Late Harvest Havoc Page 4

  At the roundabout in Ribeauvillé, Virgile once again suggested that they stop somewhere for something to eat.

  “Boss, I think your blood sugar’s getting low. You need something in your stomach. And I’m starving. Unfortunately, fast-food restaurants are the only places that are open at this time of day.”

  “Goddammit, Virgile, the only thing you think about is eating.”

  “Now look who’s getting vulgar.”

  “Forgive me, Virgile. I’m a little upset.”

  “I agree with that. May I suggest that you turn off your windshield wipers? It stopped raining a while ago. I told you.”

  “What did you tell me?”

  “If it rains before seven, it will cease before eleven. If it rains before eight, it will end very late. Or something like that.”

  “You’re insufferable, Virgile. Your country proverbs are all bull—”

  Benjamin bit his tongue, avoiding at the very last moment a word that was not at all like him. At the same time, Virgile urged him to veer to the left. A huge sign with peeling paint near a roadside shrine read:

  Fine wines of Alsace

  Deutzler & Sons

  Owners — Winemakers

  68150 Ribeauvillé

  (200 meters)

  When the Toyota passed through the tall carriage entrance, Benjamin spotted a young man with muscular arms hosing down two barrels. The man looked up and eyed them suspiciously.

  A gendarmerie van barred the entrance to the wine cellar and its sign: a stork holding a stemmed glass in its beak. No sooner had the winemaker stepped out of the vehicle than an officious-looking gendarme with a crew cut emerged from the blue van. He marched up to the two visitors.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Cooker. To be honest, we were beginning to lose our patience.”

  5

  In the Deutzlers’ kitchen, the table was covered with a thick floral oilcloth. A basket of ripe purple figs sat in the middle, next to the open laptop the gendarme had been using to take the notes and statements.

  Plaid curtains covered the narrow windows. A single fluorescent light on the ceiling gave the ochre linoleum a milky glimmer, and on the wall, an assortment of burnished copper pots reflected the meager lighting.

  The room reeked of sodium hypochlorite. Benjamin could tell as soon as he walked into the kitchen that the Deutzlers used bleach the way sulfur was once used to sterilize wine barrels. Why did the place require such diligent cleaning?

  In a misguided attempt to modernize, someone had covered the old—and probably charming—fireplace surround with nondescript porcelain tiles. Hanging from a cord across the top of the firebox were several types of sausages, including black sausages—schwarzwourschts—with bacon and lawerwourschts, thick liver sausages. On the left, a thick ham awaited the gray days of winter to be picked to the bone.

  Benjamin felt his stomach heave as he stared at this display of cooked meats. “Indecent,” he said under his breath.

  Virgile looked at him and then back at the food. “It makes me dream of sauerkraut, head cheese, and kugelhopf with coffee. Remember that Alsatian brasserie in Bordeaux, not far from the old Maritime Exchange, where you took me once? You said you always liked to go there at the end of winter, when the weather was really beginning to get to you.”

  Before the winemaker could answer, Vincent Deutzler, in a wheelchair, entered the room and maneuvered himself into the spot at the end of the table. With hardly a hello, he cast a wary eye on Benjamin and Virgile. Following him in were two much younger men and a younger woman, all of whom remained standing. The winemaker assumed these were Deutzler’s children—two sons and a daughter-in-law from what he knew about the family. Finally, a woman who appeared to be slightly older than the children elbowed her way past the others and slipped behind Deutzler. She put her hand on his shoulder.

  The older son was short and puny, and for some odd reason, he reminded Benjamin of a poorly pruned plum tree, neglected in its youth and then crudely topped off. This son had unkempt hair and was wearing a plaid flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt.

  The other son, hardly more than a boy, had gray eyes, a mop of jet-black hair, and a stooped posture. Like his older brother, he was thin. Benjamin could see the shape of his clenched fists deep in the pockets of his corduroy pants, and he couldn’t miss the sullen look on the young man’s face. Why that look? Was it anger because his family’s vines had been destroyed, or was it something deeper—something chronic?

