Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 6

  The château’s bell tower struck midnight. Two cook apprentices hastily left the kitchens and climbed onto their scooters. One of them, with a slender build, was wearing glow-in-the-dark sneakers.

  “Well,” Benjamin thought as he pulled up the collar of his Loden. “Virgile said they were popular these days.”

  9

  First thing in the morning, Benjamin ordered breakfast in his room. The red and green floral wallpaper and matching bedcover were a bit too much for him this early in the day, but he wanted to call Elisabeth.

  “How’s the old man?” he asked, without any preamble.

  “Hurt and distressed, but he’ll be fine.”

  “No longer suicidal?”

  “He was being a drama queen. He thought it would get you to fly back to London and keep him company.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Benjamin said, relieved. He heard a knock and opened the door for room service.

  “He’s been up and down ever since you left. Yesterday, when we were playing backgammon, he was going on and on about Lucy. He said he loved her more than he ever loved your mother. The contrast between his distinguished face and posh silk scarf around his neck and the sap coming out of his mouth was more than I could take.”

  “Boy, that Lucy must have had some moves in bed, because Father never got over Mother after the divorce. That I’m certain of.”

  “I also got an earful about your brother and sister. I let him win two games and then dragged him out of the apartment. I figured we needed to find this woman, so I could give her a piece of my mind.”

  “Where did you go?” Benjamin asked, inspecting the croissants.

  “Her brother runs an import-export business, so we went to his offices. You’re not going to believe what they import.”

  “You know I’m not good at guessing games.”

  “Cheap lingerie from China. The scratchy kind! Ugh! Anyway, the man said his so-called ‘sister’ had left the city.”

  “How do you know they aren’t really brother and sister?”

  “You’ve taught me to be observant, Benjamin. He took way too long to answer my questions. Besides, he was clearly Russian, while your father described his love as Asian.”

  “Poor Father.”

  “He tried calling her all afternoon, but it kept going to voice mail. So we headed over to the agency that provides his home-care nurses and asked about her. She hadn’t shown up for three days. I had to sit Paul William down in the waiting area for him to digest the information. I had never seen him slump like that before.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “After a while, he perked up again. Actually, it was more like he was agitated. He insisted that we file a missing-person’s report. It took all I had to calm him down and take him home. When his nightly nurse came—that big fellow who calls himself Angus—I cornered him and asked about Lucy.”

  “I can just see you backing him up against the wall and demanding answers,” Benjamin said, grinning.

  “By that time, I was so angry with the whole situation. It’s true, he didn’t have much of a choice. Angus confessed that Lucy had, indeed, skipped town. She’d told him she wouldn’t be back. For all we know, she was stealing from her clients—money, jewelry, artworks… You name it. I’m sure half of them have dementia or Alzheimer’s. While I’m thinking of it, I’m going to take a look around Beau-papa’s apartment. He may be missing a few things.”

  Benjamin took a deep breath and sighed. His proud, handsome father—brought to his knees by a fly-by-night health aide who was practicing more than medicine. “Elisabeth, make sure he doesn’t hit the liquor cabinet too hard. He is getting on, and a man his age shouldn’t be drinking the way he did when he was younger.”

  “Don’t worry, Benjamin. I said I was on it. Today I’m making my famous pot-au-feu, the way he likes it, with leeks and turnips and peas. Remember how he used to insist that Margaux eat just one pea before leaving the table? She always refused, and they’d sit there making silly faces at each other. It was their game.”

  The memory brought a smile to Benjamin’s face. “Are you sure he’s all right?”

  “He’ll be fine, Benjamin. He always is.”

  Still, the winemaker wasn’t fooled by Elisabeth’s tone. He downed the last drop of his Grand Yunnan tea and left a note for Virgile at the reception desk, telling him to find his own way to the estate while he returned the rental car and grabbed a taxi.

