Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Read online

  “So it’s someone who has several old bottles of Pétrus,” Benjamin said, fiddling with the worn edge of his leather desk blotter. “Someone who has the means to leave priceless bottles as his calling card.”

  “And who couldn’t care less about wasting them that way!” said Dubourdieu. “It’s also possible that this person doesn’t know what they are worth.”

  “I don’t agree with you there. I think it’s more likely that the person knows their value, and that gives his murders even more meaning. His calling card is rare. In fact unique!”

  “I have my doubts,” Dubourdieu said. “But whether this person knows the value of the wine or not, it may well have some significance above and beyond what it’s worth.”

  “Are you sure you can’t tell me where you got your bottles?” Benjamin hated having to ask again, but he disliked being kept in the dark even more.

  “I can only tell you that it was a very special moment, and that the bottles were well preserved.”

  “I hope you didn’t have to pay for them.”

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything foolish.”

  “It’s true that no one, or almost no one, can afford them,” Benjamin said wearily. “For the old vintages that can still be found, the prices I’ve seen online are staggering. As for the last sales at auction, it’s not even worth talking about.”

  “Remember that bottle from 1947 that was auctioned off at more than twenty-two hundred euros in February of 1999? And that was a steal at the time.”

  “Of course. It was in mint condition. The label was impeccable, and the bottle hadn’t been moved much at all. A bottle like that would be worth much more now!”

  “Maybe I can’t afford every bottle I come across, but I’ll keep doing this work until I’m on my deathbed,” Dubourdieu joked. “Having access to great wines is a pleasure and privilege.”

  The two men began a meticulous inventory of their respective tastings. Apart from two or three points, they agreed on the basics. Benjamin reveled in exploring this territory with his friend. Both were privy to well-guarded secrets that often made their work look like esoteric magic to an outsider.

  Benjamin and Dubourdieu were fortunate to have archival memories, which served them well in their interests and fields of expertise. Dubourdieu, could list complete discographies of bebop and West Coast jazz, including dates of shows, titles of every recorded session piece, the names of contributing musicians, and sometimes even their unreleased recordings. He could also tick off all the producers and sound engineers. Benjamin, for his part, could reel off hundreds of quotes by major and minor writers. He favored Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill, whom his father, Paul William, claimed as a distant relative.

  Dubourdieu enumerated all the spectacular years for Pétrus. Starting in 1947 and ending in 2000, there were ten of them. “Those were huge years: 1947, 1959, 1961, 1964, 1970, 1982, 1995, 1996, 1998, and 2000!” Dubourdieu said, his face animated.

  “They were miraculous years!” Benjamin, carried away by his enthusiasm, was almost shouting. He agreed with his friend that there were no mediocre Pétruses, only a few that weren’t quite as successful. Some needed to be consumed sooner than others, and these were not the jewels of the domain. But even a harshly judged Pétrus was better than most other great wines. The demands of the harvest, the special attention to the farming methods, the winemaking process elevated to a fine art—nothing was left to chance by this producer, which jealously guarded its mysteries and prestige.

  Benjamin and Dubourdieu agreed that the 1978 was one of the rare disappointing Pétruses. All merlots had suffered greatly that year, but those in following vintages had kept their promise. Several wines from the nineteen eighties had been remarkable, and the 1995 and the 1998 surpassed all expectations. Some flowed in the glass like a dream, whether austere or smooth, tannic or silky, intense or light, exuberant or reserved. In each case, the Pétrus was an elegant wine, full-bodied, always distinguished, luminous, ample, and harmonious in the mouth. It had varying aromas of black and purple fruits, wood, licorice, cinnamon, raspberry, and truffle.

  When Virgile Lanssien burst into his office, Benjamin was expressing his regret at not having had the chance to taste the 1950, 1952, 1953, and 1954, at their peak, toward the end of the nineteen sixties.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Inspector Barbaroux would like to meet with you. He is waiting at 75 Rue des Bahutiers!”

  “Right now?”

  “So I believe.”

