Dying on the Vine (9 page)

“You know much about wine?” he asked me.

“Enough to be able to write about it.”

“It should be an interesting article,” he said in a neutral voice.

“I hope so,” I said, trying to be just as neutral.

“You knew none of the people at the vineyards?”

“None of them.”

“What about Andre Chantier?” He shot out the name as if hoping to catch me unawares.

I shook my head. “I've never heard the name.”

He tried to drain his glass again but there was nothing in it. He half turned as if about to order another but he didn't.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Andre Chantier? He used to work at the Willesford vineyard.”

“Used to?”

“He left a few months ago.”

I finished my pastis. “Does this have some meaning?”

“I would like you to inform me if you run across the name.”

“Certainly.”

“Or any other information that might be of use.”

“Of course.”

He put his cap back on and stood up. I reached into my pocket to pay for the pastis but Aristide shook his head. “There is no need. I have an arrangement.” He gave the bouncer a nod and walked out.

He was a very unusual gendarme.

T
HE CASINO AT MONTE
Carlo has a worldwide fame that stems from its patrons of an earlier era—from most of the crowned heads of Europe to Mata Hari and inveterate gamblers like Harpo Marx and King Farouk. “The Cheese,” as the Casino is called locally, is adjacent to the Hôtel de Paris, and inside the hotel is what many consider to be the finest restaurant in the Western world. It was here that I was bringing to lunch the girl who had saved my life in Colcroze.

The first impression of the interior of the Louis XV restaurant is that it is all gold. Ceiling, walls, curtains, carpets are all various shades of gold and the feeling of opulence is almost overwhelming. Only the four gleaming crystal chandeliers tone down the golden vista.

I would have thought a table reservation at such short notice to be out of the question but Monika had insisted that she undertake the task and to my surprise, she succeeded. When we were greeted effusively by Benoit Peeters, the maître d'hotel of the Louis XV, I assumed it was due to her racing feats in the Grand Prix.

A smiling young man placed a small footstool at Monika's side for her to put her handbag—a thoughtful touch and made easier by the wide spacing between the tables. We asked what the house aperitif was and we both ordered it, a version of a Bellini but added to the champagne, rather than the usual peach juice, was a Provence liqueur with a dry peach flavor.

A bread cart arrived with more than two dozen unusual kinds of bread, all the product of the Louis XV's own bakery. Some contained olives, some walnuts, some orange zest. There was Viennese bread, Swedish bread, Milanese bread, German pumpernickel, bread leavened and unleavened …

“I understand that one baker makes all of this bread fresh every day,” said Monika.

“Only one?”

“Yes, although there are over ninety cooks in total in the kitchen.”

She looked ravishing in a clinging beige silk jersey dress with chunky gold earrings. Her blond hair was lustrous, dancing freely every time she moved her head, and I still had a difficult—if enjoyable—time trying to decide just what shade of blue her eyes were.

“I have been wanting to ask you …,” said Monika. “What were you doing in Colcroze?”

We both nibbled on the irresistible breads.

“As I told you, I'm doing a story on vineyards in the south of France that are owned by English. I remembered that when I was here some years ago, I was taken to visit a couple of ghost villages, and I thought that if I could gather material on a few of them, it would make a good story too. Someone in the auberge mentioned Colcroze.”

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“The Relais du Moulin near Saint Symphorien.”

“Why there? I mean, any particular reason?”

“I'm covering a vineyard nearby. It's the first in the series.”

“How long are you going to be there?” she asked casually.

“Well, this assignment may take longer than I had planned if the local population is all as unfriendly as the bees.”

The maître d' returned and after some discussion we elected to accept most of his recommendations, which is usually a good idea in a restaurant as renowned as the Louis XV. Chef Alain Ducasse's celebrated cuisine straddles two nations, France and Italy, taking the best from each. He uses humble ingredients and his emphasis is on vegetables—a choice that fits admirably with the modern trend toward a healthier diet.

First, we had large green raviolis on a bed of wilted arugula and baby violet artichokes. After the plates had been placed in front of us, the waiter crushed lumps of soft goat's milk cheese with olive oil in a small bowl, sprinkled it with black pepper, and scattered it over our plates.

“Was your photographic assignment yesterday here in Monaco?” I asked Monika.

She shook her head and the shiny blond hair shimmered.

“It wasn't a photographic assignment,” she, said. “I was modeling for Benetton.”

“You model, too?”

She nodded. “This is superb, isn't it? Just the right amount of pepper.”

“You're a photographer, a race driver, and you model?” I was amazed. “Is there anything you can't do?”

“I can't cook,” she said with a tiny smile. “That's why I'm enjoying this so much.”

We had been offered the choice of pigeon grilled over hot coals and served with foie gras or
cochon de lait,
suckling pig, roasted and served with gnocchi as the next course, but we both went for the
“loup,”
the Mediterranean sea bass baked in the oven and accompanied by wafer-thin potato chips. The wine waiter recommended three possible choices of a white wine with it and after a quick mental review, I tried to sound as if I were making a stab in the dark by ordering a Rhône white, a St.-Joseph from the Domaine Cheze.

Saddle of rabbit wrapped in bacon and roasted over fennel was the main course and another reminder that the chef makes the maximum use of local ingredients, even those that might once have been considered peasant fare. Once again, it was ideally prepared, and the fennel with that hint of aniseed lurking behind its flavor enhanced the succulent rabbit. With this, we drank a Bordeaux, a Pauillac from the Pinchon-Lalande château, also a suggestion by the wine waiter.

We topped the meal with a delicious mascarpone sorbet with wild strawberries, although the small tarts filled with orange cream and the rightly famous Ducasse-made chocolates that were served in complementary fashion afterward made a dessert a questionable indulgence.

