Foul Play in Vouvray Read online

  He had jotted down the names of the residents interviewed in the original article and hoped to locate a few of their relatives. Octave’s housekeeper was one of the interviewees. She had lived in his rather large home, which was perched on a hill above town. They decided to make the former residence their first stop.

  Arriving, they discovered that the place had been totally renovated and was now gated. Benjamin parked by the side of the road and got out. A white-haired man in a suit had emerged from the house and was heading toward a Citroën C4 Picasso in the driveway. Seeing Benjamin at the gate, he waved and walked over.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Please pardon the intrusion,” Benjamin said. “I’m looking for relatives of Octave Pastier, who used to own this place, or his housekeeper. I’m wondering if you might be able to help.”

  The man scratched his head. “Pastier lived here a long time ago, and he was a bachelor. He didn’t have any survivors to speak of, although I did hear that he had a relative in Vouvray. As for the housekeeper, she also died a long time ago. But I can put you in touch with her granddaughter. She’s my contact at the catering company my architecture firm uses.” He pulled out his phone and looked up her number, which he then gave to Benjamin.

  “Thank you,” Benjamin said. “You’ve been a great help.” He walked back to the Mercedes and called the housekeeper’s granddaughter, Denise Tolbert. They arranged to meet at a café.

  The meeting with Denise Tolbert lasted well over an hour. It seemed that Octave’s disappearance coincided with a dispute he was having with the relative in Vouvray—a cousin who owned a substantial estate.

  “If I’m not mistaken, that estate’s where the actor David Navarre lives now—the Tremblay place,” Denise said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

  Benjamin and Virgile looked at each other.

  “You know him—the actor?” Denise asked.

  “We’re acquainted with him,” Virgile answered. “So, can you tell us more about what happened to Octave?”

  “One night he didn’t return from fishing,” Denise said. “No one was especially worried, as he sometimes stopped for a few drinks before going home. It was my grandmother who sounded the alarm. Actually, they were a little more than employer and employee, if you know what I mean.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Go on.”

  “You can imagine the uproar when everyone realized he’d disappeared. The locals organized a search for Octave, and his cousin was at the head of the pack. They went up the river in a boat, combed the smallest islets, and scoured the banks to the foot of the cliffs. Finally, they gave up and faced facts: Octave was gone. Either he lay at the bottom of the Loire, or the current had carried him much farther downstream. They decided he was dead.”

  Denise sipped her coffee. “I’ve told you quite a bit about Octave and my grandmother,” she said, putting her cup down. “Now, can you tell me why you’re so interested in them?”

  “You deserve as much,” Benjamin answered, motioning to the server for more tea. “David Navarre has asked us to investigate a discovery at his estate. A skeleton was found behind a wall in his wine cellar, and we believe it was Octave.”

  “No kidding,” Denise said. “After all these years? How would it have gotten there?”

  Benjamin stared at the steam rising from his tea, which had just arrived. “After taking in all this information, I may have a theory.”

  Virgile leaned in. “And it’s…”

  “It’s a matter of time and place. First: Vouvray and Montlouis are separated by the Loire. But in the nineteen thirties, something else came between them. Vouvray and Montlouis were divided into two distinct wine-growing areas. Remember when I told you they were in the same district once? Vouvray became the first appellation of controlled origin in the Loire Valley, while Montlouis was considered something of a poor relative. That’s not the case today, mind you. Montlouis is well respected for its wine. But being split up more than eighty years ago fueled a rivalry. According to some people, they keep a close eye on each other even now.”

  “And what does that have to do with Octave?” Virgile asked.

  “It’s possible that Octave’s cousin, the estate owner in Vouvray and the old bachelor’s sole heir, murdered Octave to get his hands on both the land in Montlouis and the hectares Octave owned in Vouvray, which, coincidentally, adjoined the Tremblay estate. Why hide the body in the cellar, you ask? In my opinion, he wanted to put him in a place where no one would go searching. Or rather, where no one would dare to, because the cellars around here are virtual sanctuaries. You don’t go poking around in them.”

