Late Harvest Havoc Read online

  Benjamin spent a few idle moments watching the goings-on. Then he decided to call Virgile. Had his assistant heard about Vincent Deutzler and the arrest? His cell phone went straight to voice mail. Benjamin called Le Maréchal, and there was no answer on his room phone either.

  “Another disastrous night at the Mango,” Benjamin grumbled as he walked to his car. He got in, started the car, and took the forest road that led to the clearing where Les Violettes appeared like an invitation to rest the soul.

  There was an envelope awaiting him under the door of his room. The winemaker settled into a deep English armchair that reminded him of his father’s in their Notting Hill apartment. He grabbed the remote and looked for the local news channel. He finally came across Captain Roch’s emaciated face before a sea of microphones.

  “Officers have been deployed throughout the region in the effort to stop the vandalism,” he was telling the reporters. “But the fact is, we cannot station an officer in each row of vines. The person taken into custody this morning has been released. He had an alibi that was confirmed. At this point, we’re back at square one.”

  Benjamin was actually satisfied with this news. He opened the envelope that had been left under the door. Inside was a flier, folded in two. It advertised power pruning shears that were “highly reliable, easy to use, lightweight, and battery operated.” Several models were available, some of which could cut vines, including shoots, branches, and even stumps.

  “Quiet, manageable, a battery life of eight hours,” the advertisement promised. It included a purchase order.

  When Benjamin rushed downstairs to find out who had delivered the envelope, the woman behind the desk told him that a young man had dropped it off during the Mass. He hadn’t left his name.

  “He took off the way he came, after flashing me an angelic smile,” she said. “What I really remember, though, is his shoes. They were all muddy. I had to mop the floor after he left.”

  9

  Virgile was disappointed when Fauchié canceled their lunch at the Échevin at the last minute, citing some “nasty business” he had to tend to. They rescheduled for coffee at ten Sunday morning at the Schwendi, a brasserie on the Grande Rue.

  He had wandered in the city all day Saturday, and finally he had gone into the closely monitored vineyards above Riquewihr. In the evening he went to the Mango, where a group of employees from the Maréchal had gathered to forget the tensions of the workweek, with the help of frozen tequilas and Caribbean dance music. Virgile found Théo, who had come with Amina, the chambermaid Virgile had seen in his room. They laughed a lot, danced their hearts out, and drank a little more than they should have. At seven in the morning, Benjamin’s right-hand man made it back to his room at the hotel, turned off his cell, unplugged the wall phone, and fell into bed for a quick nap before meeting with Fauchié.

  Three hours later, as Virgile made his way to the Schwendi, the sun was warming the air despite a heavy cloud cover. The provincial town was languid. Some couples were buying their Saint Honoré cakes in the pastry shop. The devout were safe and sound in church, and the stray dogs were lazily going through the garbage. Of course, some folks were gearing up for that day’s soccer match, but that was predictable, as was the sweet smell of hot croissants wafting onto the brasserie’s outside terrace. The business was empty, with the exception of an older woman with a little girl, and Fauchié, who was facing the other direction. He was reading Le Journal du Dimanche. On the table in front of him were a cup of coffee, a croissant, and a glass of water.

  The inspector looked Virgile up and down, saying nothing about his disheveled mop, haggard face, and late arrival. Virgile was profuse with his apologies, and Fauchié quickly dispelled any unease.

  “Coffee?”

  “A double, please!”

  “Croissant? A tartine beurrée?”

  “No, thank you,” Virgile answered, suppressing a yawn. He still wasn’t awake.

  When he saw the inspector staring at him, he looked down and noticed that he hadn’t tied his shoelaces. Virgile smoothed his wrinkled shirt and ran a hand through his hair.

  “That’s what they call ‘hitting the ground running,’ young man!”

  “Yep,” Virgile said. He changed the subject. “What did your experts say about Mr. Cooker’s tires?”

