Mayhem in Margaux Page 7

  The door of the abandoned sheepfold was hanging by one rusty hinge. Benjamin and Virgile stepped through a curtain of nervous little flies and entered the building. A pestilential odor immediately assailed them. The heat was dreadful, intensified by the sheet metal workers had used in failed attempts to maintain the roof. The winemaker and his assistant took a few blind steps, squinting and slowly adjusting to the darkness. Around them they made out the shapes of dishes on wooden crates, piles of dirty clothes on the ground, and makeshift beds of burlap bags.

  “What is this shit?” Virgile whispered.

  “It looks like it’s inhabited,” Benjamin answered, pointing to two aluminum bowls where blowflies were fighting over a piece of fat stuck in a reddish sauce.

  Benjamin pointed to a candle fixed on an empty can near a straw mattress covered with several tattered blankets. Virgile lit it. The soft glow revealed the desolation of the place and the poverty in which the inhabitants of the sheepfold were languishing. Benjamin dug through a big box crammed with packages of macaroni, coarse semolina, and rice. Then he opened an old sports bag with makeshift string handles—the originals were broken. Inside the bag he found six passports stamped with the Moroccan coat of arms. He quickly leafed through them, finding photos of relatively young men, most with moustaches. Some looked world-weary. Others looked more debonair.

  “Moroccans?” Virgile asked.

  “So it seems. Illegals, no doubt.”

  “That’s no reason to pen them up like dogs! And it stinks in here. The smell’s unbearable.”

  “I wonder where it’s coming from,” Benjamin said.

  “There’s no running water in this shack. Look over there. They have buckets filled with water. They must fill them at a spring. I don’t think there’s a toilet, either.”

  A muffled moan reached them from the back of the room. Virgile lifted the candle. A shapeless mass was lying on a filthy mattress. They walked over slowly and made out the bald head of a man curled in a fetal position. He had vomited on his blanket and was shaking with fever. His teeth were chattering. He stared at them with terrified dark eyes. Benjamin and Virgile spoke some reassuring words, which the man obviously didn’t understand. His cracked and swollen lips were bleeding, but he found the strength to utter a few words in Arabic.

  “He must be burning up with fever, and in this heat, I’m amazed he’s still alive,” Benjamin said.

  Virgile was fumbling with his cell phone.

  “No bars.”

  Benjamin looked at the man again and told him he would get help. Benjamin’s voice seemed to calm him.

  “This is an outrage,” Benjamin said.

  “Yes, it’s absolutely disgusting.”

  “My first choice of words would probably have been revolting or abject, but I’m with you on this. It is absolutely disgusting. This man needs help right away. We must get to a place with cell coverage and call an ambulance. I’ll ring Inspector Barbaroux too. He’ll do something about this. And I’m betting it will shed new light on the Rinetti investigation.”

  Before they left, Virgile filled a plastic bottle with the warm water from the pail near the door and set it down next to the mattress so the man could at least moisten his chapped and swollen lips. They gingerly pulled off the soiled blanket and covered him with a blanket from another mattress that looked cleaner.

  “I’m just sorry we can’t take him with us and drive him straight to the hospital,” Virgile said.

  “No, we don’t know what he has. It’s better that we leave this to the paramedics. We can’t do anything more here. Let’s go.”

  12

  Benjamin put down the teapot and unfolded the newspaper. The news story took up practically all of the front page. Running across the top was the headline, “An Unsavory Harvest in the Vineyards of Médoc.” A photo taken with a telephoto lens captured the crumbling sheepfold between clumps of trees. The foreground, a bit out of focus, showed rows of vines in saturated colors verging on turquoise. In a concise style devoid of metaphor and baroque turns of phrase, the Sud-Ouest reporter gave a brief history of the Château Gayraud-Valrose without elaborating on the financial ups and downs of the last heir. The reporter devoted more of the story to the insurance company’s buyout and the arrival of the new manager. Some figures on the yield and growth percentages rounded out the exposé.

