Mayhem in Margaux Read online

  Barbaroux cleared his throat and continued. “After he’d been with the firm for three years, the Brits opened an office near Nice, and they made him director of research. The new job had an obscenely high salary and all the perks a rising star could lust for: stock options, a Ferrari, eighty-seven employees, a secretary recruited from the Élite agency, and an unbelievable expense account.”

  “Hmm. He’s still sounding ordinary. An ordinary person with money,” But Benjamin was clenching his jaw. Money couldn’t give a man substance, and a man of substance was what he expected for his daughter.

  “So Rinetti was living the high life, Barbaroux continued. And he started hanging out with all the crème de la crème between Cannes and Monaco. You know what that means down there. He made the inevitable acquaintance of members of the Italian mafia, crooked investors, stinking rich cougars, and casino sharks. They were looking for places to hide their money—both dirty and clean—and he was the man who could help them. He became indispensable, creating sham companies in Ventimiglia, Luxembourg, Panama, and Ireland. And before long, everyone was relying on him.”

  “All that to end up in the Médoc?” Benjamin said.

  “I haven’t finished. With all the dinners at the private clubs and the parties on Lebanese yachts, he soon became a collector of Monaco heiresses and thousand-euro hookers.”

  Benjamin was grinding his teeth now. “Ordinary, I tell you.” The worst kind of ordinary.

  “Then he made the big mistake. He seduced a lonely Swedish woman fond of visiting a spa near Nice. She happened to be the company president’s wife. That was the beginning of the end for him. The English gave him a closer look and found out that he was up to his eyeballs in shady business. He was forced to resign—no golden parachute, no nothing. But he landed on his feet. One of his old leftist pals heads up a large Swiss-based insurance company, Helvetica-Sûr, and hired him.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how he wound up in a vineyard in Bordeaux,” Benjamin insisted.

  “The insurance company figured it was best to have him lie low for a while, at least until his problems in Nice died down. When the company invested in the vineyard, as they all do these days, they figured it was a good place to park him until he could take up where he left off. The assignment was supposed to be temporary. Their long-term goal was to have him take care of the big clients. And there’s no disputing that he excelled at that. He just got burned because he bedded the wrong woman.”

  Barbaroux went quiet. Benjamin couldn’t even speak. He was remembering how Rinetti had looked at his daughter, how he had so casually whispered in her ear.

  “You still there?” the inspector asked.

  Benjamin shook himself. “Given what you’ve just told me, it’s possible that his car was sabotaged by someone who had nothing to do with the vineyard. A person from his former life may have wanted to settle a score.”

  “You’re right. That is a possibility. At any rate, I contacted the police departments in Nice and nearby communities to see what they can find. And I’m looking into every employee and former employee at the château. How is your daughter doing?”

  “She’s better, Inspector,” Benjamin responded. “And she’s in a safe place.”

  Benjamin felt the anger surge again as he ended the call. “And to think that Margaux could have fallen into the scoundrel’s clutches,” he muttered.

  8

  Benjamin was stunned by the amount of work Virgile had done in less than two hours. He congratulated him with an affectionate pat on the back.

  “I hope you at least took time to eat.”

  “I had a glass of Lillet blanc with olives—pitted, to save time.”

  “I didn’t think you were going to do everything on my list. I was joking.”

  “I knew that, boss. But better to get it out of the way. And to be honest, at least it’s almost cool here. I prefer doing this to inspecting the Léognan vineyards.”

  “They’re predicting ninety-seven degrees tomorrow. I’m with you. I’d rather be here than there.” Benjamin took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Then he draped the hankie over the back of a chair to let it dry out.

  “It sounds like the heat wave is claiming victims all over France,” Virgile said. “Jacqueline told me that they found an old man dead in the building next door. His apartment didn’t have any air conditioning. He’d been gone for three days before a niece showed up to check on him. How many other elderly people are in the same boat? No air conditioning or forced to choose being staying cool and having food to eat. It’s terrible.”

  “If the weather doesn’t break soon, I’m afraid we’re headed for a national disaster.”

