Deadly Tasting (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 8

  “Do I have to do another tasting?” Benjamin asked, peering at the sky. It was beginning to darken with clouds.

  “No, we don’t care. I’ll have the samples sent to your office and to your winemaker friend, the famous Depardieu.”

  “It’s Dubourdieu, Inspector,” Virgile said.

  “It’s all the same to me,” Barbaroux grumbled. “I tell you, we don’t care about this wine. Whether it’s a grand cru or a two-buck chuck, it has no bearing!”

  “Allow me to have an opinion that’s a bit different,” Benjamin said.

  “Do you have any solid reason to say that?” the inspector asked without waiting for an answer. “Are there any new developments? I want you to know that at this very moment, two of my men are talking to Duboyne de Ladonnet. In a few short hours, their report will be on my desk. I bet they’ll find out exactly what you did.”

  “He had information on the first two victims but nothing at all on Jouvenaze, who is buried nearby,” Virgile said. His tone was full of authority. He was letting the inspector know that he was to be taken as seriously as his boss. Benjamin could see that. The captain shot Virgile a surprised and amused look.

  “He’s a strange fellow, that Duboyne,” Barbaroux grumbled as he continued to stare at Virgile.

  Now Benjamin was amused. It was clear that the arrogant captain was confronting Virgile, waiting for him to lower his eyes first. Virgile, apparently aware of the inspector’s maneuver, refused. Barbaroux finally turned back to Benjamin.

  “I’ve been watching him hang around the city hall archives for quite a while now, interrogating the last people who lived through World War Two, stirring up stacks of dusty documents. It seems he’s trying to prove his grandfather’s innocence, although he was embroiled in some dark tale of paintings that were stolen for the Krauts. He’s claiming that he wants to honor the memory of his grandfather, but by slaving away on this dossier, he’ll end up ruining his maritime insurance company. I don’t know how he finds the time to do all that futile research. Wouldn’t it look great, the frigging Duboyne de Ladonnet coat of arms, if the heir caused a bankruptcy by screwing around with his grandpa’s legacy? He might be a smart guy and a competent historian, but he’s just as much of a troublemaker as the rest of them. That was a good idea you had to contact him like that.”

  “Do you mean that?” Benjamin asked, shocked.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? You have intuition, as we all know, and I have nothing better to do than trail you. But be careful, Mr. Cooker. Don’t ever try to hide anything from me again!”

  “I hope you didn’t have us come here from Bordeaux to give us a lecture or try to intimidate us with unfounded accusations, Inspector.”

  “Don’t be angry. There’s nothing threatening in what I’m saying. It’s just that it’s impossible to sit down calmly with you and discuss our little matter. You seem elusive and not very available. Yesterday you popped in at Édouard Prébourg’s place, and then you took off as soon as you finished tasting the wine. You seem to be avoiding me right now. So I might as well meet you informally.”

  “So, let me get this straight; this new desecration is rather opportune? Do you realize I have a job, too, and duties, urgent matters, employees to manage and pay? I don’t imagine your office is sending me a check at the end of the month.”

  Barbaroux burst out laughing. “You’re quite right, Mr. Cooker, because you would be disappointed by the amount.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I find this case very rewarding. And with some luck, we’ll eventually reach a settlement.”

  “You do have a way with words. You always surprise me, Mr. Cooker. Observing you is like being at the theater!”

  Benjamin remained stone-faced. He could see Virgile pursing his lips to keep from laughing.

  “Ah, there he is, finally!” Barbaroux said when he spied a man walking toward them from a distance. “A good fifteen minutes late, that guy! We’ve discovered that the two graves are in the same family plot. Jouvenaze and Sauveterre were first cousins. The cemetery office located the only remaining family member in the region. He’s Armand’s nephew, Dominique Jouvenaze. It’s lucky they were able to find him so quickly.”

  The man was walking slowly. He was wearing a navy pea coat, rust-colored corduroy pants that were too short, and tan work boots. He had an unopened black umbrella slung like a shotgun over his shoulder. The red, green, navy, and yellow tartan scarf around the man’s neck was a vivid counterpoint to the otherwise drab look.

