Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Read online

“Okay, two can play this idiotic game, but you have to promise absolute discretion. Things are heating up.”

  “In this investigation, I assure you that things are heating up. The higher-ups are getting agitated, which is affecting the mood in the department. And the reporters are swarming.”

  “You can at least tell me if there is any connection between the victims?”

  “It’s unclear at this point. It’s possible that they have a connection with the criminal without necessarily having anything to do with one another.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No, not at all. But you have to take everything into consideration. And besides, I wanted to see how you would react to that kind of theory.”

  Barbaroux sneezed and pinched his nose. Benjamin remained silent, knowing perfectly well that the inspector would eventually part with some information. All he had to do was wait patiently.

  In the silence of the cemetery, Benjamin could make out the distant noises: the whiny mopeds, the barking dogs, the construction, the squeals from the schoolyard. They were all signs of life seeping into this final resting place for the dead.

  The inspector looked annoyed. He wiped his hand across his face, stomped his feet, and cleared his throat.

  “Okay, I’ll give you the basic details, and you can sort them out later. Here are the main points. Jules-Ernest Grémillon lived his whole life in that apartment on the Rue Maucoudinat where he was killed. He was actually born there; it belonged to his grandparents and then his parents. He worked for thirty-eight years at the Massip Company. You know it, the old leather company that—”

  “Yes, I know Alain Massip very well. He runs the business,” Benjamin said. “He has a store on the Places des Grands Hommes and a workshop nearby.”

  “Grémillon worked at Massip as a leather cutter, and he stayed there until his retirement. Initially, however, he didn’t intend to go into this line of work. We found out that he spent almost two years in a seminary. Then, during the war, he didn’t seem to have a regular job.”

  “How did he get by?”

  “At that point in time, he seemed to live by his wits. Who knows how? One thing is sure: he was still living with his parents. He seems to have been politically active with two collaborationist groups, Fire and the French Popular Party.”

  “What was his involvement?”

  “It appears that he was a kind of grass-roots organizer. He didn’t have anything to do with the leaders of the Vichy government or any other higher-ups. At any rate, I’m not an expert in that area. All I know is that he was some kind of small-time collaborator, fairly unknown. He didn’t suffer much at the end of the war. He spent two months in detention. Then he went to work as an oyster grower for a cousin who had a few oyster farms in the Arcachon Basin. In 1949 he found his job as a leather worker in Bordeaux.”

  “And do you have as much on Émile Chaussagne?” Benjamin asked.

  “More or less. He got around more. He came from a middle-class family in Périgueux. He studied the humanities, Latin and Greek, and then went to law school in Bordeaux. When the war broke out, he was still a student, but he dropped everything to concentrate on journalism at some really trashy fascist-leaning newspapers. After the Liberation, it appears that a group of former Resistance fighters wanted him for something or other. They trailed him. According to our intelligence, he lived here and there: Marrakech, Douala, Pondicherry, and Spain, near Alicante. He didn’t return to France until 1974, just after Georges Pompidou died, and the old stories were being forgotten. Let’s say things worked out for him. He survived on what was left of the family fortune. If I were a novelist, I would say he squandered his inheritance by living parsimoniously. In short, he was starving but was still living like a discreet old gentleman in the Saint Pierre neighborhood.”

  “And both of them lived just a few blocks apart,” Benjamin said. “It would be interesting to know where Armand Jouvenaze lived. He’s buried in Libourne, but he might have spent his whole life in Bordeaux. It’s strange, all the same—this geographical coincidence, the Saint Pierre neighborhood, and the Pétrus. I can’t help but think it’s all connected.”

  “Maybe. Who knows?” Barbaroux said, shrugging.

  “You don’t seem convinced.”

  “I think we should focus on their parallel paths during the occupation.”

  “Indeed, it is rather troubling. You will probably have more clues once you look into the past of this Armand Jouvenaze, who is lying beneath our feet. The Nazi accusation seems especially telling. But why did they break the cross?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the inspector growled. He tossed his wadded-up tissue on the grass.

  “It was just a simple question, Inspector.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooker. But try putting yourself in my shoes! I spent the entire morning dealing with these guys who were rushed over by the prosecutor’s office. Almost two hours of ranting and arguing with an old criminologist in a three-piece suit, a long-haired dude in charge of profiling serial killers, and a four-eyed psychiatrist who specializes in dangerousness!”

  “Dangerousness. Is that a word?” Benjamin asked, surprised.

  “Yes, so it seems. I checked in the dictionary. Another damned word invented by intellectuals who sit at their desks and never go near a corpse. They call Mommy whenever someone gives them the finger. Words: they never run out of them! Those assholes dish them out while they look down at you because they spent ten years at the Sorbonne. And they blurt them out bombastically: ‘lack of impulse control,’ ‘pathogenesis of aggressive behavior,’ ‘overcompensation of narcissistic weakness,’ ‘primitive structure of the superego.’ I can spit out dozens of phrases like these. Just a bunch of hot air! All I know is this: my men and I, we get stuck with the dirty work—mangled bodies, decomposing cadavers, stench. And we want just one thing: to catch the swine by the balls. So I leave all the theories to the psychobabblers, and they can shove it!”

