Foul Play in Vouvray Page 12

  “Mr. Cooker, I had that capsule analyzed,” Dr. Molinier said. “It’s a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor that the National Agency for the Safety of Medicines and Health Products approved last year.”

  “It’s not GHB?”

  “No, Mr. Cooker. I’m aware that some doctors are prescribing GHB again, but the SSRIs are much more common and, in my opinion, more effective. There’s something else you may want to know.”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “As it turns out, they did perform an autopsy, and it was done right away, because the medical staff was suspicious. Heroin was found in Simone’s bloodstream, Mr. Cooker. They think someone injected it directly into her IV line.”

  Benjamin gasped. “Heroin? It was heroin that finally did her in?”

  “It appears to be the case. Simone was murdered at the hospital, just as she was recovering.”

  His hand shaking, Benjamin ended the call. Although he was relieved that Lee Friedman was no longer implicated, he was in shock. Benjamin sat down on his bed.

  A moment later, Virgile knocked and came in. “Hungry, boss? I could use some lunch. My stomach’s a bit unsettled after your news and the drink so early in the day. Maybe we could finally go to the Grand Vatel. I hear the Vatel salad with foie gras, gizzards, dried duck breast…” He stopped. “What’s wrong, boss? Not more bad news, I hope.”

  Benjamin looked up at his assistant. “Virgile, I just spoke with Dr. Molinier. Someone injected Simone’s IV line with heroin. That’s why she went into respiratory arrest.”

  Virgile’s chin dropped. Speechless, he plopped down on the bed next to Benjamin.

  After a few minutes, the winemaker got up and walked toward the door. “I need to clear my head.”

  Virgile followed. “Where are we going?”

  Without answering, Benjamin marched downstairs and outside. He got into the car and waited for his assistant to join him. As he drove out of the parking lot and onto the highway, he took deep breaths to calm himself. He began to relax as he accelerated.

  Finally, he glanced at Virgile. “Have you seen Château du Clos Lucé, where Leonardo da Vinci spent the final three years of his life?”

  “No, can’t say that I have, although I’ve heard about it.”

  “Leonardo took up residence there at the invitation of King François I. To get to France, he crossed the Alps on a mule, carrying three of his masterpieces, The Virgin and Child With Saint Anne, Saint John the Baptist, and the Mona Lisa,” which he was still perfecting. He wasn’t a young man, Virgile. He was sixty-four.”

  “The king must have offered quite an incentive to make him do that,” Virgile said.

  “Leonardo was always in need of benefactors, and François promised a stipend and a home. While he lived at the Clos Lucé, Leonardo worked on several projects for the king, who was a great admirer. In fact, the king called Leonardo ‘father.’ He used a tunnel from his palace, the Château Royal d’Amboise, to visit the master. But our time is limited today, and it’s the gardens that I want to see.”

  They made the short drive to Amboise, parked, and went straight to the grounds, which showcased life-sized inventions inspired by Leonardo’s sketches. It was a balmy day, and the landscape was lush.

  “This is called Leonardo’s open-air museum, son. It’s where you can envision the self-taught innovator, engineer, and architect, who observed nature and used it as his inspiration. Here, among the cypresses, pines, and blossoming plants, you can see the world through his eyes. Even the water comes to life. Look up, Virgile. Suspended in the trees above us are forty translucent canvasses. The models, meanwhile, are all hands-on and made with materials that would have been available during his life.”

  Three children scampered past the winemaker and his assistant. Giggling, they climbed aboard an assault chariot. They scrambled off and moved on to the multi-barreled gun, another invention they could work themselves. On the lake, teenagers propelled the Leonardo boat.

  “Over there, Virgile, you can see the twenty-meter-high double-deck bridge. It was his way of improving urban traffic and hygiene. The lower level was for commercial traffic, while the top was for cleaner traffic.”

  “This place is almost magical, boss, like a fifteenth-century Star Wars.”

  Benjamin smiled. He was beginning to feel like his old self. “You’re a fan, son?”

  “Of course. A light saber was my all-time favorite Christmas present.”

  Benjamin stopped in his tracks. “Star Wars,” he said.

  “What about it, boss?”

  “I just remembered an item I read in Le Monde. It seems Disney’s set to collect fifty million dollars because Carrie Fisher died before The Last Jedi was completed. She’d signed a three-picture deal.”

  Virgile stepped aside for a couple approaching from behind. “I read about that too. But how’s it connected to Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “It has to do with the way we’ve been seeing things, son. Our vision has been off. We’ve assumed that the perpetrator in the Simone Margerolle case was acting out of revenge, anger, or a sense of powerlessness. But what if it was about something else?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “What if the perpetrator had something to gain by getting rid of Simone? What if greed was the motive?”

  25

  Benjamin was impatient to get to their destination, as it was all coming together. But as soon as they hit the traffic on the beltway, he knew it wouldn’t be quick or easy. The winemaker hated driving in this aggressive city.

  “I have no idea why we’re rushing to Paris, boss,” Virgile said, opening the passenger-side door at one of the city’s endless red lights. “But you might as well let me take the wheel. You’re too worked up to drive.”

