Late Harvest Havoc Page 2

  “Here we have the typical features of Rosacker,” the winemaker said, chewing his riesling with satisfaction. “This wine comes from heavy clay soil with limestone and dolomite pebbles.”

  “Lots of minerality,” the sommelier pointed out.

  Benjamin sniffed the fragrances emanating from his glass, aware that the sommelier was watching him intently.

  “I’d say lime, boss. Maybe a hint of tangerine.”

  “Yes, complex citrus aromas. It’s very elegant, practically ethereal. Did you know the name Rosacker comes from the wild roses that used to grow around the vineyards?”

  Finally, the sommelier ventured, “At the risk of being mistaken, aren’t you Benjamin Cooker?”

  The winemaker simply smiled, and with a nod, Virgile confirmed what the young man was thinking.

  “We are very honored that you have chosen the Kammerzell House during your stay in Alsace, Mr. Cooker.”

  “I trust we will enjoy ourselves here,” Benjamin said, taking a sip.

  At that moment, a beam of light ran through his riesling, accentuating the golden color. Late autumn promised to be flamboyant in this land of Alsace, where the grape harvest sometimes extended all the way to Christmas. Too bad Strasbourg was only a stopover. His thoughts flashed back to the tour guide, Jeanne, so vibrant one minute and dead the next.

  “You seem lost in thought,” Virgile said. “Are you thinking about that woman who died in the cathedral?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Doesn’t it strike you as strange, Virgile, to die in a place like that—a cathedral? And the woman was so well informed. It’s a shame she couldn’t live longer to share her knowledge with more people.”

  “Educated or illiterate—it’s all the same. As my grandfather used to say, no matter how brilliant you are, you can’t outsmart death. It must have been her time, boss. And maybe it was fitting that she died in the cathedral that was so much a part of her life.”

  “Your grandfather—I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to meet him before he passed away.”

  “You would have liked him. I’m glad he was with us for so long and was spry enough to avoid going into a retirement home. He wouldn’t set a foot in a church either. He was stubborn, and he insisted on doing things his own way. I think he just willed himself to live longer than most people.”

  “‘A life well spent brings happy death.’”

  “He did live a good life, that’s for sure. Maybe his sense of humor had something to do with his longevity. When I visited him once, he put on a woebegone face and said, ‘Did you know that my old school chum Pierre left us?’ ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘What did he die of?’ My grandfather looked at me and said, ‘He didn’t stick around to tell me.’”

  Benjamin smiled. Virgile’s company was helping him recover his usual cheerfulness. It wasn’t so much the tour guide’s sudden death that was dragging him down. It was the prospect of vinifying Fritz Loewenberg’s Moselle wines. Goldtröpfchen was certainly a beautiful German village set in sloping and magnificently maintained vineyards, but the wine that came from its stocks was too sweet. Making honey from grapes was not Benjamin’s cup of tea. He had been clear with Loewenberg and had only accepted the assignment because the man had set his sights on a Saint-Emilion grand cru. The deal was making headway, and Benjamin was lending support to an operation that would cause a stir in Bordeaux. For the German businessman, having a Bordeaux vineyard was a way to restore his image in his Moselle homeland. Bad yeast during vinification had marred his wine the previous year.

  It was a matter of spending a week across the Rhine in Germany. Benjamin had used the assignment as an opportunity to visit the hills of Alsace with his assistant, because Virgile was almost completely unfamiliar with its extraordinary wines.

  “Tomorrow we’ll drive to Colmar. And from there we’ll start exploring,” Benjamin said before biting into a slice of bread coated with a thick layer of foie gras. “Maybe we’ll even go all the way to Ammerschwihr. This matter of the vines cut down with a chainsaw is perplexing, to say the least.”

  “What happened again?” Virgile asked. “How many plants were cut?”

  “One hundred and twenty. All destroyed in a single night.”

  “Sacrilege! And the papers say the investigators have no leads.”

  “Reporters are like pathetic winemakers churning out plonk,” grumbled Benjamin. “We’re lucky if we get half the story.”