  Benjamin and Virgile greeted him with a nod and discreetly stepped aside. Benjamin was careful, however, to remain close enough to hear the conversation between the inspector and Arnaud Jouvenaze’s nephew.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Barbaroux said with a smile that looked forced. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, but this is a serious matter.”

  “You didn’t bother me at all, Inspector. I’ve been retired for two years, so I have all the time in the world.”

  “Lucky man! At least, that’s what they say about retirement.”

  “Indeed, I didn’t expect such a mess when your officer called me this morning. He told me about it.”

  “Unfortunately, you’ll have to file a police report. It’s the second grave site in your family that we’ve found vandalized.”

  “I read in yesterday’s paper that a grave had been desecrated, but since the deceased’s name wasn’t in the article, I had no idea that it had anything to do with my family. A grave desecration is shocking enough, but that my family was targeted makes it especially upsetting. Will I really have to file a police report?”

  “I’ll need a statement from you, at least,” Barbaroux said. “If we find out who did this, your statement and the report will be essential for any charges we file. Your insurance company will also need what you give us to process your claims and cover the damage. But first, can you tell me about the relationship between the two decedents?”

  Dominique Jouvenaze looked fatigued. Benjamin surmised that he was in his late sixties or early seventies, but his slouch made him seem much older. With his tartan scarf pulled up to fend off the chill, he spoke in a monotone. He took his time explaining everything in detail. Jouvenaze gave the appearance of a man who was plumbing the depths of his memory to exhume various pieces of the past.

  Jouvenaze told the inspector that his uncle Armand had died of cancer. The illness had dragged on, and he had spent his final days in a Libourne hospital. He was a bachelor his entire life and lived in a modest house. He worked as a farmhand on properties in Pomerol and Lalande de Pomerol. He had acquaintances at a bar in Catusseau, but as far as his nephew knew, the man didn’t have any good friends or other close relationships.

  The man also admitted that this information was gleaned from what he had been told or had overheard as a child. He had never been allowed to speak to his solitary and taciturn uncle, even though they were neighbors. His parents, Antoine and Simone, both recently deceased, had given him, his brother, and his twin sister strict instructions to never talk to the man. Dominique’s parents had much earlier broken off all contact with certain family members.

  As for Jean Sauveterre, Jouvenaze had never even met him. He had died in a plane crash in 1959. The DC7 flight from Paris to Abidjan had crashed in a pine forest just outside Bordeaux. It was the biggest plane crash France had ever known. There were fifty-three charred victims, and the blaze had destroyed a good part of the woods.

  When the inspector questioned Jouvenaze about the two men’s political ties, he said he had no idea why the word Nazi and the SS insignia were left on the tombstones. He had never heard any talk of Nazis or the elite guard when he was growing up, other than what his parents told him about the war. It had to be random graffiti left by some delinquent kids from Libourne, Jouvenaze told the detective.

  “All said and done, I’m left to take care of this whole thing, even though these two guys were perfect strangers to me,” he wearily concluded. “I have to t
ell my brother and sister, who live in Paris, and figure out what to do about the graves. And then there’s the matter of Uncle Armand’s house, which we inherited when our parents died.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father died of a heart attack a year ago, and my mother died three months later. When they inherited Armand’s house in 1998, they didn’t even open it or put it up for sale. It’s been closed since then, and we intend to get rid of it.”

  “And you’ve never taken the time to go and look at it?” Barbaroux asked.

  “I’ve been waiting for my brother and sister to come down. This may sound odd to you, but I have qualms about going in there all by myself. My parents pounded it into my siblings and me that we weren’t supposed to have anything to do with my uncle. Even now I feel like I’m going against their wishes.”

  “According to the information I got from the city, it’s in the town of Pomerol, right?”

  “Yes, in a place called Petite Racine, at the crossroads of Libourne, Pomerol, and Catusseau. It’s not very hard to find.”