  Benjamin didn’t protest and traded places. He sat back as Virgile skillfully threaded the Mercedes from one lane to the next and then back again to make time. An hour later they were at their destination, the Open Air Productions studio in the eleventh arrondissement.

  Virgile found an unexpected parking space in Le Square Gardette. They got out and walked across the park, with its charming music kiosk, profusion of trees and flowers, and boules courts. Miraculously protected from the commotion of the boulevards, this enclosed neighborhood was a hidden treasure in the heart of the capital. Benjamin let out a sigh.

  The company’s office, rented space in a former haberdashery on the Rue Saint Ambroise, was far from luxurious. A slim woman in her twenties was sitting by herself at an austere eighties-style reception desk. Two photos and a potted plant on her desk were the only decorations.

  She rose when they came in and walked over to shake their hands. Benjamin glanced at Virgile. His assistant had noted her short black curls and sparkling green eyes. Before he knew it, Virgile was flirting with her and had managed to get her name: Natalia. She was of Portuguese descent and had been working at Open Air for just a few months. Benjamin pulled him by the sleeve, reminding him why they were there.

  Natalia directed them down a narrow spiral staircase to the editing room. Liza was waiting for them.

  “Ah, here are our two film stars, now,” she said fondly, turning to a fiftyish man with red mustache and sturdy frame. “This is Henri, the engineer who’s collaborating with me on the editing.”

  Henri nodded and tipped his black felt cap.

  “He’s not quite set up yet. We weren’t expecting you until the beginning of the week, but we’re accommodating people, aren’t we, Henri?”

  Once again, Henri nodded.

  “He’ll just need a few minutes,” Liza said. “Why don’t we slip out so he can get ready for us. May I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Cooker? And coffee for you, Virgile?

  “Yes, we’d appreciate that,” Benjamin answered. “And please, call me Benjamin.”

  Liza asked Natalia to get the tea and coffee and ushered the men into her office. Although it was spartan, one of the walls was filled with framed awards and certificates of achievem
ent. Benjamin walked over and studied them.

  “I’ve been wondering, Liza,” he said. “You’re clearly a very talented director. Have you ever considered doing films?”

  “As a matter of fact, that was my dream when I was studying at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. George Lucas of Star Wars fame went there, you know. But even though I was able to land jobs in television—on some major shows, in fact—I could never make it in films. In Hollywood, female directors are marginalized. I’ve heard that some male actors refuse to take directions from a woman.”

  “Unbelievable,” Virgile said.

  “So I’ve made my career in documentaries. I’m not complaining, mind you. This line of work suits me. I can educate and inform our viewers, as I am with your project.”

  Henri opened the door and stuck his head in. “We’re ready for you.”

  “Shall we?” Liza said, getting up. She led the men to the editing room, where she pulled up chairs for her visitors. Natalia arrived with their refreshments, and they took their places in front of the expansive desk and multiple flat screens, with Henri at the helm.

  Before he could do anything, Benjamin turned to Liza. “I realize what an imposition this is, but could we postpone the viewing of all the rushes? There’s one set in particular that I need to see right away.”

  Liza stiffened. “But we hurried to put everything together so you could view it at a time that was convenient for you.”

  “I understand, Liza. I promise we’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

  Liza sighed. “All right, Benjamin. What is it that you need to see?”

  “The clips from the party at David Navarre’s château. What do you have?”

  “We have him shaking your hand and saying a few words to you. We also filmed him drinking, but his face is as red as the Philippe Alliet Vieilles Vignes they were serving that night.”

  “What else?”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Henri turned to the control panel and brought up the clips. Benjamin watched the servers, wearing the masks of perfectly trained minions as they made their way around sweaty dancers brought in from a modeling school, while hipsters mingled shamelessly with wheeler dealers who looked more like car salesmen than movie moguls. A few naïve-looking souls, meanwhile, wandered here and there. The ear-shattering tech music drowned out any dialogue.

  Virgile came into view. He was dancing with Simone. As she laughed and chugged her Champagne, the camera panned the scene: the buffet table, the courtyard, a couple making out, and a singer about to vomit in a Medici vase. Back in the ballroom, several young actors were arguing. Dr. Molinier and his wife, probably ready to call it a night, were looking bored. And David was drinking—staggering a few minutes later into the arms of a reality-show host. The camera swung to Simone again. Now she was playfully sticking out her tongue at a friend.

  “Stop! You see that young man with gelled hair slinking between the dancers, his tray raised above their heads?” Benjamin said, pointing to the screen in earnest. “Go back, not too far. There! No, right there. Stop!”

  “What about the guy?” Virgile asked, frowning. “What’s so interesting?”

  “That’s not a guy, Virgile. That’s a woman. And I know who she is.”

  “What are you talking about, boss?”

  “I’ll tell you shortly, son.” He turned to Henri. “Could you zoom in and print out the image? I’d also like you to play with it a bit, if you could.”

  The engineer swiveled around in his chair. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

  Benjamin huddled with him briefly, standing over his shoulder and once again pointing to the large screen.

  “Just give me a few minutes,” Henri said after he knew exactly what Benjamin was asking for. When he had finally worked his wizardry, Liza Stechelmann gasped. “That’s Mathilde Desloges. What was she doing at David’s party?”

