Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 8
They both sipped their wine.
Cluzel seemed to enjoy the aromas and flavors before setting his glass down and looking Benjamin in the eye. “Well, your friends, the Lemoines, seem to carry a lot of weight with the prosecutor. I was told in no uncertain terms to leave you out of the investigation and clear out of the Lemoine estate ASAP.”
“And now we’ve determined that I was here. The newspapers say Clotilde was murdered at approximately nine thirty. Would that be correct?” Benjamin asked.
“That’s what the autopsy determined,” the inspector confirmed.
“So I have a solid alibi. Besides, Inspector, the storm that ravaged half the vines in the Côte—and, incidentally, did not spare Vergy—happened the following morning. The tire marks your cops found below the abbey had to be made after the storm.”
“True enough.”
“In that case, the prosecutor made the right call, and you have no reason to feel defeated.”
“So, how do you explain the clothing found in your car?”
“I do owe you an explanation, but I don’t have one yet.”
“And the mud on the rental?”
The server approached the table to clear their first set of plates and serve the roasted veal with pepper sauce that Benjamin had suggested for both of them. Seeing how the inspector savored his first bite, Benjamin decided to go with his instinct and trust the man. He told him about his nighttime visit to the abbey.
“Why did you go?” Cluzel asked.
“I was curious. You see, I’ve found that my training as a wine expert gives me a rather refined intuition and attentiveness to details. Sometimes it helps me solve mysteries. I just wanted to understand more about what happened to that poor girl.”
Cluzel cracked a grin. “I didn’t take you for an ambulance chaser, Mr. Cooker.”
“Touché, Inspector. Now, of course, this whole affair has tarnished my reputation. It’s bad enough being from Bordeaux, but now this.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Cooker. Since I’m being stonewalled, I’d like you to help me find the murderer. Together, we’ll uncover the person who slipped the girl’s clothes into your car, and we’ll clear your name.”
Benjamin raised his glass. “Deal.”
13
The conveyor belt carrying the plump, sticky grapes toward the immense press came to an abrupt stop for lunch. The sorters joined the grape pickers in the large vaulted room, where long tables had been set up. Already, an appetizing aroma of stew was loosening tongues.
A caterer from Beaune had simmered a harvest meal, but Virgile had no appetite. There was too much on his mind. He decided to take a walk along the dirt trails that lined the vineyards.
As he sauntered along, he took in the sights—some vineyard workers were picking straight through lunch—and ruminated on the bizarre scene with Cluzel in the smoking room. He reached the village of Vosne-Romanée. Nestled against the old bell tower, the town was all pointed roofs patched together like a stained glass window the color of bark. The doors to the wine cellars were wide open for the most part, letting the vinous vapors escape—a clear sign of the rush to harvest. Without even peeking in, Virgile knew what was going on.
Fermentation was beginning. The grapes, destemmed and crushed, were now a bubbly and heady juice in the vats. Despite the thickness of the lees, one could already gauge the color. And with a wine-tasting cup, vintners would assess the chew and suppleness or the hint of spiciness, a sign of too much acidity.
In the semi-darkness, this initial tasting would bring an entire family together: the grandfather, who was either silent or critical; the son or daughter, who didn’t attempt to judge, but preferred to taste again in a couple of weeks; and the grandchildren, who would inherit the vineyard one day. Invariably, the first taste would leave a purplish moustache under an eager child’s nose. “It stings, Daddy!” she’d proclaim.
Memories of his own grandfather and harvests in southwestern France came flooding back. Just as in Burgundy, work in his family’s cellar resembled a theater composed of odors, rituals, and promises that lay in the white or red juice that everyone hoped would be the vintage of the decade.
That was well before his father stopped making wine and began sending his harvest to the regional cooperative. Virgile had hated his father for that decision and cringed at the refrain, “It’s so much easier to just cash the quarterly check!” Only later did Virgile understand that his father had been growing older and getting tired.
Feeling nostalgic, Virgile recalled lowering the pipette into the bunghole as the family gathered under the single spider-web-festooned light bulb. His first words were “it pricks,” not “it stings,” but the sensation was the same.
He remembered his grandmother Albanie forbidding any sleeping in the back room, the one above the cellar, where the white wine was fermenting. She was afraid of asphyxiation from the carbonic gas insidiously emanating from the harvest. The year of his graduation, two of his friends, the Chambert twins, Gaël and Sebastien, had died while treading grapes in a type of cask no longer used. Their mother had committed suicide in the Dordogne River the following year. Gaël had been Virgile’s closest friend. They both played on the Bergerac rugby team, and Gael had a powerful kick that never failed to convert a try.
Albanie, who was always making deals with God, didn’t believe his grandfather when he told her that carbonic gas was significantly heavier than air and thus stagnated near the ground. She had her own ideas. She would point to the dog and say, “Look at Bobino. He can smell it. During fermentation, he just sticks his nose in the cellar and runs outside to breathe!”
“Who knows why the dog runs outside?” his grandfather would answer. “Maybe he just likes it out there. Believe me, little Virgile can sleep in the back room. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Albanie would shrug and place a camping lantern in her sewing room. “This is where he’ll sleep.”
