Mayhem in Margaux Page 9

  15

  Margaux spent the better part of her days reading. She had found shelves full of detective novels at the back of a closet at La Planquette, and she devoured dozens of the dog-eared paperbacks with faded covers and yellowed pages. She loved Georges Simenon’s plots. The slow pace, odd characters, and provincial rhythm spoke to her more than American hard-boiled fiction with their bursts of gunfire, bloody pursuits, and plot twists on every page. Spy thrillers intrigued her even less. Although they always made the best-seller lists, too many were formulaic, as far as she was concerned.

  From time to time she opened a cyanide-laced homicide concocted by old English ladies whose Victorian perversions she adored. Margaux’s literary inclinations were those of a young woman who knew she was privileged but loved to escape her era. Far from the noise and bustle of New York, she relished this interlude in the land of her childhood. Stretched out on a blue-and-white deck chair or lying on the living room chaise lounge, she turned the pages to the sound of the cicadas, an iced tea on the table beside her.

  When Virgile suggested leaving La Planquette for a change of scenery, Margaux hesitated. She knew the nightlife at Cap Ferret all too well and didn’t miss those aimless outings. There were only two places that interested her. One was the Sail Fish, with its inviting décor, efficient staff, and proper menus. The crowd from the end of the peninsula was always there: the affluent and the nouveau riche of western Paris, middle-class young people from Bordeaux, silicone creatures who came to flaunt their navels, and a sprinkle of celebrities. At two in the morning, when the restaurant closed, most of them migrated to the second spot, the New Centaure, a sweltering nightclub where you could lose yourself in the music, despite the smoky air and the sweaty patrons.

  Margaux didn’t know what Virgile was thinking, anyway. She’d never be able to navigate a disco with her crutches, much less dance. But she didn’t want to disappoint him. She agreed to go to Tchanqué, where they could quietly enjoy rum and tapas on the terrace.

  Sitting comfortably with their glasses of white Pessac-Léognan, Margaux and Virgile were finally alone for the first time. And Margaux found that she and Virgile had a lot to talk about. They started with casual subjects that allowed each of them to get used to the other’s voice, nuances, brief silences, and gestures. They ordered another glass of the same wine, a 2000 Château de France, and then easily recalled personal memories, some of which they had never revealed to anyone else.

  Margaux spoke at length of her childhood at Grangebelle: playing hide-and-seek between the barrels, the extravagant dolls from her grandfather in London, her friends from primary school at Saint-Julien-de-Beychevelle, and her aunt, who had predicted her future by reading her palm. She went on to discuss her overly serious studies at business school and her move to New York and an apartment building full of friendly nutcases. She laughed a lot, loudly and happily, when Virgile recalled his youth in the Montravel countryside, bicycles swapped, slingshots fashioned from hazelnut branches, traps jerry-rigged to catch lizards, the Bergerac fairgrounds, the groping hands of the rowing club monitor, his old pal Thomasseau’s crib sheet, and the over-the-top fiestas in a Spanish bar near the Place de la Victoire.

  Their paths had been noticeably different, and they had come from different social classes. But because both of them had grown up in southwest France, they had much in common. They had been raised among the vines and along the quays of the port of Bordeaux, under the changing skies that reflected the moods of the ocean. Margaux and Virgile talked and talked, making no attempt to seduce each other with flattery or indulge in the ritual of the mating dance. And they lingered too long on the terrace, where the soft light seemed to protect them from the rest of the world.

  “Do you see the time?” Margaux said, looking at her watch. “Maman has spent hours making dinner for us. They must be sitting at the table already. She’ll be furious!”

  “Don’t worry, Margaux. I’ll get us back there as quickly as I can. I may not drive a Porsche, like Rinetti, but my old Peugeot 403 can hold its own.”

  “Please, Virgile, don’t get the wrong idea. That poor man was very proper. But like some other fellows I’ve met, he thought he was the center of the universe. He talked about himself a lot, and he wasn’t very interested in my life.”

  As they got into the Peugeot, Virgile apologized for mentioning Rinetti. “I was out of line,” he said softly, touching her forearm. He immediately withdrew his hand and started the engine.

