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

  The Lemoine winegrower and his employee both looked up when they heard him come in.

  “Philippine, we’ll finish this later,” Marcel said.

  Ms. Perraudin gave Benjamin a nod, anger flashing in her eyes, and left without saying a word.

  “So, Benjamin,” Marcel said, crossing his arms. “Have you reconsidered all those accusations you hurled at Rafael and me, or have you come to submit your resignation?”

  “I’ve come to do neither,” Benjamin said. He opened his cigar case and offered Marcel one of his father’s favorite Lusitanias.

  Marcel shook his head, and Benjamin lit one for himself. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts.

  “We have some unfinished business, Marcel.”

  “What would that be? If you’re worried about your check, I’ll write one out right now. Let me go get my checkbook.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about, Marcel. I’m talking about the dirty business that’s going on here. You’re allowing yourself to be blackmailed by your winemaker—perhaps the most important person on your estate, other than you and your son. And you haven’t held Rafael accountable for the way he’s behaved. He’s the scion of a noble business. There’s no excuse—”

  “I beg your pardon!” Marcel was shouting. “What right do you—a winemaker from Bordeaux—have to tell me about my family and my business! You’re an outsider. You know nothing!”

  “You’re right, Marcel. I’m an outsider. But this much I know: when your barrels are contaminated, you must dump the wine and sanitize them. If any contaminated wine has made it as far as the bottle, you’ve got to publicly fess up. Honesty and integrity go hand in hand. Your family’s name is on the line, and the very future of your estate is at stake.”

  “You’re saying I need to dump my son? Never!”

  Benjamin didn’t respond and let Marcel’s heavy breathing return to normal.

  “That’s not at all what I’m suggesting, my friend. The person you need to dump is Philippine. The sooner the better. As for Rafael, you must encourage him to come clean—with you at the very least. There have been far too many secrets here. Neither of us know if he’s responsible for Clotilde’s death, but if that’s the case, you must stand beside him while making it clear that there are consequences for his actions. The same goes for the sexual assault, which we can assume he committed. He’s making excuses for himself, and you’re allowing it. He needs counseling. Haven’t you ever wondered why he’s not married or in a serious relationship?”

  Marcel sighed and looked away. “I suppose you’re right. My son lacks character and I must assume responsibility for that.”

  “No, Marcel. That’s not at all what I’m saying. Your son must be held accountable for his own behavior. It’s not your doing.”

  Marcel looked back at Benjamin. “Assaulting Clotilde was inexcusable. But I could never bring myself to believe that he murdered her. You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I have my intuition and my instincts, Marcel. But in the end, it’s all up to Inspector Cluzel.”

  20

  Paul William wanted to see his general practitioner on his own. Trying to be as respectful as possible, Elisabeth insisted that she accompany him to ensure that he was getting proper care after she returned to France.

  Paul William grudgingly admitted that his judgement had been a bit shy of reasonable. In the waiting room, he puffed out his chest and sat as straight as possible. “Then I must tell you, since, in any case, you will find out in a few minutes—I have diabetes. But it’s under control. That’s why I have nurses come in.”

  Elisabeth watched the old man look away. “Yes, I imagined as much. However, I’m not so sure it’s ‘under control’ any more.”

  “What do you know? The rest is just old age. You’ll find out one day what that’s like.”

  Elisabeth refrained from comment. He was lashing out, no doubt in reaction to losing control.

  The doctor’s assistant ushered them into the examining room, and a few minutes later Paul William’s physician came in. “It’s about time,” he said, pulling up the medical record on his computer. “How long has it been, anyway?”

  Paul William didn’t say a word.

  “How have you been?”

  Getting no information from his patient, the doctor turned to Elisabeth. “He’s been shaky and fatigued, and his eyesight seems to be worse,” she told the doctor.

  Hearing this, Paul William spoke up. “She’s exaggerating. I’m still hale and hearty.”

