Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Read online

  Benjamin and Virgile looked at each other. Who was this guy?

  A second later, Marcel answered the question. “Philippine, get over here and take that claims rep around. I want someone with him at all times to make sure he doesn’t try any more funny business. And you, Rafael, I want to talk.”

  Benjamin watched as the claims representative put on his boots. Just as the young man was finishing up, Benjamin caught a glimpse of something in the trunk—something lime green. He turned to get a better look, but the trunk was already closed.

  Benjamin put it out of his mind and headed out to the fields, giving Virgile a knowing nod. He was to stay and hear what he could.

  § § §

  Virgile walked back to the Mercedes and rummaged around, pretending he had forgotten something. He then headed toward the sorting room, skirting Marcel and Rafael, who were in a heated argument.

  “Why the hell did you do it?”

  “It seemed like the right thing!”

  “You weren’t thinking straight. That’s the problem with you. You’re always going off half-cocked. And what about these withdrawals from our bank account? I can’t turn my back for a minute!”

  Just then, Eulalia, a sorter from Lisbon, called out to Virgile. “Hey handsome, don’t just stand there. We could use some help in here.”

  Virgile went in and got to work. Eulalia was near the rear of the conveyor belt, and her thin fingers didn’t let a single bruised grape get by.

  “You must be the quality-control expert Marcel is always raving about,” Virgile said, aware that flattery loosened tongues.

  “Me and Frédérique,” she said, pointing to the woman at the head of the belt. “She’s got the eyes of a hawk. With her crazy kids, she needs ’em!”

  Frédérique turned to them and grinned. “You got that right.”

  “And who’s the man next to her?” Virgile said, nodding toward a fellow with the curly hair and slim build of a leading man.

  “That’s Martin. He struts like a playboy, that one. He’s solid, though, and doesn’t let much bother him. I hear he made a huge play for Clotilde but just shrugged it off when she dumped him. It was right after they started seeing each other.”

  “Oh? So, did you know Clotilde?”

  “Not real well. Everyone said she was a nice girl. Smart too. But something happened to her, and she changed. She started seeing a lot of guys, and then she got friendly with Ms. Perraudin. Now there’s someone you don’t want to call a friend. What a witch!”

  “Really?” Virgile didn’t especially care for Philippine, but he was unaware that any Lemoine workers actively disliked her. “Do you know what happened to Clotilde?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m guessing it was something big.”

  § § §

  That morning Benjamin walked to the building in the village that served as both post office and bank. He wanted to get some cash and send a postcard of Romanée-Conti to his father. He hoped it would raise the old man’s spirits.

  “So you’re the famous Benjamin Cooker,” the teller said. “I saw an interview with you on television when your last Cooker Guide was published. You must be here for the harvest. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Château de Gilly.”

  “How lovely. The grounds are beautiful.”

  “Too bad about the weather,” Benjamin said.

  “What a disaster! And to top it off, there’s that terrible murder.”

  “Yes, it is awful. Did you know her?”

  “No, I can’t say that I did. She came in a couple of times—to cash money orders.”

  “For a large amount?”

  “I can’t divulge that. We’re required to keep that sort of information confidential.”

  “Of course, I understand,” Benjamin said. “It’s strange, though, that she didn’t do her banking in Meursault. She wasn’t from Nuits-Saint-Georges, as far as I know.”

  “I’m sure she had her reasons.” The teller shrugged, and Benjamin wished her a good day.

  He was surprised to find Virgile waiting for him outside in the Mercedes. His assistant was behind the wheel, with the engine running. “Get a move on, boss! The cops are at the estate. They want to talk to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you!”

  “What about?”

  “No idea. But hurry! They’re not being very accommodating.”

  Just as Benjamin was getting in, he spotted an unmarked car from the corner of his eye. Two men with sallow complexions and short hair were watching them.

  “Boss, I think we’re being followed. They’re cops.”

  “Well, let’s cooperate, son.”

