Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) Page 6

  9

  Despite Benjamin’s doubts about Quillebaud’s “accident,” he had to return to Bordeaux. His work for Périthiard didn’t require his presence at Vol-au-Vent, and Elisabeth would be coming home from New York. She’d expect him at the airport. Benjamin was missing her and feeling the strain of being away from Grangebelle. His beloved dog, Bacchus, was getting restless too, according to the neighbor who was caring for him. The winemaker was eager to resume their long walks.

  Benjamin did ask Virgile to stay on a few extra days. “Just for the start of the winery renovations,” he had told his assistant. “I’m sure your presence will reassure Mr. Périthiard.”

  “Perhaps you could leave your convertible with me,” Virgile asked, flashing a grin.

  “Son, I’m giving you a chance to explore this beautiful region and perfect your knowledge of the wines, perhaps even make some discoveries worthy of the Cooker Guide, and you’re pining for more? I’m sure the girl in the café—with everything she knows—can provide additional incentive if you’re in need of it.”

  Virgile settled for a rental.

  When he called the next day, Benjamin and Elisabeth were enjoying some time together after their respective trips. She picked up and listened for a moment before saying, “It’s delightful to hear your voice, too, Virgile.”

  Benjamin walked over to take the phone, but Elisabeth, giving him a smile he could only interpret as wicked, refused to hand it over. She turned her back to him and continued talking. “Yes, Virgile, Margaux is doing well. She’s feeling homesick, though. New York is exciting, but her roots are here… I believe she’ll be quite pleased to see you too.”

  With that, Benjamin grabbed the phone.

  “Good-bye, Virgile. See you soon,” Elisabeth shouted at the device, which was now a good two feet away from her.

  “So, Virgile, why are you calling?”

  “Just wanted to fill you in, boss. The cops brought Fabien Dujaray, the oldest son, in for questioning. From what I can tell, the population here is split three ways. A third believe it was an accident. Many of them are die-hard supporters of the Dujaray clan. Another third support Maison Coultard-Périthiard and call it murder. The remaining third are undecided or just uninterested.”

  “What about Périthiard?”

  “Oh, he seems to be on top of the construction and involved in some new projects already.”

  “What kind of new projects?”

  “One called Solène Chavannes.”

  “Ah,” Benjamin said. Périthiard, the cunning man and strategic planner suddenly fell in the winemaker’s esteem. Here Benjamin had thought Périthiard was entirely focused on his return to the land. But apparently he was capable of succumbing to a worldly distraction.

  “He sure doesn’t waste any time,” Virgile said. “All of Lyon knows. They meet at the Château Perrache Hotel and don’t seem worried about any tongue-wagging. I hear they recently spent an afternoon there and then an evening, staying well into the night.”

  “Once again, you’re well informed, Virgile.”

  “It’s a small town. People talk. Everyone but her husband seems to know. Word has it that he’s too overwhelmed with his work at their agency to see what she’s doing. And in real estate, it’s easy to spend hours away from the office: a business dinner, an open house, a meeting with a banker—they can all be used as a cover story when you’re really planning to meet a lover.”

  “Right.”

  After clarifying some details about the wine estates Virgile was planning to visit for the guide, Benjamin ended the call. Immediately, the phone rang again.

  “Any prospects for that position I’m trying to fill?” Périthiard said without so much as a hello. “I need someone who can take charge right away. He must also have the highest standards. I intend to launch a primeur wine this fall, Mr. Cooker.”

  “I might have a lead or two…”

  “The truth is, Mr. Cooker, I need you here. I don’t dare to get close to the locals. I need an outside perspective, someone with distance and impartiality, both of which are strong suits of yours. I like your independent nature. You’re an iconoclast and sometimes rebellious.”

  “Mr. Périthiard, because of the very characteristics you mention, I am unable to come at this time. You see, I am not at your beck and call.”