  Elisabeth bit her tongue. The doctor would find out for himself.

  He proceeded to take Paul William’s blood pressure, check his heart and lungs, look into his ears, and consult the lab-test results, shaking his head now and then. Finally, as Paul William sat at the end of the table, his shoeless feet dangling, the doctor summarized.

  Paul William was undernourished and would need to change his insulin intake to avoid bouts of hypoglycemia. He had also lost much of his peripheral vision because of undiagnosed glaucoma.

  “I’m afraid a road trip is out of the question,” the doctor said. “Let’s see how you do with the long-acting insulin and a new diet. Mr. Cooker, you’re also going to have to quit the cigars and watch your alcohol intake.”

  The doctor handed Elisabeth a brochure about managing diabetes, recommended an appointment in six weeks, and left the examining room.

  Paul William glowered at Elisabeth. “So, are you happy now?”

  “Yes, Beau-papa. I am happy that you’re going to get the care you really need. That quack health aide Lucy should have picked up on this. Thank God she’s gone. Let’s set you up with a nutritionist.

  “A nutritionist! You’ve got to be kidding. Now you want someone telling me how to eat? Isn’t it enough that I have to have more insulin shots and eye drops? Enough is enough. Or do you intend to have me spoon-fed like a baby, too?” He jumped off the table.

  Elisabeth stood up to catch him if necessary.

  “We’re not done yet, Mr. Cooker,” she said. “Now put on your shoes.” That done, Elisabeth took him by the elbow and steered him out of the room.

  § § §

  The next day, while Paul William was napping, Elisabeth left him a note and headed out the door. She returned several hours later, a box and bag in hand.

  “So you’ve been out shopping?” Paul William asked, folding up his lap blanket.

  “Yes, indeed. And look what I’ve bought for you.” Elisabeth pulled a shiny laptop from the box and a brand-new cellphone from the bag.

  “Oh, no. I’m not having any of that,” Paul William growled. “Like I said yesterday, enough is enough. We’ve clearly established that I’m an antiquated antiquarian. I’ve gone this long without either of those things. I don’t need them now.”

  Elisabeth put the purchases down and gave her father-in-law a hug. Then she looked him in the eye. “Beau-papa, you’ve become entirely too isolated, and you know it. Maybe you can’t take that road trip, but it doesn’t mean you have to be cut off from everyone else. How would you like to talk with Margaux—or Benjamin and me—and actually see our faces, as though you’re in the same room? You can do it any number of ways with these ‘things.’ Now that Lucy’s out of your system, maybe you’d like to reconnect with some of your chums from the past. You can do it with your cellphone or laptop—no phone books or trips to the library needed. You can play Scrabble and even find a new love online. There are dating services for that. It’s a brave new world, Beau-papa, and you should be part of it.”

  Paul William broke eye contact and looked out the window. The vibrant blue sky was dotted with small cottonball-like clouds. After a few minutes he turned back to Elisabeth. She had set the devices on a parlor table with intricately carved legs.

  He managed a smile. “You know, I’d gotten used to being alone, but th
en I met Lucy and thought I’d have a second chance. I suppose I was deluding myself with that road trip. God, I hate getting old. It scares me.”

  Elisabeth flipped open the laptop and launched the installation process. “Getting old doesn’t mean giving up. How did Robert Frost put it? You’ve got miles to go before you sleep. So, let’s get moving. I’m going to teach you how to use your laptop and phone. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “You think so?”

  “In a New York minute, as your granddaughter would say.”

  Paul William marched over to the wingback chair opposite Elisabeth. “Let’s do it, then.”

  Elisabeth nodded. “I have one more surprise up my sleeve, too.”

  “Not another one, please. I’ve had too many.”

  Elisabeth gave him a wink. “No, this surprise is for Benjamin.”

  Paul William grinned.