  § § §

  Benjamin was in a fowl mood when he arrived with his assistant at the crime-scene tape blocking the way to the Saint Pierre neighborhood. He had said good-bye to his friend Franck Dubourdieu a little too brusquely but promised to invite him to dinner at Grangebelle. He would have a bottle of Pétrus on hand. That was the least he could do and a lovely way to ask forgiveness for breaking off their nearly rapturous visit. Perhaps Elisabeth would prepare the leg of venison in their freezer. They would savor it with a thick grand veneur red wine sauce. Just thinking about it made him salivate and eagerly anticipate the day he could finally banish the lingering odor of cabbage soup.

  In the apartment, the inspector greeted them with a sly grin. Benjamin didn’t think it was quite appropriate. He spotted two bare legs on the green linoleum but couldn’t see the rest of the body, as it was behind a brown velour armchair. The winemaker made the sign of the cross without attempting to camouflage his gesture. Behind the armchair, two officers from the forensics team were bending over the body. Benjamin, scanning the wrinkled skin and purple varicose veins on the legs, guessed that the victim was elderly.

  “Édouard Prébourg, eighty-eight years old. Same demise.”

  “And the glasses again?” Benjamin asked, still staring at the legs.

  “Four wine glasses filled and eight empty, as you would expect. The same staging!”

  Benjamin told Virgile to wait in the hallway while he tasted the wine in the living room. The woman in the white coat, who had been at all the previous scenes, asked the captain for permission to cover the body with a blanket. It was a sight the winemaker didn’t need to see, she said.

  “You don’t think he’s afraid of an old pair of balls, do you?” the inspector responded.

  Barbaroux let out a hearty laugh. Benjamin saw the woman shudder. He pretended that he hadn’t heard the exchange and proceeded with the tasting. He brought each glass to his lips, turned toward the inspector, and shrugged.

  “Send the samples to the same person,” he said simply. “You know who it is. I’ve just come from my office, where I was talking with him.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Barbaroux asked. He wasn’t grinning now. He looked concerned.

  “I’m expected at my lab, and I don’t have time to stay,” Benjamin grumbled as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “But I have a number of things to ask you.”

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll see to all that tomorrow.”

  The winemaker didn’t give the inspector a chance to pursue the conversation. He turned on his heels, nodded good-bye to the forensics team, and walked out of the living room, taking care to look away from the bloody remains of Édouard Prébourg.

  The afternoon was long and tedious. Alexandrine de la Palussière had methodically prepared the testing. And Benjamin, assisted by the careful and silent Virgile, tasted no fewer than sixty-three wines from Languedoc-Roussillon without uttering a word. He tasted, spat into the sink, made notes, and repeated the process over and over with a determination verging on obsession. Beads of sweat formed at his temples, and now and then he wiped them away while gritting his teeth. Benjamin knew he was swearing far too much. He hardly ever swore, and now he had done it five times in the space of a few hours. Virgile was surely becoming concerned. He knew his assistant had never seen him so much on edge.

  At the end of the day, Benjamin felt nauseous and dizzy. He almost fainted. Virgile ran over to keep Benjamin from falling a
nd grabbed a chair for him. As usual, Virgile’s gestures were clumsy. He didn’t seem to know exactly how to help. Benjamin grumbled and asked to be left in peace. He dismissed his assistant with the wave of a hand and an irritated sigh. He waited for the nausea to subside, stood up slowly, and left without saying good-bye to the rest of the staff.

  Once on the street, Benjamin breathed in the cold night air and walked carefully toward the Allées de Tourny. At his side, Virgile looked anxious and frightened.

  “We’re going to the office?”

  “So it appears,” Benjamin grumbled.

  “Maybe it’s not a good idea to go back to work so late, especially after that fainting spell you just had.”

  “Who says I’m going to work? I’m going to the office to get warm and heat up the rest of that soup before I drive home!”

  Once in the hallway, Benjamin threw his coat over a chair and headed toward the microwave. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. There was enough illumination from the streetlights outside to see where he was going.