  “Well, it does seem that the cops are having a hard time with this, boss. What are your thoughts?”

  Benjamin Cooker wiped his mouth and took two sips of his riesling.

  “Clearly, this is an act of vengeance that dates to some deep-rooted rancor.”

  Virgile, trying to imitate his employer, took one sip of his wine, then a second, and then a third. “This is Alsace,” he finally said. “Revenge is bound to be slow in coming, like the late-harvest wines made in this region—and that would certainly wreak havoc. Right, boss?”

  “‘Late Harvest Havoc.’ Sounds like the title of a mystery. Virgile, I think you’ve inherited your grandfather’s wit.”

  3

  On the smooth surface of the Lauch River, a small flat-bottom boat was gliding past the timber-frame houses and cafés without creating so much as a ripple. The boatman, a teenager with curly blond hair and a tanned face, was cheerfully reeling off a historical commentary whose accuracy was questionable. He smiled often at the tourists aboard the old tub, hoping to curry their favor and especially their generosity. He was telling them about the market gardeners who once used the river to transport fruits and vegetables to the thriving market of Colmar.

  With a Cuban cigar between his lips, Benjamin Cooker leaned from his high window above a geranium-filled flower box to listen to the young man steering the boat. The view from this hotel vantage point was as grand as a glorious Venetian palazzo.

  “At the time, the waterways were safer and faster than the dirt roads, which were overrun with robbers and subject to tolls,” Benjamin heard the boatman say. “That’s why farmers used the river.”

  The winemaker imagined the boy as a gondolier with belted pants and a loose shirt, a lean chest, and a cheeky smile. Then he pictured himself gliding along the river, with Elisabeth nestled at his side. His wife often teased him about his romantic bent.

  “Benjamin, there’s only one person who knows the truth about our marriage: our daughter. Margaux would tell you in a minute that you’re the romantic, and I’m the pragmatist,” Elisabeth had told him once.

  Benjamin had asked Alexandre Bomo, the owner of the Hostellerie Le Maréchal hotel, for the room with the large four-poster bed, “the one on the top floor with the impeccable bedding and extremely soft comforter”—the one whose window opened onto the calm waters of the Lauch.

  Benjamin was a frequent visitor here. At every tasting of Alsatian vintages, he would arrive with corkscrews and luggage, settling in on the top floor of Le Maréchal and using the table at the Échevin restaurant as his work desk. The small fried perch was always crusty, the baked foie gras was wonderfully creamy, and the squab was so tender, Benjamin would almost forget to put his fork to the delicate mushroom tart accompanying the dish.

  The gondolier and his half-dozen tourists had disappeared under the arch of a bridge. A burst of children’s laughter ricocheted off the river. Benjamin closed his eyes and let the cool evening breeze stroke his cheeks. When he opened them again, the residents of the nearby timber-frame houses were turning on their lights. The winemaker soon began to take in the aromas of soups and pastries wafting from the windows. He fully immersed himself in the moment, when he could vicariously experience the daily rituals of the people who lived here.

  His Montecristo was developing notes of leather and, more strangely, wool. The winemaker watched the gray plumes of smoke as he thought about Jeanne and pictured her again in the cathedral. There was something profoundly unfair about her sudden death. He could still see her glasses, tramp
led by the crowd, her big bright eyes, her barely loosened chignon, her necklace holding a ring, which he had mistaken for her deceased husband’s wedding ring. But Jeanne had never married. At least that’s what Father Sebastian, deacon of the Strasbourg Cathedral, had said when he closed her eyes a final time.

  “A saint,” he had whispered, making the sign of the cross.

  Benjamin couldn’t get his mind off the woman’s death. When he banished Jeanne’s image from his brain, the Grim Reaper, banging the femur against the clock of human time, replaced it.

  The winemaker threw his unfinished cigar into the river and closed the window. He was shivering. A few seconds later, he felt feverish and drained of all energy. He stretched out on his bed and picked up the house phone to call Virgile’s room.

