Foul Play in Vouvray Page 2

  Benjamin reached for his assistant’s cup and emptied the teapot, waiting for Liza to elaborate.

  “Starting tomorrow, we’ll do some takes on location so that you can get used to filming and feel comfortable,” she said. “We should head out first thing after breakfast. The light is often very good at that hour. Right, Fabrice?”

  Fabrice nodded.

  “Not too early, though,” said Benjamin. “We’ve been invited to a reception tonight at David Navarre’s estate, and we might not get back to the hotel before midnight.”

  “David Navarre, the actor? You didn’t tell me.”

  “No, he invited us after we made our arrangements with you. I’ve been putting him off in regard to a dormant piece of land he’s hoping to revive for the production of a special vintage. The gathering tonight is a perfect opportunity to discuss it and lay the groundwork.”

  “Would he agree to be filmed while you’re checking out his parcel?”

  “I don’t know,” Benjamin said. “I’d have to ask him.”

  “It would be a great boon for our project. Footage with a celebrity of his caliber would generate a lot of buzz.”

  “I agree, but it all depends on his availability. He’s a very busy man, and he happens to be making a movie.”

  “If that’s the case, perhaps we could film you at the party tonight?”

  Benjamin caught himself before saying anything too quickly. He was irritated by her attempt to insinuate herself into a part of his private life that he had no intention of revealing. He took a diplomatic tack instead. “It’s awkward. I wouldn’t want to give a false impression of myself.”

  “Even if it were just a few shots?”

  “You know, Liza, my life isn’t all that exciting. I tend to avoid parties of this sort.”

  “I’m sure you do. It would be for only a few minutes, though—to heighten interest in your work. Later, we’ll see if we should keep the shots or edit them out. Nothing’s set in stone. But believe me, working on a David Navarre property is something many people would give their eyeteeth for.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, he’s a client like anyone else.”

  “Perhaps, but for the American viewer, he presents a certain image of France: cultured but not snobbish, egalitarian, and educated, with a certain joie de vivre.”

  Benjamin almost smirked. Was that the image of French men most Americans were buying these days? How was that for stereotyping?

  “Let me just repeat, Mr. Cooker. I’m asking for only a few minutes.”

  Benjamin sighed. “All right. Just promise you’ll be quick and discreet.”

  “You have my word. A few shots, and then we’re done. And thank you. The party will give our project a touch of glamour.”

  “I hope you’re right, Ms. Stechelmann, but I fear you’ll wind up bored to tears.”

  3

  As the sun sank behind a thick curtain of poplars, Château de Pray was coming to life. The clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen was rising to the rooms on the second floor. Frederic Brisset was busy presiding over the sous chefs and others preparing the evening meal.

  After unpacking and lingering under scalding showers, Benjamin and Virgile joined the film crew waiting patiently in the lobby. Freshly shaved and smelling of cologne, the two men from Bordeaux had selected outfits in keeping with their personal preferences and the nature of the gathering.

  “You don’t think we look like country bumpkins, boss?” Virgile asked, adjusting the collar of his fitted jacket. He had slipped it on over a light cashmere sweater, perfect for the unreliable spring weather.

  Benjamin gave his assistant a once-over. The winemaker preferred more classic clothes for himself, but Virgile was no slouch when it came to attire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you fretting, Virgile?”

  “I don’t know. I have the feeling we smell like hay.”

  Benjamin chuckled. “We’re from Bordeaux, son. How could we possibly smell like hay? And even if we did, what would be so wrong with that? We’re also men of the vine. ‘In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.’”

  “Is that a quote, boss?”

  “Yes: Margaret Atwood.”

  “It’s just that I’m not in the habit of hanging out with movers and shakers from Paris.”

  “The crowd probably will be a bit… What’s the word? A bit show-biz.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m looking forward to this get-together. But I’m nervous, too.”

  Benjamin patted his assistant’s shoulder. “Virgile, you’ve had the opportunity to meet some very influential and highly regarded people since coming to work for me. You’ll handle any celebrities we meet tonight. Just wear that smile of yours. I’ve seen how it wins people over. Promise me, though, that you won’t use it to charm any starlets. According to our director, we’ve got an early morning.”