  The young woman seemed friendlier. In fact, she was smiling. Her face was symmetrical, and her green eyes and delicate lips were flawless. Her teeth were pearly, while her skin had the honey color of someone who spent her summers drenched in sunlight. Her hair was gathered under a cap, and she was wearing a short pale-blue dress. Benjamin couldn’t help but notice the knobby knees below the hemline. How could such unsightly knees belong to such a perfect creature? He didn’t dare to look at his assistant. He just hoped Virgile wasn’t giving her a too-obvious once-over. From time to time, she would glance at the older son in the plaid shirt, but he ignored her. His wedding band gleamed like the kugelhopf baking pans piled on the buffet, alongside issues of La Vigne magazine and La Terre, a weekly Communist-leaning newspaper.

  Displayed on the sideboard was a framed color photograph of the family matriarch. She had an oblong face, almond-shaped eyes, and high cheekbones. Her hair was impeccably coiffed. The woman was wearing delicate earrings, glasses with tortoise-shell frames, and a pearl necklace. She looked a bit like Jeanne, but not as kind. Had Mrs. Deutzler also suffered a heart attack?

  Benjamin eyed the young woman again. Like the older son, she was wearing a wedding band, but it looked too big for her finger. She kept twisting it. Was it a nervous tic, or did she really want to take it off? She was staring at Virgile, but oddly enough, he wasn’t ogling her, as Benjamin had feared. For once, his hunger had trumped his lust, because his eyes were fixed on the fruit in the middle of the table.

  And who was the woman with her hand on Deutzler’s shoulder? As Benjamin noted her attractive—even beautiful—face and slim figure, she leaned over Deutzler’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. The old man nodded.

  “We shouldn’t let this keep us from drinking a glass of riesling. Right, Captain Roch?” Deutzler said, turning toward his older son. “Iselin, go get us a couple of bottles.”

  “Of course, father,” Iselin said. “Véronique, will you pass the glasses, please?”

  Without even looking at her, Iselin disappeared behind a faded striped curtain and quickly returned with two longneck bottles.

  All the while, the crew-cut captain and an assistant had also been in the room, waiting for the official business to begin again.

  “Mr. Cooker, your arrival is quite timely,” Captain Roch said, stepping forward. “We’ve finished taking Mr. Deutzler’s statement. And now we need to ask you a few questions. If you hadn’t come here, I would have been obliged to call you to our station.”

  “On what grounds?” Benjamin asked, taken aback.

  “Let’s just say a number of coincidences coincide with your arrival in Alsace.”

  Vincent Deutzler seemed embarrassed by the gendarme’s tone. He stopped Roch before he could say any more.

  “Captain Roch, I have nothing but admiration for Mr. Cooker, who has always given our wines favorable ratings in the Cooker Guide. The only vintage he didn’t praise was the 2003, and we deserved that. The vinification was off. I’m sorry, Mr. Cooker, that your tasting isn’t taking place under better circumstances.”

  “Yes, it is unfortunate,” Benjamin responded. He turned to Roch. “Sir, can you please tell me exactly what I am suspected of?”

  “As if you weren’t aware of what’s happening around here,” Roch answered, staring at the computer instead of looking Benjamin in the eye.

  “I don’t know if we’re talking about the same thing, but I’ve just come to apologize to Mr. Deutzler for the regrettable damage I inflicted o
n his vineyard.”

  The vintner took his glass, which Iselin had filled, and looked around the room. No one said anything. In the corner, a tall grandfather clock seemed to be flirting with destiny.

  “To your health, gentlemen,” Deutzler finally said. Then he turned to Benjamin. “Hand harvested, of course, slow pressing, vinification at eighteen degrees Celsius with self-regulated temperature, fermentation for three weeks, aging in stainless-steel barrels after cooling, and mutage with sulfur dioxide. No malolactic fermentation. That goes without saying.”

  The winemaker nodded and poked his nose into the glass of riesling, picking up the notes of grapefruit. Virgile did the same, while Roch and his assistant awkwardly imitated the connoisseurs’ ritual.