  § § §

  When the station wagon pulled into the Lemoine courtyard, three gendarmerie vehicles were already there. The sun, bouncing off the glazed tiles of the main building, temporarily blinded Benjamin as he emerged from the car. Shielding his eyes, he saw a tall man in a leather jacket, wrinkled shirt, and cowboy boots walking toward him.

  “Inspector Cluzel, from the section de recherche,” the man said, refering to the gendarmerie’s criminal investigation division. He showed Benjamin the blue, white, and red card that served as a badge. “And you’re Mr. Benjamin Cooker, winemaker and consultant, headquartered in Bordeaux? I’d like to speak with you in private.”

  He gave Benjamin a weak handshake. Virgile got a mere nod.

  On the steps, Marcel and his son stood glaring at the officers. Philippine cast a furtive glance at Benjamin and then disappeared behind the door of the cellar, where the sorters were busy at work. The Lemoine dog, a greyhound with a tapered snout, was licking the inspector’s heels as they entered the office.

  Marcel ushered them to his smoking room. “You can speak privately in here,” he told Inspector Cluzel.

  It was a large room with a high ceiling. The dark walls were lined with bookshelves that held encyclopedias and old atlases, all richly bound.

  Benjamin, who had smoked many a Havana with Marcel here, couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over the original Hetzel editions of Jules Verne’s complete works, the venial sin of a bibliophile. As far as he was concerned, the setting for the interview couldn’t be more agreeable. But the would-be cowboy from the criminal investigation division seemed ill at ease.

  “Mr. Cooker, I’m here out of respect for the Lemoine family. Obviously, I would have preferred seeing you at the station.”

  “To get to the point, Inspector, just how can I help you?”

  “Help me? I wouldn’t put it that way,” Cluzel corrected as he took a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his black jacket.

  Benjamin was sure of one thing: the jacket wasn’t leather. It was leatherette, a poor imitation of Texas calfskin. “A Clint Eastwood wannabe,” the winemaker said to himself.

  Benjamin opened a stainless-steel cigar case and offered the inspector a Montecristo. The man declined.

  “I’m not sure you’ll be able to enjoy that,” Cluzel said, sinking into one of the four faded club chairs.

  “You must be the bearer of bad news to deprive me of this pleasure,” Benjamin said, lighting his cigar anyway.

  “I am afraid, unfortunately, that I am that messenger.”

  “Do you know, Inspector, the fate reserved in antiquity for the bearer of bad tidings?”

  “Don’t try to switch roles on me, Mr. Cooker. The way things stand right now, you’re the one in trouble!”

  The winemaker pretended to choke on his smoke—as if any true cigar smoker would inhale. “Good heavens, what crime did I commit?” he said after clearing his throat. “Please, tell me.”

  “Did you rent a metallic-gray Alfa Romeo Giulietta from Europcar at the Dijon train station three days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you return it yesterday morning at ei
ght thirty-five?”

  “I can’t guarantee the exact time, but it was around then.”

  “What did you use that vehicle for?”

  “As a matter of fact, I hardly drove it. Back and forth between Dijon and the hotel, to Nuits-Saint-Georges, and trips to Vosne-Romanée. That’s it.”

  “You didn’t treat the car in question with kid gloves. You took dirt roads, judging from the condition you left it in.”

  “I admit it. I apologized for the mud all over the car when I dropped it off. But the storm was the reason for that.”

  “From what I could see, you must have taken it on an obstacle course. The branches and weeds stuck to it weren’t the kind you find in a vineyard. What do you have to say to that?”

  “If I understand correctly, Inspector, I am being interrogated for having freely used a rental car and returning it all muddy. To my knowledge, Europcar issued no complaint and returned my deposit in full. Can you tell me what you are accusing me of, exactly?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t leave anything in your car, Mr. Cooker?”

  The winemaker frowned and crossed his legs. He let the inspector mark time while he took two more puffs of his cigar. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  “Think, Mr. Cooker,” the inspector persisted as he moved closer to the edge of his seat.

