Foul Play in Vouvray Page 3

  He turned to Benjamin. “I’m happy you came. We must get together tomorrow to go over my plans for that parcel.”

  Gayraud tried to ingratiate himself. “Just like you, David: the star of French cinema collaborating with the star of French winemaking.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Benjamin’s place in the celebrity galaxy, Gayraud. I asked him to help me because he’s the best.”

  “And you’re one person who’s willing to pay for the best,” Lee said, “unlike other people, whose euros have to be pried from their clutches. Right, Jean-Paul?” Lee was still itching for a fight. His smile was nasty, and his eyebrow was raised.

  The producer lowered his gaze, acquiescing to the screenwriter. A moment later he cleared his throat and looked toward the doorway. “Gentlemen, I must say goodnight, as I have an early morning.” Gayraud took his leave. Benjamin, Lee, Virgile, and David followed him with their eyes until he disappeared in the crowd.

  “‘The devil lies brooding in the miser’s chest.’” It was Lee.

  Alarmed, Benjamin turned to his screenwriter friend, whose nasty smile turned benign. Lee winked at the winemaker. “You see, Benjamin, even an American expat can quote the likes of your countryman Thomas Fuller.

  5

  Virgile had tired of the conversation. He drained his glass of Champagne and set it down on the table, next to the winemaker’s plate.

  He gave his companions a nod and walked away, returning to the reception hall, where people seemed to be having more fun. A disk jockey with rose-colored glasses, a skin-tight leatherette T-shirt, and safety pins piercing his upper lip was beat matching on vinyl. Several bleached and natural blondes were dancing, their arms raised and their hips swaying. The heavy synchronized thumping struck Virgile right in the chest. He snatched another glass, gulped the contents, and put it back on the server’s tray. The lithe young man with slicked-back hair, mustache, and a wine stain on his shirt paid him no mind, preoccupied as he was with keeping his glasses upright while snaking between the dancers.

  “Are you lost?”

  Virgile froze. There was something familiar about the voice: slightly fluted, both soft and husky. He glanced over his shoulder and was petrified. He had seen her in magazine and television images—languishing on a yacht in the Bay of Antibes, climbing the palace stairs at Cannes, displaying her duplex near the wealthy Parisian Trocadéro neighborhood, holding up a César, a tear of joy clinging to her eyelashes, laughing at a private party in Bains-Douches. Simone Margerolle was a fantasy woman who existed in a vague, distant place. And there she was, in flesh and blood. More in the flesh, as it were: curvaceous breasts beneath the shimmering silk fabric of her plum-colored sheath, voluptuous hips, and tiny waist.

  Virgile forced himself to focus on her intense blue eyes.

  “Shush! Don’t say a word,” she said, putting a finger on his lips.

  Virgile picked up the scent of pears. She’d dipped her finger in Champagne. He had no choice but to comply. He was tongue-tied.

  “Let me guess. Film? Theater? Modeling?”

  He worked to dispel the mental image of this gorgeous actress licking the Champagne off her finger. “Nothing like acting or modeling,” he finally said.

  “Literature? Visual arts?” She looked up at him, smiling flirtatiously, aware, he knew, of the effect she was having.

  At this, Virgile began to relax. Flirting was something he knew how to do. He mustered a coy look. “You’re getting colder.”

  Simone wrinkled her nose. “I hope you’re not in public relations, like everyone else.”

  “I’m not like everyone else.”

  Simone tilted her head. “Hmm, the plot thickens, I love that! An athlete, then?”

  “In my spare time.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a gigolo!”

  Virgile smiled. “Would that be so terrible?”

  “You do have what it takes, I’d say,” Simone said, sizing him up. “You’ve never considered taking advantage of your killer physique?”

  “Taking advantage?”

  “What I mean is, you could use it to live on. There’s no shame in that.”

  “No shame, I grant you. But I’ll leave that to other people. It’s not my thing.”

  “Come now, be nice. Tell me who’s hiding behind that charming face. I’ve never seen you at the château before.”

