Mayhem in Margaux Read online

  “Are you bored, my sweet?”

  “Not in the least. Did you know that the Boüards are leaving for Cap Ferret two days from now, just like us? We’ll have to have dinner together.”

  “I’ll leave all the planning in your capable hands,” Benjamin replied as he waved to a couple whose names he couldn’t remember.

  “Who is that handsome young man hanging around Margaux?” Elisabeth asked, nodding in the direction of the orchestra.

  Benjamin looked over and tensed. A man who appeared to be in his thirties was casually sitting on a table and whispering in his daughter’s ear. Margaux let out a laugh, revealing her perfectly white teeth. For the first time, Benjamin was witnessing his daughter in a game of seduction he could never have imagined.

  “I think it’s Antoine Rinetti,” he murmured, his jaw tight. “The new manager of Gayraud-Valrose.”

  “He’s rather young to be in charge of such a château,” Elisabeth said. Benjamin picked up a hint of admiration in her voice.

  “A Swiss insurance company bought the estate. They brought him in to get the finances in order.”

  “He’s not from here?”

  “From Nice. Can’t you tell? Flashy suit, a tie that looks like it cost close to a thousand euros.”

  “You sound jealous, Benjamin. But your daughter is a young woman now. And I think she has pretty good taste.”

  Benjamin looked at Elisabeth and tried to smile. “Stop teasing,” he said.

  Although he had accepted Margaux’s transition to adolescence and knew, at least intellectually, that she was now a young woman, she was still his little girl. To him, Margaux would always be the child with bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and pixie nose hugging her teddy bear and whimpering over the slightest boo-boo. The insistent gaze of this young man in an Italian suit seemed indecent and would have even been repulsive, were he not so handsome.

  2

  The following day was grueling. Awake at the crack of dawn, Benjamin Cooker put on his country uniform: beige cotton pants, brown checked shirt, khaki vest, and Timberland shoes. He poured food into Bacchus’s dish and apologized to the Irish setter for not taking him out for a walk. Then he quickly drank two glasses of mineral water and took off for his office on the Allées de Tourny in Bordeaux to check his mail. He left written instructions for Jacqueline, his secretary, who would not be in until around eight-thirty. A lab report written by his colleague Alexandrine de la Palussière was lying on a shelf. He scanned the document and decided that he knew enough about the parasitic maladies plaguing some estates around Blaye. The bronze clock showed seven forty. He phoned his assistant.

  “Be ready, Virgile. I’ll be at your place in five minutes.”

  He hung up, gulped a cup of cold tea, and went down to the street to get his convertible to drive to Virgile’s place. When he reached the corner of Rue Saint-Rémi, he found his assistant leaning against the building, looking totally relaxed. He was wearing a white T-shirt, weathered jeans, and navy-blue sneakers. Virgile grinned when he spotted Benjamin and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Morning, boss. It’s going to be hot as hell today. They’re predicting ninety-five degrees in the shade.”

  “Unfortunately, my boy, you won’t be spending much time in the shade. Everyone’s worried about the effects of the weather on the grapes. We’re visiting all our clients on the right bank, toward Camblanes-et-Meynac, beginning with Château Brethous.”

  “That’s fine with me! Cécile and Thierry make a strong cup of coffee, and I really need one.”

  “Just don’t tell me what you did last night. I’ll have no sympathy.”

  Under a leaden sun that burned the skin and dried the lips, they spent the entire day checking the health of the vines. They conscientiously visited a dozen properties, surveying the land without stopping to rest. Many of the vines had been pruned at the usual time to intensify the aromatic and tannic concentration of the grapes. But considering how hot and arid the summer had become, this traditional thinning had proved to be much too early. Who could have known? If the weather didn’t break soon, the vintage would suffer, and the region’s growers were anxiously watching the sky in hopes of spotting even a few lifesaving clouds. The estate owners couldn’t even predict when the grapes would be ready to harvest.

