Late Harvest Havoc Read online

  “Where can I reach you in the next few hours if I have any more questions?” the inspector asked, getting out of his chair and straightening his shoulders.

  Virgile took note of his long neck and skinny legs. Fauchié reminded him of an old featherless wading bird ready to pounce on the first young carp to swim by.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow for Germany, but Virgile will be my envoy for another few days.”

  “In that case, young man, don’t hold back what you learn. I’ll be eager to take any information you deem pertinent.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Virgile said.

  “And why is that? You doubt my sincerity?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not a man who waters down my wine.”

  “Does that mean I have to convert to wine?”

  “Yes, Inspector. I’d advise doing just that,” Benjamin said. “And make it red wine. Any man paid to look for criminals has to be familiar with the unique smell of blood. And is wine anything other than the blood of the earth? So you know what you need to do. One to two glasses at each meal.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Go back and read Louis Pasteur: ‘Wine is the most healthful of drinks!’”

  When Virgile and his employer took leave of the water drinker, the two undocumented boys were still languishing in the reception area.

  The younger one was sleeping, as he had been when Benjamin and Virgile arrived. Virgile wondered how he could do that, because the other one was spitting and shouting at the cops. He couldn’t tell exactly what the boy was saying, but he understood swearing enough to know he was strongly advising the cops to go have sex with each other.

  Virgile grinned. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so full of themselves.

  8

  The vines descended the mountain in highly regimented rows. They were battalions in golden armor ready to do battle in the valley. But these vines would never cross the Mosel River. Such a maneuver would have been suicidal. Riesling needed exposure to southern sun and a steep incline in slate-rich soil that furrowed in stormy weather. The steeper the slope, the better the wine. It had been this way since the eighteenth century, and no one would have dreamed of experimenting with new vines in the valley near Niederemmel, except to make Qualitätswein mit Prädikat, so-called superior quality wines like Kabinett de Moselle.

  No one, that is, but Fritz Loewenberg, with his light wines containing less than eight percent alcohol. Loewenberg himself drank only his honey-scented and delightfully sweet Goldtröpfchen, except on certain special occasions. According to some, he was the richest man in Piesport. Benjamin thought this could be true. But the man’s production was minor in relation to his ambitions. He had set his sights on Saint Émilion.

  “I need that to completely satisfy myself,” he had told Benjamin.

  Benjamin Cooker had been in Piesport for two days. He was staying in Loewenberg’s pretentious mansion with gables and a slate roof. It was filled with ancient armor and tapestries that were tended daily. The furniture, copper pots, and wood floors gleamed. And as far as Benjamin was concerned, the house lacked even an ounce of charm. He couldn’t abide the cold Germanic severity.

  The night before, he had dined with Fritz Loewenberg. He was a somewhat agreeable man who spoke refined French almost without accent, and he sprinkled his conversation with touches of humor. In truth, the vinification posed no major problems. It was just a little exercise in style for the winemaker from the Gironde, a sort of stroll through the vines on the vertiginous slopes and in the wine warehouses, each of which was polished like a ship’s deck. Benjamin’s real assignment was boosting the estate’s reputation, which the previous cellar master had tarnished. That wouldn’t be too hard to accomplish. The job was straightforward and paid well.

  More delicate was the role of mediator Loewenberg intended to have him play in the purchase of a premier cru at the gates of the Saint Émilion citadel. For more than twenty years, Benjamin had been the regular wine expert for this château, which was highly coveted by the Bordeaux wine-trade network. Benjamin could intercede on behalf of the German wine producer, guaranteeing that Loewenberg would respect the network’s interests in the distribution and sale of the estate’s production. Meanwhile, the acquisition would help Loewenberg spread his winemaking investments and serve as a cushion if German wines experienced a decline.

  Loewenberg had brought out the most beautiful bottles from his cellar. Despite the businessman’s somewhat intimidating bearing, he was a knowledgeable lover of French, Swiss, and Italian wines. His palate was reliable, and so was his judgment. He was assuring Benjamin that the transaction would be a smooth one. Unfortunately, Loewenberg had the bad habit of going on and on.