  She fit like a glove in this stylish hotel, with its mahogany paneling and elaborately carved pillars, its ironwork and stained glass. After dining on carpaccio and sipping a Côte-Rôtie under paintings by Henri Martin and Ernest Laurent, she preceded her lover up the stairs with lighthearted steps. Périthiard, a little inebriated, followed, his eyes on the promising sway of her hips.

  In the room, he started unbuttoning her silk blouse, revealing her black lace undergarments. His hands moved furiously, as his desire to possess her grew uncontrollable. Solène was already melting at his touch, her mouth wet, her skin trembling. Suddenly, the shrill of his cell phone filled the room. Solène slipped to her knees, taking him in her mouth with a slow back and forth to keep him with her. The phone kept ringing. Périthiard answered.

  “Hello. Cooker here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Be quick. I’m in the middle of an important meeting.”

  “I found the person for you.”

  “Wonderful! That was faster than I thought. It took only a couple of days. What’s his background?”

  “Bordeaux Business School, top of class. Two more years at the university, studying oenology. Internships in Napa Valley, experience working with large distribution networks. Very favorable recommendations from my friends in Médoc. You can hire this candidate with confidence.”

  “That’s all I need. Who is it?”

  “A rare pearl.”

  10

  Two days later, Annabelle Malisset was sitting in the Maison Coultard-Périthiard offices in the industrial park outside Villefranche-sur-Saône. She knew immediately that she would get the job. For the occasion, she had chosen her best Bordeaux society attire. She had always been an elegant woman who shopped at the most-exclusive boutiques. Even after traveling around the world five times, Annabelle preferred Bordeaux’s luxury stores lining the Allées de Tourny, the Place des Grands-Hommes, and the Cours de l’Intendance. On this day she was wearing a delicate taupe-colored pantsuit and an unobtrusive white blouse with a décolleté that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

  Périthiard proved to be particularly courteous and affable. A wide smile crossed his face when he learned that Benjamin’s rare pearl was a woman—a woman who considered herself brilliant and determined, but also reserved. The interview questions were straightforward and called for precise answers. Her answers were to the point. From time to time she would cross and uncross her legs in a way intended to cause her interviewer to lose his train of thought.

  At thirty-five, Annabelle Malisset fully understood that her polished bourgeois upbringing, her fine education and experience—and, yes, her sex appeal—would get her where she wanted to go. She was practiced at pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen on her cheek, tilting her head ever so slightly, straightening her shoulders, playing with her supple fingers, and pouting just the right amount. But beneath the overly feminine façade, there was a tenacious personality and iron will. When she gazed at Périthiard with her big dark-green eyes, her look was radiant—and deadly.

  Benjamin Cooker was sitting next to Annabelle, observing Périthiard’s discomfort. His predatory eyes seemed to hold equal amounts of respect and fear. Annabelle Malisset’s beauty and intelligence could become lethal weapons. Périthiard would certainly try to rein her in. But he was a true businessman, and even if he balked at delegating his power, he couldn’t ignore the advantages of such a hire.

  After an hour, Annabelle signed her contract with the exorbitant conditions she had demanded. When she handed Benjamin’s fountain pen back to him, she grinned, showing a row of gleaming white teeth that contrasted elegantly with her inte
nsely dark hair.

  “I just hope I will be deserving of the trust you put in me, Mr. Cooker.”

  “I would never have torn you away from your native Gironde if I didn’t have the utmost belief in your talent. I’m sure you will make an important contribution to this region, provided that you aren’t afraid of being treated like an outsider.”

  Périthiard picked up the phone and asked for his manager of logistics. In no time, a short, thin man in a tight suit, light green shirt, and mauve floral tie stuck his surprisingly handsome head through the door.

  “Let me introduce Miss Malisset, our new vice president for sales. I trust you to give her the full tour of the business. Let her see everything. We’re keeping no secrets from her.”

  Annabelle said good-bye to her new employer and the winemaker, picked up her leather briefcase, and walked out of the room, her high heels clicking delicately on the hardwood floor. As the door closed behind her, Périthiard slid down in his swivel chair and loosened his collar.