  “The Mercedes mechanic was right: the cuts were most likely made by a power tool and certainly not a knife. There were two slashes in each tire, twelve centimeters long, from two different blades. One of the blades could be manipulated up and down, and the other was more or less stationary. In all probability it was a garden tool—actually, a professional tool.”

  “The theory of the chainsaw is ruled out, then,” said Virgile.

  “I would say so. Besides, a chainsaw makes too much noise. Considering all the vineyard attacks we’ve had by now, at least one person would have heard a chainsaw.”

  Fauchié motioned to the waiter and ordered another strong coffee.

  “Are we sure the same tool was used in all the crimes?”

  “Roch’s experts agree on this point. It’s definitely the same weapon.”

  “You mean the same instrument.”

  “Weapon, instrument. Call it whatever you like.”

  “I suppose we can agree, you and I, to think of the individual or individuals as dangerous criminals.”

  Fauchié didn’t say anything. He emptied his second cup of coffee quickly, which spoke volumes about his annoyance with the case. Virgile knew the man had been given next to no authority in the investigation—the gendarmerie had jurisdiction, and Fauchié was with the police.

  “So to be absolutely clear, you maintain that all these attacks were committed with the same tool or a similar device,” Virgile said.

  “Affirmative, except for one detail.”

  “And what is that?”

  “On the night when two vineyards were vandalized, the cuts weren’t the same. In one vineyard they were horizontal, and in the other they were diagonal.”

  “And in the other cases?” Virgile pursued.

  “The cuts were diagonal most of the time, and they appeared to start on the same side of the vine. What do you make of that, Virgile?”

  “At the risk of contradicting myself, it could be one guy who has help from an accomplice on occasion.”

  “That’s my opinion, too,” Fauchié said.

  Virgile looked up when he heard chairs scraping the floor. The older woman and the little girl were getting up to leave. Virgile smiled at the child when he saw her mouth, all covered with hot chocolate and whipped cream. The little girl started smiling back, but her grandmother had grabbed a napkin to clean her up. When she was done, the girl stuck her pink tongue out at Fauchié. Her grandmother grabbed her hand and apologized.

  “When parents don’t provide their children with the proper upbringing, that’s what you get: little devils! Arielle, apologize to the gentleman.”

  The little girl was frowning at Fauchié.

  “No, Grand-mere! He’s gross.”

  The embarrassed grandmother turned around and started walking out, dragging the insolent child behind her.

  “Wait till we get home, young lady,” Virgile heard her say. “You’ll be in timeout. Your parents may let you get away with anything. But you’re with me now.”

  Inspector Fauchié didn’t appear offended. But when Virgile looked at him a few moments too long, he stiffened and seemed to lose his self-confidence.

  “Children can be so inconsiderate,” Virgile ventured.

  “I’m no expert when it comes to children, Virgile. I never had any of my own.”

  “So that wasn’t you in the picture I saw in your office?”

  “It was. I married a woman who had a child, and I raised him as my own son.”

  A cloud of melancholy seemed to settle over the inspector, and Virgile made an attempt to lighten the mood. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Damien. He has Down’s syndrome and liv
es in a work-based support center in Divonne-les-Bains, in the Jura mountains. We go to see him every other Sunday. You see, last Sunday I wouldn’t have been able to meet you here.”

  The man smoothed his white hair with his speckled hands. Virgile had noticed that the inspector’s hair was unusually long at the nape of his neck. Still, it didn’t completely hide the large wine-colored birthmark.

  Fauchié talked about Damien with both tenderness and sadness. He had never experienced the joys of fatherhood that other men took for granted: Sunday afternoon soccer games, study sessions at the kitchen table, dating tips, the search for the right college… Damien would never marry and make him a grandfather. In fact, because his son also had health problems, the boy would probably die before he did.

  “This is how it’s been for twenty-eight years, Virgile. I’ve lived with Down’s syndrome since the day I married. But I wouldn’t change my life for anything. Happiness lies with the people you love.”