  “There must be something worthwhile in all that. I don’t see how those guys can be totally useless.”

  The inspector took another tissue from his pocket and noisily blew his nose.

  “Tell me, Inspector. There’s something that intrigues me about you,” Benjamin said, smiling.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you go to such lengths to appear stupid, when you understand and retain everything people tell you?”

  “What I remember most of all is that they send me lazy bums who’ve spent their careers in the corridors of the prosecutor’s office, kissing up to the bigwigs, and treating me like an idiot. ‘Barbaroux, he’s just a traffic cop! Nothing more than a hillbilly!’”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a grudge against Parisians, by any chance?”

  “Just a little.”

  5

  Benjamin burst into his office, and his first sight was that of Virgile idly stirring the swirls of cabbage in his soup. The assistant leaped up and flashed a worried smile as the winemaker heaved his frame into a chair. Virgile rushed to the end of the hall to heat more soup in the microwave. He returned with a steaming bowl. Without even a thank-you, Benjamin began to chew his little bits of vegetables with mild disgust.

  “You look like you’re off your feed, sir.”

  “You’re always there with a clever remark, Virgile.”

  “No, I just meant that—”

  “Your comments are often insightful, but you really hit the nail on the head just now.”

  Benjamin put his spoon back in the bowl, shoved aside the cabbage, and gulped down more broth. This second day of the diet allowed for no deviation. No fruit to sweeten the regimen, no drink other than unsweetened tea, no corn, peas, or beans. And yet this austere and miraculous soup so lovingly prepared by Elisabeth, with its unbearable odors of old kitchen vegetables, would have seemed delicious had he not been forced to consume it in such great quantities. In order to burn the fat accumulated in a year’s worth of rich meals, tastings
, and dinners with friends, he knew very well that he had to comply with the discipline. He managed to finish the soup. He put his spoon down with a sigh and frowned at Virgile, who was sitting upright in his chair. He supposed that his assistant was afraid of committing a gaff. In his present mood, he wasn’t the most pleasant company.

  “Honestly, Virgile, you do not have to join me in this adventure.”

  “But you don’t really need to worry about it.”

  “Well then, let’s just call it a change of routine.”

  “You could do without it, all the same.”

  “Wait a minute, what are you talking about, sir?”

  “This damned soup, what else?”

  “Uh, okay. I thought you wanted to spare me the nasty business of the murders in the Saint Pierre neighborhood.”

  “Oh no, not at all. You know as well as I do that I never intended to leave you out. I went to the Libourne cemetery after I stopped to see my friend Franck Dubourdieu, and I can assure you that the case is far from resolved.”

  Benjamin related the latest developments, including the seemingly minor details. He repeated word for word his conversation with Inspector Barbaroux. Benjamin was excited, but he wanted to control his delivery. He likened the process to assessing a military strategy, coming at it from all sides and assiduously evaluating doubts, suppositions, and intuitions.

  “As I understand it, sir, we are dealing with someone who is targeting both the living and the dead. There doesn’t seem to be anything spontaneous. Everything appears to be premeditated. This serial killer has a certain method, and he’s giving us the code.”

  “We still have to decipher that code.”

  “Of course, but that is part of his cold reasoning. It appears to be a very calculated and staged revenge.”

  “Are you implying that part of his scheme is keeping us on his trail?”

  “That’s what I think. He has something to say, and maybe he reveals a little more each time another victim is found.”

  “We can’t very well wait for him to fill all twelve glasses! Two bodies and one desecration in two days. It’s no small matter!”

  “Right, he still has nine glasses to fill.”

  Benjamin opened his cigar box and selected two Villa Zamoranos.

  “Dessert, Virgile?”

  “Why not?” His assistant smiled and reached for the robusto Benjamin held out to him.

  With a clean snip of the guillotine, Benjamin chopped off the vitole and lit it with the brass lighter on his desk blotter. A puff of whitish smoke quickly enveloped them, drawing them further into the puzzle they were trying to solve.

  “Evidently all the victims have some kind of connection,” Virgile continued. “I’m sure, given their ages and what little is known of their pasts, the connection is related to World War Two.”

  “It’s very likely, Virgile, and that Nazi accusation on the grave marker confirms it. That’s not something you do lightly. It must be significant, especially considering what we’ve learned about Grémillon and Chaussagne since they were murdered.”

  “I know who might be able to help us,” Virgile said, blowing an almost perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “It’s someone I run into fairly regularly these days.”

  “Another one of your nightly encounters?” Benjamin joked.

  “Not at all, sir. I’ve been seeing the same girl for some time now. And I’ve been going out a lot less. She’s a homebody. I haven’t been to a bar for almost two months, and that’s really saying something.”

  “Be careful, Virgile, domestication is creeping up on you.”

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t become that conventional. I just decided to give myself a little break. I’ve been getting back into sports and swimming laps at the pool. That’s where I met the person who could shed some light on this matter. His name is Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet. He’s thirtyish, not the type of guy I would hang out with ordinarily. He’s kind of a strange individual, if not downright bizarre. I tried to save him from drowning, but he didn’t really need to be saved.”