  Virgile grinned. “Okay, boss.”

  They climbed into Benjamin’s Mercedes. Despite the nip in the air, they had taken the top down at Liza Stechelmann’s request. She wanted to film them in the golden light of the sunset. The film truck was a few meters behind, with Fabrice leaning perilously out the passenger-side door to capture the picturesque image of the two winemakers.

  “Off to a good start,” Benjamin grumbled, chafing at the unwanted attention this was bound to get them. That Liza had asked him to drive more slowly than he wanted only made it worse.

  Highway 751 moseyed along the slumbering waters of the Loire River. After passing Montlouis, they crossed over the river and drove through the village of Vouvray, with its slate-topped roofs. They passed the Petit Côteau estate below Château Moncontour and continued on the winding road of the Vallée Coquette. The tufa houses were tinged orange under the last rays of the sun.

  Without signaling, Benjamin turned into a pebble drive, where a wooden sign with italic lettering read “Château de Tremblay.” He waited for Liza and her assistants, knowing they’d be eager to capture the moment of arrival at David Navarre’s estate.

  Sure enough, the cameraman was still hanging out the door as they made their way toward the château. “You’d think they’d be a little more discreet,” Benjamin muttered.

  Virgile looked at his side mirror. “That guy Fabrice must have some phenomenal abs to be leaning out that way and still hanging onto his camera.”

  Closer to the château, dozens of luxury cars were lined up in a small field. Two helicopters surrounded by uniformed guards were perched on a nearby landing pad.

  Virgile let out a whistle. “Some estate, huh.”

  “You can say that again. It explains some of David’s dubious career choices.”

  The château stood on a solid foundation dating from the twelfth century. A Renaissance restyling hadn’t diminished the mansion’s robust beginnings. The corner towers still had their steep conical roofs, and carved corbels set off the mullioned windows with panels of pastel-colored stained glass.

  A sizable vineyard maintained like an English garden surrounded the château. There was no trace of a pretentious lawn, stylized bushes, or flowerbeds. Here the vineyards reigned. Rows of vines stretched as far as the eye could see, floating on the horizon of the Vouvray plateau.

  “It must cost an arm and a leg to maintain this place,” Virgile said.

  “He’s accepted roles that are beneath him just to keep it going.”

  “Now I understand why he makes so many movies. At his age, staying in leading-man shape can’t be easy.”

  “No, it’s not. Before every film, he goes on a strict diet and quits drinking. He keeps up this regimen until he’s on set again. David Navarre’s a man who does nothing half way. Take all this.” Benjamin swept his arm across the vineyard. “He dived into the wine business with passion, and unlike some other people, he doesn’t pretend to know everything. He’s actually rather sharp, and with time, he’s become more discerning. For this estate alone, he’s committed enormous amounts of money to ce
llar renovations and new plantings. And what you see is just part of his holdings. He just bought acreage in Napa Valley, and he’s invested in Côtes de Blaye and Saint-Émilion. He also has properties in Saint-Nicolas-de-Bourgueil. And then, of course, there’s the parcel he wants us to look at.”

  “He’s crazy to be spending every euro he makes on expanding his vines, when he doesn’t know how long he’ll land the big roles.”

  “That’s exactly why I like him,” Benjamin said, smiling.

  “Because he’s crazy?”

  “No, Virgile, because he’s committed.” Benjamin climbed out of the convertible and smoothed his light-blue linen jacket.

  “Please, try not to stand out,” he said to Liza, who had jumped from her van with both feet. “David gave me his permission over the phone, but I’m counting on you to follow us without…”

  She stopped him. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ll hardly notice us.”

  The two technicians kept their distance as Benjamin and Virgile made their way to the courtyard. Torch lamps glowed in the twilight, and the walls seemed to sway gently in the light of the flames.

  Benjamin picked up the humming of conversation inside the château, interspersed with peals of laughter. He took a breath and opened the door, pretending he didn’t have a four-person entourage on his heels.