  § § §

  Elisabeth hung up and sat down in the kitchen. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She hadn’t told Benjamin about Paul William’s shaking and irritability, the memory lapses, the fatigue, and occasional confusion. Maybe his depression was exacerbating the symptoms, and they would ease once he was himself again, but she was concerned.

  Good thing she was cooking. It always took her mind off any worries. She was making another Paul William favorite: gâteau Saint-Honoré. The day before, she had prepared the puff pastry, and now she would attack the choux paste, chiboust cream, and caramel.

  When Paul William finally shuffled into the kitchen, he looked haggard. He said nothing as he settled down at the early nineteenth-century oak table. Actually, it was an English refectory table that he had acquired years earlier for his shop. But he had fallen in love with its thick plank top with dovetailed bread board ends and its intricately carved apron and legs. Instead of having the table delivered to his store, he had instructed the sellers to have it sent to his home.

  “Good morning,” he finally mumbled, hesitating at the end as if his greeting were not finished. Perhaps he was hung over.

  Elisabeth heated up the tea kettle on the chef’s range. Benjamin’s mother had insisted on buying it—at least she had gotten that right. As the water came to a boil, Elisabeth put the final touches on the Saint-Honoré cake, presenting it on a silver cake stand with pride.

  “How lovely, dear. What kind of cake is that? You’d think it was my birthday or something.”

  Elisabeth’s smile faded as her heart dropped to her heels. Paul William never called her dear. And he’d been eating her Saint-Honoré for years. Things were worse than she imagined.

  “Beau-papa, this is my gâteau Saint-Honoré, made just for you. Have some.” She forced herself to smile and brought out two Wedgewood Cornucopia breakfast plates and matching teacups. She served him a portion of cake and poured the tea—Grand Yunnan, the same tea Benjamin drank in the morning.

  Paul William sat up a bit straighter and dug in. It didn’t take long for the color to return to his cheeks.

  “How is Margaux? Still trying to be a Yankee?” Paul William asked.

  Elisabeth relaxed a little. “Yes, she’s still in New York. Sometimes she says she’s ready to come home, but I don’t know if that’s just so I’ll stop pestering her, or if it’s true. I do wish she’d come back to Bordeaux, find a nice man, and settle down.”

  “Children don’t always make the life choices their parents want them to make.” Paul William’s words were coming out slowly and deliberately. “I wasn’t thrilled with Benjy’s decision to study art. I never thought he’d make a living as an artist.”

  “That we’ll never know, Beau-papa.” Elisabeth finished her pastry and wiped her mouth. She looked Paul William in the eye. “So now we need to talk about you and your choices.”

  “What so you mean, Elisabeth?” Paul William pushed his half-eaten cake away and picked up his cup of tea.

  “You need to tell me what Lucy was treating you for, Beau-papa.”

  “Now, truly, it’s none of your concern. I’m as healthy as a fiddle. Just old.”

  “If that’s the case, I’m insisting that you prove it. You must see your doctor. How long has it been, anyway?”

  “I don’t need a doctor, Elisabeth. I need the police. We have to file a missing-person’s report for Lucy.”

>   “No, Beau-papa, we don’t need a missing-person’s report. As far as I’m concerned, good riddance to Miss Lucy and her shots. We’ll be terminating Big Angus too. God knows what was in those hypodermics.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Elisabeth shifted in her chair. “How can I say this? When we go to the police, it won’t be to ask for help finding your beloved home-health aide. We need to know if she has a criminal record. The police may even be investigating her right now. You see, I fear you’ve fallen into the clutches of a con artist and maybe a thief.”

  Paul William set his cup down, his hand shaking. “Lucy, a con artist? Never!”

  “Now, tell me about her, Beau-papa. How did you meet?”

  “She was a replacement health aide, and we hit if off so well, she wanted me to ask the agency to take her on permanently. Then one thing led to another. You know how it is. I’ve still got it in me.”

  “Has anything gone missing here, Beau-papa? Any valuable objects?”