  Benjamin and Virgile were thirsty and exhausted at the end of the afternoon. They returned to Bordeaux and ordered two large lemonades on the terrace of the Régent.

  “I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep in the shower,” Virgile said, sighing and sipping his beverage.

  “We’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow in Léognan, Virgile. We need to focus on the soil conditions and the quality of the grapes. If we have any hope of controlling the winemaking process, it’s absolutely imperative that we get a grasp of what’s happening to the grapes.”

  “So no vacation then?” Virgile ventured. Was that a whiny note in Virgile’s voice?

  “For now, just worry about not falling asleep in the shower, Virgile! We’ll talk about your vacation later. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. At this point, it doesn’t look likely.”

  Benjamin didn’t bother to add that even though Elisabeth and Margaux would be at Cap Ferret, he wouldn’t be spending the usual amount of time with them. There was just too much work to do.

  Instead of returning to his office, Benjamin left for Grangebelle after finishing his lemonade, paying his bill, and dropping off Virgile at his apartment. As soon as Benjamin drove past the stone pillars and turned onto the driveway lined with Japanese cherry trees, Bacchus got up from the grass to welcome him. But it wasn’t his usual energetic greeting. The setter’s Irish origins were not an advantage in this infernal heat. The dog’s tongue was hanging out, and his gait was sluggish. Even his bark was feeble. Distracted by the dog’s lethargy, Benjamin almost slammed into a red Porsche 911 turbo parked in the courtyard.

  Margaux was on the doorstep, hugging her mother good-bye. Antoine Rinetti was watching. He was wearing a sporty getup and a whimsical tie that he had probably purchased in some luxury boutique on the Côte d’Azur.

  “Don’t stay out too late, dear,” Elisabeth said. “Remember, we’re leaving for Cap Ferret in the early afternoon, and I’m counting on you to help me finish packing.”

  “Let me sleep at least until ten, Maman.”

  Benjamin ran a hand over his face and suppressed a grimace. He got out of his Mercedes convertible. Its antique chrome and burr elm dashboard seemed like relics, compared with Rinetti’s flashy sports car. The young Gayraud-Valrose manager greeted him with the obsequious confidence of a brat with a string of diplomas and opinions. Margaux ran to meet her father and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Antoine asked me out to dinner, so you two lovebirds will have the house all to yourselves tonight,” she said with her characteristic warmth, which he had never been able to resist.

  “Well, have a nice evening, sweetheart,” Benjamin found himself replying. He deliberately avoided eye contact with the young man from Nice.

  His daughter and her date got in the Porsche. It took off, sending a volley of gravel toward the Anduze vases lining the house and outbuildings. Feeling dejected, Benjamin turned to his wife.

  “What could Margaux possibly see in a man who drives a car that ostentatious?”

  “It’s not very understated, I’ll admit.”

  “I just hope his driving is better than his taste in cars and ties.”

  “Let’s hope that heaven hears your prayers.”

  “I’ve always thought that expression was a bit silly,” Benjamin grumbled. “I’d rather have heaven listen to me.”

  The evening was gloomy and tense. For dinner, they just nibbled cheese and tomatoes drizzled with olive oil. Elisabeth tried her best to get a conversation going, but Benjamin was in a foul mood. Exhausted from the day’s work but too wound up to relax, he soon disappeared into his office to arrange his files. He worked methodically, completely absorbed in a task that he could complet
e without actually thinking.

  He slipped into the bed at midnight, gave his sleeping wife a cursory peck on the neck, and brooded until he fell asleep. Three hours later, the telephone jerked both Elisabeth and him awake. And in a voice that unbelievably had a hint of cheerfulness, the police officer told them that Antoine Rinetti’s Porsche had been found on fire not far from the Quai de Paludate.

  3

  There was something depressing about the harsh light. It was barely seven in the morning, and the city was getting ready to face another day under the oppressive sun. Elisabeth and Benjamin looked out the expansive window, covered with fingerprints that attested to the nervous waiting of families that had been here before them. A nurse had come to tell them that the operation was almost over. The doctor would be out soon to give them the results.