  “Hmm, that is odd.”

  “I was exhausted that day. I had just done fifteen laps, and I was resting at the end of the pool. That’s when I saw someone at the bottom. At first I didn’t worry, but after about a minute, maybe more, I thought it was fishy. He wasn’t moving, and I thought he was in trouble, so I dived down to pull him out. But when I grabbed him to bring him to the surface, he tried to fight me off. It was really a struggle to bring him up. You should have heard how he berated me after I got him out of the water.”

  “Quite the ingrate,” Benjamin said, his cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth.

  “In a way. After he calmed down, he explained that he often rested at the bottom of the pool for two minutes to clear his head. It was his way of focusing. Apparently, the lifeguards scold him for it, but he doesn’t care.”

  “And how can he help us?”

  “Well, let me tell you. At first I thought he was a nut, but once I started talking to him, I realized he’s brilliant. He was very impressed when I told him that I worked for you. He knows some of your books. He’s studious and very serious. He has a law degree and speaks fluent English and German. He manages a maritime insurance company and is fascinated by naval history, especially the German World War One military fleet.”

  Benjamin flicked his ashes into the alabaster ashtray and took another deep puff of his robusto.

  “It just so happens that it’s World War Two that concerns us,” Benjamin said, sending up soft rings of smoke.

  “I know, sir. Renaud is an encyclopedia. He owns part of the archives of the former Delmas Company, a maritime insurer that’s no longer in business. And he’s sitting on a ton of documents dealing with the history of the port of Bordeaux. Also, he’s doing research to exonerate his grandfather, a merchant in the Chartrons district who was accused of plundering castles and trafficking in art on behalf of Hermann Goering. Renaud wants to clear his name.”

  “I say, your friend seems very busy,” Benjamin said, straightening up in his chair. “And where does he get this passion for German history?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Although he’s a pacifist himself, his father was an officer in Indochina and Algeria, and that’s why he’s interested in anything having to do with the military. His passion for Germany stems from an affair he had with a student from Bavaria. His ‘valkyrie,’ as he calls her, went back to Munich, and they still talk on the phone at least once a week. I don’t ask him about her—you know I don’t like to pry—but I think it explains why he doesn’t look at any of the girls at the pool. And I can tell you there are some real knockouts, if I do say so myself.”

  “What’s the family name, again?”

  “Duboyne de Ladonnet, with two n’s, not like canelé. That’s what I said to myself when he spelled it for me. You’ve noticed how people often write canelé with two n’s?”

  Benjamin ignored this mnemonic observation about Bordeaux’s well-known pastries and used his armrests to push himself out of his chair. Once on his feet, he waved away the cloud of smoke that was keeping him from seeing where he wanted to go. Then he began pacing the room. He needed to stretch his legs.

  “Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet,” he murmured. “That does not ring a bell.”

  “If you’d like, I could introduce you to him. He lives on the Cours de Verdun, not far from the public gardens.”

  “Why not? What do we have to lose?”

  § § §

  The meeting was arranged for just before noon the following day at a secondhand bookstore in the Saint Pierre neighborhood. It was in an old warehouse that had once housed exotic merchandise and dreams of grandeur. After spending the morning on the Languedoc-Roussillon tastings, Benjamin and Virgile had carefully filed away their notes in a laboratory cabinet and arrived a quarter of an hour early. They immediately took advantage of the opportunity to rummage through the store’s dusty shelves and immerse themselves in old boo
ks on the history of Bordeaux.

  All was quiet in the shop until the bell at the door plinked. Benjamin turned and saw a man with thick glasses distorting his eyes and a tight raincoat buttoned up to his chin. Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet walked down the center aisle and came to greet Benjamin and Virgile with firm handshakes. His trousers, which barely covered his ankles, revealed a pair of black loafers in need of polish, yet his perfect manners and sharp-mindedness came through.

  “Thank you for making yourself available on such short notice,” said Benjamin.

  “Not at all. It’s the least I could do for someone who tried to save my life,” Renaud answered dryly.

  “Virgile told me how you met. And I don’t need to tell you that Virgile is a virtual lifesaver. Without him, I don’t know how we could get all our work done at Cooker & Co.”

  Virgile remained quiet and gave an earnest smile that looked just a tad self-deprecating. Benjamin didn’t mention one of the characteristics he liked most about his assistant: that he was confident, but never cocky.

  “According to Virgile,” the winemaker continued, “you are fascinated with German military history, and you also seem to be intimately familiar with our city’s history.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Almost everything about life in Bordeaux during the occupation.”

  “That’s quite a topic. The more I study the history of this city, the more I realize it’s a bottomless well.”

  “I understand. I have the same feeling about wine. The further I go, the less I know.”

  “I am not surprised, and I believe this insight speaks well of you. I’ve read some of your books, most recently last season’s Cooker Guide, and I must say I was touched by your modesty and your care to never judge prematurely. This humility comes through, even when you take a position.”

  “Perhaps you can at least give me a small overview of that era so that I can grasp the essential points? I’ve always felt the need to immerse myself in history and geography and visualize the countryside, the scenery, the clothing, and faces. They help me form my thoughts and establish my opinions.”