  Large drops of rain were beginning to pelt the cemetery. With a handshake, the inspector ended his meeting with Jouvenaze. Benjamin saw the man grimace as he extracted his hand from Barbaroux’s grip. The man had an unpleasant handshake. His palm was sweaty, and his grip was strong enough to break fingers. Jouvenaze promised to give his official statement as quickly as possible. He opened his umbrella and started walking away. A few seconds later, a heavy gust of wind ripped through the cemetery, flipping Jouvenaze’s umbrella inside out. Virgile shivered and pulled his collar even higher as he watched the man struggle with his umbrella in the distance. When Virgile turned back to the grave, rainwater was running down his forehead. He wiped it dry with the back of his hand.

  Benjamin told Barbaroux that he would meet him at his office on the Allées de Tourny the next day, late in the morning, to take stock of the situation. It was time to cross-check the information each one had gathered, compare the viewpoints, and reflect on the mysterious links that seemed to connect the victims. The inspector had suggested that they meet at the restaurant Noailles. When the winemaker reminded him of his cabbage soup diet and offered to share some with the inspector, Barbaroux said a simple meeting over a cup of tea would be just fine. Barbaroux said good-bye and started walking over to his forensics team. The members, who had collected the evidence and taken samples, were waiting for him on a nearby cemetery drive. Just as he was about to reach them, Barbaroux turned around. He ran back to Benjamin and grabbed his arm.

  “Say, Cooker, about that tea. Could we make it a little Armagnac instead?”

  9

  Before returning to Bordeaux to complete the final stage of the Languedoc-Roussillon tasting, Benjamin Cooker could not resist the urge to walk the grounds of Pomerol with his assistant, if only for a half hour squeezed out of his tight schedule. He often indulged in this type of escape. He always had an irrepressible desire to smell the vines that bore the fruit of a highly regarded wine.

  They drove aimlessly, letting themselves be guided by signposts that inspired wine lovers to daydream: Bellegrave, Beauregard, Le Bon Pasteur, Bourgneuf-Vayron, Le Castellet, Clos de Salles, La Conseillante, La Croix Saint-Georges, Domaine de l’Église, L’Enclos, Franc-Maillet, Gazin, Gombaude-Guillot, Grand Beauséjour, Grand Moulinet, Latour à Pomerol, Montviel, Petit Village, Pomeaux, Ratouin, Rouget, Tour Maillet, Tour Robert, Trotanoy, Vieux Château Certan, Vieux Maillet, Vray Croix de Gay. The road wound its way slowly between the vineyards. The châteaux blended with the countryside in soft, peaceful harmony to the metronome of the swishing windshield wipers.

  “I’ve never been to the Pétrus château, boss.”

  “You don’t just drop in for a visit, my boy. There are certain sacred places you are rarely allowed to enter. I won’t take you there today, out of consideration for the people who work there. I wouldn’t want to disturb them by arriving without an appointment. But I promise you’ll make a pilgrimage there someday.”

  “Do you know that I have never even tasted Pétrus?” Virgile admitted.

  “That’s a gaping hole in your estimable expertise,” Benjamin joked. “We’ll have to correct it as soon as possible. I’m sure you know that one of the most distinctive characteristics of the Pomerol appellation is its geological composition. The earth is full of fairly fine, lovely gravel, but it’s especially the crasse de fer, or iron dross, that gives it its uniqueness.

  “Yes, I didn’t study oenology at the university for nothing. The crasse de fer is in the subsoil, which is a stony mix of clay and iron. The iron oxide gives the wine its metallic but fatty flavor. Some people claim it tastes a bit like truffles.”

  “Perfect. Young man, you’ve learned your lessons well. But you know, it just so happens that the twenty-eight acres of Pétrus are composed solely of clay and silty sand. And therein lies the whole mystery. There is no crasse de fer in the Pétrus domain, whiles it’s the main element influencing all the Pomerols. If you open a map of that appellation, you’ll see this little yellow spot right in the middle of the terroir. Perfect and unique, as if the finger of God had pointed to this precise place and blessed it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “Sort of,” Virgile murmured. Knowing his assistant as he did, Benjamin could sense his skepticism.