  “Please, let me warm up the soup for you,” Virgile said as he turned on the overhead lights.

  “Let me do it, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t ask you!”

  “It’s all ready to go. Just set the timer for a minute and a half,” the assistant dared to say as he slipped behind Jacqueline’s empty desk.

  Benjamin struggled with the microwave and cursed the “fucking electronic piece of shit” twice before punching in the numbers and slamming the door shut. He didn’t hear Virgile pick up Jacqueline’s phone. Nor did he hear his assistant talking in hushed tones with Elisabeth, who had been waiting for him at Grangebelle.

  “Mrs. Cooker? I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all, my dear Virgile.”

  “You really have to do something for your husband, ma’am.”

  “But what can I do for you? Speak up, I can hardly hear you.”

  “I’m worried about him,” the assistant whispered. “He just had a dizzy spell…”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “No, rest assured. But in my opinion, he’s dying of hunger. He can’t take it anymore!”

  “Probably a little hypoglycemia. He needs to eat his soup regularly throughout the day.”

  “You know him. He doesn’t always have the time.”

  “I’m counting on your influence, Virgile,” Elisabeth said.

  “There’s more to it, Mrs. Cooker. He’s really not easy… How can I say it? Well, he’s almost impossible to bear since you put him on that diet. Please forgive me for being so blunt.”

  “I’ve been thinking of you these last few days, and I do feel sorry for you, Virgile. I can only imagine the foul mood he’s been in at the office.”

  “Well, actually, as a matter of fact, ‘foul’ is exactly the word for it. I would never want to interfere in your personal life, ma’am, but I do hope you understand what I’m getting at. Are you sure that we have to do this diet thing all the way to day seven?”

  7

  The two representatives of Cooker & Co. were greeted with deference by a sallow-complexioned maid with gray hair. She invited them into the living room to await Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet. She offered them tea, which they happily accepted as they sat down awkwardly on the worn cushions of the Louis XV chairs. The apartment was posh without being the least bit flashy. Everything around them suggested the faded comfort and timeless elegance of provincial aristocracy. The woodwork, crown molding, and stucco rosettes on the ceiling, the printed fabric on the walls, the thick velour curtains held in place by silk braided tiebacks: the entire décor seemed to have weathered the decades without succumbing to the influence of fashion.

  The master of the house arrived. He was out of breath, and his face was pink and sweaty. He greeted them with firm handshakes and sat down in the closest chair without bothering to remove his raincoat, buttoned to the chin, as usual. Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet blended perfectly with his apartment: his stiff and formal demeanor, his dated hairstyle, the thick lenses of his glasses, which curiously matched the thick crystals hanging from the chandeliers, his signet ring, which mirrored the cherrywood coat of arms on the fireplace, the cut of his trench coat, the rumpled corduroy pants hemmed too high, the patina of his shoes on the worn threads of the Persian carpet. Everything about him seemed in perfect harmony with this antiquated theater, which was custom-made for an obsessive and nostalgic historian.

  Benjamin had recovered his strength and forgotten his scare of the night before. This fourth day of the diet promised to be more flexible. To the inevitable cabbage soup, three bananas and a quart of skimmed milk had been added. His efforts were further rewarded when he stepped on the scale as he came out of the shower and found that he had lost seven pounds. His wife had kissed him on the chest and pinched his hips. She had then become quite affectionate in the warm steam of the bathroom. Still enveloped in Elisabeth’s gardenia perfume, he had left Grangebelle three-quarters of an hour late but with a light heart and a soothed mind.

  Renaud, still in his raincoat, asked his housekeeper to prepare another pot of tea. He got out of his chair, walked over to a small card table, and picked up a black dossier cinched with a beige ribbon. He returned to his chair and slowly opened the document.

  “I’ve done some research for you, gentlemen, and I’ve finally found a bit of information on Jules-Ernest Grémillon. He belonged to the Fire group, starting in January, 1941. A few months later he joined the National Popular Rally. He also belonged to the Association of Friends of Marshall Pétain, which had a rather active committee in the region.”

