Red-handed in Romanée-Conti (Winemaker Detective Book 12) Page 9

  “Shit!”

  “Are you all right?” Benjamin asked when she reappeared with a tray. Her hands were shaking.

  “I broke a cup. That’s all.”

  “It’s been quite an emotional day for everyone,” Benjamin suggested.

  Philippine pulled out a chair at the far end of the dining room table, refusing any proximity to the man who had come to get information out of her.

  Benjamin understood that she didn’t trust him. It wasn’t just that he had come here to pry. It was also that the Lemoines put so much stock in his expertise and intuition. They had always turned to him for expert opinions. True, he knew how to extract the quintessence from chardonnay, aligoté, gamay, sauvignon, and pinot noir grapes. But he had always respected Philippine as a winemaker and supported her with the Lemoines. In the end, he didn’t blame her for being wary of him. If the shoe had been on the other foot, he would have felt the same way.

  “If you wanted to meet me away from the estate, I presume it’s not to talk about the coming vintage.”

  “Not exactly, as a matter of fact.”

  Philippine brought the teacup to her lips and set it back down. She looked him in the eye. “So what is it that you want to know?”

  “What was the real nature of your relationship with Clotilde Dupont?”

  “We were just acquaintances, really.”

  “Oh? Acquaintances generally don’t sit with the grieving family at a funeral service.”

  “Acquaintances… Friends… Whatever. Why are you here, Mr. Cooker?” Not waiting for an answer, Philippine got up and walked over to a bureau on the other side of the room. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “That would be quite hypocritical of me, since I’m an inveterate cigar smoker myself.”

  Philippine pulled a soft leather pouch and a pack of cigarette papers from a drawer. She carefully folded one of the papers and sprinkled a pinch of tobacco in the crease. She rolled the cigarette and glued the paper with two flicks of her tongue. Putting the cigarette to her lips, Philippine lit a match and inhaled. The smell of phosphorous and Arabic gum tempted Benjamin. But he refrained from reaching for his Havanas.

  “And your relationship with Mr. Lemoine senior?”

  “What are you talking about?” She examined the glowing tip of her cigarette. “A passing fancy, nothing more.”

  “A passing fancy that coincided with the death of Mr. Lemoine’s wife?”

  “It was later.”

  “Perhaps it was about the time you were applying for your job as winemaker?”

  “You’re stepping over the line, Mr. Cooker. It’s none of your business. But just so you know, it wasn’t that way at all. Marcel was very nice to me. We had a little too much to drink one evening, and voilà—it just happened. One time, and then another…”

  “How long did your liaison last?”

  “I don’t know—one month, maybe two.”

  “What caused it to end?”

  “Well, nothing was really keeping us together. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, if you know what I mean, and it wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Was Rafael aware of what you two were doing? Did he have anything to do with Mr. Lemoine breaking things off with you? You and Rafael don’t seem to be on the best of terms.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “We were party to that confrontation with him over Clotilde and your decision not to hire her.”

  Philippine went quiet and took a drag on her cigarette.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” she said. “That’s all. Clotilde didn’t actually want to work here, anyway.”

  “Oh? Why was that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she didn’t like some of the workers—or Rafael, for that matter. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not the only person Rafael has rubbed the wrong way.”

  Benjamin filed that away. “Back to Clotilde. Rumor has it that you were more than acquaintances—or friends, for that matter.”

  “In these parts rumors run rampant, Mr. Cooker. Folks are always spreading them. ‘Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.’ I forget who said that.”

  “Any number of people, including Eleanor Roosevelt. But the quote really belongs to British historian Henry Thomas Buckle.”

  “Whoever. I don’t care. Would you like another cup of tea?”

  “Gladly. And your relationship with Clotilde? Were you two in some kind of business together?”

  Philippine put down the tea kettle and stared at him. “Just what are you insinuating?”