  “You think that she’d just make off with my collectibles? When she needed something, she didn’t have to steal from me. I gave it to her.”

  “Well, then, did you give her money?”

  “Yes, I did. But it was an emergency. Her son was getting divorced. An awful woman—you should have heard the stories, Elisabeth. And the lad had to pay his lawyer. He used one of London’s top attorneys. Very high fees.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Of course, I courted Lucy, just as I would court any other woman. We ate at the best restaurants, and I gave her gifts—jewelry, lingerie, whatever she wanted.”

  “Whose idea was it to get married and change your will?”

  “Elisabeth, what are you trying to tell me? Do you mean…”

  Paul William sat back in his chair and said nothing for a few minutes.

  “Now that I think of it, she brought it up,” he finally said, his voice filled with sadness and his eyes glistening. “She said my children would never take care of me well enough, that only she could do that. If we got married she’d look after me and make sure I was happy. Oh my, how could I have been duped?”

  “Don’t feel so bad, Beau-papa. It happens all the time. Lucy and others of her ilk are skilled, and money and loneliness make the elderly ideal prey.”

  “There are times, Elisabeth, that you can be very straightforward.”

  “Yes, I can be. So, it’s a new day, Beau-papa. Time to wake up and smell the coffee—tea, in your case. You’ve been feeling very alone and isolated, haven’t you?”

  10

  When Benjamin arrived at the Lemoine estate, Virgile was watching Marcel pace in the courtyard, a cell phone glued to his ear. They could hear only bits of the conversation.

  “What do you mean, changed? When? A deductible of twenty-five percent of a plot’s insured value? What the…”

  Benjamin and Virgile made eye contact. Why did insurance companies always spring surprises when their clients needed them the most? The adjusters would be busy for days—maybe weeks—after the storm, and many an estate owner would bristle at the proposed payouts.

  But more immediate matters needed attention. In the fields, the harvesters were at the ready, nose in grape clusters, boots planted in the mud.

  “Virgile, smell that musty, sour odor. The risk of widespread rot is growing. Grapes crushed by the hail are already contaminating the bunches that were still intact.”

  Without another word, they split up and urged the harvesters to save whatever they could. Time was short. Besides an imminent threat of botrytis, there was the danger of alternaria, penicillium, and rhizopus, the fungi of ill omen that could decay the fruit in just two days. As if that weren’t enough, there were birds and insects to worry about.

  The grapes that were still healthy needed to be brought in. Adding sorters was a must. Philippine stationed herself near the conveyor belt, while Rafael pushed pickers to keep up the pace. For their part, Benjamin and Virgile inspected every row, assessing which grapes had to be taken first. The pickers would be putting in long hours.

  “If need be, we’ll pick by candlelight!” a fretful Rafael declared.

  Benjamin didn’t want the harvesters to collect the grapes in the traditional benaton baskets, but instead in crates, where they would be better protected. “I don’t have to tell you that what we’re doing here is like surgery!”

  Because the new optical-scanning machinery wasn’t in place yet, it was up to the sorters to remove the unripe grapes, the small bunches, the leaves, the stems, and the unwanted debris. Benjamin instructed the workers to avoid overhandling the grapes at all costs.

  Sunshine was flooding the Côte, but the harvesters had lost any natural joy. No one had the heart to crack a joke or even talk much. They were frustrated in the face of so much waste, and they were under the gun.

  § § §

  Virgile was doing his best to buoy the spirits of the workers. He spent part of the morning helping Emilie, the curly-haired brunette who had driven him to the hotel. The rest of the time, he moved from one group of workers to the next, using his charm to get them to talk. And talk they did. If it wasn’t about the hail, then it was about Clotilde’s murder.