  Still silent, Benjamin stared at Cluzel’s cowboy boots. They were worn at the heels, and the seams were coming apart. The inspector fidgeted.

  “Frankly, aside from my guilty conscience over all that mud, I can’t imagine what I could have left behind in that damned car, unless maybe…”

  “Unless maybe what?”

  “Unless my assistant Virgile left something of his.”

  “You mean that guy who was tagging behind you a few minutes ago?”

  “He doesn’t tag behind me, Inspector. He’s an indispensable member of my team.”

  Cluzel fiddled with an ashtray engraved “Maison Lemoine, founded 1829.” Then he stood up and disappeared into the hallway. He returned with Virgile three minutes later.

  “Mr. Lanssien, do you state that you drove the Alfa Romeo vehicle for which Mr. Cooker signed a rental contract?”

  “I do,” Virgile answered.

  “Yet neither your name nor your driver’s license number is on the contract.”

  “In fact, that was an omission on my part,” Benjamin said.

  “If you please, sir, I’m talking to your assistant.”

  “Mr. Cooker is right. When he rents a car he always lists me, along with himself, as a driver. But he forgot this time. If you want to know the truth, I only drove it the first morning and then once to go out into the vineyards. I didn’t take the highway. Those back roads were badly rutted by the storm.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Lanssien, that you didn’t leave anything behind in this vehicle?”

  “Let me think.” Virgile paused for a moment. “No, I can’t remember anything.”

  “Thank you, young man, for that clarification.”

  Virgile gave his boss a perplexed look. Benjamin responded with a reassuring smile. “It’s all a misunderstanding, son,” he tried to telegraph. “Not to worry.”

  As smoke from the Montecristo hung in the air, sunlight flooded the room. In the distance, Benjamin heard the dull hum of tractors carrying grapes to the vats.

  “Good. That will be all. You may leave,” Cluzel said, showing Virgile the door.

  Virgile nodded to Benjamin and walked out.

  “Mr. Cooker, did you have any passengers, other than your assistant, in your rental car?”

  Benjamin paused before answering. “No, Inspector. The only people in that car were my assistant and me.”

  “Well, one thing is clear: if it wasn’t your assistant or another passenger, it must have been you who forgot something in your car, specifically under the passenger seat. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Not in the least,” said Benjamin.

  “A plastic bag, for example?”

  “I still don’t know what you’re getting at, Inspector.” Benjamin took the cigar out of his mouth and held it up close. The ring was simple: a seal on a chocolate-brown background with the words Montecristo Habana and a fleur-de-lis in the center.

  “Mr. Cooker, your expertise in the area of wine does not give you the right to treat law officers like clueless idiots!”

  “I would not dream of—”

  “Well, then, stop wasting my time and explain why we found a plastic bag in the car you rented—one containing a woman’s undergarments. Those undergarments have been identified as belonging to Clotilde Dupont, who was strangled at the Saint-Vivant Abbey!” The inspector articulated each word as if he were about to announce a prison sentence.

  Benjamin was speechless.

  “Must I remind you that the girl was found completely naked and that we were unable, until now, to get our hands on any articles of her clothing?”

  Benjamin fought to stay calm. He puffed his cigar, trying to collect his thoughts.

  “Blood stains on the girl’s clothes allowed us to do a DNA analysis that confirmed our suspicions. The clothes found in your car—pardon, in the car you rented—belonged to Ms. Dupont. What do you have to say about that, Mr. Cooker?”

  “Nothing, Inspector. Absolutely nothing.”

  “You’re right. The facts speak for themselves. Strange, indeed: the tire marks we found near the sanctuary…”

  “The abbey,” Benjamin corrected.

  “Don’t start nitpicking now that it’s time to confess. Because, you see, every clue points to you, Mr. Cooker! The tire marks found at the end of the road leading to the monastery—”

  “The abbey.” Benjamin was regaining his composure. He took another puff of his Montecristo.