  Benjamin simply nodded every time Loewenberg said, “I’m sure you understand me, Mr. Cooker.” Yes, he was enjoying the great vintages, but other than that, the dinner was a boring affair, especially because his host hadn’t found it necessary to include any female guests at his table.

  It was rumored that Loewenberg’s wife had become infatuated with a yacht manufacturer who frequently partied in Monaco. Loewenberg, however, wasn’t inclined to make any confessions regarding his marital status. Benjamin idly wondered if more wine might loosen his tongue. He had packed a late-harvest 2010 Fronholz muscat with the intentions of sharing it with this man who aspired to forge a name for himself among the Saint Émilion Jurade, an elite group founded in 1199 by King John Lackland of England. Its members were dedicated to serving as ambassadors for Saint Émilion wines throughout the world.

  “Even though your noble ambitions take you from the banks of the Mosel to the banks of the Dordogne, you need to taste this nectar, which is closer to the land you love,” Benjamin suggested as he poured the amber wine into his host’s glass.

  “Gladly!” exclaimed the German winemaker. He brought the glass to his nose and methodically enumerated the perfumes emanating from the Alsace muscat.

  “Candied mandarin, orange flower, acacia. Extremely aromatic,” he noted.

  “I doubt that it ages very well, though,” Benjamin said, checking the viscosity of the muscat clinging to the side of his glass.

  “All the more reason to drink it right away,” said Loewenberg. “Here’s to French viticulture.”

  “It wasn’t very long ago that you could have owned these late-harvest wines,” the winemaker pointed out with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Let’s forget the past, Benjamin. Let’s drink to the reconciliation of people and the universality of wine.”

  They smiled and clinked their glasses, but as he sipped his muscat, Benjamin couldn’t help musing about the havoc in Alsace. Whole nations could sign sophisticated peace accords, but personal enmities—between families or within families—it seemed, couldn’t be resolved with the stroke of a pen.

  Benjamin thought about the Deutzlers and his visit the day after the family’s vineyard was damaged: Véronique’s nervousness and the surly look on Andre’s face. What secrets—and sins—was this family hiding?

  Virgile called Benjamin every evening. He reported all of his activities, including his conversations with the authorities, the winemakers, their workers, and others. Virgile related what was in the national and local news. On the radio and television, the commentators had dubbed the vandalism “the Alsatian chainsaw massacres.”

  Unfortunately, the investigation was getting bogged down, despite the long hours Roch and Fauchié were putting in and the ever-widening blanket of official and unofficial vigilance. Law-enforcement patrols roamed the countryside from dusk till dawn, sometimes venturing onto muddy tracks at the risk of getting stuck and becoming the laughing stock of nearby winegrowers. Winemakers were organizing clandestine meetings and even militias. The prefect was fiercely opposed to these shadow armies that spread out under the cover of darkness, ready to take on any intruders.

  When the nights became too chilly and damp, the vigilant winegrowers lit fires on the hills the same way they would on t
he cold nights of March, when frost threatened the first buds. Some winemakers, experienced hunters, loaded their hounds onto the backs of their pickups and drove into the vineyards and forests in hopes of tracking down the most wanted man in Alsace. It looked like a wild boar hunt, with high tension and much barking and yowling. The sound of gunfire rang out now and then, and someone thought he spied a stocky figure on the Wintzenheim hills. Another person reported that he had seen an intruder crouched in the vineyards near Heiligenstein. In fact, they were deer frightened by the nocturnal circus.

  Haughty and authoritarian, Captain Roch led the patrols in the countryside around Colmar, while neighboring police forces patrolled their respective jurisdictions. The Strasbourg prosecutor himself went out one night to observe the operation.

  For two nights, all their efforts seemed to be paying off. Nothing happened. But then the assailant struck again, cutting down thirty grapevine plants in the heart of the Osterberg Grand Cru.