  Margaux understood. She was the boss’s daughter, and her father was even more protective than usual these days, given her brush with death. The last thing Virgile needed was a punch in the nose from her dad.

  They arrived just as everyone was getting ready to taste the stuffed squid. They quickly apologized and sat down noisily to distract from the Ludovic’s teasing remarks, Elisabeth’s affectionate reproaches, Leslie’s tender gaze, and Benjamin’s tense silence. They marveled over the delicacy of the sauce, the perfect preparation, and the choice of wine, a 1999 premier cru Clos Saint-Jacques from Domaine de la Folie.

  “Benjamin gave me a hand in the kitchen, which was much appreciated,” Elisabeth said, raising her glass to her husband. “And it’s a good thing that we eat late,” she added, winking at her daughter. “Virgile, you’ll meet Leslie and Ludovic’s children tomorrow. Their mom and dad wore them out today, and they couldn’t keep their eyes open past eight.”

  The breeze from the ocean had failed to bring down the temperature more than a few degrees, and the conversation inevitably came around to the heat wave and the news. Hundreds had died, according to the papers. Some experts, including well-known scientists, were saying the weather was yet another indication of climate change and more serious consequences to come.

  “I read a particularly ominous prediction,” Ludovic ventured. “The Arcachon Bay will become a lake. The Pointe de Grave will be an island. Storms and tornadoes will be the norm. The beaches of Landes will shrink before our eyes. Insects from the tropics will bring malaria. Fish from the Caribbean will appear on our shores. Snow will become rare in the Pyrenees. The rocky coasts of the Basque country will fall to erosion. But palm, mandarin, and olive trees will grow in abundance. I don’t know about you, but a few more palm and olive trees aren’t enough to make me look forward to any of that.”

  “And we’d be out of a job, boss, unless everyone around here started making palm wine,” Virgile said. “Damn, I can just see you climbing palm trees to check out the fruit.”

  Everyone turned to Benjamin, but he just sat there, silent, sipping his wine.

  When the lemon meringue pie was all gone, a purple bolt of lightning streaked through the sky. Thunder clapped in the port of La Vigne. They had hoped for this storm for so many days, and at last it had arrived. They rushed to clear the table, covered the teakwood furniture, and dashed inside. A deafening roar, a sudden rain, fierce gusts of wind—and then nothing. They all looked outside to see if the storm had done any damage, and seeing nothing, Elisabeth and Benjamin and Ludovic and Leslie decided to go to bed.

  Virgile went into the backyard to duck into the Canadian tent Ludovic had pitched for him. Margaux hobbled outside to make sure the ground under the tent was still dry, feeling her father’s eyes on them the whole way. Couldn’t he just relax a little? She sighed and went back into the house.

  16

  The first thing Benjamin Cooker did when he got out of bed the next morning was make sure Margaux was sleeping peacefully in her room. He found her dozing soundly, her face buried in the pillow. When he kissed her cheek, she shivered slightly and turned to her other side. His mind at ease, he carefully closed the door and made himself a piping-hot cup of tea. He turned on the coffeemaker for the others.

  He had decided to spend the day at La Planquette and do nothing but enjoy his family. There was no point in worrying about all the files left unfinished. The drought continued, and any advice from Cooker & Co. wouldn’t change that.

  He ha
d nothing to contribute to the Château Gayraud-Valrose investigation either. The contradictory information had thrown him off. It would be better to leave it to the professionalism of Inspector Barbaroux. At this point, Benjamin had no reason to be involved. All he could really do was offer his discreet support to the police, who seemed to be handling matters and proceeding methodically.

  Yes, it was far better to take refuge in the sweet comfort of Cap Ferret, although it was unfortunate that the fishing boat had broken down. The engine had definitely given up the ghost. Ludovic had rushed around looking for a repairman, but all the shipyards were up to their necks in work. No one could service the boat for two months. Leslie and Ludovic were disappointed. They had been looking forward to organizing a picnic on the Banc d’Arguin.

  Virgile crawled out of his tent shortly after the coffee had finished dripping. Benjamin watched through the window as his assistant stood up, yawned, and rubbed the small of his back before trudging toward the house. The winemaker poured some coffee for his assistant and joined him on the terrace, where he had dropped into a chair. Virgile mumbled a dull hello.