  21

  In a day, two at the most, the harvest would be over. Only a few small plots around Roncière and Champs-Perdrix still needed to be picked. Soon, the entire crop would be in the vats. Then it would be up to the yeast to transform the sticky sweet grape juice into ethereal nectar. The silence of the vineyards, stripped of their grapes and soon their leaves, would be replaced by the soft murmur of fermentation in the shadows of the cellars—a precious moment when the wine would begin to mumble, as they liked to say in Chablis.

  Aside from the hail damage, the grapes were healthy. The berries showed good maturity. Yields, however, had varied considerably from one village to the next.

  “It will be a special vintage,” Benjamin prognosticated before adding, “We may still be in for a few surprises.”

  Marcel Lemoine didn’t hide his anxiety. “Good ones, I hope.”

  The Bordeaux winemaker frowned and put on his glasses to read the Lemoines’ laboratory-grade alcohol meter. Readings were taken at the start and at the end of fermentation to ascertain the alcoholic strength of the wine.

  Rafael watched Benjamin’s every gesture. Since breakfast by the Bacchus fountain, he had lost some of his high-born-son arrogance. He was letting his father sound out Benjamin’s opinions as though the famed winemaker were, in fact, an oracle.

  “Will you be at the paulée?” asked Rafael. This was the gargantuan feast that traditionally marked the end of the harvest. In Bordeaux, depending on whether the estate was on the right bank or the left, the celebration was called either the gerbaude or the acabailles. Its purpose was to gather all the workers, toast the birth of the new wine, eat copiously, and drink a little more than usual. During these feasts tongues would loosen, masks would come off, and sometimes good judgment would be left for another day.

  Virgile made it a point to attend as many of these celebrations as he could. It was an opportunity to flirt with the female harvesters and maybe pick up one of them.

  Benjamin, however, didn’t go in for this sort of merrymaking. It was a matter of good upbringing. But he’d make an exception now and attend the Lemoines’ feast. He broke out his first smile of the day. “How could I miss the revelry, knowing some very special treasures will be uncorked? Right, Marcel?”

  “You can count on it,” Marcel answered. “And Mr. Lanssien will be there? At his age, he should be!”

  “Oh, he’ll be there!” Benjamin said.

  Benjamin wrote his findings in his little notebook and gave Marcel some strict guidelines regarding the remontage, or pump-over, of the grape must. This was the process of pumping wine up from the bottom of the tank and splashing it over the fermenting must. The purpose was to submerge the skins so that the carbon dioxide was pushed to the top and released. Two treatments per day were needed to oxygenate the yeasts and protect the surface from bacterial adulteration.

  Next, when the temperature rose, they would remove the cap, called the marc, and press it. Although many, if not most estates had abandoned the practice of foot-stomping, the Lemoines still followed the tradition for their most noble crus.

  “We old-timers know that bare feet leave the pips and the bitter oils intact,” Marcel told Benjamin. “And our immersions allow us to find areas in the tank that are getting too warm.”

  Three shirtless workers would plunge waist-deep into the vats. They would tread the intoxicating vinous mass for about a quarter of an hour three or four times a day, at the discretion of Marcel and Philippine—or her replacement. By then Benjamin would be back in Bordeaux.

  Virgile arrived, giving the Lemoine father and son a nod.

  “Good timing, Virgile,” Benjamin said. “We have some things to talk about.”

  “Right this instant, boss?”

  “Yes, right now!”

  “That sounds like an order.”

  “Let’s just say it’s rather urgent that we consult on a few matters,” Benjamin said, carefully wrapping a rubber band around his notebook.

  Marcel and Rafael Lemoine watched, but Benjamin didn’t say anything. Finally, Rafael looked at his father and said, “Let’s give Mr. Cooker and his assistant some privacy.” The Lemoines headed toward the tasting room. Nailed to the large wooden door they walked through was an enamel sign proclaiming: “Drink French wine. Health and happiness guaranteed!”