  Anger rose another notch, and a demonstration involving all the winemakers in Alsace was planned for the following Saturday at the gates of the prefecture. The agricultural trade unions weren’t ruling out the possibility of things getting out of hand. Roch, who refused to deal with Virgile, had tried several times to reach Benjamin. The connections between the various vineyards targeted by the chainsaw-wielding attacker or attackers seemed more and more tenuous and, indeed, nonexistent.

  Virgile’s arsonist theory was becoming increasingly credible to Inspector Fauchié, who invited him to lunch at the Échevin on Saturday.

  “Do you think I should go, boss?”

  “Of course,” Benjamin ordered. He was beside himself with envy. Why hadn’t he stayed in Colmar, where he could have enjoyed the food and had more stimulating conversation? At any rate, his assignment in Piesport was coming to an end. He’d be done in a day, two days at the most.

  “Anything else?” Benjamin asked, eager to know everything.

  “No, boss, just that the archbishop of Strasbourg is officiating at a Mass this Sunday at the Notre Dame Basilica in Thierenbach. He’s asking for prayers to stop the evil attacks. I tell you, the devil is getting drunk on riesling and sylvaner.”

  “Stop joking around like that, Virgile. Go have lunch with Fauchié, and call me as soon as you get back.”

  Benjamin pulled into the parking lot of Les Violettes Hotel and Spa in Jungholtz, and his arrival did not go unnoticed. Alerted that the winemaker was parking his car, Philippe Bosc came outside to greet his renowned guest. Like the winemaker, he was a lover of vintage cars. He himself had a dozen gleaming touring cars, all of them in perfect condition.

  Benjamin was happy to be back in France, with its charming hotels and cordial greetings. Hanza, a friend from Biarritz and a wealthy descendent of industrial pioneer Frederic Japy, had heartily recommended Les Violettes. She was in the habit of spending her fortune in the best hotels on the planet.

  This hotel, with its Vosges sandstone facade, was nestled in the small Rimbach Valley and surrounded by the bluish foliage of Le Grand Ballon. From the window of his suite, Benjamin could see the Thierenbach basilica’s gray-green onion dome. He had secured a huge room in the style of high-mountain chalets. The rustic woodwork, old beams, antique furniture, and parquet flooring exuded the aroma of beeswax polish. A cozy bed with feather pillows and quilts, thick drapes, and old Persian carpets assured him a peaceful night’s sleep.

  The road from Germany had been long and tortuous, so Benjamin wasn’t inclined to linger in the hotel restaurant, with its elegant but understated décor. But he couldn’t resist the Alsatian cuisine, and he finally gave in to the temptation of vegetable confit in balsamic truffle vinaigrette, pork jowls braised in pinot noir, and baba au rhum in a bath of fresh fruit.

  A Gustave Lorentz 2007 Altenberg de Bergheim grand cru riesling, followed by a Blanck “F” pinot noir from the same year accompanied this high-calorie meal. When the clock of Les Violettes struck eleven, Benjamin and the sommelier were still chatting, recalling their latest finds.

  A plum brandy, along with a double San Luis Rey Corona smoked on the terrace, brought the winemaker the gratification he had missed during the few days he had spent with the ambitious Fritz Loewenberg.

  The following day, Benjamin attended Mass in the impressive Notre-Dame Basilica, a place of pilgrimage for worshippers the world over. He admired the dimensions of the church, the baroque altar carved from Carrara marble, which was bathed in light pouring through four stained-glass windows, and the intricately carved pews. In the end, the archbishop had not made the trip, but had sent a message of encouragement. The priest was on his own.

  Women sat in the first pews, while the men chose to sit at the back. The sermon was dogmatic and devoid of the passion that was the hallmark of great orators. Benjamin quickly tired of the repeated references to “the evil beings undermining the persistent efforts of the laborers of the earth.” Instead of listening, he looked around the church, first at the ceiling, with its ensemble of holy figures that seemed to be suspended from the arch. He had to search his memory, but he thought he recognized the saints Dagobert II, Casimir, and Francis de Sales. Then he looked at the walls, covered with frescoes by the Alsatian painter Martin Feurstein. Benjamin, a former student at the École des Beaux Arts, admired the Wedding at Cana and Jesus Found in the Temple for their mastery of light and drapery.