  “And the cousin was probably trying to avoid suspicion by heading the search party and pretending to be worried,” Virgile said.

  Benjamin looked at Denise. “Would you happen to know the exact location of the land in Vouvray?”

  Denise shook her head. “That I can’t tell you, but it would be easy enough to find the answer.”

  Benjamin finished his tea. “You’ve been quite helpful,” he said. “And the next time you’re in Bordeaux, please give us a call. Since you’re in the catering business, you might be interested in seeing what we do,”

  “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Cooker.”

  Benjamin picked up the check, ready to leave.

  “It’s too bad, though, what happened to the cousin.”

  Startled, Benjamin turned his attention from the check back to Denise. “Oh? What happened?”

  “According to my grandmother, dead-arm disease hit the vines shortly after he inherited the land in Vouvray. None of the neighboring vineyards were affected. The vines died. Then he came down with a dental infection that spread to his brain. He lingered in acute pain for some time before passing away.”

  Benjamin tried to keep his jaw from dropping. “Thank you for that piece of information.” He said a hurried good-bye and headed toward the café door, with Virgile close behind.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, boss. Where are we going now?”

  “Back to the town hall in Vouvray.”

  Once there, they found the same clerk, Yvette.

  “I’d like to see the property records for the Tremblay estate and the parcels adjoining it,” Benjamin said. The winemaker combed through all of them until he found what he was looking for. “Just what I thought, Virgile.”

  Virgile leaned over his shoulder. “It’s the same parcel that David wants us to revive.” He pulled over a chair and sat down beside the winemaker. “Do you believe in jinxes, boss?”

  18

  Benjamin called David Navarre. He planned to share his news about Octave Pastier and his cousin, but not all of it right away. Two other matters had precedence. He needed to restore Virgile’s reputation in David’s eyes, and he intended to get the actor out of his château. David had been holed up there, knocking back tumblers of whiskey far too long. It was late in the afternoon, but they still had time to squeeze in a visit to Domaine Huet. Benjamin asked David to join them. He initially refused, offering a feeble excuse, but he finally relented.

  Sitting on the hood of the convertible, Benjamin and Virgile waited for the actor. Less than a quarter of an hour later, David arrived on his motorcycle, sans helmet, jacket, and boots. Freshly shaved and in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked younger than his age. Benjamin had to hand it to him. The man was still able to muster up the sense of ease and a way of winking at life that had made him so magnetic on screen. True, he had put on a few pounds, and his features had thickened, but there remained something intact in him: a permanent state of grace that allowed him to hold on and bounce back. It almost seemed that he could rise from the ashes.

  “So, what’s this news you have for me?” he asked, getting off his motorcycle.

  “I think we may have solved your skeleton mystery,” Benjamin said. “We have reason to believe it’s the remains of the cousin of a former owner of your estate.”

  “Really?” David said. “Tell me mo
re.”

  “You deserve the whole story, David, and we will share it with you, along with the police. The story also involves that parcel you want to revive.”

  “Now you’ll have me stewing, Benjamin. Must I wait?”

  “Not to worry, David. We’ll sort through everything. But I also asked you here to give my assistant a chance to talk with you himself.”

  Benjamin turned to Virgile, who cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Navarre, I’m so sorry about what happened. I never could have guessed that a simple dance would have such repercussions.”

  Virgile’s apprehension was written all over his face. That David did his own fight scenes was well known. And despite his hallmark charm, he could nurse a grudge. Benjamin braced himself to intervene. But instead of turning red-faced and balling up his fists, the actor grinned.

  “Okay, don’t worry, kid. I got it. I’m sorry the cops screwed you like a rookie. I hope you do better in the wine cellars. From what your boss tells me, you’re the man.”

  “That’s where I’m on safe ground, although you could say there’s always a tremor or two in the wine industry.”

  “Virgile and I work as a team,” Benjamin said. “When you hire Cooker & Co., you hire both of us.”

  “Understood,” David said, shaking Virgile’s hand.

