Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 2

  “You know, son, as I get older I find myself preferring Dominicans. The flavors are milder and smoother, more mellow.”

  The two men smoked their cigars. After several minutes of silent musings, Benjamin looked over at his father. Paul William had fallen asleep, and his lit cigar had rolled onto the old Iranian rug that he had once kept in his antique store. Benjamin picked up the half-smoked robusto, thankful that it hadn’t done any damage, and placed it in a Johnnie Walker ashtray. He reached for a woolen Scottish lap robe and arranged it carefully on his father’s knees. Then he sat down and took a few puffs of his Lusitania to get it going again.

  Benjamin reveled in the brandy. France’s most eminent winemaker and author of the distinguished Cooker Guide was still amused at the sight of a whole Williams pear in a bottle. Growers accomplished this feat by hanging the bottles upside down on their pear trees and waiting for the buds to grow into fruit inside the glass. The process was a tricky and labor-intensive, as wind and rain could easily damage the bottles.

  Haloed in smoke rings, the winemaker con-templated the developments in his father’s life. What vitality could still remain in the elegantly dressed old man snoring beside him? He knew nothing about Lucy. This love story seemed highly unlikely, even though the most respected antiquarian in Notting Hill had always been known for his eccentricity.

  Benjamin worried about the next day’s dinner, with the official introduction to the woman who would become… His stepmother? The thought ruined the last of his Lusitania, and the brandy was no help.

  He settled back in his armchair, puzzled by his father’s “very-short-will” proclamation. How much importance did he need to attach to it? He knew all about Paul William’s passing fancies. There was the risk, certainly, of being disinherited. But did it matter? Benjamin surveyed his father’s apartment, filled with the remnants of the man’s shopkeeping days.

  His chronically broke sister, the astrologer, probably doubted that there was anything of value in the estate. Most likely, Edward had come to the same conclusion. Their absence on this occasion was simply selfish pragmatism on their part. Benjamin couldn’t tell what there was without a closer inspection of his father’s apartment. But regardless of the estate’s value or lack thereof, he was annoyed with his siblings.

  Benjamin’s cellphone vibrated, interrupting his deliberation. He threw his cigar into the fire and looked at the screen. It was his assistant, Virgile Lanssien. “Hello, son. I’ve barely been gone a day and already you miss me?”

  Benjamin listened, nodding and mumbling “uh-huh” as Virgile explained what was happening in the vineyards. The winemaker’s side of the conversation roused Paul William, who knew nothing about Brix or the analysis of pH and titratable acid.

  “What about our Burgundy client?” Benjamin asked, leaning forward in his chair and listening to Virgile’s answer.

  “If the bans des vendanges have been published, I’ll need to get there right away.” Benjamin was referring to the prefect’s harvest proclamation. The official startup of harvest differed from region to region and even within the regions. It was a hundred days, more or less, after the vines flowered.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ll book an early flight back to Bordeaux. Pick me up at the airport. We’ll make a quick stop at the lab to brief Alexandrine and then take the high-speed train to Dijon. Leave a note for Jacqueline so she can reserve the Château de Gilly for us when she gets in tomorrow morning. And you’re right it will be easier if we rent a car. That way we’ll get to Nuits-Saint-Georges in time for a late dinner. Let Mr. Lemoine know he can count on us. By the way, what’s the weather like in Bordeaux? In London everyone’s in T-shirts!”

  The conversation continued until Benjamin noticed the vexed look on his father’s face. Paul William had gotten out of his chair and was leaning against the marble fireplace mantle.

  “I’ve got to go now, Virgile. Just take care of everything, and I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re abandoning me,” the old man said as soon as Benjamin ended the call.

  “I’m so sorry, Father. That’s the risk this time of year. One of our prestigious Burgundy clients is starting the harvest, and I need to be there. Elisabeth will stay to meet Lucy. Please convey my whole-hearted apologies.”