  “What do you mean by active?” Benjamin asked, resting his cup on the rosewood-inlay table beside his chair.

  “They organized many high-profile undertakings and much propaganda, meetings and shows, theatrical performances, and sporting events, as well as some charitable activities, especially regular visits to needy families. Members also worked in the Médoc vineyards, as did some members of the Malice française.”

  “Well, what do you know!” Virgile exclaimed, his eyes wide. The Milice française was a much-feared paramilitary organization during the occupation, well known for the tactics it used against the Resistance. “I had no idea that members of this militia also worked in the vineyards to compensate for the lack of manpower.”

  “Absolutely!” Renaud said. “I don’t have the exact list of all the estates that accepted their help, but there were quite a few. It would have been senseless to refuse such valuable help when most men were away from home.”

  “And was this only in the Médoc?” Benjamin asked. “Never in the Pomerol area, by any chance?”

  “How do I know? Perhaps, but I have no information about that.”

  Benjamin sensed that Renaud was embarrassed. He didn’t seem to like admitting that he lacked an important piece of information. The young man strove to be infallible and no doubt would correct this gap in his self-education.

  “The wine world was especially disrupted by the war,” Renaud went on, picking up a batch of hastily scribbled sheets of paper. “Especially since certain Nazi dignitaries were quite fond of grand cru wines. Hermann Goering was crazy about Bordeaux wines, while Joseph Goebbels preferred Burgundies. Incidentally, they quickly set up a whole system allowing them to amass a fortune in French wines. Several so-called weinführers were assigned to the biggest French wine-growing regions at the beginning of the occupation. They were in charge of acquiring the best wines and having them transported to Germany. Of course, it was expected that they would pay the lowest price possible and resell at huge profits in the international market. In Bordeaux, there was a man named Heinz Bömers who was at the mercy of Goering’s whims. He seemed to be a decent man, rather… How can I describe him?”

  Renaud hesitated and pushed his thick glasses back up his nose as he searched for just the right words to describe this German, whose reputation he obviously did not want to sully. Their host’s silence dra
gged on a bit, and Virgile poured himself another cup of tea. Benjamin finally decided to get them back on track.

  “I haven’t discussed this painful period with many people from Bordeaux, but some old landowners have spoken about him in mostly positive terms.”

  “I’m not surprised that you’ve heard about him,” Renaud said. “The Bömers, who were an upper-class family from Bremen, were very involved in wine brokering before the war. And when Heinz, who inherited the business, was forced to accept the job of agent for the Nazis—or put his family at risk—he managed to do so on his own terms. He refused to wear the Nazi uniform, to plunder châteaux, or to allow any abuses by the troops. Strangely enough, Hermann Goering, who hated the Bömers family, was the one who sent him to Bordeaux.”

  “Was it the Bömers who owned the Château Smith-Haut-Lafitte before World War One?” Benjamin asked.

  “Exactly! Because they were German expats, their property was expropriated during the First World War. But after the war, they were still able to maintain close ties in the region. That’s why this weinführer was welcomed by everyone in the business when he arrived after the Franco-German armistice was signed in 1940. Even though he was working for the Germans, Heinz Bömers was a decent guy and a Francophile at heart. He was accommodating and had kept up relations with certain companies in Bordeaux. All the wine producers adapted to the situation, and there was no other choice but to sell to Germany, because the American and British markets were closed. Otherwise, what would they have done with all their wine? Dump it into the Garonne River?”

  “How much wine are we talking about, more or less?”

  “It varied. He could easily buy almost a million bottles in one order. Suffice it to say that the Chartrons merchants were eager to please when the weinführer took an interest in their companies. For his part, he hated people who thought they needed to grovel at his feet. He behaved rather well. His prices were appropriate for the most part, and I think it’s fair to say he helped the Bordeaux region sell off the medium-quality wine that congested the warehouses after the bad vintages of the nineteen thirties. By the way, his attitude was not necessarily looked upon favorably by the higher-ups. Goering summoned him to Berlin three times to reprimand him.”