Foul Play in Vouvray Page 6

  A poke in the ribs interrupted the winemaker’s thoughts. It was Virgile. “Boss,” he whispered, using his chin to point toward the police inspector. Blanchet was examining something on the floor. Benjamin couldn’t quite make it out, as it was hidden by the rubble of the felled wall. He stepped closer and saw what the inspector was staring at.

  Bones: two femurs, ribs, radius and ulna, sternum, pubis. And a skull, grinning at them.

  “What the hell?” David shouted. “This must be some kind of joke.”

  “It’s no joke, I assure you,” Blanchet said. “It’s a human skeleton. About five feet seven, teeth intact. Broken clavicle. We need to know who this person was and how he or she got here.”

  “You expect me to know?” Even in the dim lighting, Benjamin could see that David’s face was red.

  Dr. Molinier put an arm around his shoulder. “Calm down. Getting upset won’t solve anything.”

  David wrenched himself free. “I have no idea who this is, Inspector. Nor do I know how it got here. I suppose you’ll be tearing up my cellar even more now.”

  Blanchet didn’t bat an eye. “We need to identify the skeleton and determine how it got here.” He held out a piece of jewelry—a chain with a medal. “Can you tell me anything about this? It’s the Virgin Mary and child. We assume the deceased was wearing it.”

  “You tell me, Inspector.” David looked around his cellar, assessing the damage. Broken bottles littered the floor. He ran a hand through his cropped hair. “Haven’t we been through enough?”

  No one answered. Finally, Benjamin spoke. “How long do you expect to be here, Inspector? Mr. Navarre would like to get things back in order as soon as possible.”

  Blanchet dropped the chain into a plastic evidence bag. “I think we can wrap up our work here by the end of the day. Of course, the skeleton must be transported to the morgue. That will happen either today or tomorrow.” He turned to David. “Mr. Navarre, you and your friends can leave now. I’ll be in touch with any additional questions.”

  The four men made their way out of the wine cellar. As soon as they were back in David’s study, the actor pulled Benjamin aside. “Benjamin, you’ve got to help me. I don’t trust that guy Blanchet. He’ll try to pin this on me.”

  “I don’t see how he can do that, David. The skeleton looked like it’s been there for decades. You haven’t owned your place that long.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Benjamin. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this before I’m dragged into any more hassles. Can you imagine what the media will do if they learn about this?”

  “You have a point. But what do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to find out who that skeleton belonged to and how it got here.”

  “David, identifying bones isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “Benjamin, don’t kid me. I’m familiar with the crimes you’ve solved. I know you’ve got your hands full with that documentary, but please help me. You can hold off on studying my parcel. And I’ll pay you three times your going rate!”

  Benjamin sighed. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll look into it, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “Thank you, Benjamin. Please, see what you can find out. From you, that’s the same as delivering the goods.”

  12

  “I don’t know, boss,” Virgile said as they made their way back to the car. “How can we handle the skeleton with everything else we’ve got going? Liza’s expecting us to spend the rest of the day with her, and we’ve just begun filming.”

  “I’m aware of that, Virgile. But if David is sincere about putting off the work on his parcel, we might be able to deal with the skeleton and keep Liza happy. Maybe we can get David pointed in the right direction, and then he can hire someone else—someone who specializes in well-aged bones instead of well-aged wines—to finish the investigation.”

  The winemaker’s weak attempt at humor didn’t even elicit a smile. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate whatever we can do, boss.”

  Virgile looked like he had something on his mind, but Benjamin didn’t ask. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The demands of the film shoot, Simone’s assault, the skeleton, and what appeared to be David’s declining emotional state were all on his mind. Benjamin was missing Grangebelle and its peace and continuity. The winemaker needed a quiet drive to reestablish a sense of order, so he didn’t attempt to converse with Virgile during their drive to the spot Liza had designated.