  Paul William grumbled and looked away. “I heard you mention Nuits-Saint-Georges. If my memory serves me well, some of Burgundy’s best wine comes from around that town.”

  “You’re right. The Côtes de Nuits wine-producing area has no fewer than six grand cru wines.”

  “Including the very best Burgundy of all: Romanée-Conti.”

  “That you’re familiar with Romanée-Conti doesn’t surprise me, Father. Any antiquarian worth his salt knows it’s the most expensive wine in the world.”

  “I’ve seen bottles go for more than twenty thousand euros, in fact.”

  The doorbell rang twice.

  “You thought you could escape without meeting my new love, but here she is.” Paul William scuffled to the door. “It’s time for my shot!”

  Benjamin heard the door open and close. And then a man’s voice.

  “Disappointed, Mr. Cooker? Lucy couldn’t come tonight, so you get big Angus, specialist in shots for withered asses. Miss Heaven couldn’t make any house calls today. She said she was getting ready for a special occasion. With all the work we have these days, I hope she’s not pregnant!”

  3

  Benjamin Cooker settled into his seat on the train and closed his eyes, recalling the landscape he had seen time and again. He couldn’t imagine an assignment in Burgundy without the compelling early-morning ritual of climbing the hill to the edge of the forest, where he could admire the battalions of vines extending eastward—perfectly arranged like capital-red letters on the cover of a schoolboy’s notebook. In his eyes, it read “Vineyard of the Côte d’Or.”

  This was, in a way, the ultimate French wine-growing area, although Benjamin would never say that out loud. After all, he was from the rival region of Bordeaux. The Côte d’Or—the Golden Slope—could have been named for the riches in wine the limestone escarpment produced, although it was said the name came from the color of the vine leaves. The region was divided into two main areas: the Côte de Nuits, starting near Dijon and including the town of Nuits-Saint-Georges, and the Côte de Beaune, which began at Aloxe-Corton and continued south.

  The Côte de Nuits was home to the commune of Vosne-Romanée, which produced some of France’s very finest wines. Soil layered with limestone, red clay, and gravel combined with a perfect ecosystem, as if God had designed it just for pinot noir.

  The winemaker was familiar with the entire expanse of Vosne-Romanée and its tangle of plots, although his memory sometimes failed him. He always used the low walls and the crosses dotting the mosaic as a guide as he identified the premier cru and grand cru vineyards. But there was one he never had trouble identifying: Romanée-Conti, 1.8 hectares surrounded by other grand cru vineyards—Les Richebourgs to the east, La Romanée to the north, La Grand Rue to the west, and La Romanée Saint-Vivant to the south.

  Benjamin let out a satisfied sigh and opened his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally released. Elisabeth hadn’t been happy that he’d cut the honeymoon short, but she knew the requirements of his business. She had given him the silent treatment as he packed his bag and called a taxi, but she softened when he said good-bye to his father.

  In fact, she positively grinned at the door, linking arms with Paul William and saying, “Too bad for you, Benjamin. We will have fun while you toil away, won’t we, Beau-papa?”

  The old man had gleamed at him with mischievous eyes beneath his bushy brows.

  § § §

  Benjamin and Virgile arrived in Dijon on schedule, picked up their rental car, and had dinner together at the château. Before turning in, Benjamin called Elisabeth.

  “What�
��s the report?” he asked, impatient to know all about Lucy.

  “Other than hearing what your father has to say about her small, perky breasts and the graceful curve of her calves, I don’t know. She didn’t show for dinner.”

  “Oh, dear. How is Father taking it?”

  “He’s making excuses for her. He’s convinced that she got a little nervous about meeting the family. We had a good day, though. We took in a matinee at the Electric Cinema on Portobello Road. Did you know it’s one of the oldest working cinemas in England? It was wonderful, with those large leather club chairs and footrests. There were even loveseats for romantic couples.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Monsieur Verdoux.”

  “That was Charlie Chaplin’s best movie, if you ask me. Playing a serial killer was quite a departure for him.”