  “God marked the spot. Then He lifted his finger, and Pétrus was born, steeped in holy clay! But perhaps I digress. You don’t seem very convinced by my theory.”

  “It’s quite tempting, sir, though I find it a bit too mystical for my taste. I would advise you to keep it to yourself and not let it slip into one of your books. Some people might brand you a theo-oenologist—to coin a term—and that would be unfortunate. You would be forced to drink only consecrated wine to the end of your days! And we both know how awful that tends to be.”

  “You’re right. I agree. People don’t always realize the divine nature of what they’re drinking.”

  The rain had almost stopped by the time they reached the Pomerol church, where the bell tower rose up like a lighthouse in a sea of vineyards. They parked the convertible on the small town square and walked over to the war memorial. Benjamin read the names of the soldiers who had died in battle. Pomerol had lost thirty-one men in World War One. Five young men had been lost from 1939 to 1945. Benjamin bowed his head and remained silent, arms crossed and eyes half closed. He prayed for the souls of the boys who had died far from home and the mothers, fathers, and siblings who had lost them. As he sent up his prayers, he could hear the birds chirping in the vines.

  Benjamin opened his eyes and saw his assistant waiting patiently. He took in the landscape and noted that there weren’t many leaves left in the vineyards, just a few reddish bouquets hanging here and there on the stocks, dozing before the first winter pruning.

  “There’s something I have to tell you, sir,” Virgile said. “But I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong or if I should just trust my intuition. Besides, it was so brief and fleeting. A little while ago, in the cemetery…”

  “How cautious you’re being, Virgile!”

  “Well, here it is: I think I saw streaks of red on Dominique Jouvenaze’s umbrella. Not while it was closed, but as soon as it started to rain, the guy opened it, and there, on the cloth part, near the top, there were red smears. It looked like paint, and it was bright red, like an intense vermilion.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, while you were talking with the inspector, I watched him. He was fighting with the umbrella in the wind, and at one point, the umbrella even inverted. I got a good look at it. When I turned back to the grave and saw the two s’s, they looked like they were the same red.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing, I’m just telling you what I saw. Or what I think I saw.”

  Jangling the keys to the Mercedes, Benjamin walked back to the car with Virgile. Without a word, he slid behind the wheel. They took off in the direction of the
primary school, turned left toward Catusseau, and crossed a highway. They drove along narrow roads that were rough enough to make the car shake. Near a tributary of the L’Isle River, not far from the railroad tracks connecting Bordeaux to Bergerac, was the place called Petite Racine. Barely a handful of modest houses were set among the vines and protected from the wind by oak, sycamore, and acacia trees. Only a beautiful nineteenth-century monastery surrounded by conifers and a stone wall gave character to the uninspired hamlet. Benjamin cut the engine after parking in a secluded spot near an overrun thicket.

  As soon as Benjamin got out of the car, he faced into the wind to attune his sense of smell to the landscape. Oddly, it was a habit he had picked up from his Irish setter, Bacchus. Then, standing still, he got his visual bearings. He assessed the way the rows of vines were established and the nature of the soil, more gravelly than sandy in this place. Nearby would be the Marzy château. Toward the west would be La Croix des Templiers. Behind him was La Pointe.

  It did not take Benjamin and Virgile long to locate Armand Jouvenaze’s house near a large pond. In the distance, the nephew’s house was visible. It was slightly more imposing but just as plain. Plumes of smoke escaped in thin threads from the large brick chimney, indicating that Dominique Jouvenaze was home. A barrier of trees separated the two properties. Benjamin and Virgile cautiously snooped around the little house. Its closed shutters and deserted courtyard overrun with high weeds typified the morbid nature of neglected properties. Virgile walked over to the barn, its worn siding bleached by years of scorching sun and pounded by relentless rains. He motioned to Benjamin to join him.

  “Look, boss. I think you’re going to like this.”

  Benjamin peeked through a space in the wood and whistled. “That’s for sure!”

  “What model is it?”

  “A Renault Dauphine, my boy! In pretty good condition, from what I can tell. A magnificent red Dauphine!”