Foul Play in Vouvray Page 8

  “Mysterious?” Gayraud asked.

  “Yes, that’s the word. If it were up to me, I’d go with this one.”

  “I agree,” David said. “This girl’s alluring. And the mole’s cute. It sets her apart from the rest.”

  “I had a hunch you’d pick her,” Gayraud said, closing the binder. And I confess, she’s my choice, as well. So we’ll need to go to Paris. You should watch her audition in person. My fellow connivers, as you call them, want your approval because you’ll be working with her closely.”

  “No can do. I have too much going on here. Besides, Simone’s still with us. I refuse to leave as long as she’s fighting for her life. Let’s wait and see. There’s no rush.”

  “We shouldn’t wait too long,” Gayraud said.

  “Gayraud, you don’t seem to remember that I’ve got the skeleton on my hands too. The cops don’t want me taking off.” David looked at Benjamin. “And while I’m thinking about it, are you on board with investigating that little matter? A few minutes ago you said I could count on you.”

  “You got me, David,” Benjamin said, shaking his head. “I did say that, didn’t I. So, yes, I’ll dig up what I can.”

  “Terrible word play, Benjamin, but thanks.”

  “Have the police given you any more information I can use to get started?”

  “Just this: they said the name Octave was engraved on the back of the medal.” David turned to Gayraud. “Once we get to the bottom of the skeleton affair, you should pitch it to our pal Lee Friedman. It would make a great plot for a TV show.”

  The producer smiled sheepishly.

  David looked at Gayraud with incredulity. “You haven’t locked up that movie deal yet? You scoundrel! You’re going to sign that damned contract and see that he gets paid for his screenplay! Do you want me to buy you the pen?”

  “Now just a minute!” the producer shot back. “The financial arrangements are complicated. Very complicated.”

  David sneered at Gayraud. “You can’t let go of a ten-cent coin, can you? You’re really a bastard. And what would you do without your whores? The authors, the actors, the technicians? They all hustle while you sit around counting your euros. On top of that, you treat them like shit.”

  “Give it a rest, David,” Gayraud said. “Stop with the melodrama.”

  For the second time that day, Benjamin had had enough. “Gentlemen, I must leave you now,” he said, getting up.

  As he walked back to his old Mercedes 280 SL parked across the field, the winemaker perceived an indistinct movement in the thick hedge to his right. He heard two clicks, like sounds from an empty shotgun. Probably a small animal snapping twigs in the woods, he thought. He stopped and stared at the hedge. It rustled.

  16

  “Those bastards didn’t even offer me a sandwich! Just a glass of cloudy water every now and then. I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and I feel like I haven’t bathed in a month.”

  “All the more reason to ride in a convertible,” Benjamin said, giving Virgile an affectionate cuff on the chin. “I put the top down so you wouldn’t stink up the car.”

  “Very funny, boss.”

  Early that morning, Inspector Blanchet had called to tell Benjamin they were letting Virgile go. He had been in custody for more than twenty-four hours, and the police had no reason to hold him any longer. Several interrogations had convinced them that Virgile was neither a killer, nor a rapist—not even a drug user, for that matter. Furthermore, they had no evidence. All they had was the photo of him dancing with Simone. So they released Virgile without so much as an apology, although they hadn't been especially nasty, either.

  Now the police had to go back to square one, re-examine the guest list provided by David, check the background of each one, wait for the remaining lab results, reconstruct the sequence of events the evening of the party, look into Simone’s past, and establish any and all friendly and professional connections linking the lot of them. The case seemed tortuous, and doubts were growing by the hour. The overly zealous press had cast suspicion on Virgile and given the police the notion they could wrap up the investigation without disentangling a skein whose fibers had probably originated in the affluent quarters of Paris.

  During their phone conversation, Inspector Blanchet had said the matter was probably more within the purview of the vice squad, but he preferred to keep it out of their hands. Benjamin intuited that the inspector’s reputation and honor were on the line. Blanchet wasn’t about to let anyone take over. For the time being, no high-ranking official had summoned him, and no influential people were asking him to avoid smearing certain names or to proceed with caution. So far, so good. Perhaps the matter was simpler than they thought, as no big shots were trying to protect themselves.

  “I could eat a gigantic breakfast,” Virgile said, tuning the radio to a station he liked. “Coffee, croissants, buttered toast with tons of jam, fried eggs, bacon, a liter of orange juice, and why not a bowl of cereal with fromage blanc?”

  “A sort of English breakfast, in fact,” suggested Benjamin.

  “Absolutely! And how about a slice of roast beef, too?”

  “Aside from that, don’t you have anything to tell me?”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Everything! I want to hear all about it.”

  “Well, they grilled me, sometimes several at a time, sometimes one at a time. But I was onto their game. It was like being in a second-rate movie. I only told them what you already know. I played the nice guy, a bit of a superficial flirt, even better, a very superficial common flirt!”

  “Do you know what one of my favorite countrymen said?”

  “Which one? You quote so many. But I’ll take a stab: the distant relative convicted of gross indecency or the white supremacist?”

  “Please, Virgile, speak more kindly of Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill.”

