Foul Play in Vouvray Read online

  Benjamin slowed down to take a curve and then checked on Virgile. He was paying attention. “The Vouvray region lies just east of Tours. It enjoys a rather mild climate. And that’s a good thing, because it’s not necessarily easy to cultivate this type of vineyard. You must not underestimate the oceanic influence that warms the ground. Autumns are usually sunny, which encourages ripeness and noble rot. That said, the grape can be fickle.”

  “So we’re back to the lover metaphor,” Virgile said, grinning.

  Benjamin suppressed a scowl. “What I mean by fickle is that the sugar content can determine a year’s production. In cool years, production leans toward the drier varieties, including the sparkling Vouvrays. In warmer years, the sweeter Vouvrays tend to dominate.”

  “To get back to our geography, the vineyards are often on high rises.”

  “Absolutely—stony plateaus on limestone substrate that loom above the valleys. The white Turonian clay is covered with flinty clay, which gives dry wines their characteristic minerality. And then the calcareous clay gives the sweet wines their well-rounded nature.”

  “Yes, boss. Turonian. Ninety-four to ninety million years ago, roughly counting. It was the second of six main divisions in the Upper Cretaceous Series.”

  “I see you still remember something from your days at oenology school.”

  The winemaker kept going, piling on figures while Virgile listened politely. The region produced about a hundred and fifteen thousand hectoliters of Vouvray every year, or fifteen million bottles. On average, fifty-five percent were sparkling, and forty-five percent were still. Dry Vouvray had nine grams of residual sugars per liter. Semi-dry had fifteen grams, while sweet and fortified liquors had fifty grams.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you about Les Bournais, with its unique silty clay soil over limestone. This is the land of bubbly wines, very light and delicate. Over time, they develop candied fruit aromas with a touch of sweet floral, which enhances the freshness.”

  Benjamin glanced at Virgile again. He was fidgeting.

  “That’s enough, boss. I won’t be able to remember much more.”

  “And that makes me sad,” the winemaker said, turning onto the road leading to Château de Tremblay.

  When they arrived, Benjamin saw that the police had cordoned off the meadow used as a parking lot the night of the party, as well as the wine cellar. Several TV-station trucks were just outside the meadow, and photographers and reporters were arguing with a broad-shouldered officer of impressive height who had obviously been stationed there to keep them from getting in.

  “Sure is a peaceful place,” Virgile said. “Isn’t that what you called it?”

  Benjamin turned off the engine. He could deal with Virgile’s teasing during their ride, but now that they were faced with the reality of what had happened here, he wasn’t in the mood for any cracks from his assistant.

  “It does, indeed, seem that you’re running out of memory, son. I said it was a place where one could pause and recharge. Do you think you could do that? Pause, I mean.”

  10

  Benjamin and Virgile showed their identifications and were allowed to head toward the château after the police officer called the owner.

  “I’m sure the forensics team is combing the corridor where Simone was found,” the winemaker said as they walked up the steps. “I bet they have dozens of people down there. David has one of the most beautiful tufa-tunnel cellars in the region. It’s not comparable to the sumptuous subterranean meanderings of the Huet mansion, of course, but it can house several thousand bottles.”

  Benjamin and Virgile found the actor slumped in a squat armchair upholstered in purple velvet. He was oozing fatigue and anger and wearing the same expression that had contributed largely to the success of a film he had made in his early years.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he let out without getting up. He motioned to a distinguished-looking man with white hair who was sitting in a nearby chair. “This is Dr. Molinier, my medicine man.”

  Benjamin recognized him. He had seen him at the party, talking to a sixtyish woman in a black sheath. The winemaker had noted his reserve, which stood out in the crowd of style-conscious Parisians who worshipped the cult of youth, spiteful gossip, and fashion. And now he remembered who he was: the renowned cardiac surgeon who had become David’s close friend after performing an emergency bypass on him.