  “I’ve heard that she was getting money from someone—someone who might have been buying her silence.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Somebody small-minded,” Benjamin said, rubbing his chin with satisfaction. He was getting somewhere.

  “I bet it was Rafael. He’s a fine one to talk. It’s because of him that Clotilde turned to me. I was simply looking out for her. A man in his position shouldn’t think he can get away with such behavior.”

  “I know Rafael can be arrogant, but sometimes youth gives a man a false sense of power.”

  “The heir to a fortune might think he’s entitled, but there’s no excuse for sexual assault,” Philippine replied.

  Benjamin sipped his tea and reflected on what he had just heard. “Miss Dupont was fortunate to have someone like you to confide in. And she told you all this?”

  “Yes, she told me that and more. I heard it from her first hand the night it happened. It was late last spring. She had gotten together with some friends. Normally she would have waited for someone to take her home. The party was going strong, though, and she needed to study. She started walking, but then it began to rain. It was a hard rain, and when she saw a car come over the hill, she stuck out her thumb, hoping a friendly local would take pity on her. Sure enough, the car stopped, and she recognized Rafael Lemoine. ‘Hop in!’ he said, and so she did.”

  Philippine stood up and started pacing.

  “They hadn’t gone a half mile before he turned up the radio and put his hand on her thigh. ‘Keep your hands on the wheel or let me out,’ she told him. She couldn’t believe what was happening. This was the son of Marcel Lemoine. Did he realize what he was doing?”

  Benjamin observed Philippine closely as she continued the story.

  “He pulled off the road and started grabbing her. She was buckled in and couldn’t get free. They were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, and she was terrified. He yanked off her coat and got his hand inside her blouse, and all she could think to do was bite him on the shoulder as hard as she could. She drew blood.”

  Philippine puffed on her cigarette and paused.

  “He was shocked, and she managed to undo her seatbelt and get out of the car. She dashed into a vineyard and hid there, soaked and freezing, while he ran around looking for her. When he finally drove off, she made her way to my house and banged on the door. I don’t know how she got that far. She was hysterical. She told me what had happened. I listened, gave her some tea, and had her take a warm shower.”

  “That’s quite a story. Did she file charges?”

  “The next day, we talked about it, but she didn’t think that filing a complaint against Rafael would go anywhere. I agreed. They have a lot of clout.”

  Philippine took a deep breath and gave Benjamin a look that suggested she hoped she hadn’t said too much.

  “I can only imagine what a difficult position that put you in, as her confidant and the Lemoine winemaker. By the way, was there a man in Clotilde’s life?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Philippine’s eyes were fleeting.

  “She certainly carried her secret to the grave, but I surmise there’s someone who knows more than they’re revealing.”

  “Who?” Philippine
asked. Her face had lost all its color.

  “You, Ms. Perraudin, and I urge you to quickly reveal what you know to the authorities, or else…”

  “Or else what?”

  “Suspicion will swoop down on you like the pair of buzzards that haunts the Saint-Vivant abbey and chases away trespassers when darkness falls.”

  Philippine’s gripped her cup of tea and stared at him in disbelief. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Cooker?”

  Benjamin climbed out of his uncomfortable wicker chair. “Don’t bother showing me to the door. I know the way.”

  15

  Benjamin swung by the estate to pick up Virgile, and they stopped at the hotel to clean up.

  “Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes. We have a dinner date, son.”

  “With whom?” Virgile said.

  “Let’s just say we need to review our case notes.”

  Virgile smiled and took off up the stairs, two by two.

  Benjamin tried to reach Elisabeth, but got only an “everything’s fine” text message in return, so he returned to the lobby to wait for Virgile.

  Thirty-five minutes later, they were seated in a restaurant in Meursault called Le Chevreuil. The establishment, with its tan stone wall and crisp white linens, had a comfortable feel. The winemaker and his assistant looked over the menu as they waited for Inspector Cluzel.

  “The chef here specializes in traditional Burgundian dishes,” Benjamin said. “He’s quite creative and meticulous.”