  “Still, it’s strange. There are countries that are hotter than ours where old people don’t die because of the temperature. Take Ethiopia, for example, and Mexico.”

  “That’s not exactly true, Virgile. Anyone who’s exposed to extreme heat is vulnerable. But people who live in very hot climates do adapt to an extent. Their blood concentrations of water and salt, for example, adjust to allow greater cooling. And the people in these regions have adjusted their lifestyles, doing their hard work during the coolest parts of the day, sleeping in the afternoon and staying awake long into the night. In this sense, the great Marcel was wrong when he said our habits accompany us even into places where they serve no useful purpose.

  “Who is this great Marcel?”

  “Proust, a writer who knew what he was talking about.”

  “I know who he was, thank you. I’m not illiterate. He’s the dude who for a long time would go to bed early so that he could write all night long. He tried to get in with the aristocracy and coughed up blood. I don’t think his stuff is badly written. It just gives me a headache.”

  Benjamin smiled at his assistant. He hoped the boy would never change. Unaffected, reliable, straightforward, and more sensitive than he would like to appear, Virgile was invaluable. He was a rare individual whose mind was still unfettered by propriety. He was quick to understand, did not worry about moral or cultural dictates, always adjusted to the most extreme situations, spoke with irony, and maintained mischievous silence. He had a peasant’s common sense that allowed him to avoid any traps set for him. It was a godsend to have a young man of his caliber working for Cooker & Co.

  They decided to go to the laboratory, where Alexandrine de la Palussière was probably awaiting them. They went down the Allées de Tourny and walked past the Grand-Théâtre and the Cours du Chapeau-Rouge, finally arriving in a sweat in front of a building whose peeling façade needed a good facelift. They took the elevator, and Benjamin pulled out a clean handkerchief embroidered with his initials. He wiped his forehead while Virgile looked on with a smirk on his face.

  “Yes, my boy, there are still old fools who use cloth handkerchiefs, even cloth handkerchiefs with monograms. I have my own little habits, which do, indeed, serve a purpose.”

  When they entered the lab, a clearly impatient and distressed Alexandrine de la Palussière pointed to a pile of documents on her desk. She shook her employer’s hand and gave Virgile a nod.

  “I was anxious to see you,” she said. “There are many signs of dehydration on the samples you brought me. Some of the estates also have parasites. The treatments in those vineyards need to be stepped up. My reports are on the desk.”

  “But the pesticides we’re using should be lasting longer than usual,” Virgile said. “There hasn’t been any rain to wash them away. We’ve been treating the vines about every fourteen days.”

  Alexandrine spoke directly to Benjamin, ignoring Virgile entirely. “The heat is stressing the vines and making them more vulnerable to infestation. You should be treating the vines every eleven to twelve days.”

  “We still have time to act on this,” Benjamin said. “I’m becoming very concerned about this year’s harvest. Even if the vines manage to fend off the parasites, I fear the grapes will be too small and have too much sugar. You know as well as I do th
at the Institut national des appellations d’origine strictly regulates watering.”

  “Yeah, but no matter what INAO says, some winemakers will be tempted to break the rules,” Virgile cut in.

  “We need to send up prayers for rain,” Benjamin concluded.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon going through the reports Alexandrine had prepared and arranging a schedule for the coming days in order to deal with the most urgent cases. With the help of the biologist, they fine-tuned the treatments for several properties and discussed in detail the most efficient strategies to protect the vineyards from insects and spiders. Benjamin was aware that many estate owners wished they hadn’t done their usual hand-thinning of the grapes. But how could they have foreseen this heat wave? It was too late to do anything about that now. They had to deal with their present situation—and quickly. That, and rely on the grace of God.

  As Alexandrine was agreeing with the strategy they had mapped out, Benjamin noticed Virgile’s eyes wandering from the reports to Alexandrine’s white blouse, with its top two buttons undone. He understood. Alexandrine, who had green eyes, an upturned nose, and auburn hair always held back with a mother-of-pearl headband was both good-looking and smart. But Virgile was well aware that Alexandrine had no romantic interest in men. Benjamin suppressed a smile. His assistant obviously saw no harm in looking.