  David had been coping with a demanding shoot by losing his temper at the slightest provocation and smoking nearly three packs of cigarettes a day. He was hypertensive when he arrived at the hospital, and that he hadn’t died was something of a miracle. But, in fact, David had recovered—with panache. The two men had become close, and David leaned heavily on his physician, even though he tended to ignore the doctor’s cautionary advice about eating and drinking.

  “Dr. Molinier has just arrived,” David said. “Have a seat. Something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Benjamin said. “We were at François Pinon’s place yesterday, and we didn’t do much spitting. I’ll wait till this afternoon.”

  David nodded. “I know his stuff. It’s one of the best. Maybe someday I’ll be able to compete with him. He’s one hell of a vintner.”

  “I have a lot of respect for his work,” Benjamin said. “And I wanted Virgile to meet him and taste on site.”

  “You’re so right. That’s how we must train the kids. Nothing like tasting straight from the barrel!”

  Virgile shifted in his chair, and Benjamin could read his mind. By now, Virgile had tasted from many barrels. It was one thing for Benjamin to call him “son,” but he was no kid. Still, the winemaker imagined that his assistant was excited by the opportunity to spend time with the famous actor. He had told Benjamin about the cinema in Bergerac where he had seen quite a few films in both French and English.

  David interrupted the winemaker’s thoughts. “Frankly, Benjamin, I have neither the desire nor the strength to talk about our project right now.”

  “Of course, David. It’s not why I came. I wanted to check on you. You must be beside yourself with worry. Our wine project can wait.”

  “Yes, we’ll talk later. You’ll be here for a while—am I right? We’ll find a moment to visit the parcel. In your own way, like Molinier, you’re a medicine man. You work miracles!”

  “Except I don’t need gloves to operate, and, excuse the macabre allusion, my goal is accumulating dead soldiers for my clients.”

  Molinier laughed. “Ah yes, a full wine cellar pleases the collector, but it’s the emptying of the bottle that pleases him most. And growers are always happy to see empty bottles. Unfortunately, that doesn’t go for you, David, as the key in your case is moderation.”

  David scowled at the doctor. “I can handle my drinking. Now excuse me for being rude, but I need to know how Simone’s doing.”

  Benjamin couldn’t hide his surprise. “So you haven’t gone to the hospital?” he asked.

  “No, Benjamin, I haven’t. My presence at the hospital would draw too much attention. Can you imagine all the photographers and television crews besieging the staff if they got wind of it? I want the doctors and nurses to concentrate on Simone. Besides, I couldn’t bear seeing her hooked up to all those machines.”

  The actor’s expression changed from anger to sorrow, and Benjamin thought he saw tears welling in his eyes. “It’s too much, Benjamin. Simone was so vibrant. How could this happen?”

  Molinier, still composed despite David’s rebuke, cleared his throat. “I went in David’s stead.” He reached over and put a hand on the actor’s arm. “She’s critical but holding her own. I talked to the doctor who’s in charge of her case. He’s a young man, but competent.”

  “And?”

  “And… He couldn’t tell me much more, other than her coma isn’t irreversible.”

  The actor sank deeper into his chair and wiped his face, as if to erase the signs of his fatigue. “And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

  “Not at all. Yo
u never know what the outcome will be, and I wouldn’t want to give you false hope. But I can tell you that it’s probably a temporary state, especially since the paramedics knew exactly what to do, and the medical team responded quickly when Simone arrived at the emergency room. As soon as they got her into intensive care, they gave her glucose, put her on oxygen, ran the blood work, and ordered an electrocardiogram. In short, they did their job.”

  “Meaning what?” David mumbled.

  “It means we just have to wait, especially because the tests they’ve run so far haven’t shown anything we didn’t already know.”

  “What was it that they already knew?”

  “Simone definitely consumed a great deal of alcohol. The blood tests confirm this, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But I don’t think she drank enough to induce nearly fatal alcohol poisoning. There had to be something else. I’ve discussed this at length with a colleague who has his own thoughts.”

  “Give it to me straight, Molinier. It looks like you’re holding back, and you know very well that you can talk frankly with me. I hate people who beat around the bush.”