  Before Virgile could say anything, Cluzel arrived, in his cowboy boots and wrinkled shirt.

  “I recommend the Mère Daugier hot terrine, which has been made in this restaurant since 1872,” Benjamin said as soon as the inspector sat down. “It’s chock-full of marinated meats and served with rice.”

  “Sounds good,” Cluzel answered without even picking up the menu.

  “I’d like the tuna with sesame and eggplant to start and the twice-cooked pigeon,” Virgile said.

  “Always looking to stand out, aren’t you, son,” Benjamin said, setting the wine list down.

  “The terrine just doesn’t appeal to me tonight, boss, and considering the valuable information I’ve gleaned today, I think I’ve earned my first choice.”

  “Then pigeon it is, son.”

  Once the waiter left with their orders, Cluzel started to say something, but Virgile jumped right in and recounted the argument he had overheard between Marcel and Rafael.

  “It was about their insurance. Then Marcel mentioned some withdrawals from the bank. He as much as told Rafael that he couldn’t trust him.”

  Benjamin and Cluzel looked at each other.

  “Did they say anything else?” Benjamin said.

  “Yes, no. I can’t tell you any more on that front. I did get some information—gossip, really—from the workers on the estate. Clotilde apparently wanted to be an archeologist before she got interested in enology. One of the workers mentioned some tension between Clotilde and Rafael but wouldn’t elaborate. And as for a boyfriend, either no one knew or no one was telling me. And get this: that abbey is a make-out place. You know, sex in the cellars and that kind of stuff…”

  “I did sense that when I was there,” Benjamin said, recalling his frightening nighttime visit. “So, Virgile, you aren’t the only one who’s earned his dinner tonight. This afternoon, at Philippine’s place, she shared quite a story with me. It seems that Rafael assaulted Clotilde.”

  Virgile’s jaw dropped. “What? No wonder there was tension between the two of them.”

  Cluzel leaned in, his arm on the table.

  Benjamin took in his two dinner companions and continued. “It happened on a stormy night late last spring, when Clotilde needed a ride home. Rafael picked her up as she was hitchhiking and started taking advantage of her. She narrowly escaped getting raped and wound up at Philippine’s house.”

  “And she never filed a police report,” Cluzel said.

  “No, both she and Philippine thought it wouldn’t get anywhere, considering the Lemoine family’s influence.”

  Cluzel pursed his lips. “That’s a big assumption on their part. They should have filed the report.”

  The inspector cleared his throat and shared the status of his own investigation. The alibis of the Romanée-Conti workers had all checked out, and none of them appeared to have a motive.

  “So we can eliminate the workers,” Virgile said, tearing off a piece of bread to sop up some sauce from his plate.

  Benjamin set down his stem glass. “As much as it pains me to say this, I think we need to find out more about Marcel and Rafael. Why were they arguing over the insurance, and why did Marcel say he couldn’t trust his son? Did it involve more than business decisions? And what’s happening with Philippine?”

  Virgile and Cluzel nodded, and the three fell silent. For now, there seemed to be far more questions and secrets in the shrouded Côte d’Or than those whispered in the dark vaults of the Saint-Vivant Abbey.

  “Oh,” Virgile said, looking up from the pigeon bones he was picking at. “I forgot to mention this: There’s something off about Simon. When Rafael and I were at his place he mentioned that his wife hated good-looking women. Is it possible that Simon was having an affair with Clotilde? Could Simon’s wife have been jealous enough to kill Clotilde?”

  “Well, she didn’t show up at the funeral,” Benjamin said.

  “I think it’s possible,” Virgile said. “As I told you, the workers didn’t want to talk about Clotilde’s love life. I got the impression that they weren’t saying everything they knew—actually that they were protecting her. They did seem to like her.”

  “Maybe Simon wasn’t the only man in her life,” Benjamin said. “There could have been others. A trauma can cause behavioral changes. Clotilde may have been acting out after the assault.”