  “What do you think, Captain Roch?” Benjamin asked, looking intently at the man, who seemed to be afraid to say anything in such well-informed company. The winemaker finally broke the silence. “You don’t seem to have a very clear opinion about this riesling, which is one of the best I’ve tasted since we arrived in Alsace.”

  “To each his own field of expertise, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Certainly, but a bit of knowledge helps one get closer to the truth. And it is the truth that you’re after, isn’t it?”

  “Naturally,” Roch responded.

  “In that case, please take this down, as it amounts to my statement. I came to see Mr. Deutzler, certainly to taste his wines, but also to apologize for the damage I caused to one of his vine stocks this morning.”

  “Explain yourself,” Roch demanded. His assistant stopped typing on the laptop and stared at the winemaker.

  Benjamin related his story, omitting nothing: the borrowed Toyota, the drive up the badly rutted road, the boar and her offspring, the swerve to avoid hitting them, the effort to find the owner of the land, and the decision to come to this place to compensate the victim or, at the very least, to offer apologies.

  “I realize, sir, that you are sorely lacking clues,” Benjamin said. “You have no eyewitnesses and, because of the rain, no footprints. As in Ammerschwihr, some criminal took a chainsaw to the vines, yet no one heard anything. You must admit that none of this makes any sense.”

  Vincent Deutzler stroked his chin, saying nothing.

  “But—”

  “But this morning, you thought you detected the semblance of a lead when someone reported that he had spotted a Toyota four-wheel-drive vehicle mired in the Deutzler vines. This was quite a development, as far as you were concerned, even though the vehicle plainly bore the logo of a well-known and respected hotel in Colmar, Le Maréchal.”

  “But—” Glass in hand, Roch was gesticulating wildly in a bumbling attempt to get everyone’s attention. Drops of his riesling were hitting the floor.

  Benjamin ignored him and continued. “Let’s be serious for a moment. Aside from the fact that your suspects would have been practically giving themselves away, using that vehicle, why would they be wandering in the vines in broad daylight, five hours after the incident? Wouldn’t the perpetrators have gotten out of there as quickly as they stole in? And please tell me, if you are able, what motive I would have for doing such a terrible thing to this man’s vineyard?”

  “Your presence at the scene—”

  “What happened to the Deutzler vineyard is a terrible crime committed by a crazy person. I realize this man at the head of the table doesn’t know me as well as others do, but I believe he can vouch for my character. He will tell you that I am neither crazy nor ill-intentioned.” Benjamin was beginning to lose his temper. He put his glass down on the table and took a deep breath to collect himself.

  “Still, your being at the scene is troubling,” Roch said. “You must admit that, Mr. Cooker.”

  “Just as troubling as the two tires on my convertible that someone slashed last night.”

  “As far as I know, the Colmar police haven’t gotten any complaint from you.”

  “That’s right. I assumed it was a kid or maybe a drunk—someone hostile to any snobbish outsider driving a vintage Mercedes convertible. Maybe he was mad that the convertible was locked, and he couldn’t get anything inside. A common scenario in other parts of France. Isn’t that so, Captain?”

  “Nevertheless, I advise you to file a complaint with the Colmar police,” Roch insisted. “Had you done so already, we could have avoided this little misunderstanding.”

  “I will do that, because I am convinced now that the vandalism to my car was no coincidence. As for your suspicions regarding my presence on the hill this morning, like you, I am a detective. But my investigations involve wine, and the scenes I examine are the vineyards. I’m in the vines many days of the year. Just ask my assistant, Virgile. On this day, I was in Mr. Deutzler’s vines, although I didn’t know they were his at the time. I had heard about the crime, and I was curious. You see, I am a seeker of the truth, Captain Roch, and the truth is often found at the bottom of a glass—or, in this case—under a vine.”

  Benjamin raised his glass and drained it in two gulps. His fatigue and sadness were gone, and now he felt revived and ready to do battle. This gendarme had no business questioning his integrity.

  “I may as well tell you right away, Mr. Deutzler, that your Osterberg will be among my favorites in the next Cooker Guide, and please don’t think this has anything to do with the initial reason for my visit.”