  “I know, David. I know. Let’s just say there’s no convincing evidence that would explain how Simone wound up this way, but it’s precisely the lack of tangible evidence that puts us on the right track.”

  “That’s how it is sometimes,” Benjamin suggested. “In fact, the absence of proof always speaks volumes, in the sense that the unexplainable encourages us to dig deeper.”

  “I imagine you encounter the same problems in your oenology, Mr. Cooker.”

  “It happens more than you’d think.”

  David cut in. “It takes a hell of a lot of time for you to get to the point, Molinier. What are your conclusions?”

  The doctor’s jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “As you know, my area of specialization is cardiology. My colleague, who’s not a cardiologist, offered a supposition I hadn’t thought of.” Molinier paused and looked directly at his audience. “So, gentlemen, have you ever heard of GHB?”

  No one said a word.

  He answered for them. “GHB is the acronym for gamma hydroxybutyrate, also called Liquid X or liquid ecstasy. You may have read stories about date-rape drugs. Does that ring a bell?”

  Still no response. David frowned. Benjamin folded his arms, and Virgile looked impassive.

  “It’s derived from GBL, short for gamma-Butyrolactone. By mixing GBL with a base, usually caustic soda, you get GHB. The 4-hydroxybutyrate of sodium was once used as a general anesthetic and a treatment for insomnia, especially in cases of narcolepsy. And it has an additional pharmaceutical application that the French surgeon Henri Laborit developed in the early nineteen sixties: it was our first authentic anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication. It was largely replaced by benzodiazepines and tricyclic anti-depressants, but in recent years it has found new favor in some psychiatric circles.”

  David. stopped him again. “Too much information, Molinier! Keep it simple. All this scientific crap’s making me feel like I’m being taken for an idiot!”

  “Nothing could be further from my intention,” the doctor answered.

  Benjamin couldn’t help admiring Molinier for maintaining his bedside manner with this impatient patient.

  “I just wanted to give you a bit of history and science before getting to the crux,” the doctor continued. “GHB has been used as a general anesthetic and as a treatment for narcolepsy, alcoholism, and depression. But it’s also used illegally as a date-rape drug, which I mentioned, and as an athletic-performance enhancer. And it’s easy to obtain on the Internet, especially on American websites.”

  “So, conceivably, anyone could get it?” Benjamin said, leaning forward.

  “Absolutely. Illicit traffic is widespread. Bodybuilders take it because it allows them to train harder. Outside the world of bodybuilding, plenty of people seek it for its socializing effect. After a single dose, the user feels uninhibited, liberated. That’s why it’s called liquid ecstasy. And there’s a noted improvement in sexual performance. The aphrodisiac properties haven’t been proved, but the user has a sense of euphoria, if you know what I mean.”

  “We know exactly what you mean,” David grumbled. “I smell a rat.”

  “This isn’t a drug you want to fool around with, though,” Molinier said. “In low doses there’s the risk of nausea, a slowing of heart and respiratory rates, hypertension, serious problems with coordination and balance, hallucinations, and drowsiness. Overdoses can result in loss of consciousness and coma. Remember? I said it’s used as a general anesthetic. And that’s why it’s called a date-rape drug. Many women have been assaulted after unwittingly ingesting the substance with alcohol and passing out. This isn’t uncommon, since illicit GHB is found in all the fashionable nightclubs in London, Amsterdam, and, more recently, Paris.”

  “What are you telling me—that Simone was raped?”

  “We don’t know. They conducted a rape-kit exam in the emergency room, but the results aren’t back yet.”

  “I swear, if she was raped…” The vein in David’s temple was throbbing.

  “Calm down, David. We don’t have the results yet. We must wait and see. That’s all I can tell you for the time being.”

  Benjamin was still leaning forward in his chair. “You mentioned a lack of convincing evidence. I assume you’re talking about the GHB, not the rape kit.”

  The surgeon looked at the winemaker with an almost relieved expression. “You’re a scientist, Mr. Cooker, and you’re approaching this logically. You’ve got your finger on a fundamental problem with GHB: it’s not easy to detect.”