  The ancient organ resounded with a medley of discordant notes during communion. Benjamin was not moved. Finally, the priest said the closing prayer, and the basilica emptied. No longer forced to listen to bad music and an uninspired sermon, the winemaker decided to linger. He studied the ex-votos on the walls, which depicted the trials and tribulations of humankind that had been eased by the hand of God.

  For Benjamin, the humble testimonies of God’s power took on new significance in light of the region’s frightening events. Taking his glasses off and putting them on again, he examined each ex-voto in Thierenbach. Their naïveté touched him. He studied the dates of their execution and every embellishment. Then he walked over to a wooden polychrome carving of the Virgin, dated 1350. He picked up one of the prayer cards in a display rack and started reading. It was the Prayer to Our Lady of Hope:

  Oh, Mary full of grace, immaculate, queen of the universe, queen of the angels and the saints, together with all the friends of this Thierenbach pilgrimage, where we call you Our Lady of Hope, we devote ourselves to you… That in any situation, in any burden, confidence in the presence of the resurrected Christ may prevail. We especially entrust to you our families, our friends and all those with whom we work and live. You are our Mother, we are your children today, tomorrow, forever and ever. Amen.

  Benjamin slipped the prayer card in his pocket. Once again he studied the Virgin, her grief-stricken face fixed on the dead son in her arms.

  The smell of freshly extinguished candles was filling the basilica, reminding Benjamin that it was time to leave. He turned around and exited the church. Outside, the worshippers were busy gathering and spreading the news of the previous night’s vandalism near Zinnkoepflé.

  Benjamin recognized Vincent Deutzler’s nurse. She was wearing a mouse-gray felt hat and a long dark coat. She gave the winemaker a polite smile and shook his hand when he approached her.

  “Mr. Cooker, I didn’t take you for a religious person.”

  “You forget that it was Jesus himself who turned water into wine. Wine and Christianity make splendid companions, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do, but now’s not the time for wine, at least for me,” Bernadette responded. “Maybe you haven’t heard. Vincent has left this world.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” Benjamin was shocked. “What happened?”

  “He passed away in his sleep two nights ago. I found him in the morning. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  The nurse took a pristine handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I thought attending the Mass might help me feel better. Vincent would have
wanted me to come.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Benjamin said. “This is terrible news. Alphonse de Lamartine said, ‘Sometimes one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.’ You must be feeling that way.”

  “It’s like we’re cursed,” Bernadette said.

  “Such loss, on top of what happened to the vineyard. Since my visit last week, the list of vine-cutter victims has grown even longer. At least in that regard the family isn’t alone in its misfortune,” Benjamin said.

  “In this case, company is no consolation,” Bernadette responded. “But it looks like the police have brought in some guy from Ammerschwihr. Well, not exactly the town, but a nearby village. I heard it on the radio while I was driving over.”

  “That’s surprising, because the person struck the Zinnkoepflé vineyards last night. It’s not exactly next door.”

  “If you want to know what I think, more than one person is behind these crimes.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Madam… I’m sorry, I only know your first name, Bernadette,” said Benjamin.

  “Forgive me. I’ve never properly introduced myself. It’s Bernadette Lefonte.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll find another client. Unfortunately, in my line of work, clients seem to die off. At any rate, it’s past noon, and I’d like to get a bite to eat. Would you like to join me for lunch, Mr. Cooker? I have a reservation at La Ferme aux Moines, right up the road. Their tartes flambées are famous.”

  The winemaker politely declined. He needed a few moments of solitude to digest the news. He shook Bernadette Lefonte’s hand and told her he’d contact the family for the funeral arrangements. He watched the nurse walk away. Had Vincent Deutzler cared for her as much as she cared for him? Once again, Benjamin noticed the limp, and a quote popped into his head: “The devil will always be recognized by his limp.” Why in the world would that come to mind? Shaking it off, he headed over to the Saint Antoine fountain, near a pond where the fishermen were paying no attention to anything but their hooks and lines.