  In a story under a smaller headline, the reporter covered the death of Antoine Rinetti. Having been put in an induced coma after his automobile accident, the young château manager had finally succumbed shortly before midnight. His body would be returned to Nice in the coming days. Funeral arrangements were still being planned.

  On a jump page, Benjamin found a story about the unsolved sabotage of Rinetti’s Porsche. Margaux was named as a passenger who had also sustained injuries. The reporter didn’t mention any leads in the investigation. He enumerated the changes at the estate implemented under Rinetti, but most of the story was speculation. Who had sabotaged Rinetti’s car? Why? Did Rinetti have any shadowy connections? Georges Moncaillou’s suicide wasn’t even brought up.

  A companion story was more biting and direct. Several illegal immigrants from Maghreb had been found in an old barn on the estate, according to Inspector Barbaroux. They had been living in deplorable conditions, without even running water. One of them had fallen seriously ill and had been taken to the hospital. The conditions were nothing less than inhumane. Barbaroux recalled a similar situation a few years earlier in a Gironde vineyard.

  The winemaker set the newspaper down on the table and drank his cup of Grand Yunnan tea. Without question, the Sud-Ouest would follow the story, providing more information as the days wore on. Benjamin pictured the scene at the sheepfold after his departure: the thunderous arrival of police cars, the ambulance whisking the sick man away to the emergency room, the meticulous search of the building, the passport inspection and phone calls to the Moroccan consulate, the fearful faces of the illegal laborers, the district attorney alerted, the prefecture in a frantic state, the search at the château office, the interrogation of the personnel, and Barbaroux’s look of delight.

  When Benjamin had called the inspector, he hadn’t said anything about the anonymous note. The winemaker had merely told him that he was inspecting some vines on the slope near the sheepfold and had ducked into the building because he was curious. Barbaroux seemed to accept the explanation.

  “Will you finally be able to enjoy a little more time by the sea, Benjamin?” the inspector had asked. “Your wife and daughter have been spending most of their days there without you.”

  Elisabeth emerged on the terrace in a light dressing gown, barefoot, wet hair, enveloped in gardenia perfume. She kissed his neck and sat down beside him. Benjamin poured her a cup of tea and began to butter a slice of warm bread for her.

  “Orange or apricot?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want you to stop working for a while. You’ve been under too much stress, and you need a break.”

  “Aside from the heat, I can assure you that I’m perfectly fine, my sweet.”

  “You’ve been preoccupied with your work and worried about Margaux, ” Elisabeth answered. “I know it’s affected you more than you want to admit.”

  “Nonsense. She’s getting better every day. I can see it.”

  “Yes, she is recovering, and I’m thankful for that. But she’s depressed, Benjamin, and she’s still having nightmares about the accident. You’re never here, and you don’t know what goes on. She tries to act cheerful when she’s around you.”

  “Maybe she is feeling some melancholy. I’m sure she’s fatigued from the trauma. But she’ll soon be her old self. I’m confident.”

  “Don’t try to minimize this, Benjamin. I’m telling you she’s down in the dumps. It’s obvious. The only time I’ve seen her genuinely happy was when she was with Virgile.”

  “What are you saying?” Benjamin asked, dropping the jelly spoon on the tablecloth. He could feel his blood pressure
rising again. “You don’t think she’s interested in him, do you?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I just have the feeling they get along rather well. That’s all. And yesterday morning was the first time I’ve heard Margaux laugh since the accident. It would be good if he stopped by to see her from time to time.”

  As protective as Elisabeth was, Benjamin didn’t think she’d understand his concerns. He just wanted his daughter to find the right man, a man who was capable of settling down and providing for a family. That wasn’t Virgile, at least not up to this point.

  “We have a lot of work to do at the moment,” he told Elisabeth. “And don’t forget, wine is his area of expertise. He’s no therapist.”

  “You wouldn’t be jealous, by any chance?” Elisabeth asked.

  Benjamin looked for a smile on her face, but there was none.

  “Me? Jealous? Not at all. I just want the best for the two most important women in my life.”