Virgile passed some men in fatigues and hunting jackets. They seemed to be in a hurry. They probably had some business in the wine cellars, or maybe they were simply late for lunch. He turned down the Rue de la Goillotte, which led to the residence built for the prince of Conti in 1763 and his estate, which included a winery and park. It was doubtful that the prince ever stayed here. Instead, it was used by his estate managers.
He tried to get into the property, but an impressive gate blocked entry. The neglected and majestic enclosure was now a kingdom of weeds. Even the two stone sphinxes that once guarded the entrance had all but disappeared.
Before the trip, Virgile had read up on the history of Romanée-Conti. In the twelfth century the Duke of Burgundy deeded a narrow strip of inhospitable terrain between Dijon and Beaune to the Benedictine monks of Saint-Vivant, and by the late sixteenth century the monks were producing grands crus from pinot noir grapes. The area came to be called the Côte d’Or. But the priory fell behind on its taxes, and it was forced to sell its first and finest vineyard, at the time called Cloux des Cinq-Journaux. It had three owners between 1584 and 1631, when the vineyard came into the hands of the Croonembourg family, which enjoyed great market success with its wine.
The property was sold in 1760, after four generations, to Louis-François de Bourbon, prince of Conti. The sale was somewhat secretive, because the intriguing Marquise de Pompadour also coveted the estate. The prince took the greatest Burgundy wine off the market and kept it for his own pleasure and the fine dinners he threw. Thereafter, the wine of Cloux des Cinq-Journaux was called Romanée-Conti, even though, strangely enough, it wasn’t until after the French Revolution that this denomination was recognized.
The government then seized the estate and sold it at auction. The buyer, the Ouvard family, kept the treasure for half a century before selling it to the famous Duvault-Blochet family, of whom the Villaines were the direct heirs. In 1911, Edmond de Villaine Guidon became t
he steward of Romanée, and then, in 1942, he sold half of the estate to his friend Henri Leroy. Meanwhile, the owners continued to expand the winemaking property. These days, Romanee-Conti was owned by Aubert Villaine and Henri-Frederic Roch.
Near Saint Martin Church, Virgile took a little road called Derrière-le-Four. Eventually, he reached a simple building with whitewashed walls and a pair of burgundy-colored gates. A small plaque atop the gates bore the initials “RC.” Situated between a stone house and an outbuilding was Domaine de la Romanee-Conti.
A short stroll away was the vineyard of Romanee-Conti and its stone cross rising above a sea of pinot noir like a Golgotha, where disciples of Romanée-Conti from around the world gathered every day to take their selfies. Actually, this eighteenth-century cross was no more ornate than the others dotting the most beautiful vineyards in Burgundy. Still, it announced a venerated site where adoration, perfection, and myth converged—proving, if need be, that the best of wines remained an aesthetic pleasure, provided fortune had the kindness to smile on it.
The hail had ignored this stretch of the Côte, as though nature were trying in some small way to compensate for the loss of Clotilde Dupont. The entire plot had been harvested. Only trampled leaves and gravelly red earth remained at the foot of each vine. That wasn’t the case in 1979 or 1983, when buckets of ice reduced half of the harvest to rubble.
Virgile stopped for a moment. Leaning against the stone wall, he thought about Clotilde. He imagined the scene in Meursault. A long procession would be gathering in the forecourt of the church. There wouldn’t be enough room for everyone in the pews. Most likely, his boss would be there, standing back and carefully watching the relatives, friends, and neighbors who had come to pay their final respects to the pretty-as-a-picture young woman.
When Virgile got back to the Lemoine estate, he ran into Marcel and Rafael, freshly shaved and dressed in black.
“We hope to be back by four,” Marcel said. “We’re counting on you, Mr. Lanssien, to keep an eye on things. By the way, do you know where Benjamin is?”
“He didn’t tell me where he was going. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into him in Meursault.”
It seemed as if the weather might turn stormy again. In the south, toward Beaune, the cumulonimbus clouds looked threatening. The weathervane atop the estate’s glazed-tile roof was beginning to spin wildly.
“I don’t think it’s headed this way,” Rafael said, staring at the uncertain horizon.
Marcel paused before climbing into his Jaguar X300. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”
14
A mountain of white flowers covered the blond-oak coffin, which was resting on a catafalque-like frame at the front of the church. Flanking it were six candelabras. In the crowded pews, worshippers followed the familiar rite: the greeting, the hymn, the prayers, and the readings.
Just as the priest, a young man fresh out of seminary, was about to start the homily, the soft light streaming through the stained-glass windows vanished, and the Meursault church was plunged into darkness. A wind rose, and the window frames began to tremble. The bell tower groaned in turn, and rain hammered the building. Those watching from the open doorway because they hadn’t been able to squeeze into the sanctuary scrambled for cover. The priest ordered the nave closed.
When the hail started pelting the central window depicting the ascetic face of Christ the Redeemer, people all over the church made the sign of the cross. Now the grape-picking was really over.