  Virgile looked around the room. “It’s my first time here. Nice place.”

  “You mean gorgeous… Elegant… Over the top but still classy. Like everything else related to David. So, are you going to tell me why you’re at this party? Or is it shameful?”

  Virgile sighed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m no celebrity or VIP. I’m the assistant to Benjamin Cooker, the winemaker who’s working with Mr. Navarre on the vineyard he wants to revive.” He held his breath, waiting for Simone to murmur “that’s nice” and move on.

  But she didn’t. “I’ve heard a lot about your Benjamin Cooker,” she said. “David swears by him. Now I understand. That explains the adorable accent from the southwest of France. Are you from Bordeaux?”

  “At present, yes. But I’m originally from Bergerac—Montravel, to be exact.”

  “I’m not familiar with Montravel, but it doesn’t matter. Will you take me out on the dance floor? I love this number.”

  “I’m a very bad dancer.”

  “So what? Make believe you’re good. And make me happy.”

  Simone took Virgile’s hand and led him to an empty spot on the crowded dance floor. He step-tapped as best he could, out of kilter, a little drunk. The Champagne was making him dizzy, and pleasantly so. Simone swayed gracefully, brushing against him.

  Virgile couldn’t quite believe what was happening. It wasn’t that he had never been with a stunning woman. He was experienced. But this was different—an otherworldly flirtation that put him off-balance. She wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t the hand-in-glove sensation he’d felt with Margaux. The fit wasn’t quite right. Still, he felt himself surrender. Her neck smelled of vanilla and alcohol. Her skin was moist. He stroked her back. Her breasts pressed against his chest felt unbelievably delicious.

  They danced a long while, both close and apart, depending on the music. Now and then a friend of the actress would come up and whisper something in her ear, and she would burst out laughing, throwing her head back and showing her perfect white teeth. She clung to Virgile tighter and tighter and murmured a few words. She needed Champagne, more Champagne, and still more. He complied and rushed over to the bar. But when he returned to the dance floor, Simone had disappeared.

  He wandered for a good hour, looking through all the rooms with a glass in each hand. He went outside to scan the shadows in the courtyard, passed the buffet tables again and again, and waited in vain near the bathroom while sipping from one of the glasses. The actress was nowhere to be found.

  He had downed the second glass when he ran into Benjamin, whose tired face betrayed his irritation.

  “What have you been doing, Virgile? I’ve been looking for you.”

  Virgile decided to keep the encounter with Simone Margerolle to himself. “I was just dancing, boss.”

  “And did you exchange phone numbers with any of the lovelies you danced with? Oh, I forgot—isn’t Instagram the way you young people stay in touch these days?”

  Virgile gave Benjamin a curious look. “How did you know about Instagram, boss?”

  “Give me some credit, would you? I do read, you know. But so much for social media. We need to take off. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, and it’s already late.”

  Virgile surveyed the scene and realized many of the partygoers had left. Several of the drunken ones who remained were sprawled on the banquettes. The proudest had lost all dignity, while those who didn’t care were just being themselves. The photographer from the magazine Voici! was snapping pictures that he knew would be unprintable but would come in handy for his perso
nal files. No one seemed to mind.

  “When did Liza and her assistants leave?” Virgile asked.

  “Actually, not too long ago. They finished filming, and, surprisingly, David told them they could stay. As long as they were inconspicuous, I didn’t mind.”

  “So where’s David? I’d like to say goodnight.”

  “I haven’t seen him. He was drinking heavily. He probably went off to bed.”

  The disc jockey was packing his equipment, and the catering crew was picking up the dishes and glasses. Just as Benjamin and Virgile were opening the door to leave, a cry rang out, silencing the clatter of porcelain and crystal.

  “Simone is dead!”