  13

  Benjamin took a forest-road shortcut from the Truc Vert beach, avoiding the traffic jams in L’Herbe, Canon, and Grand Piquey. At the height of vacation season, getting in and out of the peninsula was difficult. The drive to Bordeaux, which normally took less than an hour, could go on forever, given the endless stream of tourists. Benjamin knew when the flow of cars was light and how to navigate around the current when it was heavy. He had put down the roof of his perfectly serviced Mercedes 280 SL, and it was purring smoothly. Now he could relax and take a deep breath of the invigorating fragrances of pine and fresh sea air, which helped make the morning’s high temperature tolerable.

  The evening before, he had picked up his convertible at Stofa’s garage and fallen into a rather pleasant trap: Ricard, peanuts, and the company of several neighborhood residents. He had been more sensible this time, and the anise-flavored interlude had helped him forget the calamity of the sheepfold, at least temporarily.

  Benjamin had also yielded to Elisabeth. He had agreed to bring Virgile to dinner, with the aim of cheering up Margaux. Elisabeth had promised a festive meal: stuffed squid, sea bass grilled in fennel, pureed baby vegetables, and lemon meringue pie. She wanted their stay in Cap Ferret to start feeling like a real vacation.

  Once he had reached Bordeaux, the drive to Allées de Tourny was easy, barely disrupted by a slowdown in the commercial section of Mérignac. His assistant was waiting for him in the office. Benjamin found him sitting on the arm of a chair and engaged in a lively discussion with Jacqueline. The topic: washing clothes. Virgile was stressing the importance of doing colorfast cottons in 104-degree water and using an oxygen cleaner. He even knew where to get the best price. Jacqueline, however, was adamant about using another type of detergent.

  Benjamin greeted them briefly and went directly to the back room, where the archives were kept.

  “Virgile, when you’re finished with your dirty laundry, do come and join me, will you?”

  The young man complied immediately. They retrieved all the files for the firm’s Médoc clients and took them to Benjamin’s office to schedule their fieldwork for the coming days.

  “If I understand correctly, sir, first we hit the vineyards on the left bank, instead of the right bank, and then we take on the areas of Blaye, Bourg, Castillon, and Saint-Émilion.”

  “Let’s just say that’s my plan,” Benjamin grumbled. “I know you don’t like to have your routine disturbed, but sometimes it’s good to shake things up.”

  “I suppose we’ll begin with Margaux, right? And not too far from Château Gayraud-Valrose?”

  “I don’t need to draw you a map, Virgile. You know very well that I’m curious.”

  “I also know that even if we work at it as hard as field laborers, we’ll never manage to cover the whole territory and see the extent of the damage.”

  “We’re aware that many of the vines are stressed. But this heat wave isn’t necessarily a catastrophe. It might even bring about some interesting concentrations. I think you’ll be surprised by the quality of the juice they give. But it might not be easy to turn into wine, and we’ll need to be careful at the beginning of the fermentation. For now, our job is assessing the vines and, if we can, estimating a date for the harvest.”

  “I won’t be surprised if they start picking before the end of August.”

  “The way things are going, you wouldn’t be wrong. I can’t remember any harvest that was earlier. Maybe 1976, but even then, the heat wave wasn’t as bad as the one we’re having now.”

  They continued their conversation in the car. Benjamin drove sensibly, looking like a stylish mafioso in a Panama hat. Virgile had doffed a baseball cap. It bore the title of a dark comedy that he enjoyed watching on TV: Serial Lover. After they passed through Cantenac, they turned right and took the narrow road leading to Château Gayraud-Valrose.

  “As far as I know, this estate is not one of our clients yet,” Virgile said.

  “Not yet, my boy, but we need to pay our respects. I read in the paper that a condolence notebook was open in the estate office.”

  Virgile nodded and grinned at Benjamin. The winemaker was pleased that his assistant was beginning to catch on. He had altered the schedule because he didn’t want to miss this rare opportunity to penetrate the walls of Gayraud-Valrose.

