Foul Play in Vouvray Page 4

  “You think I’ve been inappropriate?”

  “Honestly, it’s come close. She could be offended.”

  Benjamin sighed and got up. “You’re right, son. You’re a trusting soul. I could learn from you. But remember this: ‘Trust is the easiest thing in the world to lose and the hardest thing in the world to get back.’ That’s R.J. Williams, the Australian bootmaker.”

  “But boss, you wear Lobbs.”

  Benjamin put his hand on Virgile’s shoulder. “Like John Lobb, Williams was a native of Cornwall.”

  7

  Finally rid of his glum mood, Benjamin once again took down the top of his convertible. He wanted to breathe the spring air and feel the warmth of the sun on his neck. He planned to take advantage of the drive to François Pinon’s estate to prepare Virgile, always his student, for the visit.

  “I’m sure you know that for centuries the Loire Valley has been the stamping ground for royals, writers such as Honoré de Balzac and François Rabelais, and more than a few celebrities, David Navarre included. It’s known as France’s garden. The list of famous châteaus is endless: Chenonceau, Chambord, Amboise, Cheverny, Blois, Langeais…”

  Virgile nodded while reaching into a pocket for his sunglasses. “Yeah, boss. Mick Jagger owns Château la Fourchette in Indre-et-Loire, a few kilometers from Amboise. When he was a kid, he camped in the Loire Valley with his parents, and he was so attached to the area, he bought the château in nineteen eighty. He plays cricket with the local team, and you can spot him on occasion at the local pizzeria.”

  “I can see you’re keeping up with all your pop stars, Virgile.”

  “Boss, Mick Jagger’s not exactly one of my pop stars. He’s older than you.”

  Benjamin laughed. “Thank you, Virgile. For once you’ve made me feel young.”

  “No problem.”

  “At any rate, I’m eager to find out what François Pinon has for us today. His Vouvrays are classic and soulful. The younger generation of growers is getting the attention these days, Virgile, but you won’t find a more consistent and dependable grower. François’s Vouvrays are exquisite. And by the way, there’s no place on earth that can match the Loire Valley’s chenin grape. This is its ancestral home.”

  “Kind of like all the royalty that used to live around here.”

  “Yes, son, kind of like that.” Benjamin glanced at his assistant. Virgile appeared to be drinking it all in, so he continued. “Vouvray’s one of the most diverse wines you’ll ever come across—ranging from dry to sweet and still to sparkling—but they’re all prized for their intrinsic nature. Despite everything I’ve written about Vouvray in my Cooker Guide, I can’t top the Wine Folly’s description: it’s ‘loved for its delicate floral aromas and boisterous taste that will pucker your lips and make you immediately wish for another sip.’”

  “Sounds romantic. One sip, and you’re smitten. Love at first sight.”

  “I wouldn’t say they’re the same thing. I think smitten is more superficial than love.” Benjamin crested a hill and passed a slow-moving car. He felt Virgile’s eyes on him and glanced his way. “What is it, son?”

  “Can I ask a question, boss?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Was that how it was with you and Mrs. Cooker? Love at first sight?”

  Benjamin shifted in his seat. He had never been asked this before. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have answered, but because it was Virgile, he did. “Yes, you could say that, although I wouldn’t use those exact words. I had many liaisons in my youth, like you, but when I met Elisabeth, that was it for me. She had grace, intelligence, and heart. She was quick and witty too. In all these years, I’ve never been bored, and every time I pull into the drive at Grangebelle, I’m excited to see her. What about you, son? Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I do, boss.” Virgile fell silent, and Benjamin waited, sensing his unease. “But it hurts like hell when you believe the person you love isn’t in sync with you. It can make you do things.”

  “Just what kind of things, son?”

  Virgile looked out the window. “Oh, I don’t know. Like succumbing to someone else who finds you appealing.”

  “Hmm, so you’re saying that if you can’t have the Vouvray, you’d allow yourself to be charmed by an Anjou?”