  They spent the remainder of the day on location, complying with Liza’s requests as she arranged the scenes needed in the editing phase of the project. This entailed filming several shots that would link the sequences: opening the door of the convertible, closing it, repeating the opening and closing a dozen times—from a lower angle or a higher angle--faster, slower, almost as fast, but not too fast, either. “Thank you, gentlemen. Could you please do it again, but while starting the engine this time?” It wasn’t really a request, but rather a friendly yet authoritative suggestion.

  Benjamin grumbled and sighed, making no attempt to conceal his weariness, while Virgile just went along. Liza apparently felt she could count on Virgile’s cooperation. He didn’t seem nervous and made none of the little self-conscious gestures common for beginners. But what Liza didn’t notice, Benjamin did. He was staring at Fabrice.

  At sundown, when they could no longer work, the winemaker suggested that they have dinner at the Grand Vatel in Vouvray. Liza declined, saying she was tired. She would have something in her room.

  Annoying as she was with her sundry expectations, Benjamin couldn’t help respecting this woman, a consummate professional who would never make the kind of money her less-talented male peers were earning. On her budget, she couldn’t treat five people to a meal at the Grand Vatel. A truck stop or snack bar for food and a low-cost hotel on the side of the highway for lodging—that was all the Open Air budget would allow for. And yet Liza carried on with confidence and pride.

  They said their good-byes and parted ways.

  “I suppose the shoot went as well as it could,” Benjamin said as he opened the car door. “You’re a natural, Virgile. What was it, though, with those looks you were giving Fabrice? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d switched teams.”

  Virgile laughed. “Where on earth did you hear that expression?”

  “As I said, you don’t give me enough credit. I do read. Now what about Fabrice?”

  “Nothing, boss. He just seems to get around a lot.”

  Benjamin waited for more information, but none came. He let it go, and they spent the rest of the drive back to Château de Pray listening to Debussy’s Prélude à l’après midi d’un faune. Once there, they freshened up in their rooms and met again on the ground floor, where they came face-to-face with Lee Friedman.

  “Ah, once again we meet,” Lee said.

  “I didn’t know you were staying here,” Benjamin said, shaking the screenwriter’s hand.

  “I’m taking a short break from Paris. I was on my way to the salon for a drink. Would you care to join me?”

  “Why not?” Benjamin said.

  As soon as they settled in their armchairs, a smiling staff member arrived and offered them a Bonnezeaux.

  “As long as it’s a Château de Fesles,” Benjamin said.

  “That it is,” she said, filling their glasses.

  She left, and Lee turned to Benjamin. “I know how you love your cigars. It must be difficult to find a place to light up these days.”

  The winemaker shook his head. “It seems no one puts up with cigar smoke anymore. A peppery Cohibas would have gone nicely with this 2007 Château de Fesles.”

  “I believe the smoke makes some people sick,” Lee said.

  “To be honest, Lee, I’m of the opinion that some people just think it makes them sick. I quote Friedrich Durrenmatt. ‘Without tolerance, our world turns into hell.’”

  “Now, Benjamin, don’t you think that applies to you, as well?”


  The winemaker chuckled. “Touché, my friend. And the lack of a cigar won’t keep me from admiring this fine wine.” He studied the honeyed color and sniffed the aromas of ripe apricot and exotic fruit on a mineral base. He sipped. The Bonnezeaux was intense and rich. Bernard Germain, who owned the estate from 1996 to 2008, could transform a grape into gold.

  As the winemaker began to relax, he noticed that Lee didn’t seem quite as attentive. The screenwriter was known for his insights and quick wit, but now he seemed distracted, despondent, even. “So how are you, Lee? If you don’t mind my saying, you seem a little off your game.”

  Lee sighed. “You don’t miss a beat, do you, Benjamin. To answer your question, I’ve been better.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “How long do you have?”