  Emerging from the lab, the winemaker and his assistant cowered under the harsh glare of the sun. The sodden air immediately glued their clothes to their skin.

  “I have a favor to ask you, boss,” Virgile ventured.

  “After the day you’ve put in, how could I refuse? Unless, of course, it’s about a raise.”

  “Well, it’s sort of connected, but not really, either.”

  “Now you’re starting to worry me,” Benjamin said, once again wiping his face with his handkerchief.

  “Okay, here goes: I have this idea, but I need your help. Would you have time for me right now?”

  “You’re being awfully careful, Virgile. Go ahead. Jump in with both feet. That’s my advice, especially in this weather.”

  “All right. That’s what I’ll do. Boss, we’ve spent a lot of time together, and I think you’ve passed some of your obsessions on to me.”

  “And just how have I infected you?” The winemaker asked.

  “I’ve already picked up the cigar habit, and I’m enjoying it. Well, okay, I’m not smoking your big rough Cubans, but I do like to light up a Dominican now and then.”

  “It’s a very forgivable vice. I would even say commendable.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t share your taste in clothes. Too traditional and British for me. But on the other hand, you’ve converted me to vintage cars. I can’t stand new cars. Too much plastic, and they all look the same: insipid and tasteless. In short, you have really given me a taste for old cars.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking of buying a collector’s car for some time now, and I think I’ve found a gem. But I would like your opinion before I go ahead.”

  “And where is this car?”

  “In town, not very far from here. If you have the time, I’d like you to take a look.”

  Benjamin and Virgile picked up the convertible on the Allées de Tourny. They drove toward Place de la Victoire and down the Cours de la Somme, one of the gloomiest thoroughfares in Bordeaux. They emerged on Place Nansouty, its usually lush flowerbeds scorched by the sun, and then strayed into one-way streets before finally arriving at a shabby garage adjacent to an old pasta factory that had been turned into artist workshops. The lively street was lined with well-maintained vendor’s stalls, including makeshift barbecues. Several neighborhood residents ranging in age from toddler to grandparent were celebrating someone’s birthday.

  “Boss, I have to warn you. It’s a bit unusual here. This is the craziest neighborhood in the city!”

  “I feel like I’ve just arrived at a gypsy feast. Leave it to you to sniff out a place like this, Virgile.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet. I want to introduce you to Stofa, the garage owner,” Virgile said, walking toward a man in overalls who was poking the embers of a grill. In the light of the fire his tanned skin resembled beautiful Cordoba leather.

  “Well, hello, Virgile! You’re just in time. Your car is ready. Salem spent the afternoon cleaning it.”

  “I came with my boss,” Virgile said, gesturing to Benjamin, who was hovering close by and felt a bit lost in this country-fair atmosphere in the heart of Bordeaux.

  The winemaker shook Stofa’s hand and looked him in the eye. The man had the bearing of a Tuareg prince. He bore a striking resemblance to Thelonious Monk. Margaux had all of Monk’s albums, and even though Benjamin wasn’t a jazz aficionado, he enjoyed listening to them with her. Stofa led them to the back of the garage, where a handsome admiral-blue Peugeot 403 stood gleaming. The body had no scratches or dents. A stylized lion’s head graced the radiator grille, and the red leather upholstery was in impeccable condition.

  “What year?” Benjamin said, sliding his hand over the body.

  “It’s a 1959, seven horse power, fifty-three thousand miles on the odometer, one owner. Runs like clockwork.” Stofa started the engine and then walked to the front of the car and lifted the hood. “Just listen to that.”

  Benjamin leaned over and admired the robust simplicity of the engine. “Nineteen fifty-nine. A very good year—at least for Bordeaux wines!”

  “I don’t know much about booze, but I can tell you that it was a good year for the Peugeot 403. And your assistant here got a real bargain.”

  “How much?” Benjamin asked, feeling a bit like a horse trader.

