Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) Read online

  “I know that’s a lot of information, Virgile, but let it sink in, and you’ll have a solid understanding of Beaujolais, and you’ll be able to talk to anyone like an expert.” Benjamin glanced at the front steps and spotted Solène and Périthiard.

  “Ah, I see that our client and his real estate agent are waiting for us. And it looks like they’re whispering to each other. They can’t possibly think we can hear them from this far away, do you?”

  Indeed, Solène and Guillaume Périthiard looked like they were sharing dark secrets. Périthiard was nodding, his arms folded across his chest. The expression on his face was sober, as usual.

  “Well, what is your diagnosis?” Périthiard asked when Benjamin and Virgile finally reached them.

  “I can’t speak for the state of the buildings, other than the winery, but the vineyard is viable,” Benjamin said in a clinical tone. “We’ll need to see the other plots, but we can already reassure you. Of course, we won’t be able to give you a detailed report until we get the test results from the lab.”

  “Listen, Mr. Cooker, we can discuss more tomorrow. I’ll take you to a bouchon Lyonnais, and we’ll talk then—over local pork delicacies.”

  “Why not?” The idea of dining at a Lyon-style restaurant pleased Benjamin. He could actually come to like this man. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.

  Rumba music rang out from the pocket of Périthiard’s jacket.

  What an odd ringtone for such a stiff man, Benjamin thought.

  Périthiard pulled the phone out and stepped away as he put it to his ear. He started whispering.

  Solène Chavannes took the opportunity to extol the virtues of the manor house: spacious rooms, roof in perfect condition, decorative moldings on the ceilings, marble fireplace surrounds, hardwood floors. Of course, the mansion would need some renovations, particularly in the kitchen and bathrooms, but Vol-au-Vent was truly magnificent.

  “Magnificent,” she repeated before pausing for effect and giving Benjamin and Virgile a gorgeous smile. Benjamin had to admit it—even when she was being ridiculous, she was charming. He listened politely and watched as Virgile pulled out all the stops to seduce this fortyish women, whose laugh lines made her eyes all the more beautiful.

  “I don’t give a damn. Do you hear me? I. Don’t. Give. A. Damn.” Périthiard’s bellowing voice broke the spell of the moment. His face, twisted in anger, had grown as dark as a freshly squeezed blood orange.

  “So what? I can do what I want with my money… No, Sylvain’s vineyard isn’t a cru. It’s not even a Beaujolais Villages… Why would I want to invest in him? Listen, Bérangère, if this so-called hick country makes you sick… Yes, I know what you’re thinking… You can just stay with your Parisian bitch friends, do you hear me? I spend my money however I like. I worked hard enough to earn it… That’s right. Go binge at Chanel or Vuitton if you want. I don’t give a damn.”

  He shoved his phone back into his pocket and looked over at the three of them. Then he gave them a forced smile, showing teeth that were too white and regular to be real.

  4

  Esteban and Mercedes de Ambroyo were waiting for them, standing hand in hand on the doorstep of a fairy-tale cottage. He was wearing a traditional journeyman carpenter’s suit—corduroy jacket and flared trousers—and she was in a dress reminiscent of old-fashioned wallpaper. It was covered with cabbage roses. The handsome couple seemed to have popped out of another era, perhaps from right after World War I.

  Benjamin got out of his convertible without even cutting the engine and rushed over to greet them. He gave them both bear hugs.

  “How long has it been? At least two years, I’d say.”

  “More like four,” Esteban answered.

  “That can’t be!” Benjamin said, stepping back to get a better look at them. “Neither of you has changed a bit. Every time I see you, I get the feeling that I’m the only one who’s getting old.”

  Mercedes smiled and smoothed her hair. “Why would we change? It wouldn’t be seemly, just as it’s not right to grow old.”

  “As André Maurois wrote, ‘Growing old is no more than a bad habit, which a busy person has no time to form.’ Let me introduce my assistant, Virgile Lanssien. As busy as you are, I think you’ll enjoy getting to know him.”