  Benjamin smiled. “As long as you need. Let’s order another glass of the Château de Fesles.” And so the winemaker listened patiently while Lee related his troubles: a year spent dealing with a sordid divorce, betrayals, deception, and slander meted out by a wicked and manipulative spouse, in-laws blinded by hate, and friends who claimed to be impartial but proved to be incredibly stupid. He had lost his home and custody of his son. A criminal complaint filed by his wife hadn’t gone to trial yet, and paying for the lawyer alone was becoming cost-prohibitive. His work was his only distraction, and too much wine at night was his only comfort.

  Benjamin felt for his writer friend, a man in his fifties undone by the woman he had trusted most in this world. He had been betrayed by someone else, as well. According to Benjamin’s publisher, David Navarre had helped himself to a quickie with Lee’s wife at a dinner party in Paris. And then she had the impudence to tell Lee.

  Benjamin winced at the recollection. Still, Lee and David didn’t seem uncomfortable with each other. He would have thought Lee would be furious, and David would be doing his best to avoid the man he had stabbed in the back. But then again, Lee tended to keep things bottled up. Maybe he was too humiliated and didn’t want to admit what had happened. And perhaps David was feeling guilty and making up for his indiscretion by trying to get Gayraud moving on the screenplay.

  Benjamin silently gave thanks for his own blessings: Elisabeth, his home, his smart and talented daughter, the rewards of his work, and, yes, even Virgile. He banished the memory and lightened the mood. “We were planning to dine at the Grand Vatel,” he said. “Would you like to come along?”

  “Indeed, why go our separate ways?” Lee said. “But I had lunch there with Gayraud.”

  “Oh? Did you make any headway on your contract?”

  Lee shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He holds out the carrot, but it’s always out of reach. And, of course, I picked up the check.”

  “So sorry, Lee,” Benjamin said. “Tonight, dinner’s on me.” He turned to Virgile. “Any preferences?”

  “It doesn’t matter boss. But the sooner we eat, the better. I’m starving.”

  They decided to stay at Château de Pray and went out to the terrace, even though it was a bit chilly.

  “Getting back to your project, Lee—I’m intrigued,” Benjamin said after they placed their orders. “Why a Vineyard Plot screenplay?”

  Lee chuckled. “I’d think you’d be flattered, Benjamin. The character’s based on you. And the book’s a bestseller, remember? It’s a no-brainer—following the book with a film.”

  “I’m more surprised than flattered. I like to think of myself as the staid sort.”

  “You may dress conservatively, Benjamin, but staid isn’t you.”

  This was more talk about himself than he cared to indulge. The winemaker changed the subject just as their dinners were arriving. “So, are you planning a lengthy stay here?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Lee said, picking at his veal shank with Loire Valley spinach and goat cheese. “I wanted to attend David’s party, as he’d told me Gayraud would be there. Beyond these next few days, however, I don’t know. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that I came for a respite, and everything here has blown up. Who would have guessed there’d be a tragedy at David’s château?” Lee shook his head. “There’s no peace in the valley.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Benjamin said before taking a bite of his artichokes and whelk.

  Virgile tilted his head. “‘Peace in the Valley.’ Isn’t that an American song?”

  “Yes, it is,” Lee said. “Written in 1937 for Mahalia Jackson. ‘There will be peace in the valley for me some day. There will be peace in the valley for me, oh, Lord, I pray. There will be no sadness, no sorrow, no trouble, I see.’”

  Benjamin put his fork down. “I never would have pegged you as a fan of gospel music.”

  Lee smiled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Benjamin, my taste in music included. I’ve been a French citizen for quite a while now, but my roots are American. Elvis Presley recorded ‘Peace in the Valley’ in 1957. He sang it on the Ed Sullivan Show and asked his fans to send emergency aid for the more than two hundred thousand refugees who fled Hungary after the Soviet invasion. Many of those refugees settled in London.”

  Benjamin nodded. “London has a very large Hungarian population. As a matter of fact, the last time Elisabeth and I visited my father, he took us to a wonderful restaurant in Soho. I had cabbage stuffed with minced pork, sauerkraut, and bacon. For dessert, Elisabeth and I shared dobos torta.”

  “What’s that, boss?”