  “Forty-four hundred euros, believe it or not! A Peugeot 403 is rare nowadays. Columbo, the detective Peter Falk played in the American TV series, drove one of these.”

  “Indeed, it does appear to be a good price,” the winemaker agreed. He turned to Virgile. “If I were you, I wouldn’t hesitate. She’s a beauty!”

  Benjamin sniffed the leather seats and thought of his maternal grandfather, Eugène, who drove along the banks of the Gironde behind the wheel of a Peugeot 403 black station wagon with a roof rack and brakes that squealed at every stop sign.

  “I think this car will make you very happy, Virgile.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I’ll seriously consider it.”

  “If you’re concerned about your finances, it’s silly not to tell me,” Benjamin said. He reached into his jacket to take out his checkbook. “I’ll advance you the money, and you can pay me back two hundred dollars a month. Remember to tell Jacqueline to deduct it from your paycheck.”

  “Are you serious, boss?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking? No need to thank me. I’ll get the selfish pleasure of seeing you drive this little beauty.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” Stofa bellowed, grabbing a bottle of pastis from Salem’s hands. “Come join the party. It’s a birthday.”

  He led them to a large room adjacent to the garage, where tables were filled with grilled and roasted pork belly, sausages, and chicken thighs and bowls of pasta, rice, couscous, and french fries. Every resident of the neighborhood, it seemed, had contributed to the lavish buffet. Stofa poured the pastis into glasses lined up on one of the tables.

  Benjamin quaffed his Pernod Ricard and didn’t balk when his glass was filled again. He couldn’t help grinning when he saw the astonished look on his assistant’s face.

  “Boss, I never thought I’d be seeing you downing pastis,” Virgile whispered. “You’re very unpredictable.”

  “Well, it is the national drink, Virgile, after wine, that is.”

  Intoxicating aromas were beginning to swirl all around the winemaker: anise, red wine, roasted pistachios, garlic sausage, and charcoal. Meanwhile, people were streaming into the room, introducing themselves as they arrived. Lionel, Stéphanie, Pierre, Pauline, Sébastien, Céline, Gilles, Françoise, Léon, Sophie, Jean-Pierre, Dani
el, Marguerite, Didier, Bill, Rapido, Kamel, Virginie, Lolo, and Paillasse. Benjamin shook hands and smiled, knowing very well that he would never remember so many names. But for each and every one, he had a gracious greeting. He was a man who appreciated hospitality, wherever it was extended.

  Someone handed him a plastic cup filled with rosé—probably Stéphanie, or was it Pauline? And everyone began to sing golden oldies from the sixties to the accompaniment of an impromptu little band: the teacher on guitar, the writer on bass, the doctor on accordion, and the plumber on harmonica.

  Benjamin and Virgile were still there at midnight, their speech a bit muddled and their gait unsteady. They were talking about everything and nothing: cars, rugby, hunting, past carousing, childhood memories, and improbable plans. The air was mild, and a welcome breeze from the sea had finally extinguished the fiery daytime heat.

  “What a satisfying evening,” Benjamin sighed, lifting his slightly flushed face toward the inky sky studded with stars.

  “The spicy merguez sausage, tabouleh, olives, and chilled rosé,” Virgile said. “I feel like I’ve been on an exotic vacation in the Middle East.”

  “Don’t try to cajole me into agreeing to a vacation, Virgile,” the winemaker said, his voice a tinge thick. “I’m well aware that you need a break, but this is no time to take off.”

  “That’s not what I meant, boss.”

  “If you really want to see the ocean, I have an idea, my boy. You can come with me to Cap Ferret tonight. I’m a bit plastered, I admit, and I’d rather not drive. Give me a ride in your Peugeot 403.”

  “Now? At this hour? I’m not exactly sober myself.”

  “I’ve been watching you, Virgile. You haven’t kept up with me.”

  Benjamin walked unsteadily toward the Peugeot, cracked open the door, and flopped into the backseat.

  “Come on. Show me what this car of yours made of!”