  Virgile took Esteban’s hand and gave it an energetic shake and then kissed Mercedes on both cheeks. “I’m so happy to meet you. Any friend of Mr. Cooker is a friend of mine.”

  “Welcome. Consider yourselves at home here.”

  Benjamin returned to the car and turned off the ignition, while Virgile pulled their suitcases out of the trunk. Esteban and Mercedes ushered them into their home and gestured toward the doorway leading to a large room. They stepped through the beaded curtain, and Benjamin smiled as he watched Virgile’s mouth drop. The room with whitewashed walls, a high ceiling, and varnished wood floor was full of sculptures, paintings, mobiles, and masks. Sunshine from the skylights and narrow windows flooded the room. It was a little museum dedicated to Esteban’s art, which was renowned far beyond the region.

  Benjamin knew the man’s story by heart: he was a Catalan born in Madrid to a well-off family. He had an easy childhood, and early on, his parents discovered that he had an artistic gift. They encouraged him and sent him to art school. Initially, he was influenced by the work of sculptor and painter Pablo Gargallo, but he soon set off on his own meandering journey. Although Esteban had experimented with a variety of materials, he had a penchant for old wood and scrap iron. He loved the patina of aged wood and the geometry of iron shapes.

  Benjamin and Esteban had met while they were students at the Beaux-Arts in Paris. The two had chosen the same vantage point to sketch the Pont Neuf and had then argued over the time of day that was best for rendering the stone bridge’s arches. Was the lighting best at dawn or dusk?

  They never settled that argument, but Benjamin had immediately taken to the burly Spaniard with a kind face, aquiline nose, and carefully groomed beard of a Spanish noble from the Golden Age. His sharp eyes said much about his sense of honor. Although Benjamin had abandoned any ideas of becoming an artist, while Esteban had become prominent as a sculptor and painter, they had remained close friends. It was a true friendship that required no predetermined visits, e-mails, or phone conversations. Whenever they saw each other, it was as though only a day had passed.

  “Damn,” was all that Virgile could manage as he examined all the artwork.

  “Esteban is quite the artist,” Benjamin said. “You’ll see his work in museums in Brussels, Bilbao, Milan, Paris, and New York. Masterpieces.”

  “Benjamin, you flatter me. You know I couldn’t have done any of this without Mercedes, my angel.”

  “Yes, the path to greatness is never easy, is it? And lucky you are to have had her by your side the whole time.”

  “I’m the one who’s lucky,” Mercedes said. “Without him, I never would have kept writing.”

  “Mercedes has produced some masterpieces of her own,” Benjamin said.

  “You’re sweet to call them masterpieces, but I’m grateful that they sell well. Virgile, I’ve had a dual existence for most of my life. I worked in the litigation department of an insurance agency by day and wrote fiction at night—mystery thrillers. Bloody and twisted mystery thrillers, and a few were inspired by the cases the insurance company handled. I had to submit twenty manuscripts before one was finally accepted. But since then, I’ve had luck on my side.”

  “Oh my god,” Virgile said, looking stunned. I just realized—”

  “Yes, son, this is none other than—”

  “You’re… You’re Mercedes de Ambroyo, author of Final Installment. More than three million copies sold, and then it was made into a blockbuster movie!”

  Mercedes smiled. “Yes, I’m that author, Virgile.”

  “And the two of you, with all your fame, would live on a quiet hilltop in Saint Amour instead of Paris? Don’t you miss the camaraderie of all the other artists and w
riters?”

  The best-selling author shook her head and smiled again. “No, Virgile, we prize our elbow room. In that respect, we’re something like your employer, who also lives in the country—even if he is just a short drive from Bordeaux.”

  “You know how I love Grangebelle, Mercedes,” Benjamin said. “A real estate agent came by just last month and said someone was willing to pay an exorbitant sum for it, but I’d never sell. Who knows? Maybe Margaux would want to live there after Elisabeth and I are gone.”

  “You’re too young to be talking about that,” Esteban said, taking the winemaker’s elbow. “Come. Let’s throw together something to eat while Virgile has a look around the room.”