  “So, someone who’s been drugged might not know it?”

  “Correct. GHB does have a salty, soapy taste. But once GHB’s in alcohol, it can’t be tasted anymore. To make matters worse, after GHB has been ingested, it’s hard to detect. Its half-life, the time needed for a drug’s plasma concentration to go down by fifty percent, is an impressive twenty-seven minutes. Less than five percent of the original amount remains in the body after two hours.”

  Virgile cleared his throat, and the three other men turned to him. “Therefore, it’s difficult—if not impossible—to prove that GHB was used as a weapon in a sexual assault. Without bruising or other evidence, it could look like consensual sex. Or a case of he-said, she-said.”

  Molinier nodded. “Exactly, young man.”

  “But even if there’s no GHB in the bloodstream, you could find traces of it in a glass, couldn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not a specialist in that area,” the doctor said.

  “Shouldn’t the glasses from the party be analyzed? The cops should be notified.”

  “Too late,” David said. “Everything was washed, dried, and put away.”

  “And the police allowed that?” Benjamin asked, astonished. “They didn’t tell you to leave everything as is?”

  “The cleanup started before Simone was found. I had drunk too much and gone to bed. I believe my personal assistant told you that she tried to wake me, but I couldn’t be roused. The security guard who called the paramedics told them to be discreet. After the ambulance left with Simone, the caterers and house staff finished their work and went home. The police arrived several hours later.”

  Benjamin shook his head and folded his arms.

  “If I may ask one more question, doctor,” Virgile said. “You say bodybuilders use this substance. I assume you’re talking about the guys who do competitions and serious things like that. Is it used by many ordinary fellows who just go to the gym and want to look good?”

  Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door. David rose heavily from his chair. “Yes?”

  “Inspector Blanchet, from the Tours Police Department.”

  David let him in. The middle-aged inspector, wearing a mousey polyester suit and pistachio-colored shirt, gave Benjamin, Virgile, and Molinier a nod before turning to David. “As you know, my men have be
en collecting evidence in the wine cellar,” he said. “There was a wall in the second tunnel that sounded hollow. On the right side, four meters past the entrance to the passageway…”

  “Past the shelves of sweet wines?” the actor asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you if they were sweet. They were bottles lined up on dusty shelves. We went ahead and probed. Then we did a little digging…”

  David glared at him. “Forgive me, but you could have asked my permission!”

  The inspector remained poker-faced. “I thought about it, but I didn’t have the opportunity. My men whacked the wall a few times, and a rock gave way.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “First one rock, then another. I’m afraid part of the wall collapsed.”

  “You police officers feel entitled to do whatever you please!” David shouted. “I won’t hold my breath waiting for the Ministry of the Interior to compensate me!”

  “That’s the ministry’s job, not mine.” The inspector waited a moment. “Mr. Navarre, we made a rather shocking discovery.”

  Benjamin exchanged a glance with Virgile.

  “Don’t tell me you found a buried treasure,” the actor said. “That would be the only good piece of news we’ve had all day!”

  “Yes, something buried,” the inspector answered. “But it was no treasure.”

  11

  Benjamin, Virgile, David, and Dr. Molinier followed Inspector Blanchet down the stone steps to the sizable cave housing the château’s wine cellar. Here, the wines were stored at an ideal year-round temperature.

  Caverns such as this one, both natural and manmade, dotted the Loire Valley. In some cases, the limestone had been mined for use in the region’s châteaus, churches, and castles.

  As he walked along, Benjamin mused on what the enterprising residents of the Loire Valley had done with these hidden spaces. Les Hautes Roches, once a monastery, had been built against a backdrop of soft tuffeau limestone. Today it was a luxury hotel with a Michelin-starred restaurant and guest rooms tucked into the rock. Bourre, near Amboise, was home to a four-hundred-kilometer subterranean mushroom farm that produced varieties including oyster, blue foot, and shiitake. And then there was the Troglodytic Valley of Goupillières, three authentic farms built into the tufa hollows. He had gone there once with Margaux, and she had said it reminded her of a Hobbit village.