  “Sleep well, son?”

  “An army of mosquitoes invaded through a hole in the tent, the inflatable mattress went flat, the sleeping bag was too hot, and a couple of noisy raccoons kept me entertained. It was a great night, boss!”

  Margaux and Elisabeth soon joined them at the table, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, their cheeks rosy and smiles on their faces. Ludovic and Leslie Lamotte surfaced with their children, Victor and Aristide, who had jumped on their bed to awaken them. A tickling session that followed had put the little family in a good mood.

  The women decided to go to the market and spend the rest of the day by the water. They opted for the little beach at the port of La Vigne overlooking the bay, which was a few hundred yards from the villa. There was a shady spot where Margaux could rest peacefully, not to mention the ice cream man, a major selling point for the children. Ludovic promised to join them later, after he tried one last time to contact some boating companies in the department of Gironde. Benjamin was a bit vague about his plans. He was behind in his reading and would come by to stick his feet in the water before going to his six o’clock book signing at the Alice Bookstore. Recovered from the effects of his broken sleep, Virgile announced that he would follow the crowd and go swimming, as there was nothing else to do.

  The beginning of the day unfolded as planned: the women and children on the sand, Ludovic on his laptop, looking for boat-repair shops, and Benjamin immersed in some very dry oenology reports. Virgile had taken off with the rest of the group, making sure they had all their beach umbrellas, provisions, cooler, magazines, shovels, pails, and rakes. He had promised to help the children build sand castles. Two hours later, however, Benjamin spotted his assistant walking back to La Planquette.

  “What? Back already? I thought you were looking forward to spending a day with the ladies, Virgile.”

  “Sorry, boss. I’ve had my dose of vacation. That’s it!” he said, all smiles as he stepped onto the terrace and pulled out a chair.

  Benjamin took off his glasses and put down his magazine.

  “So now you know, son. Many successful relationships are based on a fundamental principle. The ladies go out and do their thing, and the men stay behind and putter—although sometimes it’s the other way around. Welcome to the club. I suspected that you’d be coming back, but I have to give you credit for lasting longer than I thought you would.”

  The assistant poured himself a glass of cold lemonade and sat down.

  “Sir, I’ve been thinking about what Barbaroux told you. There may be a way to confirm a few things.”

  “You’re supposed to be relaxing, son. Don’t be worrying about that.”

  “I’m not worried at all. Actually, I think I have a good idea.”

  “Fire away. The sea air can be good for the brain.”

  “Seriously, boss. We’ve been going at this head-on. A sly approach might just help us figure out who sabotaged the car. Are you following my line of thought?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Maybe I could take a drive in the vicinity of Gayraud-Valrose and see to it that my Peugeot breaks down. Then I could ask for help at the château and wait for someone to assist me. I’ll flush out that damned mechanic! If he’s able to smash up cars, he can fix mine.”

  “I don’t really think your plan will work. And you’ll run the risk of making someone suspicious. Need I remind you that we were poking around there recently?”

  “I could tell them that I was on my way to another estate. And I assure you, disabling a car isn’t that complicated. I called Stofa from the beach, and he explained how to do it. Of course, he wondered why I would do such a thing, and I had to tell him it was a prank. I don’t think he believed me, but hey, I’ll fill him in later. The idea is simple. I just unscrew the distributor cap, take out the ignition rotor with a flathead screwdriver, and close the breaker points. Not too much, just enough to cause a breakdown that looks real.”

  “And you want to go there now?”

  “Right away. There’s no sense in wasting any time. Oh, and Ludovic will be happy to hear this. Tell him Stofa’s dropping by this afternoon to take a look at the fishing boat motor.”

  “Now that’s great news!”

  “Yes, business is slow at the garage right now, so he’s happy to come over and give you guys a hand. I don’t know why, but he seems to think you’re a nice guy. Just joking, boss.”