  “I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight,” he told his assistant. “I’m planning to turn in early. Enjoy yourself—but don’t overdo it.”

  Benjamin ordered room service: chicken broth and Wattwiller—mineral water from the Haut-Rhin.

  The proprietor of Le Maréchal was on the phone to him in a matter of minutes.

  “Mr. Cooker, you’re eating in tonight? Are you all right? Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “Thank you, but there’s nothing that a light meal and a good night’s rest won’t cure,” Benjamin answered. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  But despite his best intentions, Benjamin didn’t turn out his bedside lamp until three in the morning. The Confessions of Saint Augustine finally put an end to his insomnia, and he didn’t hear his assistant tiptoe past his room after spending the better part of the night at the Mango, a Colmar club that was open until dawn.

  When he awoke, Benjamin felt energized and ready to start the day. But at the appointed hour in the breakfast room, Virgile was conspicuously absent. The winemaker found a young hotel employee whose sagging posture and drooping eyelids suggested that he had spent the night carousing instead of sleeping. Benjamin asked him to go knock on Virgile’s door. Three minutes later, the young man returned and gave himself away.

  “Sir, Mr. Lanssien is in the shower. We—I mean he—didn’t get in until late last night. He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Are you sure he said ‘a few minutes’?” Benjamin asked.

  “Um… Well…”

  “What I’d really like to know is where you two went slumming last night.”

  “The Mango, sir.”

  “I hear it’s an excellent place,” Benjamin said, stirring his tea. “The girls who go there are said to be very pretty.” Then he added, “Young man, might I have a drop of milk in my tea, please? By the way, what is your name?”

  “Théodoric, sir. It’s not a common name. Everyone here calls me Théo.”

  “That’s too bad. Théodoric is much more charming.”

  Benjamin repeated the boy’s name, trying to get used to the sound of it.

  “Ah, Théodoric, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but tell me about the gorgeous brunette Virgile spent the evening with at your club Mango.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Never mind. I just know,” Benjamin said, picking up the morning paper and turning to the business section, where he found an article on the wealthy and well-known owner of a Sauternes estate. He had fallen victim to a hostile takeover bid led by his senior partner. Benjamin was acquainted with both men, but they weren’t among his close friends.

  Benjamin read the whole article, which was quite long. He was surprised to see that the reporter wasn’t as well informed as many of his associates in Bordeaux. Anyone who had spent a lifetime in the winemaking business knew that much could be hidden at the bottom of the glass. One had to drink to the dregs. Hugues de Jeanville, the esteemed owner of the Sauternes estate, had not spoken his last. His partner was a hopeless alcoholic and would never succeed in a takeover bid. Time was on Jeanville’s side.

  When Virgile finally arrived, looking nonchalant with a navy-blue sweater draped over his large shoulders, Benjamin refrained from scolding him. He simply told his assistant to drink his black coffee and eat his two croissants as quickly as possible, because they were expected for an important tasting in less than an hour at Materne Haegelin’s estate in Orschwihr. Benjamin wasn’t sure this important figure in Alsatian winemaking would be present, but at least two of his three daughters would be there.

  In past tastings, when Materne was present, he would invariably wait for Benjamin to finish scribbling in his notebook, put his pen away, and look up to say good-bye. Then, with a touch of modesty, Materne would say, “You know, Mr. Cooker, when you treat your wine with loving care, the wine takes care of you.” Benjamin would respond, “Materne, what you have here isn’t a wine cellar. It’s a field hospital. God knows you nurture your wines.” Over the twenty years they had worked together, the exchange had become a ritual.

  Benjamin and the Orschwihr winemaker respected and admired each other. Haegelin’s daughters had inherited their father’s savoir-faire and ingenuity and had learned the business from the ground up. Benjamin always showed his loyalty to the family by kissing the daughters on both cheeks when he greeted them. For the usually reserved Benjamin Cooker, this was a rare show of familiarity and fondness.