  The inspector’s face brightened. The fine crow’s feet made his moss-green eyes more mischievous and his whole appearance less austere. His teeth were perfect for a person his age, and his lips were finely shaped.

  Virgile smiled. His grandmother would have had an expression for the inspector: “a handsome man in his day.”

  “A third coffee would not be reasonable, would it?” Fauchié suggested.

  “Reasonable people are a pain in the ass,” Virgile replied, flashing his own mischievous eyes.

  Thanks to the coffee and the conversation, Virgile was no longer feeling the effects of his night on the town and his lack of sleep. He felt energized and eager to find the “vine assassin,” which was what at least one newspaper was calling him.

  “I just thought of something, Inspector. Judging by my observations at the Klipsherrer, Flanck, Deutzler, and Ginsmeyer vineyards, it would seem that our weirdo goes after relatively young vines: five years old—ten at the most.”

  “That’s true,” Fauchié confirmed. “I hadn’t given it much consideration.”

  “In that case, he’s a professional!”

  “Well, he is now: he’s attacked five vineyards,” the inspector said.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” said Virgile. “He’s in the profession: he’s a winemaker.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “First of all, destroying a budding vine is more exciting than killing an old vine. Second, young plants are easier to prune than gnarly ones. And for that, there are extremely sophisticated power pruners these days. They’re sharp, lightweight, and quiet. Models for left-handed people are even available.”

  “If I follow your line of reasoning, you may be trying to convince me that we’re dealing with some kind of winemaker’s vengeance scheme and not a madman who takes pleasure in reading about his misdeeds in the papers.”

  “Power pruning shears are a tool a winemaker would use, and I’m tempted to add a young winemaker, because some of the old guys still balk at them. They’re rather expensive, but you can do a season’s worth of pruning in a matter of days. In the Bordeaux and Burgundy regions, power pruners replaced the manual ones long ago.”

  “I take it they’re battery operated. How do they work?”

  “It’s easy: the shears look like classic pruners, except they’re more responsive. They’re connected to a lithium battery pack that you wear on your belt or on your back. The wire connecting the shears and the battery pack doesn’t restrict your movements in any way.”

  “And what about the battery? It must weigh a ton.”

  “Not really. It depends on the model. It can weigh anywhere from two and a half to five kilos. Sure, at the end of the day you feel it, but compared with the tendinitis you can get with manual shears, the weight is hardly a problem.”

  “Do you know how to use one of these things?”

  “Yes. It feels a little like a gun, and you have to be careful about not cutting the wire that connects the shears to the battery pack. But once you get the hang of it, you can cut everything: vine shoots, spurs, vine stocks…”

  “What kind of safety precautions do you need to take?” Fauchié asked.

  “Not many. They just pinched my fingers at first. You’d have to be really clumsy to cut yourself. Steel-mesh gloves are available to protect your hands, but they’re a little like boxing gloves. I’d never wear them.”

  “In short, you could say we’ve identified the weapon, which gives us some information about the perpetrator.”

  “You could say that. But we’re still very far from apprehending a suspect.”

  Before he could express any more doubts, Virgile heard a commotion on the Grand Rue. He looked up and saw scores of people marching down the street. They were all dressed in their Sunday best: Burberry coats and Hermès scarves. A few minutes later, the church bells started pealing. The late Sunday Mass.

  “You don’t attend, Inspector?” Virgile asked.

  “No, I find my inspiration in the Sunday paper. And you?”

  “I can’t say I’m a regular churchgoer either. I prefer my sleep on Sunday mornings.”

  Just as quickly, the streetscape emptied again. Only a bedraggled man searching for coins on the ground remained in the square. Every once in a while a bicyclist would whiz by, his shrill bell grazing the silence.

  But Colmar was beginning to stir. Soon, the good Catholics would emerge from church and start visiting the bakeries and candy stores, where they would purchase goodies to take home. Later in the afternoon, if their children were well behaved, they’d take them for lakeside outings at Altenweiher or Fischboedle.

  Fauchié and Virgile fell silent, as if to enjoy these moments when the Alsatian city was still holding its breath.