  They held hands. Benjamin turned his gaze from the sky just above the rooftops to his wife. She was pale and shaking. Elisabeth had been in tears all the way to the hospital, and Benjamin feared he would have to stop the car to let her vomit. She was still feeling nauseated. Benjamin pulled his wife closer, but there were no words that would help. He didn’t even think she could hear them.

  They waited for more than an hour, oblivious to everything around them: the others waiting for news of their loved ones, the nurses passing through, the ringing of cell phones. They responded only when the surgeon appeared, still in his scrubs. He needed a shave, and he looked tired. But he was smiling.

  “Your daughter is a fighter,” he said.

  “Thank God!” Elisabeth let out. She released Benjamin’s hand to dab her eyes and mouth with a tissue.

  “The operation was a complete success. We repaired the tibia and fibula fractures in her left leg. She’ll have some screws and bolts, but that’s a small price to pay. I must warn you, though: the recovery might be long, and she’ll be wearing a cast.”

  “How long?” asked Benjamin, finally able to breathe normally.

  “A month, maybe longer. I want to be cautious. Your daughter also suffered a mild cranial trauma, and we need to keep an eye on that. It doesn’t appear to be anything serious. No skull fracture, just what appears to be a mild concussion. She may have some headaches in the next few days, but she should be fine. At any rate, she’s a very lucky young woman. The outcome of that accident could have been far worse.”

  Benjamin gave the doctor a faint smile. Margaux had always had a stubborn streak. Now it had served her well. She had been bullheaded enough to refuse to die.

  “She was ejected at the moment of impact,” the doctor continued. “Her head struck the top of the windshield, so her face wasn’t lacerated by any of the glass. She would have needed a plastic surgeon if she had struck the windshield a few inches lower. As I said, she’s a lucky young woman.”

  “And the driver?” Benjamin asked, biting his lip.

  “The prognosis is less optimistic for her companion. He was transferred to a burn unit, where he was put in an induced coma. It’s the only way to make the treatment tolerable.”

  “So it’s serious,” Elisabeth said.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. He managed to extricate himself from the fire, but his clothes were in flames. At the very least, he’ll be disabled and disfigured after years of skin grafts, provided they aren’t rejected. But we aren’t there yet. We’ll have a better idea of how he’s doing in a few days.”

  “What a shame,” Elizabeth sighed. “Can we see our daughter?”

  “She’s in recovery right now. You can see her as soon as we take her to her room. That should be in about two hours.”

  They thanked the doctor. Benjamin, usually reserved with people he hardly knew, gave the man’s arm a warm squeeze before shaking his hand.

  The doctor seemed embarrassed and said he had merely been doing his job.

  They decided that Elisabeth would stay at the hospital and wait for Margaux to get out of recovery. Benjamin needed to stop at his office to take care of some pressing matters. He would come back as soon as possible.

  A wave of heat struck him as soon as he stepped outside. Wiping his forehead, which was already wet with sweat, he scanned the street for shade. Choosing the side lined with a few stunted trees, he checked his cell phone for messages while walking toward his car.

  He immediately recognized Virgile’s worried voice.

  “I just spoke to Jacqueline. She told me what happened. I can’t believe it. Whatever you need, I’m here for you, boss. Just let me know. I’m thinking of you. And please give Mrs. Cooker a big hug for me.”

  There was a second message. This caller’s tone had more authority. It was almost demanding.

  “Hello, Mr. Cooker. Inspector Barbaroux here. I heard about your daughter. Call me at the office. I have some information for you.” Benjamin had helped the police inspector on some investigations in the past, so his call was not much of a surprise.

  Benjamin’s first call was to Virgile, who, since early morning, had been walking the terroir of Léognan by himself. After reassuring him about Margaux, Benjamin asked for a brief report on the state of the vines. The assistant had found a trace of parching, but the symptoms weren’t alarming. Virgile advised following up with another evaluation in a week.