  Benjamin didn’t give Virgile time to respond. He had almost missed the entrance to the Pinon estate, which had no ostentatious gates or billboards touting the owner’s wine. “Why don’t we take this up later,” he said, relieved to drop the subject, as it was too personal for his taste.

  François Pinon’s home was modest, simple, and inviting, a reflection of its owner. François welcomed everyone who came to sample the fruit of his labor with an open mind. Benjamin and Virgile were no exception, and the winemaker appreciated this. All too often, vintners and brokers put on airs or fawned over him. It was a pleasure to spend time here.

  Benjamin introduced the members of the documentary team, and François, in a cap and plaid shirt, showed the winemaker and his assistant to a wooden table outside the old vinification cellar, with its wall of paned windows. He excused himself for a moment and went into his house, which was adjacent to the cellar.

  Liza issued instructions, and she and her team got busy making themselves as inconspicuous as they had at the party. Fabrice and Hugo found crouching spots near the house. Fabrice had the grace of a cat, despite his muscular build. Hugo, who wasn’t as fit, wobbled slightly as he unpacked his sound equipment. Liza had turned off her cell phone and was scanning the vineyards for bucolic images.

  The winemaker was taking in the earthy smells when François emerged with a loaf of bread and a jar of rillettes.

  “You spoil us, François.” Benjamin said, already salivating. “Virgile, rillettes were a Pinon family specialty at one time. Now he buys a whole hog and brings in the local charcutier to have the rillettes made to his specification. They’re wonderful. The store-bought variety is much too fatty.”

  Having set out the food, François went into the vinification cellar and returned with a wire basket containing six bottles.

  The unusual career path of this solid and demanding man, with a serious face softened by a beard had impressed Benjamin so much, he had devoted an entire page to him in the first edition of his Cooker Guide. François, the descendent of several generations of Touraine farmers and vintners, had abandoned rural life to attend the prestigious École Normale. After a brief stint as a professor, he continued his studies and became a child psychologist. For a time, he worked beside the French pediatrician and psychoanalyst Françoise Dolto. When his parents retired, however, the call of his native land proved irresistible. He left Paris and took up the torch. The city dweller found he had forgotten nothing about working the land, and he still had the passion for it. François gradually abandoned mixed farming, and the estate had since become emblematic of the Vouvray appellation.

  François appeared to be oblivious to the film crew as he explained his work. Benjamin listened attentively, even though he was versed in the methods: the pruning, scraping, sucker removal, harvesting, plowing, spraying, splicing, trimming, sorting, clarifying, racking, filtering, and other day-to-day and often exhausting routines of this conscientious winemaker. Now and then Benjamin broke in with a technical question, but he was eager to taste the wines. François obliged by filling their stem glasses.

  “As you know, we had that disastrous hail storm in 2012 and very small yields in 2013, but we recovered nicely,” François said. “What I’m pouring now is the first Les Déronnières that I bottled.”

  Benjamin studied the color and sniffed. Finally, he chewed, taking out his notebook a few minutes later, unscrewing the cap of his fountain pen, and making his notations in quick, tight writing.

  “2014 Vouvray Déronnières: Cuvée grown on hilltop above Pinon cave. 18 grams per liter residual sugar, 12.4 percent alcohol and strong acidity. Similar to demi-sec, but with fantastic minerality and balance
. Subtle aromas of dried pear, lemon, and gravel. Minerality and saline on the palate, with white fruit, lemon, and herbal notes.”

  He put his pen down and didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked at his host. “A simply stunning wine, François. Elegant and complex. It should age beautifully.”

  François smiled and poured a second vintage. Once again, Benjamin studied, sniffed, chewed, and picked up his pen: “2014 Vouvray Silex Noir: From clay parcels over limestone with black flint. Unique mineral character. Nicely balanced, with 12.1 percent alcohol and 15 grams residual sugars. Complex aromas of citrus, floral, dried pear, and licorice. Concentrated palate of white fruits, minerals, and citrus. Delicious and likely to improve when aged a dozen years or longer.”

  Benjamin turned to Virgile, eager to hear his thoughts.

