Mayhem in Margaux Read online

  “Virgile mentioned that he knew you,” Benjamin continued. “So I’ve taken the liberty to come see you. I hope you will forgive the interruption.”

  Stéphane Sarrazin grinned ever so slightly. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes accentuated his impertinent look.

  “No need to beat around the bush, Mr. Cooker. You want to know about Antoine Rinetti.”

  “Absolutely. I assume you know that his condition is serious.”

  “Of course. He works here. The château is in touch with the hospital. And I do read the Sud-Ouest, like everyone else, so I also know that your daughter was in the car.”

  “Do you think someone may have wanted to harm him?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  Benjamin took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  “I might as well tell you right away what the newspapers will be reporting. His car was sabotaged.”

  Virgile, who had been standing off to the side, stepped in and joined the conversation. Benjamin sensed that the cellar master’s grin, verging on smug, was starting to annoy his assistant.

  “That his car may have been sabotaged doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Virgile said.

  “Not really.”

  “Or bother you,” Benjamin added.

  “You’ve gotten straight to the point with me, so I’ll level with you. The accident didn’t upset me much.”

  “Even though he’s the château manager, and you worked together every day?”

  “I’m not very good at playacting, so I’ll just tell you: since Rinetti has been here, we’ve had some changes that were difficult to swallow.”

  “I’m not asking you to betray the trust of your employers, but maybe you could enlighten me about…”

  “My code of silence is relative,” Sarrazin interrupted. “Beyond our winemaking techniques, I am free to speak my mind, and I can tell you what everyone else is thinking.”

  Sarrazin began talking about the estate, and while he had promised to be candid, he chose his words carefully, measuring his allusions and calculating the effects of surprise. Some of his pointed remarks seemed to have hidden meanings Benjamin couldn’t make out. Sarrazin winked at Virgile when he spoke of an old employee or certain aspects of the property’s operations. At times, the winemaker wondered whether Sarrazin was joking or serious. On the whole, though, what Benjamin heard was a cautionary exposé.

  The last heir of the Gayraud family had made some bad investments and suffered setbacks related to the mismanagement of the estate. A legal battle to resolve a contested inheritance had finally worn out the man, who wasn’t even a direct descendent of the original founders. He was forced to sell the property to avoid bankruptcy. At the beginning of the year, Helvetica-Sûr, an insurance company from Bâle, had acquired the estate for a relatively paltry sum. People in the area said the land had been sold off for a gulp of wine, and since this pitiful transaction, no one had seen Gayraud.

  “Indeed, I’ve never run into him in Bordeaux,” Benjamin said.

  Stéphane Sarrazin didn’t acknowledge this remark. He continued. The insurance company quickly examined the books and hired experts to provide an accurate assessment. They recommended bringing in an administrator to restore order. The company saw fit to appoint a young man trained in statistical analysis and austerity marketing. Antoine Rinetti had arrived in April, and the following day, he took draconian measures. He slashed overhead and operating budgets. He knew nothing about the winemaking world. He had never set foot in a wine cellar or a vineyard, and he had no interest in learning. His mind was made up: the estate would be managed like a manufacturing company that turned out gizmos.

  “Then one day, Rinetti called everyone into the reception room,” Sarrazin said.

  “Which room?” Virgile asked. “The one with the cherubs and flowers on the ceiling? You know, where you introduced me to that beauty?”

  Sarrazin gave Virgile a dull look and went on. “He was so arrogant. He said yields were too low and production costs and salaries were too high. We needed to amortize investments, communicate more, and upgrade our image. He kept going on and on about what was wrong. Then he looked us in the eye, one after the other, and promised he’d turn the château into an efficient business in no time.”

  “Clearly, he’s not from the wine world,” Benjamin said.