  “Beau-papa loved it. Then we got into a cab and headed to Piccadilly, where he had reserved a table at the Wolseley. And guess what. Our dear Lucy Heaven didn’t show. I tried to distract Beau-papa by admiring the vaulted ceilings and lacquered woodwork. It was once a showroom for Wolseley Motors, you know. Beau-papa put on his stiff upper lip, but I could tell he was disappointed and worried.”

  “Do you mind staying on another few days? At least until Lucy shows up?”

  “I’ll stay, but you owe me big for this one, Mr. Cooker.”

  Benjamin knew he was in trouble when she called him Mr. Cooker.

  4

  Looking forward to showing Virgile the lay of the land, Benjamin got up at sunrise, showered and shaved, and ordered breakfast in his room. He sipped his tea and unfolded the local newspaper, Le Bien Public. After scanning the headlines, he skipped to the articles about the harvest. One extolled the tradition of hiring and housing seasonal workers; another questioned the impact of changes in grape-picker contracts.

  Benjamin stopped reading to slice through his fresh baguette. He savored the crackle of the golden crust as it gave way to the knife. Then he lathered the soft airy interior with Isigny butter.

  After a moment of pure indulgence, he opened the paper again. A headline on page three caught his attention: “Vosne-Romanée winegrower: ‘Neighbor, those vines are mine!’” A winegrower had shown up with his pickers to harvest one of his vineyards, only to discover that it had been picked clean. Shortly after the discovery, a neighbor fessed up. His crews had harvested the plot by mistake. Once the mystery was solved, the winegrowers shook hands and agreed to taste each other’s wines.

  Benjamin smiled at this good-natured solution, which reflected the overall feeling during the grape harvest: the entire industry coming together for a week to ten days and sharing the simple pleasures of hard work, conviviality, and pride in producing a fine product.

  A knock on the door interrupted his reverie.

  “Come in, Virgile. Can I order you anything?”

  “Thanks, boss, but I’ve already eaten. I’m eager to get going.”

  “Well then, let’s do just that.” Benjamin took one more sip of tea, and the two headed out the door.

  § § §

  The winemaker knew his assistant was fascinated with geography and geology, and Virgile’s upbringing in his family’s vineyards had given him a deep understanding of the earth.

  With his reading glasses perched on his nose, Benjamin pointed out the brownish-red color of the soil and its gravelly texture.

  “Look, Virgile. You can see some fragments of oyster fossils. That’s typical of the Côte d’Or.”

  Virgile picked up a clump of earth and crumbled it with tactile, almost sensual, attention, to the delight of his employer.

  “‘The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.’”

  “Who said that, boss?”

  “Galileo.”

  The sounds of voices and laughter were coming from the village of Vosne-Romanée. A ballet of tractors was already underway. The grape harvest had begun, and Burgundy’s vineyards were trembling with excitement.

  On the slopes—as well as in the fermenting rooms—entire armies of students, as well as townspeople, distant relatives, strong-armed friends, and even workers from far-off lands had been mobilized.

  From their vantage point, Benjamin and Virgile watched the pickers. They reminded Benjamin of swimmers at a meet. The men would dive into the vines, come up at regular intervals—sometimes to peek at the generous necklines of the women in nearby rows—and then dive back in for more handfuls of the sugary clusters. They’d laugh and tease each other, and when a basket got too heavy, they’d pass it to the man on the tractor, who would then empty the contents into the bin on his trailer.

  The tractor would invariably begin to sag under the load. Only then would the driver haul the cargo to the weigh station. After this, the load would be taken to the winery to be carefully poured onto a large conveyor belt. Men and women—no more than a dozen—would bend over the harvested fruit and begin the final sorting, almost grape by grape, to eliminate the gray mold, the grapes irreparably damaged, and the few yellow leaves sheared by a vintner rushing to beat the insidious autumn winds.

  Healthy, juicy, fragrant, and sweet, the harvest would flow into a grape crusher before reaching the tanks. Then the smell of must would fill the cellars and outer yards.