  “Bright and expressive,” Virgile said. “But at the same time, precise.”

  The winemaker nodded.

  “Now we’ll go back a few years,” François said, filling fresh glasses. “This is our Premiere Trie Vouvray, 2003, at its peak.”

  Benjamin admired the lovely color and followed the ritual. “Golden robe with amber sheen,” he wrote. “Wisteria and pear and poached peach on the nose, with a touch of praline. Honeysuckle notes with no cloying sweetness. A refined wine.”

  He jotted one more sentence before putting his notebook and fountain pen back in his pocket. “Would you mind sending samples to a journalist friend of mine?” he asked François.

  Benjamin’s friend was familiar with this type of varietal, and he wanted her opinion. The winemaker wasn’t afraid to express his thoughts, but he was also receptive to the opinions of esteemed colleagues. When he needed to have his judgments confirmed or contradicted, he didn’t hesitate to consult with trusted wine experts whose tasting notes he found relevant.

  François said he’d get the samples off right away, and Benjamin relaxed. The tasting session continued under the pale spring sunlight, and no one had any desire to leave. Before packing up, Liza asked Fabrice to film the inside of the vinification cellar, along with the limestone caverns.

  An hour later, Benjamin, a little tipsy, reluctantly decided it was time to go. But he agreed to taste one more glass that François insisted on pouring. He admired the fine bubbles and the aroma of small dried fruit.

  After promising to return in the autumn to grill sausages on the fireplace and taste the first juices of the harvest, Benjamin and Virgile said their good-byes and headed toward the Mercedes.

  “Here, you drive,” Benjamin said, handing Virgile his keys. “Let’s go back to the hotel. I was thinking we should check on David, but we can do that tomorrow. Considering all the wine we’ve drunk with no spitting and the restless night, I could use a nap.”

  “No problem, boss. You get some shut eye. While you’re sleeping, there’s something I need to do.”

  Benjamin leaned against the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t bother to ask.

  8

  Virgile pulled into the Château de Pray parking lot and turned off the engine. Benjamin roused himself and opened the passenger-side door. Virgile stopped him before he could step out.

  “Ah, boss, could I borrow your car for a bit?”

  “Why do you need the car, son?”

  “I have to run an errand.”

  “What kind of errand?” Benjamin was beginning to look annoyed.

  Virgile had come up with a reason as soon as Benjamin handed him the car keys. “I know you won't think it's important, boss, but I forgot my hair gel.”

  Now Benjamin was clearly annoyed. “A special trip for hair gel? What is it with you young men? Special gels, cleansers, a hydrating this, a soothing that. What happened to soap and water and a decent haircut like mine?”

  “You're right, boss. I should give it some thought.”

  Benjamin sighed. “All right, son. Take the car. Get your hair gel or whatever. I’m going inside now to take my nap.”

  Pleased to have gotten that out of the way, Virgile sped out of the parking lot and drove to Tours. He pulled out his cell phone to call the hospital for Simone’s room number, but he thought better of it. He was unfamiliar with the privacy policy and didn’t want to deal with uninvited questions. Arriving at the hospital, he walked nonchalantly past the visitors’ desk and security guards. He found an out-of-the-way directory and located the intensive-care unit. It was on the second floor. Virgile opened the door to the stairwell and looked up and down the hall before entering. He barely registered the tall, well-built man in a polo shirt and jeans who was hurrying away in the distance.

  Virgile took the stairs two at a time and breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted two visitors being buzzed into the intensive-care unit. Smiling, he slipped in behind them. He circumvented the central nurses’ station and poked his head around the curtain of each doorway until he found her.

  Virgile’s heart sank. She was as still as a corpse and had so many intravenous lines going into her, he didn’t have it in him to count them all. Surrounded by machines and IV bags, she looked tiny and frail. Her forearms were already bruised from the needles, and her long blond hair was matted against her head. Virgile stared at her hands, swollen from the fluids they were giving her. He resisted an urge to reach out and stroke her arm to let her know a friend was there. He was afraid of hurting her.