  “Shit!” Benjamin threw up his arms at the sight of his back tires. Both had been slashed, an infuriatingly malicious act.

  “And shit, shit again!” Virgile chimed in. “Boss, someone around here doesn’t like you.”

  The winemaker studied the other cars in the small square across from Le Maréchal. None of them had been vandalized. Benjamin was unable to contain his anger.

  “Don’t take me for an idiot, Virgile! I know perfectly well where you were last night. I’m used to your escapades, and I also know that you borrowed my convertible to get to that club, where you apparently drew some negative attention.”

  Virgile, looking stunned, didn’t say anything.

  “Along with Théo, your partner in crime, you set your sights on some girls and, as you often do, stirred up some jealousies. This is the reason for all our problems. Look no further.”

  “But I swear,” the dazed assistant tried to explain.

  “Please, Virgile. Spare me your apologies and lame excuses. There’s a limit to my patience!”

  “Geez, boss, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t take the Mercedes to the Mango. The club’s right around the corner. Check it out yourself. The car’s parked right where you left it yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. You could have parked it in the same spot where I left it,” Benjamin responded angrily.

  “Boss, why would I lie to you? I’d hope you’d know by now that I’m not in the habit of doing that.”

  “Two tires, Virgile! We’re expected at the Materne Haegelin estate. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Let’s go find Mr. Bomo and see if there’s a Mercedes dealer around here. That would help,” Virgile suggested.

  Benjamin Cooker continued grumbling about his assistant’s “thoughtless behavior” until he thrust his fists into the pockets of his Loden and felt his keychain. He held up the keys.

  “I’m sorry, Virgile. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  Virgile was finally vindicated, and his brazen smile made Benjamin feel even more sheepish. He tried to apologize again, but Virgile was already negotiating with the hotel owner for a car they could drive to the Haegelin estate.

  When the hotelier advised Benjamin to file a complaint at the Colmar police station, he just shrugged.

  “The cost of replacing those two tires won’t be high enough to turn in a claim on my insurance. And I’m sure the police won’t be terribly interested in tracking down the hooligans who did this.”

  “We live in a far too-permissive society,” the hotelier said, sighing. “Don’t give it another thought, Mr. Cooker. I’ll take care of the tires, and then I’ll keep your 280 SL convertible in my own garage. It�
��s close by. Meanwhile, here are the keys to my Toyota. It can handle the steep vineyards of Alsace. Have a good tasting.”

  On the Rue des Bateliers, the chestnut trees had lost their last brown leaves. The mild breeze coming through the window of the borrowed four-wheel-drive vehicle was like a balm on Benjamin’s face, which was still flushed. Virgile was curled up in the passenger seat. He was yawning, and his eyelids looked droopy from lack of sleep, but he was whistling “Habanera” from Carmen in an obvious attempt to stay awake.

  “Please, Virgile, it’s too early, and you’re ruining a beautiful aria. Just go ahead and take a nap.”

  “What bad luck you’ve had, Mr. Cooker. I hope you’re not thinking your whole trip is jinxed,” the oldest Haegelin daughter said when she heard about the winemaker’s car problems. “We’ll have to begin your tasting with the Bollenberg.”

  “And why is that?” Virgile asked as he studied the golden color of the riesling the Haegelin daughter had just poured for him.

  “The Grand Ballon, which is also called the Ballon de Guebwiller, is the apex of the Vosges Mountains. The best wines in Alsace are made on its rounded slopes. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cooker? But some people believe the Bollenberg attracts witches.”

  The young winemaker lowered her voice and continued. “Each summer, on the night between August fourteenth and August fifteenth, pilgrims from all over the region congregate near the chapel at Bollenberg. They light a bonfire and burn an effigy of a witch to banish the evil spirits. Some people say it’s an effigy of the devil. I’ve never seen it myself. Anyway, this year—”

  “This year what?” Virgile asked before the storyteller could finish.

  “This year it was pouring so hard, it was impossible to set a fire. The rain was coming down in buckets. You couldn’t even strike a match.”

  “And so?”