  “Sorry, boss, but it’s always seemed kind of surprising to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That Winston Churchill, who despised the Nazis and was a great defender of freedom and democracy, believed that only whites were entitled to it.”

  Benjamin didn’t say anything. No doubt his assistant thought he had stuck his foot in his mouth. He let Virgile squirm.

  “Uh, what I meant to say, boss, was that Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill were what you’d call flamboyant and controversial. Compared with them, you’ve led—how can I put it—a quiet life.”

  Benjamin bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Quiet? That’s the image I prefer, but consider this: I’ve just picked you up from jail, where you were held on suspicion of murder. Over the years we’ve tripped over one corpse after another, just going about the business of helping wine growers do their job. And we’ve solved more than a few homicides ourselves.”

  “Okay, okay, boss,” Virgile said, shielding himself as though he were about to get punched. “I’m sorry. What did this famous person say?”

  “Oscar Wilde always touched on universal truths: ‘The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is, no one has yet discovered.’”

  “That saying is so typically British. But I don’t need to read Oscar Wilde to figure that out for myself.”

  “Yes, it’s very English.”

  “In a very few words, you Brits manage to express what the French take ten sentences to say. We can’t help dragging it out.”

  “Need I remind you, Virgile, that I’m only half British? My mother was French. But I’ll humor you. Give me some examples.”

  “Well, when a Brit insults someone, he goes straight for the kill without any flourishes. While you’d say ‘bloody idiot,’ we might say, ‘Enculé de bâtard de fils de pute.’ ‘You’re a sodomite, a bastard, and the son of a prostitute.’”

  “You’ve got me there,” said Benjamin. “So tell me: why do you go around saying ‘my God’ all day? Since you’re one hundred percent French, shouldn’t it be someth
ing wordier?”

  “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

  “I can see that abstinence and fasting have made you more pensive, son.”

  “Well, there are French expressions I like a lot. For example, ‘raclure de bidet.’ I don’t know how you could translate that into English with the same impact. Toilet scum doesn’t quite cut it.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “The expression’s a little vulgar for you, I imagine, but it’s effective. What’s more, it makes me feel better when I say it.”

  “I just hope that’s never in a crowded café.”

  “I do have some common sense, boss.”

  Benjamin was savoring the moment. Virgile was a free man, and the wind whipping against his cheeks felt good. Up ahead, the Château d’Amboise proudly reached toward the sky. For now, all was well.

  A few minutes later, Virgile broke his contemplation. “Any news about Simone?”

  “I understand her condition hasn’t changed,” Benjamin answered. “She’s in a coma. She’s still page-one news, and I imagine she will be for some time.”

  “I’m really sorry, boss. I hate thinking that anything I did caused bad publicity for Cooker & Co.”

  “Honestly, it’s not my biggest concern. Of course, I was mad at you in the beginning, but Elisabeth calmed me down. She believes in you, Virgile.”

  “Please thank her for me.”

  “You can thank her yourself. She’ll be appreciative. Women will save you, and they’ll ruin you too, son. That seems to be your destiny. It’ll present challenges, of course. But to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t mind having that kind of problem now and then.”

  As they approached Château de Pray, Benjamin spotted a dark bank of clouds in the distance. The threat was veering toward the northeast, once again sparing the sloping Touraine hillsides. He turned right and ascended the road leading to the hotel. The gearbox screeched as he downshifted.

  “You seem lost in thought, boss. Anything wrong?”

  “No, I was just thinking about something Sacha Guitry said.

  “What was that?”

  “There are two kinds of women: the ones who are young and pretty, and the ones who still find me handsome.”

  “Boss, that might apply to your father, but you can’t be thinking of yourself. I see the stares you get from good-looking women of all ages. Maybe you don’t, but I do.”

  “Thank you for allowing me a bit of vanity,” Benjamin said, parking the car. “Besides, I have Elisabeth. If she finds me handsome, what more could I want?”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Benjamin started to get out but looked over and saw that Virgile was still sitting in the passenger seat, reluctant to leave.

  “Boss, there’s something I should have told you earlier,” Virgile said.

  “Oh?”

  “Remember when I asked if I could borrow the car? I needed to run an errand.”

  “Yes, you were buying hair gel.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I went to the hospital. I wanted to see Simone. There’s just something about her. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “I really didn’t believe your story, Virgile, but I figured whatever you were using the car for, it was okay. So, did you see her?”

  “Yes, but while I was there, a nurse came in and told me someone else had shown up: a tall, muscular guy with a man bun—you know, a clump of hair on top of his head. I think I caught a glimpse of him in the hallway too. It was Fabrice. It had to be.”

  “Why would he be there?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. He’s a well-built guy. Looks like he works out. It’s possible he uses GHB.”

  Neither of them said anything. Finally, Benjamin spoke. “Perhaps he danced with her…”

  Virgile finished for him. “And he dropped something in her Champagne with the intention of hooking up. Maybe he felt guilty after she was found in the cellar and thought he had to see her at the hospital, or maybe he wanted to gauge for himself just how long she’d last.”

  Benjamin shivered. He and Virgile had been working so closely with the film crew. “The rape-kit results are still out,” he said. “We’ll have to wait.”