  Benjamin smiled, relieved that relations were finally restored. As the three men walked toward the office, a man in a zip-up cardigan, plaid shirt, and jeans came out to greet them.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Domaine Huet. I’m Pierre. Jean-Bernard Berthome, our cellar master, extends his apologies. He was called away.”

  “It’s we who should apologize for giving you such short notice,” Benjamin said. “My assistant, Virgile, and I are in the area to film a documentary, and I just couldn’t leave without squeezing in a visit. This is Virgile’s first time. And we asked Mr. Navarre to join us.”

  “Good to see you again,” David said, shaking Pierre’s hand. “Benjamin, I’ve been here many times. You could call us neighbors.”

  “Yes, we’ve been following Mr. Navarre’s work at his estate with great interest,” Pierre said. He looked over Benjamin’s shoulder. “But you mentioned a documentary? I don’t see anyone with cameras or microphones.”

  “We’ve just stopped by to say a friendly hello,” Benjamin said. “I have no intention of taking out my notebook or evaluating your latest vintages. We’ve come to bother you as simple tourists.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Berthome will appreciate that.” This was said tongue-in-cheek. Domaine Huet had never complained about its ratings in the Cooker Guide.

  The thirty-five-hectare Huet estate, established in 1928 by Victor Huet, comprised three properties: La Haut-Lieu, Le Mont, and Le Clos du Bourg. In 1971, Noel Pinguet, the son-in-law of second-generation owner Gaston Huet, joined the estate. Together, Gaston and Noel crafted legendary wines for more than three decades.

  When Gaston fell ill in 2002, a search for a business partner who could ensure the estate’s legacy was launched, and New York financier Anthony Hwang was brought in. After Gaston’s death that year, daily operations were handed over to Pinguet.

  Pinguet, the mathematician son of a butcher, became the face of the domain. He was called meticulous—even maniacal—insisting on farming without chemicals and following the phases of the moon.

  Pinguet and Hwang worked together for ten years, until Pinguet’s 2012 retirement three years earlier than planned. Members of the Hwang family were reportedly pressuring Pinguet to produce more dry wines than he wanted, a claim the Hwang family denied.

  After Pinguet’s departure, the winemaking and vineyard duties were transferred to Berthome, who had worked at the estate, focusing mainly on the vineyards, for more than thirty years. His vintages were known for their purity and consistency, and Benjamin considered himself a great admirer.

  Pierre nodded toward the cellar. “Follow me,” he said. “We’ll go treasure hunting.”

  Pierre proceeded to guide them through an impressive rock labyrinth, kilometers of tunnels carved under the vines. They came upon long corridors bathed in soft light, crypts with high ceilings, narrow passageways, caves holding old bottles, steep staircases difficult to descend, other precipitous staircases even more challenging to climb, and many wide, damp corridors where a person could get lost, even disappear. Thousands of bottles, all carefully stored, were waiting to be exhumed and brought to the light of day.

  Both Pierre and David provided a narrative as they moved along, with Pierre stopping occasionally to examine a bottle or recall a harvest memory.

  “They’ve upheld the tradition of biodynamic farming—a return to the understanding of nature that farmers had before technology came along,” David said.

  Pierre continued. “By attempting to modify everything, we often sever our connection to the earth. Here, we apply copper and sulfate in homeopathic doses and only when necessary. We have the hindsight to know that with biodynamic farming, the risk of vine disease is minimal.”

  They reached a vaulted room with columns where the wine presses were once housed. Only the hollowed-out rock with angular friezes remained. Benjamin had the feeling he was visiting an Etruscan tomb.

  “I guess we could call it ‘archoenology,’” Virgile joked.

  Pierre looked over at David. “Perhaps if we did some digging, we’d find a skeleton here, as well.”

  David grunted. “I wouldn’t wish that on you, my friend.”

  The group emerged from the cellar and headed for the owner’s house, perched on a plateau at the end of a long dirt road. From the terrace, the panoramic view of the Loire Valley was magnificent. The men collapsed on teak garden chairs.