  “Let’s forget about that, Mr. Cooker. This place is infested with wild boars. Thank God you and your assistant weren’t harmed. And, by the way, your young man here looks like a decent sort—handsome too. I thought he was your son at first. He’d make a good son-in-law, wouldn’t he?” The old man had a twinkle in his eye.

  Virgile flashed a smile at both Deutzler and Véronique, and Benjamin thought of his darling Margaux, who was across the Atlantic in New York. Safely across the Atlantic. Although Elisabeth had a thing for Virgile and thought he’d make a good match for their daughter, Benjamin knew better. Virgile was irresponsible when it came to women, and there was no way he’d allow his assistant and his Margaux to get serious about each other. Yes, he was fond of Virgile—but not as a son-in-law.

  Benjamin looked at Virgile. “You’re right, Mr. Deutzler. He is more than a decent assistant. I’d say he’s quite gifted at what he does.”

  “At any rate, I’m glad you made it safely down that hill. One false move, and you would have gone hurtling off the side. I lost a tractor and my legs on that very same slope ten years ago. It tipped over and crashed at the bottom, taking me with it.”

  Deutzler wheeled himself away from the table to show Benjamin his stumps.

  “My legs were too mangled to save. A doctor from Strasbourg amputated them. But gangrene set in, and that put me back even more. I spent months on my back in the hospital, covered with bedsores. There were times I didn’t think I would make it. I didn’t want to make it.

  “But my poor wife, Marie—she was even worse off than I was. She was convinced that I was about to die, and she couldn’t stand the thought. She kissed me at the hospital one night and told me she’d be waiting for me. I thought she meant waiting at home, but she meant waiting in death. She slashed her wrists that night. That was long ago, though. Now I have Bernadette, my nurse. She takes good care of me.”

  The woman behind him smoothed his hair.

  There was uncomfortable shuffling in the room. Finally, Roch broke the silence and changed the subject. “You didn’t get any threats of any sort?” he asked Deutzler.

  “Excuse me, Captain Roch. I have to relieve my bladder. It can’t wait.” He patted Bernadette’s hand, and she pulled his wheelchair away from the table.

  Benjamin felt sorry for the old man, who needed so much help. He understood the bleach smell now—there were times “it” probably didn’t wait. And yet, at this late juncture in his life the man had found more than a nurse in the woman who tended to him. Apparently, he had found affection, as well.

  Everyone watched as the two left the room, the nurse limping sli
ghtly.

  Roch turned to the younger son, breaking Benjamin’s train of thought. “André, has your family received any threats?”

  “No, we haven’t received any anonymous letters or strange phone calls, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “No quarrels with the neighbors?” Roch asked.

  Before André could answer, Deutzler returned to the kitchen and reclaimed his patriarchal spot at the head of the table. Bernadette took her place behind him.

  “In Ribeauvillé, just about everyone makes wine,” Deutzler said. “If one man’s wine is better than his neighbor’s, then so be it. Captain Roch, I never had many friends, but until today I didn’t think I had any enemies. Now I have to revise my opinion. Sixty plants ruined. It’s not the end of the world, but it says a lot about the intentions of this crackpot.”

  “If I ever get my hands on him, I’ll beat the crap out of him,” Iselin said.

  “It would be very foolish to take matters into your own hands,” Roch admonished. “We’ll find this person, and he’ll face the consequences—legally.”

  Benjamin tried hard to read in the Deutzlers’ expressions and body language what they weren’t telling the captain. Véronique had stepped away from the group and gone to sit down without taking so much as a sip of her riesling. She looked nervous, and her hands were placed protectively on her belly.

  “Now taste this one,” commanded the old man, pointing the neck of the second bottle as if it were a sawed-off shotgun. “It’s my son’s vintage. Real Alsace muscat! I await your verdict, Mr. Cooker.”

  The weakling was watching Virgile. Did he have something to fear from Virgile, with his leading-man looks? This was odd, as the Cooker Guide had the power to make or break a vintage, and Benjamin was used to all eyes being on him. Virgile stood back and let the master advance his pawns.

  “Perhaps it should be a little cooler…”

  “You know very well that cold compromises the aromas,” replied Iselin, whose unflattering figure made him look all the more arrogant.