A terrible boom shook the building, and the priest scrambled down from the pulpit. Lightning had hit the spire. Fortunately, the lightning rod had prevented the worst.
As the mourners cowered, Benjamin prayed, asking God to help those in the church and beyond find the strength and stamina to overcome the onslaught of adversity. Opening his eyes, he found Inspector Cluzel in the pew across the aisle. The man’s face had lost all its color.
Benjamin turned around and saw the Lemoines, having arrived too late to find a seat, at the back of the church, near the staircase leading to the bell tower. Rafael’s face was sweaty, and he had loosened his tie.
The winemaker turned around again, noting that Philippine had not budged from her place beside the family in the first rows. Next to her, an older man and woman, most likely Clotilde’s parents, were sobbing. One pew behind, Benjamin recognized the insurance claims rep in the same three-piece suit, which seemed a size too big for his spindly frame. The young man pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and wiped his eyes.
The priest climbed back into the pulpit and picked up where he had left off. “We pray that Clotilde will take her place beside you, oh Lord…”
On the whole, it was an eclectic assembly. There were people from Meursault, naturally, but also several people Benjamin recognized from the vineyards in both Nuits-Saint-Georges and Vosne-Romanée. At the Lemoine estate, the vineyard manager had told the workers that they’d be paid whether they stayed on the job or attended the service. They could follow their consciences.
Benjamin glanced at Cluzel again. He was examining the mourners. The inspector looked over, and Benjamin gave him a nod, a sign of their complicity. He also began to study the crowd, paying special attention to the shoes. Not that he expected to see glow-in-the-dark sneakers at a funeral.
The organ music started up, and the casket, borne by six pallbearers, made its way down the aisle. By now the rain had stopped, and the mourners lingered outside the church to exchange greetings and condolences. Marcel seemed surprised when Benjamin approached him.
“Your assistant said you might be here,” Marcel said. “But I really didn’t expect you. You live in Bordeaux and never met the girl.”
“Nevertheless, I wanted to pay my respects.”
Rafael extended his hand. “Mr. Cooker, please walk with us to the cemetery. You know Simon Brauchard, right?”
Benjamin recognized the man standing next to Rafael. He had come to the Lemoine estate to discuss something with Rafael, and Virgile had introduced them. “Yes, Simon, it’s a pleasure to see you again, despite the unfortunate circumstances. How is your wife? Is she here?”
The man shook his hand without looking him in the face. “No, she couldn’t make it.”
“More like she wouldn’t come,” Rafael whispered in Benjamin’s ear.
Benjamin raised an eyebrow and leaned in but didn’t manage to extract any further information.
After the burial, the priest announced that there would be no funeral reception. Although the bulk of the grapes had made it into the tanks, the harvest was still under way. The Duponts knew that everyone had to get back to work, and the vintners needed to inspect their properties after the afternoon storm. Fortunately, it seemed to have caused more noise than harm.
The cars parked around the church and city hall quickly dispersed. Life resumed its course. The murder of Clotilde Dupont was certainly an odious crime, but people in the farming world weren’t the kind to pour their hearts out and sob in public. Even the members of the Dupont family had comported themselves with great dignity.
When Philippine Perraudin got behind the wheel of her purple Twingo, Benjamin saw his opportunity. He approached the car and leaned in the window.
“I know the timing isn’t the best, but I’d like to talk to you about a few things in private. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Not here,” the Lemoine winemaker answered curtly.
“Wherever you please, then.”
“Come to my place. It’s ten minutes away. Follow me.”
Benjamin complied. He looked at the clock on the bell tower. It was three forty. At the end of the day, Benjamin thought with some frustration, the funeral had done absolutely nothing to help him identify the perpetrator of the crime. Why had he and nobody else been the designated target of such a crude staging, an attempt to make him look guilty?
§ § §
Philippine lived in a small house at the end of an alley lined with chestnut trees. Judging by the slate roof, Benjamin guessed it was one of the outbuildings of the Napoleon III-style château whose turrets he could make out beyond a forest of plane trees.
The house was simple, clean, and charmingly decorated. Family furniture filled the main room, and traditional floor tiles enhanced the cozy décor, creating a rather striking contrast with the inelegant woman who called herself Ms. Perraudin and only occasionally Philippine.
On the mantel, in a metal frame, was a photograph of Philippine as a young girl, with a country home in the background. Benjamin could see that it was only part of a photo. Someone had been cut out of the picture, but her hand was still visible. Before he could slip on his reading glasses, Philippine invited him to the opposite end of the room, near the kitchen.
“Coffee, tea?” she asked after shedding her gray coat. She was wearing black pants and a tailored white shirt that hugged her sturdy frame.
“You won’t be surprised if I tell you I prefer tea?”
“I’m not very well stocked. I have only Earl Grey in teabags.”
“That’s perfect,” Benjamin said with feigned enthusiasm. He took a seat in a fairly uncomfortable wicker chair.
Philippine disappeared into the kitchen. Benjamin listened as she turned on the water, filled a pan, and put it on the stove. A second later, he heard a crash.