  The conversation with Barbaroux was concluded much more quickly—just the few seconds it took to write down the address of a police depot in the industrial zone of Mérignac. Benjamin could not get any explanation from the man.

  He took the road leading to the airport and turned toward a site that seemed to correspond with Barbaroux’s directions: concrete and sheet-metal structures rising from cracked asphalt. Ghostly streetlamps, billboards, and roundabouts provided the only visual relief. Benjamin crawled along aimlessly, turning left and right, his nose glued to the windshield as he searched for the depot. After asking for directions a good ten times, he finally found the building. Barbaroux was waiting for him outside, his forehead dripping and his face beet-red. His unwashed shirt was stained yellow in the armpits. Barbaroux nodded when the winemaker came up to him with his hand extended.

  “No hand-shaking in this heat,” the inspector said, wiping his hands on his pants.

  They entered the building, where technicians in blue smocks were working around and under vehicles perched on platforms. Barbaroux went directly to the charred body of the Porsche 911 turbo. Not much remained of it. The car was barely a blackened heap of scrap with a bitter odor that stung the eyes and nose.

  “I guess your daughter will come out fairly well,” Barbaroux said without turning to look at Benjamin.

  “You guess right, in fact,” Benjamin replied, surprised by the inspector’s choice of words.

  “According to the report from the rapid intervention team and the preliminary findings provided by the Emergency Medical Assistance Service, I suspected that she would pull through. You have reason to be thankful.”

  Barbaroux had the blunt and standoffish bearing of shy people who were in the habit of hiding their feelings under thick armor. He talked tough to avoid showing any signs of emotion. Benjamin wasn’t fooled and listened without paying attention to the inspector’s old-fashioned display of masculinity.

  “As soon as I found out that it was your daughter, I had the car transferred to the depot to have it assessed.”

  “Why would you do that, Inspector?”

  “We want to determine the cause of the accident, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Do you suspect foul play?”

  “You never know with a man of your stature.”

  Benjamin’s legs felt weak, and he suspected it had little to do with the heat. Could someone have targeted his daughter? He took a deep breath and tried to maintain his proverbial calm.

  “Our guys got on it right away, and they gave the results directly to me. No one else has read the report, and I wanted to talk to you before sending it through official channels. Consider it a token of my friendship.”

  “And what does it say?” Benjamin asked.

  �
��Some very interesting things. The car crashed in a roundabout at the end of Quai de Paludate. It hit a tree. This guy Rinetti was driving like an idiot. He had to be going more than eighty miles an hour in the middle of the city—you get the picture. He lost control negotiating the turn, and he braked too late. The tire marks on the asphalt leave no room for doubt. The impact was extremely violent. I won’t go into detail. Your daughter wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and ironically that’s what saved her.”

  Benjamin did his best to avoid shaking. His daughter had been in that car with the loony tune! He said nothing and followed Barbaroux’s movements as he stooped under the torched frame.

  “When the car hit the tree at full speed, it didn’t take long to catch fire,” the inspector continued. “In the Porsche 911, the gas tank is in the front. You see? Right here. And since it was night, the headlights were on. One spark was all that it needed.”

  The winemaker suppressed another shudder and turned to get a closer look at the point of impact.

  “If you scoot over a bit more, you’ll see what the investigators found. Don’t be afraid of getting dirty. It’s worth a look. Come over here and you’ll see better. Right there: the brake-fluid hose is sliced precisely in this spot, near the disk.”

  “You mean to say someone cut it?”

  “Our techs are sure of it. The hose has three layers: the tube, a metal layer, and a rubber layer. Only shears make a cut that clean. There’s no doubt. This was a malicious act.”

  “Was the hose on the other side also severed?”

  “No, the system is intact on the left side. No need to slice both to cause an accident. All you need to do is wait a little longer for the fluid to drain out. The person who did this gave the driver enough time to get from Saint-Julien to Bordeaux, eat at a restaurant, go to a nightclub, have a last drink, hit the brakes two or three times just to show off, and crash in the next curve.”

  “Are you sure?”