  Just as Pierre was opening a bottle of Cuvée Constance Moelleux, 2005, David’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Molinier,” he said, looking at the screen. “I have to take this.”

  David walked away, and Benjamin, Virgile, and Pierre waited. A few minutes later, he returned, smiling. “Good news, gentlemen. Simone is stirring.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Benjamin said. “Does it mean she’s coming out of her coma?”

  “Too soon to tell, but she could be.”

  “I’m truly happy for you, Mr. Navarre,” Virgile said.

  “Molinier warned that we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. Even if she emerges completely from her coma, she’ll have a long row to hoe.”

  “I propose that we drink to Simone’s improved condition,” Benjamin said. “And there’s no better wine for that than the one we have here.”

  Pierre poured the Cuvée Constance Moelleux.

  Benjamin turned to Virgile. “What you’re looking at, son, is the crown jewel of this estate’s production. It’s named after Gaston Huet’s mother, Constance. It’s intense and pure. Some even call it ethereal. The grapes are painstakingly selected, one by one, in the perfect state of noble rot.”

  Virgile held the transparent sweet wine up to his eyes before plunging his nose into the glass and sniffing. Finally, he tasted it.

  Benjamin waited.

  “Quince jelly, lemon candy, marzipan, heliotrope, grapefruit, and honey,” Virgile said, looking up. “It’s incredibly light, despite the richness of the honey.”

  “I’m astounded you found all those words, Virgile. This wine leaves some people speechless.”

  Pierre set a mahogany cigar box down on the table, and Benjamin chose a Punch Royal Selection. Lighting up, he savored the earthy blend of black cherry and chocolate. “You should never resist the instinctive search for contentment,” he murmured. “I don’t remember who said, ‘The best cigar in the world is the one you prefer to smoke on special occasions, enabling you to relax and enjoy that which gives you maximum pleasure.’’’

  “You’re sure you don’t know who said that, boss?”

  Benjamin glanced at his assistant, catching his drift. “I think it was Zino Davidoff.”

  “You think, or you’re sure?”

/>   “Go check for yourself, son.”

  19

  Château de Pray was peaceful. After a copious dinner, Benjamin and Virgile went out to the terrace for their liqueurs.

  They had spoken little while eating. Virgile, voracious and oblivious to propriety, had buried his nose in his dish. He was clearly focused on making up the calories lost during his custody. The Touraine was certainly a land of contrasts. Between Inspector Blanchet’s urine-soaked cell and the fashionable décor of Château de Pray was an abyss the young man crossed without qualms.

  Leaving Domaine Huet that afternoon, Benjamin had pulled David aside and shared the rest of what he had learned about Octave Pastier and the former owner of the Tremblay estate. David, bolstered by the news about Simone, had seemed stable enough by the end of the visit to handle it.

  He was wrong. David was taken aback. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the place is cursed, Benjamin. Is it possible that no vines will grow on that soil?”

  “I’m not a superstitious man,” Benjamin had said. “I’m a scientist. We’ll do a thorough analysis. I’m sure any vestiges of black-arm disease are gone. Don’t worry, David. We’ll take care of it.”

  Benjamin was still recalling the conversation when they arrived on the terrace and found Lee Friedman, in sneakers and a Les Bleus baseball cap, seated under the glow of a wrought-iron lamp. Surrounded by piles of scribbled papers, he was working on his laptop.

  “Good evening, gentlemen!” Lee said. “Come join me in the cool night air.”

  “You look so studious, we wouldn’t want to disturb you,” Benjamin responded. Despite Lee’s hearty greeting, he couldn’t miss the circles under his eyes and the tight jaw muscles.

  “No disturbance at all,” Lee said, pulling two chairs closer to his table. “I was just working on a rough draft of a new screenplay.”

  “Already?” Benjamin asked. “When you haven’t signed the contract for your project with Gayraud?”

  “A writer’s always thinking of stories, Benjamin. Besides, sometimes it’s the only way to get your mind off your worries, if you know what I mean.”