  Before he could say another word, Virgile slapped his forehead. Startled, Benjamin turned to his assistant. “I forgot, boss. Eulalia the sorter at the Lemoines told me that Martin, the guy who looks like a stud, made a big play for Clotilde. But she dumped him with not so much as a by your leave.”

  “Maybe he was angry over getting jilted,” Cluzel said.

  “Eulalia told me he took it pretty well,” Virgile said. “But maybe he was hiding his feelings.”

  Cluzel wiped his mouth and threw his napkin on the table. “It appears that all we have at this point is a lot of hearsay. No complaint against Rafael and no firm motives on anyone’s part. The only evidence we have is her body. And the autopsy showed that she was pregnant.”

  § § §

  After the meal, the three of them returned to the Château de Gilly for a digestive drink and cigars. Virgile left Benjamin and Cluzel on the outside terrace smoking. They had stopped speculating on the case, and were now dwelling on the nation’s problems. Cluzel was concerned with a rise in organized crime, while Benjamin was more focused on an underperforming economy.

  “We can’t ignore the issues,” Benjamin said. He paused and blew out a smoke ring. “Labor costs, market rigidity, and declining skill levels are becoming a drag on our growth.”

  It was a discussion that didn’t appeal to Virgile at this time of night.

  Feeling a need to walk off his dessert of millefeuille with gingerbread and honey ice cream, he strolled the grounds, watching the clouds clear in the dark sky. The crunch of gravel under foot was not helping him clear his thoughts. He couldn’t get his mind off the murder.

  After a good half hour, he headed to the car. “Might as well check out the crime scene,” he said to himself. “Maybe I’ll turn up some clues.”

  He drove through Nuits-Saint-George and took the paved road that climbed to the Curtil-Vergy, stopping in the spot where they had parked the day they followed the van full of gendarmes.

  It was a clear night, with enough of a moon to s
ee the stone walls rising where the trees stopped. He circled the ruins, poking his head through doorways and sidestepping the scaffolding. Then he brushed the dirt off a pile of stones and sat down. He looked into the woods and listened.

  A few minutes later he heard rustling, and he spotted a pair of eyes watching him behind the trees. Spooked, he got up and pretended to look around the ruins. He jumped when a buzzard squawked.

  Virgile took two deep breaths to calm himself as the presence edged closer. A person? A large animal? Maybe even a spirit? Whatever—it wasn’t more than five meters away from him.

  “Hey, who’s out there?” Virgile asked, turning around suddenly.

  There was no answer and no movement, so he walked slowly toward the edge of the ruins, his eyes so focused on the trees, he nearly broke his neck on scaffolding placed over one of the cellars.

  “Shit!” Virgile cried out.

  Then he heard branches snap. He looked up and saw someone running away from him. So off he went, too. He would catch this guy. His rugby reflexes kicking in, he jumped and skirted obstacles until he caught up with his stalker, grabbing him by the collar and pinning him to the ground.

  The man cried out in pain. Virgile turned him over and recognized the young insurance rep from the estate.

  “What are you doing here?” Virgile asked. Although it was dark, he could see that the young man’s eyes were puffy, as if he’d been crying.

  “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” he yelled.

  “What wasn’t you?”

  The guy was heaving and sobbing. Virgile sat back, giving him some breathing room. The rep’s face was scratched from the tackle and he was shaking.

  Virgile helped him sit up. His breathing became even. He began whispering. Virgile leaned in, and what he heard in the ruins of this ancient abbey was a chant very different from the ones the monks had murmured centuries earlier: “Clo... Clo...”

  16

  The water glittered in the golden autumn sunlight as it spilled into the pool. Presiding over this fountain was the bronze statue of a young Bacchus brandishing a winemaker’s pruning shears. A cluster of grape leaves barely hid the masculinity of this Roman god with a winning smile and powerful chest. Indifferent to the city’s commotion, he stood proudly in the middle of the esplanade.