  17

  The outline of the château stood out, imposing yet elegant, against a dark-blue sky so intense, it seemed to be painted with the broad strokes of a brush. The countryside was dozing amid murmuring insects. In the distance, workers were bent in the vineyard, removing undesirable shoots, spraying copper sulfate, and cutting the tops of the vine stocks. Between the flowering and the onset of ripening, work on the vines was ceaseless. There was the continual threat of infestation, and couch grass and bindweed had to be pulled up.

  Virgile slowed down when he came to the right spot, out of sight, where the drive to the estate met the road. He popped the hood of the Peugeot and followed Stofa’s instructions. In case someone was watching, he slid back behind the wheel and tried to start the engine several times. He got out quickly, acted annoyed—swearing louder than necessary—kicked the tire, and headed up the drive to the château. Stéphane Sarrazin gave him a friendly wave when he saw him and walked over to see what was wrong. Sweating and anxious-looking, Virgile told Sarrazin why he was there.

  “No need for that long face,” Sarrazin said. “It’s a good thing you broke down here. Let’s see what’s going on.”

  Sarrazin told Virgile to follow him to a nearby spot in the vineyard where Gilles Moncaillou, old Georges’s son, was working on supports for the vines. According to the cellar master, Gilles wasn’t exceptionally smart and was even a little backward, but he could spend hours tinkering with his moped. He did an adequate job of maintaining the estate’s equipment and repairing the farm machinery.

  Virgile was surprised when he realized that the younger Moncaillou had no memory of his internship. It hadn’t been that long ago, and Virgile and Gilles had gotten along reasonably well under the tutelage of the father, whose swearing was sorely missed among the vines. The vines seemed almost too reined-in these days. Stéphane Sarrazin asked Gilles if he could try his hand at repairing the Peugeot 403 at the end of the drive.

  Gilles continued working on the vines and didn’t even look at Virgile. Finally he said, “Got any tools in the car?”

  Virgile, taken aback, nodded, and Gilles followed them.

  It took them a long time to find the problem. With the help of Sarrazin, whose mechanical knowledge was rather limited, Gilles Moncaillou attacked the carburetor and the gas line before looking at the air filter, spark plugs, and battery connections. They carefully and methodically tightened and untightened the nuts, bolts, and screws. Their hands became dark with gr
ease, but they never lost patience. Some of what they did totally escaped Virgile’s attention. He was getting parched under the merciless sun. But eventually Gilles and Sarrazin unscrewed the distributor cap, removed the ignition rotor, and took care of the issue. The unremarkable heir of Georges Moncaillou had no particular reaction when Virgile slipped behind the wheel and turned the key, and the Peugeot once again hummed.

  “Thank you. You saved me, guys!”

  “That car of yours was a pain in the ass,” Gilles spit out before returning to his vines.

  Stéphane Sarrazin invited Virgile to come and wash off under the tap in the wine cellar. They splashed themselves with cool water, drinking as much as washing, and finished by tasting the château’s last vintage, whose tannins were not as poorly extracted as Benjamin Cooker had claimed in his guide.

  “You must admit, we’ve made progress since the last edition of the Cooker Guide,” said the cellar master. “Here, take a case. Keep half for yourself, and give the rest to your boss. He’ll surely change his mind.”

  18

  Benjamin enjoyed meeting his readers. It gave him the opportunity to put faces to at least some of the people who made the effort to consult the more than eight hundred pages of the Cooker Guide. And the winemaker was especially fond of this particular bookstore. The Alice Bookstore had the enormous appeal of providing not only a large range of publications, but also a very well-stocked wine cellar. The winemaker was seated in front of the store window, behind a long wooden table. He was in high spirits as he signed his guide, making sure each was personalized and happily answering even the most absurd questions.

  The patrons at the bookstore were a reflection of Cap Ferret as a whole: friendly and cultured. Conversations were polite and well informed. Besides the old Bordeaux families who had owned rustic vacation homes with large windows overlooking the water for many generations, Cap Ferret was populated with a chic set who liked to have a sense of belonging. Anyone who worked in fashion, media, advertising, entertainment, wholesale clothing, retail jewelry, public relations, or financial advising in Paris’s monied neighborhoods was certain to find at least one colleague from the Trocadéro office, a neighbor from Passy, an antique dealer from Neuilly, a tennis partner from Auteuil, or a competitor from Faubourg Saint-Honoré.