  As gifted as they were in their respective fields, neither Esteban nor Mercedes had much talent in the kitchen, and Benjamin generally relied on Elisabeth’s formidable culinary skills at Grangebelle. But the three friends got busy and managed to concoct passable mussels with slices of chorizo. Their main course, ragout, didn’t come out so well. They couldn’t even get their knives through the tough meat. Fortunately they were able to wash the whole thing down with two bottles from Domaine des Darrèzes, a perfectly appropriate Saint Amour wine. There was nothing but smoothness in the 2011 Côte de Besset’s complex nose of blackberries and blackcurrants, elegant tannins, and rounded flavors. The four talked and laughed until midnight, when everyone decided to retire. But first Benjamin had to explore the piles of books that served as a library in the back of the living room. It didn’t take him long to pull out two tattered paperbacks.

  “Here, Virgile, read this if you want to understand Beaujolais.”

  “Clochemerle? What’s this?”

  “A satirical novel by Gabriel Chevallier, published in 1934. It was translated into English as The Scandals of Clochemerle. The BBC made it into a television series in the nineteen seventies. I’m going to re-read Les carnets du major Thompson by Pierre Daninos, which I also recommend. It dates from the fifties and is a humorous observation of the French people. It was made into a movie, too, a comedy called The French, They are a Funny Race.”

  “I’ll give it a stab, boss. Sometimes your recommendations are really requirements.”

  “Just a few pages for starters. That’s all I ask. Then get some sleep.”

  5

  “I thought about you before I fell asleep last night,” Benjamin said, removing the battered paperback from the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “I don’t mean to be critical, Mr. Cooker, but you could be having more pleasant thoughts before going to sleep,” Guillaume Périthiard said.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t that kind of thought. I read a passage in this book that I believe you will enjoy. Are you familiar with Les carnets du major Thompson?”

  “I have to admit that I don’t have much time to read anything, other than my financial statements.”

  “What a shame,” Benjamin said as he put on his glasses. “I think reading a good book is one of life’s greatest pleasures.”

  Not giving Périthiard any time to respond, the winemaker raised his voice so that it could be heard above the hubbub of the restaurant.

  “An American who walks past a millionaire driving a Cadillac secretly dreams of driving his own one day. A Frenchman who sees a millionaire in a Cadillac dreams that the man will step out of his car one day and walk like everyone else.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Cooker. How true.”

  “Pierre Daninos’s wit is timeless, a bit like this place, a traditional bouchon, where you can find Lyonnais cuisine as it has always been made.”

  A waiter in a checked shirt, a pen behind his ear and a notebook in hand, approached the table. They were quick to order: a salade de lentilles with headcheese, sabodet sausage, a Lyon-style beef tripe dish called sablier de sapeur, and another local specialty, cervelles de canut, which was a mixture of fresh cheese, herbs, shallots, oil, and vinegar.

  “What will you be drinking?” the waiter said, tapping his pen against his notebook.

  “We’ll wash all that down with a Domaine de la Chaponne,” Benjamin said.

  The waiter walked away without asking the two men if they’d like water.

  “That is a fine wine you chose—a Morgon,” Périthiard said. “I have a lot of respect for Laurent Guillet’s winemaking.”

  “Yes, his vinification processes are simple and traditional and never betray the spirit of his terroir.”

  “I suspect, Mr. Cooker, that you didn’t bring up Pierre Daninos just to make conversation.”

  “True enough,” the winemaker answered, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. “You see, Mr. Périthiard, it isn’t a good idea to show off your success in this region, and I believe that it may even be dangerous to announce your ambitions before you’ve accomplished them.”

  “I understand your concerns, Mr. Cooker, but to be perfectly frank, I don’t give a damn. I have never given a damn.”

  “So why change?” Benjamin said. The winemaker didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. But he was dealing with a stubborn man who used a heavy filter when it came to accepting sound advice. “In any case, it looks like you have a good track record. Just beware. Beaujolais has been called a vin jaloux because it can cause all kinds of jealousies.”

  “You need not worry. You know that I leave little room for chance. You, in fact, are one of my best assets in this adventure.”