  Virgile nodded.

  They both got out of the car. The morning air smelled earthy and scented with flowers that had just come into bloom. Benjamin breathed it in.

  “Boss, there’s something else I was wondering. How do you manage to remember all those quotations? Sometimes I get the feeling you make them up.”

  “I remember them because they appeal to me. But who’s to say I always attribute them to the right author?”

  “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that. However, you’re the kind of person who checks his sources.”

  “At least twice. But Virgile, remember this: don’t trust anyone who seems too sure of himself.”

  17

  At Château de Pray, the winemaker watched his assistant wolf down a Rabelaisian breakfast. Then he sat in the garden, making notes while Virgile took a hot shower and shaved.

  Virgile joined the winemaker thirty minutes later, wearing a plum-colored sweater with cropped trousers and black tassel loafers.

  “We simply can’t leave Touraine without visiting Domaine Huet,” Benjamin said, tucking his notebook into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. “I’d planned to do that today, but something’s come up. David’s insistent that I investigate the skeleton matter, and I can’t let him down. He’s in a bad way.”

  “Doesn’t Liza have plans for us?”

  “I’ll call and tell her we’re tied up. She’ll have to find something else to do.”

  “Okay, boss. So where do we start?” Benjamin rose to his feet. “With the medal. David said it’s engraved with the name Octave. Let’s check the birth and death registries in Vouvray and Montlouis.”

  “Why Montlouis?”

  “David told me his estate belonged to a family that owned properties in both communes at the beginning of the twentieth century, when the Vouvray and Montlouis agricultural zones were still unified.”

  “Checking the records in both places could take a lot of time, boss. How much do we have?”

  “I don’t know how much we’ll need, but I’m hoping the records are computerized. And there are two of us, so with any luck, it might go more quickly than we think.”

  They decided to go to Vouvray’s town hall first. Once there, Virgile flirted with the clerk, a twentyish woman named Yvette with curly strawberry-blond hair, and she agreed to help. Two hours later, they had come up with scores of deceased Octaves, but each had a grave.

  Virgile thanked Yvette and gave her a wink before leaving.

  “I see you’re still charming the girls, Virgile.”

  “No, boss. I was just being friendly. And weren’t you happy to have her help?”

  Although Benjamin didn’t approve of the tactics, he was, in fact, grateful. But he didn’t comment, and the two men were quiet during the ten-minute drive to Montlouis.

  They weren’t as lucky there. A retirement-age clerk greeted them. He showed them to the records and walked away. Alone this time, Benjamin and Virgile waded through the birth and death documents. Again, they found many Octaves.

  “Bingo!”

  Benjamin looked up.

  Virgile was nearly jumping out of his chair. “An Octave with no grave, boss!”

  The winemaker got up and hurried over to his assistant.

  “His name is Octave Pastier. What now?”

  “Let’s find the town newspaper,” Benjamin said, already heading toward the exit. They might have something in their morgue.”

  As soon as Benjamin gave his name to the newspaper’s receptionist, the editor was downstairs, shaking the winemaker’s hand. “What a surprise! Benjamin Cooker of the Cooker Guide! What brings you here?”

  “We’re doing a little research, and we have a favor to ask,” Benjamin said. “We’d like to use your morgue.”

  The editor grin
ned. “We call it the library these days. And certainly you may use it. But may I request a favor in return? Would you agree to a short interview with our food and wine writer before you leave?”

  “Fair exchange,” Benjamin said. The winemaker and his assistant followed the editor to the library, where they were introduced to the woman in charge.

  “This is Alice” the editor said. “She’ll help you with whatever you need.”

  Benjamin thanked him, and Alice showed them how to access the archives.

  After an hour of searching, Benjamin found an article from July 1937, which reported the disappearance of Octave Pastier, who had gone fishing near Rochecorbon, at the foot of La-Ville-aux-Dames. Five days later, there was an obituary: six lines on page four.

  “Octave Pastier was front-page news on Monday and just six lines on an inside page by Wednesday—a poor slob swimming with the fish,” Virgile said.

  “Not quite,” Benjamin said. “His body wasn’t found in the river. It wasn’t found anywhere. But they still declared him dead. Why they did that is yet another mystery. So, according to the first article, he was an old guy, a loner who was in the habit of fishing on the right bank, at the bend of the river before it reaches Saint-Pierre-des-Corps. You can’t really see the spot from the highway.”

  “Think we should go find it for ourselves?”

  “Yes, I do, son. But first I have to do that interview.”

  Thirty minutes later, Benjamin and Virgile were in the Mercedes again, driving to the fishing spot where Octave Pastier had disappeared. It was secluded and overgrown, much the way it was in the nineteen thirties, Benjamin surmised. They lingered there, envisioning the old man inspecting his line, baiting his hook, and looking for fish.

  “I can see him now, boss. A hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips. Wearing an old pair of trousers, flannel shirt, and suspenders, his face bruised and battered with age, a snack in his bag.”

  Benjamin nodded as he looked down the river, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “Let’s go back to Montlouis and find someone who can tell us about our Octave.”