  Virgile looked over at an aide in scrubs, who was scribbling something on a clipboard. He wanted to ask how Simone was doing, but her back was turned. She didn’t even acknowledge him when he cleared his throat. A second later, she scurried out of the room.

  “Must be busy,” he muttered.

  No sooner had he pulled a chair over to Simone’s bedside than a nurse in similar floral-print scrubs came in, pushing a computer cart. Virgile guessed she was about thirty. This one smiled as she stepped around him to check Simone’s IV bags.

  “Am I in the way?” he asked, starting to scoot the chair toward the wall.

  “Not at all,” the nurse answered. “You’re fine.”

  “Fine,” Virgile said to himself. “At least someone is.”

  He ventured his question. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s still critical, but she’s stable, and that’s good.”

  Virgile didn’t want to risk asking about the treatment plan and just nodded.

  The nurse walked back to her computer and entered some numbers. “I’m surprised,” she said, still looking at the screen. “I thought we’d be mobbed with well-wishers. But you and that other fellow are the only ones who’ve been up here. Oh yes, a doctor friend of Mr. Navarre’s stopped in.”

  “What about the photographers and reporters?” Virgile asked.

  “Oh, the security people would stop anyone with a microphone or camera—at least one they could see. Nope, it’s been very quiet.”

  “You mentioned another fellow?”

  “Yeah, a good-looking guy. Tall, well-built, in a polo shirt. He had a man bun. He was here just before you came. I thought maybe he was her boyfriend, but then I remembered she was dating Navarre. They were making a movie around here.”

  “A muscular guy with a bun, you say.” The image of the man in the ground-floor hallway flashed in Virgile’s head. “Did you catch his name?”

  “No, I’ve got too much to do to chat much with visitors. He did say he worked behind the scenes in movies or television, I don’t remember which.”

  The nurse said good-bye and wheeled her computer cart out of the room.

  “Why was Fabrice here?” he whispered, hoping against hope that Simone would turn her head and answer. As far as Virgile knew, she had never met him. Or had she? Had she danced with Fabrice the same way she’d danced with him? Was the cameraman just as mesmerized? Or was there another reason he’d come to the hospital?

  Virgile filed the question away and gazed at the unconscious young woman. She looked so isolated, so alone, and so vulnerable.

  Feeling a wave of sympathy, he got up and reached over to smoot
h her hair. He pushed past his anxiety and took her hand. Maybe she would squeeze his. Nothing happened.

  Promising to return, he left the room and walked out of the hospital. He looked around the grounds for signs of news people, maybe even Fabrice. All he saw were hospital workers coming off their shift. He pulled out Benjamin’s car key and drove back to Château de Pray. They were scheduled to spend several more days with Liza, Fabrice, and Hugo. He’d find out why the brawny cameraman was so interested in Simone Margerolle.

  9

  Benjamin and Virgile got an early start the next morning to allow for a visit with David Navarre. The two men were quiet as they drove, and the winemaker didn’t bother to ask Virgile if he had completed his errand. He was savoring the memory of his tasting with François Pinon when Virgile turned to him.

  “It’s strange, boss—with all of the region’s fancy châteaus and showy history, they hide a lot of their vineyards, kind of like a secret lover.”

  Benjamin chuckled. “There’s no secret. It’s all in the geography, son. Here in Vouvray country, the vineyard is often out of sight. But you feel its proximity. I think of it this way: behind the high cliffs pierced with troglodyte caves and beyond the slate roofs, you sense the presence of an army of vines standing guard in rows, ready to confront the assault of rain and biting sun.”

  “So it’s not a lover but, instead, a military division. If you ask me, grape leaves make pretty poor shields.” Benjamin ignored Virgile’s smirk. His assistant still had a thing or two to learn, and Benjamin had much to impart. He launched into another lecture. “Let me fill you in. With two thousand hectares divided among seven communes, the Vouvray appellation is the true kingdom of chenin, one of the finest and most delicate grape varieties on earth. It can repay a grower a hundred times over if he knows how to take care of it.”