  “He made it clear that he intended to stanch the flow of red ink, and he would begin with the payroll. He would keep the steward, Phillipe Cazevielle, and me. But two laborers and an assistant cellar master would be let go. He was almost cheerful about it. Interns or temporary workers, depending on seasonal needs, would take their place. Finally, he announced that Georges Moncaillou, the vineyard manager, would be afforded—in other words forced to take—an early retirement at the age of fifty-seven. No one dared to question him. We went our separate ways without a word. I’m surprised Rinetti didn’t deduct the half hour we were in there with him from our paychecks.”

  “What happened then?” Virgile asked. “Did he implement the changes immediately?”

  “The next day, Georges Moncaillou committed suicide: a shotgun blast to the neck. He was a hunter, you know.”

  “Shit, Moncaillou!” Virgile nearly shouted. “Fucking shit!”

  The cellar master was quiet for a moment, clenching his jaw in a seeming attempt to contain his emotion. Benjamin couldn’t tell whether Sarrazin was suppressing grief or anger. He then spoke briefly about the funeral, when the residents of the town and employees of neighboring châteaus in the Margaux appellation came together. Antoine Rinetti had even had the gall to show up.

  “What about Moncaillou’s son?” Virgile asked.

  “Gilles? Oh, he’s still working for the estate, kowtowing morning and night, just like he always has.”

  “It must be tough on him,” Benjamin said.

  “He doesn’t show it, but he’s taken to wearing his father’s threadbare beret out in the vineyards. There’s no telling what’s brewing in his head.”

  “Who’s managing the vineyard now?” Benjamin asked.

  “A man named Francis Gardel, from the Charente in the Cognac area. He’s nothing like old Georges.”

  “Boss, Moncaillou was one of the good ones,” Virglile said. “He’d served Gayraud-Valrose for, what, thirty years? And he’d done tons to improve the state of the vines.”

  “He was really passionate about terroir. He made replanting, irrigation, and soil improvement an art form. He’s sorely missed,” Sarrazin said. “Here at Valrose, there are more thorns than petals these days.”

  Sarrazin seemed ready to walk away. But instead, he looked Benjamin in the eye.

  “You know, Mr. Cooker, you judged us harshly in the latest edition of your guide.”

  “Not really. I was actually full of praise for your last two prestige vintages.”

  “That’s true, but you criticized the tannins. I believe your words were ‘unpredictable extraction,’ if I remember correctly.”

  “I think they shouldn’t have been so pronounced. They should have been better blended and fuller.”

  “Everyone here was complaining about you when the guide came out. But I have to admit that I agreed, more or less, with your assessment. That’s just between us, of course.”

  “Of course. My silence in that regard goes without saying,” Benjamin replied.

  They shook hands with the firm grip of men who honor the soil, the grapes, the art of winemaking, and the labors of those who worked the vineyards.

  In the distance, the convertible, parked near a clump of old rosebushes, gleamed in the sun. Not a hint of cloud disrupted the sky. Seagulls were flying overhead, carried on the warm currents floating above the river.

  “I didn’t expect him to be such a talker,” Benjamin said.

  “Why do you say that?” Virgile asked.

  “Because he’s cynical and intelligent. He doubts everything and believes in no one. But beneath that façade, there’s a kind of desper
ation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a violent streak.”

  “It sounded to me like he wanted to justify the pronounced tannins,” Virgile said, with a shrug.

  “Do you think so? I don’t know. There something in his eyes…something kind of borderline.”

  “Oh, he’s not crazy. I can assure you of that,” Virgile said. “He’s too self-contained.”

  “That’s precisely what worries me.”

  7

  It hadn’t rained in seven weeks. According to the news, the drought was beginning to concern government officials, but not the ones who counted. The prime minister made an effort to sound reassuring but couldn’t hide his annoyance at being disturbed during his vacation. His pat phrases sounded more paternalistic than encouraging. He advised patience. Yet farmers were already complaining about a severe shortage of feed for their livestock. Grain fields were withering under the sun. Even more serious, brownouts were beginning to affect the elderly in nursing homes and newborns who hadn’t yet developed the ability to sweat.

