go home.”

  Elisabeth leaned in, coming almost nose-to-nose with him. Her voice was firm and even. “If it’s a home you’re thinking about, I can find a nice one for you before I leave for Grangebelle. There are plenty of good assisted-care facilities in London. Don’t put it past me!”

  His lips quivered, but he didn’t blink.

  Elisabeth stepped back and smiled. “But I’ll make a pact with you. Call your doctor and make an appointment, and if he gives you a clean bill of health, you can tour the whole country and the rest of Europe, for that matter. Neither Benjamin nor I will stand in your way.”

  Elisabeth crossed the room and picked up the phone. She held the receiver out to him. He still had a landline phone with a cord. She was surprised it didn’t have a rotary dial.

  19

  Virgile pulled up to the Brauchards’ wine cellar and spotted Simon just as he was coming out. He frowned as soon as he saw Virgile—a bad taste left from their first encounter, most likely. Still, he mustered a smile and walked across the neat cobblestone courtyard to shake Vigile’s hand.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Virgile tightened his grip on the man’s hand, pumped twice from the elbow, and looked him in the eye. He considered fabricating some survey about post-storm vineyard damage, but decided on a more direct approach.

  “I have some questions for you about Clotilde’s death.”

  “Oh? Yes, I heard you and your Mr. Cooker were sticking your noses into that business. I don’t know how I’d be able to help.” Simon cast a glance toward the house.

  “Don’t worry, Simon. Your wife doesn’t need to know about our little conversation. I’ll let you tell her. It turns out that she had good reason to keep Clotilde off the estate. Clotilde really was a threat.”

  Simon’s face flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Virgile. There isn’t a pretty girl in the Côte that my wife likes. She’s jealous. That’s all.”

  “No, Simon. Your wife was onto something. That’s why she didn’t want Clotilde here. You were fooling around with her, weren’t you?”

  Before Simon could respond, Virgile heard a door slam. He turned toward the sound and saw Simon’s wife walking from the house. She was slim, and her auburn hair just brushed her shoulders. When she got closer, Virgile took in her hazel eyes and full mouth. Not bad, he thought. Now why would a man want to cheat on a good-looking woman like that?

  “Honey, this is Virgile—Lanssien, correct?” Simon put his arm around his wife’s waist. “He’s working with Benjamin Cooker—you know, the wine expert—at the Lemoines.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, smiling and extending her hand before turning to her husband. “I’m on my way to town. Need anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You going anywhere?”

  Simon gave Virgile a fleeting look. “I’m getting together with Jacques later for a drink.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two hours, no longer.”

  “Well, don’t forget
to take your phone. Not like yesterday, when I couldn’t get hold of you.”

  “Yes, dear.” Simon gave his wife a peck on the cheek and watched her get in the car and drive off. He turned back to Virgile. “You were saying…”

  “I was saying that you were fooling around with Clotilde Dupont.”

  Simon sighed and put his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Okay, guilty as charged. But it didn’t mean anything. It was just a fling.”

  “A fling that got her pregnant!”

  Simon’s cheeks flushed. “Are you kidding? No, it couldn’t have been me. We were only together a couple of times, and I heard there were others. There was someone else at the Lemoine estate.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, because both Clotilde and the baby she was carrying are dead. Which brings me to…”

  Simon stopped him. “Oh no, I may be a lousy husband, but I’m no murderer. You can’t pin that one on me. The wife and I were at a movie that night. I’m sure she still has the ticket stubs in her purse, and then, afterward, we went out for drinks with friends. You can ask them.”

  Simon locked eyes with Virgile, and in a matter of seconds, the look on his face changed. His mouth curled into a snarl. “But then again, questioning suspects isn’t really your job, is it Virgile? You’re more of a gofer with a fancy title. Just tell the gendarmes I’m here, and they can question me any time they want. Other than a little sex on the side, I’ve got nothing to hide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected somewhere.”

  Simon turned around and walked away.

  § § §

  Inspector Cluzel had one of his officers give Benjamin a ride back to the Lemoine estate. It had been a long day, and Benjamin was tired. But he wanted to get to the bottom of things with Marcel, even if it meant losing him as a client.

  He found Marcel in the sorting room, talking with Philippine in hushed tones. The optical sorter stood in a corner without a single drop of grape juice on the brand-new stainless steel. With the storm and haste of the havest, it had gone unused.