  Benjamin parked in the exact spot he had chosen on their first visit. The gardens were deserted, filled only with the oppressive chirping of cicadas.

  They walked by the wine cellar without taking the time to stop and say hello to Stéphane Sarrazin, who was surely working there, enveloped in darkness and silence. The reception desk was at the end of the building. A secretary in an elegant bun greeted them. Benjamin asked to see the steward, and she pushed a button on the intercom to announce their visit. Philippe Cazevielle appeared immediately, crossing the room at a trot. There was something ridiculous about this short-legged man and his narrow chest, round head, and darting eyes. He looked like a squirrel with cheeks filled with nuts. His rigid posture, defiant chin, and abrupt movements, however, suggested an authoritarian will and a greedy desire to be respected.

  “Mr. Cooker? You, here?”

  “Delighted, Mr. Cazevielle. Let me introduce my assistant, Virgile Lanssien. We were on our way to Saint-Julien, and we wanted to pay our respects.”

  “I thank you, sir. The château staff will be very touched by your thoughtfulness.”

  The conversation began politely, with a certain hypocrisy that Benjamin rather enjoyed. There was no point in coming on too strong. The steward said the estate had suffered a terrible tragedy, and everyone was affected. But Gayraud-Valrose would survive, just as it had since its inception. He just regretted that he wouldn’t be able to get away for his superior’s funeral service in Nice.

  Cazevielle pointed to a large leather-bound book on a nearby table and asked the winemaker to write something. Benjamin ceremoniously uncapped the pen and leaned over the white page offered to him. On previous pages, neighboring property owners had expressed their own condolences. Benjamin skimmed them before putting down his thoughts. He cleared his throat and began writing. “May the future vintages of Château Gayraud-Valrose comfort us in our grief, sustain our memory, open our minds, and lift our spirits.” He signed with a flourish: the name Benjamin Cooker extended, round and proud, across the page like billowing sails in a threatening storm.

  Casually returning the pen to its place on the table, Benjamin turned to Cazevielle. It was time to get down to business. “But what about this awful situation with the Moroccan workers?” he asked.

  Philippe Cazevielle blanched, tensed, and straightened up, as if to look taller before the winemaker’s imposing figure.

  “Newspapers always exaggerate things,” he said.

  “Of course, but I’m given to understand that the police are investigating, and most certainly, French labor laws have been violated. As the steward, you are legally in charge of the estate at the present time.”

  “As I said, we’ve been preoccupied
with Antoine Rinetti’s death. The police investigators took my statement, and they completely understand that I had nothing to do with the hiring and living conditions of those men.”

  “So you knew these men were working in your vineyards.”

  “Nothing gets past me, sir. I’ve been working here for seventeen years, and there is not an acre that I don’t know. Not a single employee is foreign to me.”

  “Indeed, let’s talk about the foreigners. These illegal Moroccans had been on your estate for more than three months.”

  “They came here right after Antoine Rinetti’s appointment, and I never hid my disapproval from him. He had cut the payroll and let some of our regular workers go. Shortly after that, we saw these poor fellows arrive, and he put them in the old sheepfold.”

  “You must have known that they had no visas or work permits. They were undocumented.”

  “I told you. Nothing escapes me.”

  “I heard you, Mr. Cazevielle. And you also knew that their living conditions were nothing less than reprehensible.”

  The steward sighed and lowered his head. He was losing his haughty air and feigned confidence.

  “I had several heated discussions with Mr. Rinetti. I told him explicitly that the way he was treating those men was offensive and immoral. I said he had to do something about it.”

  “When you say ‘heated discussions,’ what do you mean?”

  “Very heated. It came to blows.”

  “Is that so!”

  “Yes. It happened only once, and we hardly spoke after that. I knew I was in the hot seat—everyone was—and he would eventually get rid of me, like he did the others.”

  “You mean Georges Moncaillou, I guess?”

  “I was sick over that. The old man had been here for more than thirty years, and we owed him a lot.”

  “Mr. Cazevielle, just how angry were you with Mr. Rinetti? Enough to sabotage his car?”