  6

  An eerie blue pall hung over the room as Benjamin drank his tea and watched the news. The winemaker hadn’t gotten to bed until well past two in the morning, and then he had tossed and turned, unable to still his restless legs. Finally giving up shortly after five, he showered, dressed, placed his breakfast order, and waited for the sunlight to start streaming through the French doors leading to his small balcony. Still, when he turned on the television, he wondered if he had conjured up what had happened at Château de Tremblay.

  The young actress Simone Margerolle was clinging to life at a hospital in Tours, having been found unconscious in the wine cellar of famed actor David Navarre. The hospital director in Tours said she was in a deep coma. A thumbnail picture in the lower-left corner of the screen displayed the smiling actress beside her lover, whose neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair underscored their age difference. The photograph had been taken a few weeks earlier, during filming of the new Max Armond movie. Benjamin couldn’t miss the glazed look in David’s eyes or the flushed cheeks, which his voguish white stubble couldn’t mask.

  Benjamin sighed and took a bite of his toast with marmalade. He looked back at the television and saw that a young meteorologist in form-fitting jeans and a shirt with no tie had replaced the reporter. His tone was borderline playful, which annoyed the winemaker. A high-pressure system was settling over the country. There was nothing else to report, aside from some scattered showers on the Aquitaine coast.

  A commercial, a short segment on humanitarian aid in Mali, and a commentary on the surprising benefits of artichokes followed the weather. Then there was an interview with an Emmanuel Macron spokesman, who touted modest gains in business confidence and job growth. The polite banter suggested that France might awaken in a good mood. But it couldn’t offset the depressing news about Simone Margerolle. Benjamin was in a morose frame of mind as he rewound the events.

  A member of the catering staff had been carting unopened bottles to the Château de Tremblay wine cellar when he found Simone lying on the cold stone floor, presumably dead. The staff member’s screams had roused the few remaining drunken guests. Benjamin and Virgile had rushed to the cellar entrance. A security guard, however, had gotten there already and was barring the door. The guard had herded everyone into the library and instructed them to wait. To Benjamin’s relief, he returned a few moments later and announced that Simone was still alive. An ambulance would arrive soon.

  At this point David’s personal assistant had gotten up and slipped out of the library. She came back several minutes later and pulled Benjamin aside.

  “Mr. Cooker, I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I tried to wake Mr. Navarre, but I couldn’t get him up. He just spoke some gibberish and went back to sleep.”

  “He drank too much,” Benjamin answered, shaking his head. “Just let him rest. The security guard seems to be handling everything, and there’s nothing David can do for Simone right now. Besides, the police will be here with a barrage of questions in the morning. He’ll need his wits about him.”

  The personal assistant had agreed. She found an armchair near the fireplace and started scrolling through her smartphone.

  When the ambulance finally arrived, Benjamin watched as two paramedics rushed toward the cellar entrance and down the stairs. He could hear them working in tandem to stabilize Simone and get her on the gurney. She was as white as the sheet covering her body when they came back upstairs. Benjamin glanced at Virgile. He couldn’t miss the concern on his assistant’s face.

  The paramedics wheeled the gurney outside and raced off in the ambulance, its blue lights flashing.

  As soon as the security guard allowed them to leave, Benjamin and Virgile had returned to the hotel and crawled into their respective beds.

  Finishing his toast, Benjamin wiped his mouth and turned off the television. “Come in,” he said, looking toward the door before Virgile even knocked.

  Trailing his latest scent, a woodsy-citrus blend, Virgile entered the room. “How did you know I was out there, boss?”

  “How did I know? I could smell you from the hallway!”

  § § §

  Virgile could see the winemaker was in a foul mood. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand. He wasn’t feeling so great himself. Simone Margerolle, the beautiful actress who had vanished on him the previous night, was in critical condition at the Tours hospital. But he didn’t want to make matters worse by irritating his boss. He stepped into the bathroom and washed his face and neck to minimize the smell of the cologne.

  “Better?” he asked as he came out, drying his hands. He put the towel down and took a chair near the winemaker.

  Benjamin ignored him and took another sip of his tea.