  “Cake topped with caramel.”

  “Mmm, sounds delicious,” Virgile said. “Let’s make sure we check the dessert menu.”

  Lee wiped his mouth. “At any rate, I find solace in that song, especially now.”

  “‘No sadness, no sorrow.’ Isn’t that what we all seek?” Benjamin said. “But there’s no avoiding it. People fail us, abandon us, deceive us. Life takes unexpected turns…”

  Virgile sighed, and Benjamin looked over at him. “What is it, son?”

  “Ah, boss, do you think we could change the subject? Maybe there’s no avoiding sadness and sorrow. But could we could give it a rest while we’re enjoying our meal and looking forward to dessert?”

  Benjamin smiled. Virgile knew how to get a conversation back on track. “All right, Virgile. No more talk of sadness and sorrow.” But the winemaker didn’t have a chance.

  “Have you heard anything about Simone?” Lee asked abruptly. “Do they know how she wound up unconscious in the cellar?”

  Benjamin played coy. “I really don’t have any solid information. But there’s speculation that she was drugged.”

  Lee put his fork down. His hand was trembling. “Drugged? With what?”

  “The police haven’t released anything yet. Let me ask, Lee: do you know anyone who would want to do that to her?”

  “How would I know? You’d be better off asking that asshole director Max Armond, who’d been pushing her to the brink, or her boyfriend David. They could get their hands on any drug they wanted.”

  “I’m sure the police will be questioning them.” Benjamin took his last bite. “At any rate, let’s follow Virgile’s advice and order dessert. I hear the hot soufflé and blackcurrant sorbet are excellent.”

  The three men made their selections, and Benjamin suggested that they end the evening with a very old Château-de-Prada Armagnac made by his friend Philippe de Bouglon.

  The winemaker was about to note the golden color and candied apricot and mandarin aroma when he heard giggling at a nearby table. He glanced over. Two women, one with curly auburn hair and the other with a long dark-brown ponytail, were grinning and staring at Virgile. Next to the one with the ponytail was a magazine opened to a photograph.

  “Virgile, they’re pointing at you,” Benjamin said.

  “Seriously?” Virgile turned their way and then looked back at Benjamin. His face was flushed. “That magazine, boss—there’s a photograph of me dancing with Simone Margerolle.”

  Before Benjamin could stop him, Virgile got up and walked over to the women’s table. He said something
and returned with the magazine.

  “Let’s have a look,” Benjamin said, grabbing the publication. Sure enough, it was his assistant—embracing the actress, whose cheek was resting on his shoulder. The sensuous mouth, half-closed eyes, loose hair, and pearls of sweat—she had never looked more seductive. And the caption? “Last dance.”

  Benjamin couldn’t hide his shock. “What rag is this?” he said, turning to the cover. It was Voici!. He looked at the photo once again and saw that it was part of an entire article on the eventful night at David Navarre’s château. “I can’t imagine how they got this in so quickly. They must have stopped a press run. At least they didn’t name you, Virgile.”

  “There was a magazine photographer at the party, boss. But I didn’t see him taking pictures of me.”

  “Apparently because you were very busy canoodling with the actress.” Benjamin could feel his blood pressure rising. “Do you know what publicity like this could do to us? Cooker & Co. has a reputation to maintain! You said you spoke briefly and shared a dance. That was it.”

  “Honest, boss, that’s all that happened.”

  Lee picked up the magazine and looked through it quickly. “What’s your surname, Virgile? Lanssien, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, with two s’s,” Virgile said.

  “With such a name, you’d be expected to have more wisdom. But then again, I’ve been caught with my pants down one or two times.”

  “But it wasn’t like that—not at all like that,” Virgile protested. “Boss, you’ve got to believe me.”

  Lee looked at Benjamin. “A photograph taken out of context can not only do a lot of harm, but also cast suspicion on the wrong person.”

  Turning to Virgile, Lee asked, “I suppose you’ve read some Cato the Elder?”

  “Never heard of him.”