  4

  The winemaker found himself caught up in an animated crowd of heavy-hitters and wannabes. He elbowed his way through the horde in front of a copious buffet, where the estate wine was flowing like water.

  Virgile was wide-eyed. “Boss, I think that’s Max Armond, the director. And isn’t the other guy the former soccer star who hosts La France a un incroyable talent?”

  “I recognize them, son,” Benjamin answered. “I caught Armond’s last film, but I don’t watch much TV.”

  He took in the crowd. Show business types were rubbing shoulders with anonymous characters who were clearly filthy rich, despite their casual outfits. A bearded man in a biker jacket and jeans had cornered a twentyish blond woman in a low-cut sequined dress. She was using her full wine glass to keep him at bay. Strutting near a second buffet was a baby-faced lawyer with long hair. Benjamin knew who he was: a specialist in lost causes and scandalous cases, an intelligent and obscene braggart who was often in the news. Nearby, an aging rock performer pursued by the tax authorities sported piercings as ostentatious as his music. The winemaker watched as he made his way toward a hip young author whose image Benjamin had seen on a new release at the bookstores. The author was surrounded by a group of good-looking women, and the old rocker no doubt wanted in on the action.

  Benjamin took Virgile’s elbow. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s go into the lounge. It won’t be as loud and suffocating.”

  “Can’t say I’d mind doing that, boss, although I am intrigued. See that guy over there?” Virgile lifted his chin to point out a man in a body-hugging Sutton suit. “He’s one of the top plastic surgeons in Paris. I’ve read stories about him. He knows exactly how many botulinum toxin injections every person in this crowd has had. He’s filthy rich—does eyes, noses, breasts. He even rejuvenates the private parts, if you catch my drift.”

  “That’s enough, Virgile. Some things I don’t need to know.”

  “I’ll spare you the details. But these people don’t come by their gorgeous looks naturally.”

  “I sense you’re feeling your Bergerac roots, son.”

  “I admit it. These aren’t the people I’d hang out with even if I were rich.”

  “You’re not alone on that score, although there are a few people here whom I can call my friends.” Benjamin looked over at the buffet table. “I think I’ll see what they have to eat.”

  Murmuring “excuse me” several times, he squeezed past twenty or so people and helped himself to several petits fours. On his way back, he caught sight of a silver tray with glasses of red wine. A server held out a stemmed glass, but just as Benjamin took it, someone bumped his elbow. The wine went flying into the server’s pristine white shirt, leaving a fist-sized stain just above his waist.

  “Merde!” the server cursed.

  Before Benjamin could offer to find a bottle of club soda or even apologize, the young man glared at him and walked away.

  “Maybe this party was a bad idea,” Benjamin muttered. But his mood lifted a few seconds later, when he spotted Virgile. His assistant had matured over the years, from the boy fresh out of school to the more sophisticated but still good-hearted—and, yes, charming—young man he was now. True, Virgile had always been prone to falling into bed with beautiful women, and this had made Benjamin stubbornly opposed to a serious relationship with his daughter, Margaux, for whom he suspected Virgile still carried a torch. Sometimes he sensed that Virgile had cut back on his liaisons, but he would never broach the subject. “Maybe someday…” Benjamin thought before rejecting the notion altogether.

  The winemaker was so occupied with dismissing the idea of a Margaux-Virgile match that he nearly walked into two men who were in the midst of a heated conversation. He had met both of them at a reception in Paris hosted by his publisher. Jean-Paul Gayraud was a high-profile producer, and American expat Lee Friedman was a screenwriter who worked on productions in both the United States and France.

  Friedman had consulted with the winemaker a few months after the Paris reception, when he was working on the script for a film set in Bordeaux, and even though the screenwriter’s cynicism sometimes annoyed Benjamin, the two men had formed a casual friendship.

  Despite the blaring techno music, Benjamin could make out that the two men were quarreling over one of the screenwriter’s projects.