  “Liza Stechelmann is waiting for us in the courtyard.”

  “Oh,” Benjamin said, putting his cup down and finally making eye contact. “I had forgotten about her.”

  “She’d like to get an early start. It seems the morning light is excellent for getting shots.”

  “So what? The right light’s her problem, not mine.”

  Virgile didn’t respond.

  “And when it rains? What does she do with herself then? Quit working?”

  Virgile changed the subject. “What’s the program for today?”

  “Pinon.”

  “I’m not following, boss.”

  “Pinon! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Um, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “François Pinon! Fifteen hectares of chenin in the Vallée de Cousse!”

  “Of course. Considering how long I’ve been hearing about him, I can’t be forgiven. That said, I’ve only tasted his Vouvray Trois Argiles.”

  Benjamin paused and finished his tea. Then he looked back at Virgile with an expression that verged on pleasant. “I remember. It was two years ago in Bordeaux. We were at the lab, and I was confirming my notes for the Wine Spectator: ‘Ebullient, with ripe fruit, refreshing acidity, and Vouvray’s characteristic chalky minerality. An ideal springtime wine.’ If we’re lucky, François will part with a bottle or two when we see him today.”

  “You’ve got quite a memory, boss.”

  “And you’d do well to follow my example,” Benjamin said, pointing to his forehead. “Everything must be stored in here. Classified, archived, recorded. Every aroma, every vintage, everything, you understand? Once it’s in your head you must never let it out.”

  “But, boss, what about the little notebook you keep tucked in your jacket? You scribble in that all the time.”

  “That’s backup, son. The brain is your primary information-storage system.”

  “If you say so. But can we go easy on our brains today? My head’s aching. I had a hard time sleeping after we got back here.”

  “I didn’t sleep well either. Then I turned on the news. How is it we always fall feet first into this type of thing?”

  “Maybe we have a knack for attracting trouble.”

  “But this is a bit much! We’ve come to Touraine for a nice little visit. Of course, we’ve been retained to do some work, but it promised to be a week of pleasure, tasting wines and staying in a dream hotel with an outstanding chef. What could be better? Just what we’ve needed to pause and recharge, right? Then wham! A young woman is found near death in o
ur client’s wine cellar.”

  “And not just any woman,” murmured Virgile.

  “Apparently she’s a talented actress. But since I don’t have time for more than one or two movies a year, I wouldn’t recognize her in person. I understand she’s rather pretty.”

  “More like a bombshell!” Virgile blurted.

  “What do you mean? Explosive? Volatile?”

  “In a way…”

  “What’s going on, son? I saw that look on your face when they were taking her out to the ambulance. You didn’t happen to meet her at the party, did you?”

  “Sort of,” Virgile stammered. “That is, it was strange…”

  “Strange? Tell me more.”

  Virgile felt the blood rushing to his face. He didn’t want to reveal too much. “We talked briefly, and then we danced. That was it. Voilà!”

  “Nothing else?”

  “There were a lot of people. I lost her in the crowd.”

  “But it seems you saw enough of her to be shook up.”

  “She’s not the kind of woman you walk away from feeling like you’re still in one piece.”

  “Meanwhile, we don’t know whether she herself will come out of this in one piece. Nor do we know what happened to her.”

  “It’s what everyone in the dining room was talking about when I was having breakfast. Liza and her assistants arrived while I was there.”

  “And Liza and her assistants? What do they think?”

  “Fabrice and Hugo weren’t saying much. Liza and I talked a little. She’s shaken. She’s more sensitive than she looks.”

  “Sensitive or not, she seems to be a woman of her word. She said they’d be almost inconspicuous, and I hardly noticed them once we were at the château.”

  “Really, boss, Liza’s a nice woman. Sensible, no nonsense. Besides, if I might make a comment…”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Well, okay, I think you’ve been a bit rude. There’s no reason to be so off-putting, especially since she’s tried to accommodate you.” Virgile cringed, ready for a reprimand. But the winemaker surprised him.