  This year, the pickers were working quickly. A rain system was moving from the west, and so the vineyard managers were spurring on their harvesters.

  After a few moments of silent contemplation, Benjamin tapped Virgile’s elbow. “Let’s go down there, son. I see a vineyard manager I know.”

  Benjamin and Virgile made their way down the escarpment, arriving at a plot where workers were busily plucking grapes from the vines. The manager waved to Benjamin and headed his way.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Cooker. What brings you here?” He extended his hand. There was dirt under his fingernails, and his arms were brown and muscular from summers spent working under the sun.

  “We’ve come to look at a piece of equipment the Lemoines just bought,” Benjamin answered. “I can see you’ve got your hands full. Can we just take a quick look around?”

  The man grinned. “Certainly, Mr. Cooker. You’re welcome here anytime.” He nodded and walked away.

  Benjamin started inspecting the vines, grabbing grapes and noting their perfect ripeness. He turned around and saw that his assistant was happily doing the same while mingling with the cutters.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Burgundy had more success with their whites than their reds this year,” Benjamin said. “Still, I think it will be a great vintage.”

  “That’s for sure,” Virgile replied, gazing at a swarm of graceful girls in tight T-shirts stained with juice.

  “Oh, no.” Benjamin turned his attention from the vines to his watch. “We’ve got to get going, Virgile. Marcel and Rafael Lemoine are expecting us in Nuits-Saint-Georges. I bet their resident wine expert has already clocked in. Our Bordeaux reputation will suffer if we don’t get there fast.”

  “Take it easy, boss!”

  “After a quarter of a century of loyal service in both the Bordeaux and the Burgundy wine business, I can say with certainty that attitudes haven’t changed one iota. Bordeaux wine growers are still considered suspect here in Burgundy. You’ll see that for yourself.”

  The winemaker and his assistant hurried back to their rental car, a gray Alfa Romeo. Benjamin handed Virgile the keys. “You drive.”

  Virgile slipped behind the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. But even though they were running late, the winemaker had his assistant turn off the main road. “There’s just one more thing that you need to see before we meet with the Lemoines.”

  A short time later they reached a tall stone cross. “And here, son, you have the prince of Conti’s vines: the R
omanée-Conti.”

  “Come on, boss. Even I know they haven’t belonged to a prince of Conti since the French Revolution, when the state seized the land.”

  “Okay, okay. I gave in to a little royalist nostalgia. Forgive me. But they were princes du sang, princes of the blood, as close as you could get to the king’s immediate family.”

  “Grapes were grown here long before then, boss—as far back as Roman times. Today, this vineyard is part of the DRC, the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, an estate owned by two families for nearly seventy years.”

  Virgile had done his homework, as usual.

  “I also know it’s the best of the best,” Virgile continued, doing a U-turn to return to the road leading to town. “But I haven’t had the pleasure of tasting the so-called nectar.”

  “You’re very young to qualify for the privilege—only six thousand bottles are produced every year. This is a wine to be appreciated—”

  “Yes, I know—when you’re older and wiser. Thanks for the advice.”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s a wine with astonishing complexity. Even I have only a few bottles in my cellar: a couple from 1982 and 1985. I used to have one from 1958, but we had to drink it because it wasn’t the best year for Romanée-Conti. And Elisabeth scrounged up a 1963 for my last birthday. She bought it on the Internet.”

  “And it wasn’t a scam auction?”

  “Not at all. Admittedly, our Romanée was a bit, how should I say—etiolated. But still, I remember its flamboyant bouquet with aromas of coffee and mocha. A nice concentration and a powerful mouthfeel not yet altered. Okay, I grant you, once it’s opened and left sitting in the bottom of the glass, Romanée loses some of its blue blood.”

  Benjamin opened the window and watched the vines go by.

  “What about official tastings? Have you done any of those?”

  “Of course, and I’ve tasted it from the barrel too.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “I want details!”