  “Stop screwing with me, or else I’ll take you into custody right now! Everything fits. Even the weeds stuck under the chassis of the Alfa Romeo are from the hill in Curtil-Vergy. You must realize that all this is—”

  “Confusing.”

  “I am waiting for your explanation, but be aware that I have asked the prosecutor for an arrest warrant, and I expect his call any minute.”

  “Excuse me, Inspector. Could you provide me with a motive that would have led me to commit this heinous act?”

  “A motive? Believe me, not every crime has a motive. An impulse is enough. Especially when it involves a beautiful young woman.”

  At that moment the inspector’s cell phone rang in the inner pocket of his fake leather jacket. He looked at the screen and answered. “Hello, Cluzel here. Yes, I was waiting for your call…”

  The winemaker stood up and went over to a cabinet. He knew the family kept bottles of spirits here. He poured himself a bourbon, ignoring the inspector, who had also gotten up. He was standing in a corner of the room, his heading bobbing between his bony shoulders.

  12

  Virgile watched as Benjamin, behind the wheel of the station wagon, and Cluzel, riding shotgun, hightailed it out of the courtyard, scattering gravel all around.

  “What the…?”

  He was still staring at the retreating car when Philippine tapped his shoulder.

  “I’m off… I won’t be back before four. I’m going to Meursault. Clotilde’s funeral Mass is at two thirty. There might be a lot of people, so I want to get there a little early.”

  “Yes, I imagine the church will be crowded,” Virgile answered, not knowing quite what to do.

  § § §

  Benjamin led Inspector Cluzel into the dining room at the Château de Gilly. “You’ll see, Inspector, the chocolate caramel macaron with spices is marvelous!”

  The turn of events had been unexpected, to say the least, and Benjamin was a bit proud of how he’d flipped the situation around.

  In the estate’s smoking room Cluzel had e
nded his phone call with a glum “very well, sir.”

  He had clicked off and walked over to Benjamin an entirely different man. His shoulders were slumped as though he’d just received a beating. At the same time, there was a glint of anger in his eyes.

  Benjamin, who could judge characters like he judged wine, understood that the inspector had been put in his place.

  “A whiskey, Inspector?” he’d asked.

  Cluzel didn’t answer. Benjamin asked again.

  “Would you prefer a glass of Romanée, perhaps? It seems your mind is elsewhere.”

  Getting no response, Benjamin had continued. “Elsewhere seems like the correct word. Do you know the word for ‘elsewhere’ in Latin? True, hardly anyone studies Latin anymore. At any rate, Inspector Cluzel, ‘elsewhere’ comes from the word for ‘alibi.’ And mine is Gilly.”

  Cluzel wouldn’t look Benjamin in the eye. “Please elaborate.”

  “The Château de Gilly? That’s where I was the night Clotilde was strangled. Ask the valet. In fact, we can go there right now. I’ll take you to lunch. It’s noon.”

  With that, they had sped off to the hotel, where the valet confirmed that Benjamin and Virgile were having a late dinner at the restaurant.

  Benjamin and Cluzel were then escorted to a table on the shaded terrace, where they ordered the daily lunch special. Benjamin took a moment to breathe in the scents from the nearby herb gardens before returning his attention to the inspector.

  “So, tell me. Why wouldn’t the prosecutor issue an arrest warrant? That’s what happened on the phone, isn’t it?”

  “How did you… Never mind, I don’t need to explain myself.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I could tell by the look on your face. You’re new to the region, aren’t you?”

  Cluzel leaned forward and stared at Benjamin, saying nothing. Then he surveyed the terrace and the other diners.

  “Yes, I am new to the region, Mr. Cooker,” he finally answered. “And you apparently have some very powerful friends.”

  “Oh?” Benjamin said, aware the inspector was still sizing him up.

  The server delivered their starter, Burgundy parsley ham, and Benjamin raised his glass. “Inspector, friends come with my job. As Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Wine makes daily living easier, less hurried, with fewer tensions and more tolerance.’ All of the above make friends.”