  “Let’s make sure everything is quite clear, Mr. Périthiard: I can be of no use to ambitions that are beyond me. I can provide services that will significantly improve the production of Vol-au-Vent wine. It will take time, but we will make the most of the estate. You have a lot of business experience, but not as a neo-winegrower. You will find winegrowing different in many ways, and there will be challenges. It will probably be harder than anything you’ve done before. The costs of operating a wine estate will run well into seven figures, and it will be a long-term proposition.”

  They had long since finished the lentils and headcheese. The waiter didn’t bother to remove their vinaigrette-coated plates, but just plopped down the main course on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Périthiard ordered a second bottle of the dark-red Morgon, which Benjamin thoroughly enjoyed. Its aromas of peaches, nectarines, and cherries lost none of their intensity in the mouth. It was refreshing, full-bodied, and rounded, with a long finish.

  The winemaker got back to business. “To do your estate justice, I’ll need a blank check to cover renovations and someone to manage the operations.”

  “I know perfectly well that you are a specialist, Mr. Cooker. When I order a suit, I want something hand-tailored and couture, not something right off the rack. I expect nothing less when it comes to winemaking. I want the Vol-au-Vent estate to showcase a prestigious wine.”

  “So, I’m beginning to see that you envision a dual role for me, Mr. Périthiard: helping you produce that prestigious wine and buffing your image as a négociant. You’ve thought out your strategy. You want to set yourself up in the big leagues. But let me caution you. My expertise is in winemaking, not wine trading.”

  “I presume you are referring to my recent purchase of Maison Coultard.”

  “Yes. You’re aware, Mr. Périthiard, that a négociant doesn’t have to be a winegrower.”

  “True. It’s what I want, though.”

  “I suppose that you imagine you’ll rival Dujaray?”

  “That word might be a bit strong. I wouldn’t exactly call it a rivalry. I’d call it competition, which is always healthy in business. Healthy and even necessary.”

  “Making Cru Beaujolais is one thing, and assembling and trading wine are entirely another, Mr. Périthiard.”

  “But to be honest, you will surely have a strong hand in making Maison Coultard a credible—and enviable—entity.”

  “Granted. But I need to be clear about that. Cru Beaujolais and Beaujolais Nouveau, which will be your focus at the Maison Coultard, I assume, are not the same. A prime vintage Cru Beaujolai
s can age up to ten years, while Beaujolais Nouveau is less about the wine and more about the marketing. I don’t think I have anything to teach you in that area.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Cooker. In fact, I would appreciate your point of view on the subject.”

  Benjamin helped himself to a large slice of wine-cooked sausage, but looked with longing at Périthiard’s marinated and breaded tripe, served with béarnaise sauce.

  He took a bite and chewed for a few moments before continuing. “Today, to sell a primeur wine, you need to get it into the hands of the ignorant who will drink anything. I believe that your most urgent concern is to have a zealous export manager who won’t make a fuss over using screw tops instead of corks.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Why are you surprised?”

  “I can’t imagine that you would condone something like that, so I can’t tell if you really believe what you’re saying or if you’re joking or trying to provoke me. In any case, it doesn’t fit the image I have of you.” Périthiard seemed to weigh his words before continuing.

  “Do go on, Mr. Périthiard. I’m interested in what you have to say.”

  “You can’t possibly be that cynical. I’m picking up a note of disdain. Working with pragmatic people, especially people who are both pragmatic and perceptive, suits me perfectly. But disdain, which is quite similar to contempt, is something altogether different. I wouldn’t like to think I inspire such a feeling in you.”

  “No, I don’t mean to give that impression,” Benjamin said, dipping a large piece of sausage in mustard. “And it isn’t you—or the wine producers and merchants who bother me. It’s the consumers who have no respect, who know nothing, and who, in the long run, are the ones who decide everything.”

  “You’re exaggerating a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Look at what happened in China. All those newly minted millionaires started drinking French wines a decade ago. But what have they been doing with it? Making cocktails—one-third Pétrus with two-thirds Yquem!”