  “Did you hear about Vincent Deutzler?” Fauchié finally said.

  “No. What about him?”

  “He died in his sleep two nights ago. Looks like natural causes. But the family has asked for an autopsy.”

  “Do they have any reason to be suspicious? He was getting on, and the destruction of his vineyard had to hit him hard. It wouldn’t be surprising if he suffered a heart attack in his sleep.”

  “I can’t answer that question. The family might know something that we don’t. At any rate, if the autopsy confirms natural causes, they’ll be able to bury their father in peace.”

  “I feel sorry for the Deutzlers. They’ve lost so much.”

  “And his isn’t the only death. Old Séverin Gaesler, who owned the bistro over there, kicked the bucket last night. A stroke or a heart attack. Maybe both.”

  “Were you able to question him before he died?” Virgile asked.

  “I went to the hospital twice. The first time, he was out of it. The second time, he had trouble talking and didn’t seem to understand what I was asking him. The doctors said his brain wasn’t getting an adequate blood flow. They were hoping he’d eventually regain some of his faculties. Anyway, if he had any secrets, he’s taken them to the grave,” Fauchié said, sighing. “Say, it’s past time for coffee. How about a beer?”

  “I’m up for that,” Virgile answered.

  “Brown or blond? French or German,” the inspector asked as if he were conducting an interrogation.

  “A Bitburger, please. I’m partial to light beers. And you?”

  “Me? Today I’m having a whiskey. Healthy lifestyle be damned.”

  “Healthy or not, I like your style, Inspector.”

  The two men smiled each other, and Virgile went back to Gaesler. “If the guy from Ammerschwihr, the one Gaesler told my boss about, was the perpetrator, he’d be too old to be traipsing through the countryside at night, armed with a set of power shears. And even if this person was hearty enough to be cutting down the vines, why would he attack properties owned by families that were never suspected of collaboration? No, I think Gaesler was an inveterate liar. A storyteller, like all café owners.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, especially because I relayed your boss’s information
to Captain Roch, and the three confirmed bachelors identified in the Ammerschwihr commune all claimed they didn’t know Gaesler. None of them had any dispute with the Ginsmeyers. One of them is in a retirement home. The second lives half the time with his sister in Kaysersberg. As for the third, he’s had two strokes and can’t use one of his arms.”

  “So, as I said, Gaesler’s story doesn’t hold up,” Virgile concluded.

  “Have funeral arrangements for Deutzler and Gaesler been made?”

  “Gaesler’s is at ten thirty Tuesday. Deutzler’s will depend on the autopsy. Are you planning to attend the services?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be there, but I’m sure my boss will make an appearance at both of them.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He always goes to funerals.”

  “That’s unusual—attending the funeral of someone you hardly know just for the sake of going,” Fauchié said. “Some people would say it’s morbid.”

  “Mr. Cooker says the dead speak to him.”

  Fauchié drank the rest of his whiskey. He glanced at his watch and suddenly looked worried.

  “I promised my wife I’d… Can I drop you off somewhere, Virgile?”

  Virgile politely declined and said good-bye. He put down his beer and headed for the nearby café Gaesler had owned.

  On the doorstep of the Père Tranquille, someone had left a bouquet of white yarrow.

  10

  A ravenous crowd had descended on La Ferme aux Moines. Benjamin took one look at all the patrons, who just a few hours earlier were in church, begging the Almighty to drive the vine cutter from their land, and wondered if they had been fasting a whole week in their effort to banish the evildoer. More than three hundred people were elbow-to-elbow in the immense refectory, which specialized in buffets.

  Massive and rustic-looking wrought-iron chandeliers hung above long wooden tables, where patrons—too eager to dig in to give saying grace a second thought—filled themselves with tartes flambées, braised sauerkraut, and perch in wine sauce. On the walls, three-dimensional accents depicted Benedictine monks and craftsmen going about their daily duties, which involved the fruit of the vine and good food.