  “As you can see, she was passing herself off as someone else. But she made a fatal misstep. Can you tell me more about her?”

  “As far as I know, she got her start in an appliance commercial. And then she landed a small role in a limited-run television series. After that, she attended the international drama school, Cours Florent, in Paris. She went on to stage productions but didn’t manage to win any major roles in film or television. To tell the truth, I don’t understand why such a good-looking and talented young actress never managed to land a star-making part.”

  “As it happens, her acting stint as a server didn’t work out either.”

  26

  “I’ll be in Tours in two hours. I need to meet with you.” Benjamin heard nothing at the other end of the call.

  Finally, Inspector Blanchet spoke. “It’s late, Mr. Cooker, and I’m tired. I was just putting on my coat to leave the office.”

  Benjamin could imagine the inspector’s frustration and fatigue. The Simone Margerolle investigation had taken one bad turn after the other, and the papers and their websites were full of questions—questions for which the police had no answers. Had they assigned the right people to the case? Did they have the wherewithal to find the perpetrator? Most likely, Blanchet was resigning himself to working with the vice squad in Paris.

  “We’ll meet tomorrow,” Blanchet said.

  “No, Inspector, it has to be right away.”

  “I don’t understand, boss,” Virgile said, trailing the winemaker as he raced toward the car. “How did you figure out the Mathilde Desloges angle, and what does she have to do with Princess Leia?”

  Benjamin slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Virgile. “It’s about greed, son, as I said. Who stood to gain from Simone’s death? The young woman who’d replace her if she died. At David’s party, I spilled wine on a male server. When I looked at the stain on his shirt, it occurred to me that there was something wrong. He was wearing a woman’s shirt. But I was too embarrassed about my blunder to give it any thought.”

  “How did you know it was a women’s shirt?”

  “Men’s dress shirts don’t have darts at the bosom, Virgile. But more important, they button on the right side, not the left.”

  “I never realized that, boss. Why do men’s and women’s shirts button on different sides?”

  “Historically, clothing for wealthy men included provisions for weaponry. Because most men held their swords in their right hands, it was more convenient to unbutton with their left. The image of the server in the women’s dress shirt came back to me during our walk in the park.”

  “But Mathilde’s masquerading as a man isn’t enough to convict her for murder.”

  “You’re right, son. There’s more to it.”

  Benjamin and Virgile arrived at the police station and hurried to Blanchet’s office on the first floor. The winemaker wasn’t surprised to find the exhausted inspector slumped in his chair. He handed Blanchet the evidence that Henri had printed out.

  “What’s all that?” the inspector asked.

  “What I’ve just given you will help you sleep peacefully,” Benjamin answered.

  “Well, shit! Let’s take a look!”

  Blanchet took the photos out of the manila envelope. Henri had skillfully erased the mustache, smoothed the cheekbones, outlined the lips, applied light makeup, and replaced the gelled men’s wig with a long mane to reveal Mathilde, the gorgeous young woman with the enticing mole near her lip.

  “Who is it?” Blanchet asked.

  “I’ll tell you very soon, but I have a request.”

  Blanchet frowned. “You may be used to getting your way in the circles you run in, Mr. Cooker, but they’re not my circles.”

  “I understand, Inspector. But it’s not a request that will put you out too much. I need to see the hospital’s security tapes.”

  “I suppose you’re not going to reveal why.”

  “That I’ll also tell you—very soon.”

  The inspector sighed. “All right, Mr. Cooker. I know you have a reputation for solving crimes, and, to be frank, I c
ould use a hand. Just don’t tell the people in vice that you helped me.”

  “Deal,” Benjamin said.

  Blanchet made a phone call, and Benjamin and Virgile drove to the hospital. Two days were crucial: the day after Simone’s arrival, and the day of her death. A hospital technician set everything up, and the winemaker and his assistant sat down.

  “Boss, now that I’m thinking of it, there was a woman in Simone’s room who looked like Mathilde. She had blond hair in a ponytail, and she was wearing scrubs. But her back was turned to me. She didn’t say anything and left the room as soon as I came in.”

  “Most likely she was there to check on Simone’s condition,” Benjamin said.

  Benjamin zeroed in on footage captured at the hospital entrance close to the time Virgile arrived. They saw Fabrice come in, and then an attractive blond woman wearing a hat, jeans, and sneakers.

  “That’s her!” Virgile said. “Mathilde!”

  “Yep, that’s our actress,” Benjamin said. “She must have ducked into a locker room and slipped into scrubs.”

  A few minutes later, Virgile entered, and Fabrice left. Then Mathilde.

  “All right,” Benjamin said. “We’ve placed her at the hospital the day after Simone was admitted. Now let’s go through the footage on the day Simone died.”

  Sure enough, they found her, this time wearing a floppy hat and sundress, entering the hospital close to the time of Simone’s death. Not an hour later, she hurriedly left the facility through the same door.

  “What was the time of Simone’s death, boss?”

  “Dr. Molinier said it was 6:53.”

  “Well, here she is, coming in at 6:16 and leaving at 7:05.”