  § § §

  When the Lemoines were out of view, Benjamin took Virgile by the arm and ushered him out of the cellar. Although part of the imposing building abutted solid rock, Benjamin suspected that the Lemoine walls had ears. The two men started down the long drive adorned with vines and cherry laurels that led to the gate bearing the letters M and R—for Marcel and Rafael. They must have had it changed after Rafael’s mother died.

  “Virgile, why didn’t you tell me about your visit to the abbey ruins? Was it to get back at me for not taking you when I went?”

  “Boss, you know I’m not like that!”

  “Just the same, you were seen talking to the young man who put that girl’s clothes in my car.”

  “Romain?”

  “Yes, Romain Burit. The nephew of the Lemoines’ insurance agent and Clotilde’s boyfriend!”

  “Who told you all that?”

  “Cluzel’s men took him in last night—right after you talked to him. His detention has just been extended for twenty-four hours. Cluzel asked me to take a look at him at the police station.”

  “And?”

  “It’s him. He’s got glow-in-the-dark sneakers and the same look, slim build. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “You think he’s the murderer?”

  “There’s a chance,” Benjamin said.

  “Boss, you taught me to avoid jumping to conclusions. Poor harvests don’t necessarily result in vinegar!”

  “Yes—you’re a good student. But what is it about the guy that makes you think he’s off the hook?”

  “I didn’t say he’s off the hook!”

  “Would you stop beating around the bush? Just tell me what you know about this Romain fellow.”

  “First of all, he’s not your average insurance guy, if you ask me—a conservative insurance rep by day and a stalker in the woods by night.”

  “What was he doing up there?”

  “He was mourning.”

  “Are you saying it was a crime of passion? That he was infatuated with Clotilde?” Benjamin said.

  “You know, boss, you have a tendency to dismiss passions when they happen to someone else. Why not just call it by its name: love?”

  “You sound very romantic, Virgile. I can’t believe that each of your various and sundry affairs is dictated by love.”

  “No, you’re right. Sometimes it’s nothing more than desire.”

  “Finally, you admit it! But let’s get back to your guy Romain. Why do you think his thing with Clotilde was about love?”

  They had reached the end of the drive. A stream of vehicles was whipping by signs advertising Burgundy grand cru
s and the region’s renowned properties. The roar of the highway was almost deafening. Instinctively, Benjamin turned around and started back.

  “Because he told me everything. He needed someone to listen to him, I guess, and I was there. That’s all. I must not look like a cop.”

  “The habit doesn’t make the monk, especially in Saint-Vivant,” Benjamin said.

  “No, boss, but a tragedy like his could happen to anyone.”

  “I get the feeling that you’re making excuses for him.”

  “Not at all. I actually think he’s a bit…”

  “Complicated?”

  “Yes, but once you get past the guy’s split personality, so to speak, you can see that he’s more or less normal.”

  “You’ll have to give me more information, son. What exactly did he tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  “What do you mean by everything? You mean his version of the facts so that he can be exonerated?”

  “Everything he said is perfectly believable. All the pieces of the puzzle fit, except, maybe, one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He denies putting Clotilde’s clothes in your car. But he was able to tell me the color and model of the Alfa Romeo you rented in Dijon. He even knew the license plate number.”

  “That only requires excellent visual memory, along with an interest in what I was doing, which in itself seems suspicious.”

  “Don’t be so paranoid, boss. He doesn’t even know who you are. He thought you were a cop.”

  “In that case, he’d have no reason to put the clothes in my car. He’d have reason not to put the clothes in my car.” Benjamin kicked a gray pebble to the side of the drive.

  “Exactly. So in the end, all the pieces fit together.”

  “What pieces, Virgile. You still haven’t told me. Get on with it. Tell me about their love affair—or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Romain met Clotilde a few years ago at the abbey. They were summer volunteers for that restoration the association’s doing. Clotilde was crazy about archeology. Romain had studied history, specializing in ancient places of Christian worship, before he got his ‘real job’ working for his uncle. He claims he has the faith. I think you two might actually get along.”