  Seeing the winemaker, Lee stopped arguing and grinned. “Well, well! Look who’s here—the esteemed creator of The Cooker Guide, the unassailable authority on French wines! Jean-Paul, do you have any idea how many books this man has sold?”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” Benjamin said before Gayraud could answer. “I can see you’re discussing an important matter.”

  “Always the gentleman,” Lee said.

  Benjamin, taken aback by the tone, was tempted to move along, but instead, he looked around for a table where he could set his food. Finding one, he motioned to Virgile to join them.

  “Actually, I’m glad we ran into each other,” Lee said. “Jean-Paul and I were just talking about my latest project, which he green-lighted six months ago.”

  The winemaker raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Tell me about it.”

  “I think it would interest you, Benjamin. It’s an adaptation of a highly acclaimed crime caper, The Vineyard Plot. You may have read it.”

  Of course Benjamin had read it. Stephen Burrows, the main character, was a well-known food and wine critic. Burrows was loosely based on Benjamin himself. The fictional food critic-turned-sleuth had solved a double homicide in Normandy while nibbling Camembert and sipping Calvados.

  Benjamin’s publisher had given him a heads-up as soon as the first draft crossed his desk. “I want you to read the draft before we even touch it. I won’t publish this book without your imprimatur,” he had said.

  Benjamin had gone through the The Vineyard Plot and thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, he was a bit flattered.

  “It seems my project has hit a snag since Gayraud here gave his okay,” Lee said, looking straight at the producer. “I’ve yet to see my contract. I was asking him what I could do to free things up.”

  Benjamin wasn’t surprised. The sixtyish Jean-Paul Gayraud was one of the most powerful producers in Paris, but also one of the stingiest. He was likable enough, although Benjamin had never cared to be his friend. With a slight build, tinted spectacles and graying hair, he had the look of an affable predator.

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to resolve the problem,” Gayraud said, his forced smile revealing his crooked teeth. He turned to Benjamin. “We must get together again to discuss that documentary. You’re still in favor of doing it, right?”

&
nbsp; “Not just in favor. Enthusiastic, especially now that we’re filming.”

  Benjamin had said this with no hint of hostility. Negotiations with Gayraud had taken place a year earlier for a documentary on the Bordeaux winemaker’s prestigious career. But the financial arrangements hit a snag when Gayraud failed to secure backing from any foreign television networks. The producer balked at advancing his own money, and once it became evident that he would have to assume all the risk, he dropped the ball without the courtesy of a letter or phone call. Benjamin wasn’t used to such rude treatment.

  Gayraud, obviously surprised, mustered a smile. “So someone else is doing the documentary? I’m pleased for you, Benjamin! Truly pleased. Who’s in charge of the project?”

  Benjamin waved his hand evasively. He wasn’t about to go there. “Good people, very good people, as a matter of fact,” he said simply.

  “How lucky for you,” Lee said, looking disgusted. “I wish I could say the same for my project.”

  “As I said, Lee, I think we can resolve the problem with a bit of patience.”

  “Patience?” Lee responded, his voice booming over the noise. “How long must a patient man wait?”

  Heads turned in their direction, and Benjamin feared Lee would say something he’d regret. The screenwriter’s scathing putdowns were legend. He was relieved when David Navarre’s arrival cut his friend short.

  “Ah, the man of the hour!” Benjamin said a little too cheerfully.

  The actor delivered a hard slap to the producer’s back. “So, you crook, still at it?”

  “Just a friendly conversation,” Gayraud said, pale-faced.

  “You’d better get a move on. Your deal with this fellow shouldn’t be dragging on this way.”

  When David spoke, those around him dropped their guard. He put people at ease. It was in his relaxed posture, his saunter, and his bad-boy smile. Benjamin, who studied people almost as carefully as he studied wines, understood the look was intentional. There was much more to his actor-friend, and Benjamin was one of David’s few associates who knew how driven he was—driven to maintain his place in the movie industry, driven to succeed in the wine business, and driven to stay youthful. Unfortunately, David also drank too much, and if he didn’t maintain his discipline, it would be his undoing.