  “Animals, babies, and old people. They just might bring down the government,” Benjamin said as he parked in front of 46 Allées de Tourny.

  He turned the radio off and kept the engine running.

  “I’m not getting out, Virgile. I have some things to tend to. We’ll meet up in the early afternoon.”

  “And what should I do in the meantime?”

  “Everything I had planned to do myself, plus your own work that’s still not done. Ask Jacqueline for the mail. Take care of what’s urgent, and only answer the estates whose issues we handle. Just a few words telling them we received their inquiries. That will keep them calm for a few days. Then schedule the visits for the coming weeks. Call the owners to inform them of our arrival, and block out the times. Contact the Beaujolais Wine Council, and make sure they send us absolutely every tasting sample before the end of August. Then stop by the lab and check with Alexandrine to see where we are with the leaf analyses from the Premieres Côtes de Bordeaux and Entre-deux-Mers. Oh, I forgot—organize the last studies we did on the soil, and tell the Léognan estates that we will continue our field investigations tomorrow or the day after. That should be enough for you to handle.”

  “In other words, you want me to do the work of two people in three hours, tops.”

  “Two and a half if you take time for lunch.” Benjamin winked at his assistant and glanced in his rearview mirror before merging with the traffic.

  Benjamin waved to Virgile. He felt the hot air rising from the pavement as he made his way toward the Place Gambetta, where he headed west on the Rue Judaïque. Arriving at Pellegrin Hospital, he parked under the meager shade of a linden tree and hurried into the lobby. He shivered in the air conditioning, which was set too low. The heat wave was putting too much demand on the power grid. The winemaker understood that surgical facilities and some patient rooms needed to be cool, but keeping the whole hospital this cold was foolhardy. Why hospital administrators didn’t realize this was beyond Benjamin, but he had other priorities today. He hurried toward Margaux’s room, excited at the prospect of treating his daughter to a lovely surprise. He climbed the stairs two at a time, finally reaching her floor. Almost slipping on the shiny linoleum, he entered her room without knocking, a bit winded but in a good mood.

  “My little angel, we’re breaking out!”

  “Are you kidnapping me?” Margaux burst out laughing.

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s an abduction, and the stagecoach will be here in less than ten minutes!”

  Benjamin paused, suddenly realizing that his daughter was sitting in a visitor’s chair and dressed in her street clothes. A pair of crutches was leaning against one of the armrests, and a small cloth bag was at her feet.

  “I already know, Papa. The whole crew at La Planquette called this morning to warn me. They asked me to talk you out of your plan. Maman, Leslie, and Ludovic were worried.”

  “And so?”

  “I told them that you’ve always had excellent ideas. Maman was furious. She said that neither of us have ever listened to her, and between a stubborn husband and a capricious daughter, she would never have the last word. I let the storm pass, and five minutes later—you know her—she seemed agreeable. I think she’s actually relieved that I’ll be closer. She’ll be able to keep an eye on me.”

  “I am sure she’s already prepared a wonderful room for you and everything’s ready for your arrival. Here, sign the discharge papers.”

  “The doctor has already come by and given me my instructions. He groaned a bit and said I’d be better off if I stayed in the hospital’s rehab unit, but I think he understood. And, of course, I’ll need to see the orthopedic surgeon for a follow-up.”

  “I’ll send the doctor a case of good wine. That will make him happy,” Benjamin said, picking up Margaux’s bag. “Okay, off we go. I still have some work to do today, with the heat wave and all, so I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to whisk you to La Planquette. I’ve also hired a nurse to ride with you and help you settle in your room.”

  The nurse poked her head through the half-open door, and together they helped Margaux through the hospital and into the waiting taxi. Benjamin kissed his daughter’s forehead and promised to join everyone at La Planquette later. He walked over to his Mercedes, and as soon as he slipped behind the wheel, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He heard the raspy voice of Inspector Barbaroux when he put it to his ear.

  “So, Mr. Cooker, I see you’re not wasting any time!”

  “News travels fast. I guess you stopped by at Gayraud-Valrose?”