  “Very classy…”

  “I had no doubt that you would like her.”

  “Thank you for this gift.”

  “A gift that will cost you.”

  “I’m a firm believer in paying people what they’re worth. In this case, you’ve found someone who, I think, will prove to be invaluable.”

  “I agree. To hire and keep talent, one must be willing to pay for it. But please don’t tell my assistant. He’d get some ideas that I can’t afford.”

  “In any case, did I really have a choice?” Périthiard said, tapping his fingers on his polished mahogany desk.

  “You can’t backpedal now. You have to continue moving forward. But I suspect that all these projects, with the estate and the négociant business, are a drain on your finances.”

  “To tell the truth, I’m having trouble sleeping these days.”

  “Let’s hope for a quick return on your investment.”

  “I have set very specific deadlines, and I intend to stick to them.”

  “In that respect, Annabelle Malisset will be an asset. Or should I say a good investment? The expression lacks some elegance, but I’m sure it doesn’t shock you.”

  “Not in the least. Right now, it seems that I’m making one investment after another for the sake of a return that’s not even on the horizon yet. Did I tell you about my latest idea?”

  “You mean your nouveau wine launch?”

  “No, something even more ambitious. It’s yet another venture. I’ll admit the idea isn’t my own. It comes from…”

  “From your wife?” Benjamin asked.

  “No, from Solène… Mrs. Chavannes, if you prefer. You remember her, don’t you? You met her when we first visited Vol-au-Vent.”

  “Oh, yes, Chavannes, from the Chavannes Real Estate Agency.”

  “That’s right,” Périthiard said, looking away.

  Benjamin found Périthiard’s nervous gestures and flushed cheeks almost pathetic. The way he said her name was like a caress, and he was most certainly having a hard time keeping the upper hand on his emotions. He was besotted.

  Heaven help the man, Benjamin thought.

  “She’s a formidable business woman,” Périthiard said, looking back at the winemaker. “She has an incredible head on her shoulders.”

  “Indeed, she seemed quite enterprising,” Benjamin replied, in what he hoped was a neutral tone.

  “She wants me to open some bouchons—in downtown Lyon at first. Being in real estate, she knows the best opportunities. The idea is to buy out businesses that are fumbling and recycle them as Lyon-style brasseries. Eventually, we could open bouchons all over France. I don’t know if they’ll be franchises or if we’ll run them ourselves. We’ll focus on a friendly atmosphere, small premises, reasonable prices, traditional cuisine, and, to be honest, the opportunity to sell my wines and make a name for them all over the country.”

  “Need I remind you that people pay attention to Beaujolais wine for only a month or two a year?”

  “This will be a way to sell year-round. You did tell me to focus on the French market.”

  “True enough,” Benjamin said.

  The winemaker didn’t approve of Périthiard’s whim. He needed to focus on Vol-au-Vent, tighten up his wine-trade business, and reassure the banks. Instead, Périthiard was spreading himself too thin and letting himself be influenced by a woman whose business had little to do with the world of winemaking. But as long as their honeymoon lasted, Benjamin wouldn’t be able to talk any sense into his client.

  “We’ll be opening the first restaurant as soon as we can,” Périthiard said.

  An uncomfortable silence settled in the room.

  “So, I see you’ve already gotten this venture under way,”

  “Why wait?”

  “What are you calling it?”

  “Prince Régnié. It’s a catchy name, don’t you think?”

  “A little pompous, if you ask me, and an obvious come-on for your wine.”

  “It was Solène’s idea. I thought it was a bold choice, which is what I like about it.”

  “Indeed, I’d say it’s brazen. But is now really a good time to lay it on so thick?”

  “Why do you say that? Because of Quillebaud?”

  “Is there any news?” Benjamin straightened in his chair.

  “The newspapers say the investigation is at a standstill.”

  “That just means the cops aren’t telling reporters anything.”