  He learned that all the Romanée-Conti harvesters had given statements, and they were consistent. Clotilde, with her clear eyes, freckled cheeks, and turned-up nose, was a friendly girl. She seemed a little unsure of herself, but if she had any problems, she didn’t let on. She enjoyed her wine and a good joke. She never had any disagreements with the other pickers or her employers—who had only good things to say about her. She was a hard worker and was always on time.

  “I’ve been harvesting for thirty-five years, and this is the first time anyone around here’s been murdered,” said Lily, whose floral blouse and fuchsia turban couldn’t be missed in a field of grapevines.

  “And who knows when the gendarmes will have a lead,” said Martine, whose upper lip bore traces of a mustache.

  During a break, Virgile joined Roland, Jean-Jacques, and Bernard.

  “The medical examiner says there was evidence of sexual contact, but he hasn’t made an official ruling on rape,” Roland said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “They haven’t found her clothes.”

  “Maybe Periscope took them,” Jean-Jacques said.

  “Periscope?” Virgile asked.

  Jean-Jacques pointed to a beanpole in the field with a surprisingly long neck. “That guy over there in the red cap. Nobody knows his real name. He lives in a restored vine shed near Morey or Gevrey. He’s a former legionnaire and a crackpot. He’s been in trouble before for stealing women’s undergarments from clotheslines in the area.”

  Lily, a few steps away, heard this and yelled over, “Hey, he’s not a bad guy at all. He had nothing to do with this.”

  “How do you know?” Bernard yelled back.

  Bernadette, standing next to Lily, answered. “Well, if you really need to know, it’s because he was with me the night it happened.”

  Jean-Jacques smirked and whispered in Virgile’s ear, “Fifty-five years old and still single. She’s slept with all the men in town, so it must be true.”

  Gerry, a picker with a mop the color of wheat and an Irish accent, joined the men. Virgile had heard that he’d moved from Galway to Burgundy twenty years earlier for the love of a frivolous French woman who left him the day of their wedding.

  “You’re talking about Clotilde?” Gerry said. “Somebody at Romanée-Conti told me she wanted to be an archeologist. But then she got interested in enology. You know she and Philippine were buddy-buddy.”

  “Is that so?” He had Virgile’s full attention. “Philippine didn’t say much about being friends with Clotilde when she told us about the gendarmes finding her body. If that was the case, it’s odd that she didn’t hire her for the harvest. Anybody know why?”

&n
bsp; He was met with a few answers. One worker said the Lemoines already had enough people. Another suggested “tension with Lemoine junior.”

  Virgile was eager to know more about this “tension,” but sensed they didn’t want to say more.

  “For all we know, she didn’t really apply for a job here. Who knows? Only Philippine,” Bernard said. “But one thing’s for sure. It had to be some maniac that killed her. And the ruins were a perfect place for it. Someone could commit a murder there, and no one would be the wiser. That is, if no one else was around.”

  The men looked at each other and grinned.

  “What am I missing?” Virgile asked.

  “Well, it’s a good place to go if you and your girl want to get a little frisky,” Jean-Jacques said, his eyes full of mischief.

  “Okay, I get it. You can go there and have a little sex, and nobody’ll know. Who’d believe such things would go on in a former abbey!”

  They all laughed.

  “Yeah, go check the place out sometime,” Bernard said. “You’ll find carved hearts and initials all over the lintels and slabs.”

  When Virgile asked if Clotilde had a boyfriend, they all fell silent. He deduced that she either broke hearts or slept around. No one wanted to speak ill of the dead so soon.

  Finally, Gerry spoke. “Clo liked a lot of people. But if you ask me, she had only one love: wine.”

  11

  Benjamin and Virgile arrived at the estate early the next morning to continue lending a hand. When they drove up in the Mercedes station wagon the Lemoine family had put at their disposal, they spotted a black Peugeot 308 bearing the logo of a local insurance agency. A lanky young man in a three-piece suit got out. He walked around to the trunk and grabbed a pair of rubber boots, which were clearly better suited for trudging in the fields than his leather dress shoes.