  “Right after your visit,” Barbaroux said. “I told you to leave it alone, and now you’re one move ahead of me!” The inspector laughed, but it sounded forced. Benjamin could tell he was irritated.

  “It’s not a chess game, Inspector.”

  “Who’s talking about chess? We’d do better if we worked together.”

  “Do you have any news?”

  “Do you?”

  “If we keep up this little game, we’ll just go around in circles,” Benjamin said. Now he was getting annoyed.

  “So let’s put our cards on the table. That way we’ll both win.”

  “I spoke with Stéphane Sarrazin,” Benjamin said, quickly summarizing the interview with the cellar master, keeping his impressions of the man’s singular personality to himself. He was not inclined to reveal his gut instincts to someone whose profession encouraged suspicion.

  “Bottom line,” Barbaroux interrupted, “you haven’t made any more progress than I have. I got more or less the same information going through other channels. And it would seem to make all those disgruntled workers potential suspects, wouldn’t it?”

  “At any rate, it will be difficult for me get onto the Gayraud-Valrose property for any length of time, as I have no official role in the investigation, and I’ve never done any work for them. I’m familiar with their production, but my only tie with the estate is the fact that my daughter almost died because of their new manager. Well, because of someone who wanted to do away with him.”

  “By the way, Mr. Cooker, it seems that you are not in the good graces of Gayraud-Valrose.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Naturally, the subject of your daughter came up when I was asking about Rinetti and the accident. In the course of the conversation, I heard some opinions about you.”

  “Opinions?”

  “Yes. Commonly held, by the way.”

  “Come on, Inspector. Spill the beans. I can sense that you’re dying to tell me.”

  “I got the impression that you roasted them in your last guide.”

  “I stand by every word in my review. Their tannins should have been more carefully extracted.”

  Barbaroux had been studying oenology for more than a year. He had signed up for a tasting course and had never missed a class. In addition, he was beginning to acquire an impressive cellar by following the recommendations in the Cooker Guide. T
he inspector’s newfound passion had created a rather unexpected relationship between the two of them. Despite some differences of opinion, Benjamin and he had developed a measure of trust, and the winemaker was aware that their association stroked the inspector’s ego.

  “I haven’t tasted that wine,” Barbaroux admitted. “But from what you wrote, I also got the impression that it lacked a long finish.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I might as well tell you. I questioned the steward, Philippe Cazevielle, and he didn’t have anything complimentary to say about you. I believe he used the words ‘dictator of good taste,’ and ‘pope without a palace.’ He’s obviously a very touchy kind of guy, and he doesn’t take kindly to criticism of the work they do at the château. I don’t really think you were the target of the accident your daughter was in, but who knows?”

  “I don’t buy that. I already told you, anyone who reads my guide knows that my evaluations are subjective but considered and fair. I’ve spent my life establishing my reputation in this profession, and even when I’ve come off as a bit harsh, I can’t remember anyone holding a grudge. If every estate criticized in my guide reacted that way, I’d have to get a bodyguard.”

  “You can never be too careful, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Someone who’s angry with me over what I’ve written in one of my guide can find other ways to ruin my life. I’m sorry, Inspector, but I think you’re being a bit too cynical, even paranoid. I think Antoine Rinetti was targeted. My daughter just happened to be in the car.”

  “Perhaps. But let’s not overlook any possibility. As far as Rinetti is concerned, I got some interesting intelligence from a few colleagues in the Côte d’Azur. He’s a pretty complicated character. He’s from a well-known but penniless family in Nice, was a good student in high school, had leftist leanings in college prep school, majored in math at the university, and graduated with honors. In short, nothing much stands out up to that point.”

  “Yes,” Benjamin said. “He sounds rather ordinary.”

  “That changed when a British financial firm hired him as a researcher. His particular area was applied statistics. Rinetti devised a highly efficient management-control system adapted to the stock market. He earned the firm a lot of dough. When I say a lot, I mean a downright huge amount.”