  “Oh, but there’s lots of talk in the villages. At first, everyone was saying that he shot himself with his own gun. But then the story of Dujaray’s son started making the rounds, especially because most of the hunters were using 9.3x74mmR cartridges. The Dujaray kid, Quillebaud, and Marceau—who, by the way, has been brain-injured since childhood—were the only ones with 7.65mm Brownings. And all those rumors pushed the cops into pulling Fabien Dujaray in for questioning.”

  “Well, it was about time,” Benjamin said.

  “Fabien said he couldn’t see Quillebaud, because a heavy stand of trees separated them, but the investigators weren’t convinced. They held him for forty-eight hours.”

  “I imagine old man Dujaray was furious.”

  “Worse. He accused me of feeding the rumor mill and spreading fake information for my personal benefit. Hurting his reputation by getting his son taken in for questioning could only bolster my position. Of course, I didn’t have anything to do with that, but Dujaray doesn’t know.”

  “I can understand his position. If Fabien Dujaray is in some way involved in settling a score under the guise of a terrible hunting accident, you could come out of this looking like a decent person who’s been victimized. People would pity you. From there, it’s a short leap to appreciation and maybe even admiration.”

  “Coming out of this with a pristine image isn’t what’s important to me. I lost a key member of my team just when orders were starting to come in from Japan and Russia. And I’ve had to hire a new vice president. I’ve lost precious time. Meanwhile, Dujaray has used the full force of his standing and his finances to get his son cleared. Of course, the police had no proof of wrongdoing, so they had to let Fabien go.”

  “But if Dujaray had to pull that many strings and use that much clout to clear his son, I’m sure many people will doubt that the family is innocent. Again, that’s good for you and your business.”

  “I went one step further,” Périthiard said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I hired Fabien as logistics manager.”

  Benjamin was stunned. “What?”

  “The old man may have spent a fortune clearing his son, but he still doesn’t trust him with the family business. Fabien has something to prove, Mr. Cooker, and I have a feeling that he knows just how to get at his father’s Achilles’ heel.”

  11

  Virgile had been enjoying his peaceful retreat. Esteban and Mercedes Ambroyo, with their imperturbable calm and informal hospitality, went about their liv
es as usual, and Virgile returned their hospitality with fresh food from the market and dishes he had learned to cook with his mother. When Benjamin told his friends and assistant that he was coming back, Mercedes insisted that Virgile simply enjoy the reunion. He didn’t have to “work for a place to sleep.”

  “I’ll call a caterer in Belleville to make us a delicious dinner.”

  “What will people think?” Virgile said, flashing one of his lady-killer smiles.

  “Don’t worry, we already have quite a reputation: the artist who pounds rock while his wife pounds the keyboard. Fortunately, we managed to raise three girls without starving them to death,” Esteban said with just a hint of sarcasm. He lit his meerschaum pipe, which he had sculpted himself with a pocketknife.

  The three welcomed Benjamin at the end of the day and ushered him to a table loaded with mouthwatering dishes.

  “Mercedes, what happened?” Benjamin said. “I didn’t think you could cook.”

  “I still can’t, although your assistant here has been threatening to teach me. He’s quite talented in the kitchen. Were you aware of that?”

  “I think he told me once that he used to help his mother cook,” the winemaker answered, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “So, Benjamin, Elisabeth must be livid about your leaving home so soon after her return,” Mercedes said as she served her husband and guests the catered quenelles de brochet with sauce mousseline.

  “Frankly, I think she’s too jet-lagged to notice I’m gone. I almost brought her along to get her mind off of Margaux. Now that Margaux is starting to long for home, Elisabeth can’t wait for her to move back to France. But some things you just can’t force.”

  Benjamin squirmed in his chair when he saw Virgile’s eyes light up. As fond of his assistant as he was—he even thought of him as a son—he couldn’t see Virgile with his precious daughter. Virgile was still too footloose and fancy-free. But Benjamin did muster the generosity to tell Esteban and Mercedes how gallantly Virgile had cared for Margaux after her terrible car accident during a trip home and how he had been key in the discovery that the accident was really the result of criminal sabotage.