“No more meals like that for a month,” said Monika firmly, “or my modeling career will come to a sudden stop. Let's take a stroll around the port and tell ourselves we're working off all that food.”

It was warm and pleasant, and gentle breezes off the Mediterranean were ruffling the gaily colored flags on the pleasure boats as we walked. A host of nations were represented and vessels from as far afield as South Africa, Panama, Turkey, Indonesia, and Hong Kong were lined up. Tall-masted sailing schooners were side by side sleek powerboats.

“Boat watching” is one of the most popular forms of free entertainment on the Riviera. Antibes and Saint Tropez are the best ports to indulge in it, but whereas in Saint Tropez it would be unusual during the season to find a yacht without its display of people, in Monaco it is unusual to find one engaged in such indecorum. Today seemed to be the day for the unusual… sounds of merriment came from ahead of us.

“Sounds like a party,” Monika murmured.

The vessel from which the noise was coming was a spectacular sight. I know nothing about boats but this one was well over a hundred feet long and pristine white with sparkling chrome rails that looked as if they were polished three times a day. Deck after deck climbed up to a streamlined funnel mounted in a superstructure that belonged in a James Bond movie.

People seemed to be all over the vessel and figures could be seen in the staterooms, though the aft deck near the dock was the busiest area. Waiters in dazzling uniforms moved swiftly through the knots of people, dispensing food and drink. Monika and I stopped and gazed at the sight of such magnificence and luxury.

A voice called down from the rail. “Monika! Hey there! Come on up—both of you!”

O
N BOARD THE FLOATING
palace, Monika introduced me to Grant Masterson, the man who had hailed her. He was tall, had a husky build, and looked to be in his late forties. His face was strong and well tanned and he wore a T-shirt and white pants. I assumed he was one of the crew until Monika murmured, “This is Grant's boat.”

“It's a beauty,” I said, hoping that was the way you complimented boats.

“Two twenty-five-hundred-horsepower Rolls Royce Marine Merlins,” he said. “Can cruise two thousand miles and sleeps twenty. Every modern device from radar, sonar, radio, and direction finders to satellite navigation.” He gave a boyish grin. “At least that's what the crew tell me. I really don't know anything about boats from the technical viewpoint, but I do know I love this vessel.”

“So you should,” I said, mustering up a little more enthusiasm this time, “it really is magnificent.”

“She.”

He stopped and it was a second before I caught on. “Oh, yes, the crew call her ‘she,' you mean?” He nodded and I turned to Monika. “Why are all boats feminine?”

“Because they're charming, beautiful, and uncomplaining?” she suggested with a wicked smile.

“Or is it because they're difficult to control and expensive to maintain?” said Grant with a straight face.

We laughed together, then Grant said, “Let me get you a drink and introduce you to some people.”

A waiter responded promptly to Grant's wave and handed us glasses of champagne. A tray of appetizing-looking hors d'oeuvres was sailing above our heads when Grant stopped the man underneath it. Monika and I exchanged amused glances. She explained to Grant that we had just dined at the Louis XV and might not eat again for a week. Grant nodded and was about to release the waiter when Monika said, “But it would be an insult to your chef …,” so we both ate one of the small pastries filled with foie gras and topped with a slice of smoked salmon.

“Ah, here's a fellow countryman,” Grant Masterson said. “You must meet him,” he said, winking, “—bankers are always useful to know.”

His name was Terence McGill and he was manager of the Monaco branch of the Bank of Belgravia. He had been here three years, he told me as Monika excused herself to go talk to a buxom redhead she was acquainted with from the racing circuit, although she looked as if she might be on the modeling circuit too.

“Grant Masterson is one of your customers, I take it?”

“Yes, for some time.”

“I hadn't met him before today,” I said. “What line of business is he in?”

“Many. He owns property in a dozen countries, a freight company, a couple of golf courses, a cinema chain, some farms, processing plants for food products—”

My attention focused sharply. “Food? He's in the food line?”

“Yes. He's opening a new line of delicatessen-type shops, selling specialty foods. Some will be independent, some will be in supermarkets.”

He frowned slightly, noting my interest. “What's your line of work?”

“Me? Oh, I'm writing a series of articles on vineyards in the South of France.”

“A journalist.” He sounded disappointed and there was something else too—was it apprehension? Perhaps alarm at being quoted was normal for a banker.

“My theme is vineyards in the South of France under English ownership.” I hastened to add, “Don't worry, I'm not concerned about Grant Masterson or his plans.”

He looked relieved, although he said, “The information's not exactly secret—in fact, it's been mentioned in some of the magazines already.”

In my cloak-and-dagger persona as a journalist writing about wine and vineyards it was true that the information about Masterson's plans was not of interest. As the Gourmet Detective, it had aroused my professional curiosity. Fortunately, McGill didn't seem worried and I tossed in a remark about wine being sold in many delicatessens to placate him further. Nevertheless, he excused himself and moved on through the throng, seeking safer conversational companions than a journalist.

Circulating, I ran into Monika, who was in between groups. “How did you come to meet Masterson?” I asked.

“Oh, I met him at a party at the palace that Princess Caroline gave,” she said offhandedly. “Since then he's sponsored me in the Grand Prix and a few other races.”

As she left me to greet an Asian couple, I had an opportunity to scan the people on deck. The majority were men but the women were mostly young and good-looking. There was a handful of both sexes in crisp white uniforms, obviously officers of the vessel. A dark-haired, trim man of young to middle age detached himself from them and introduced himself as the captain, George Gregali. He was a Greek who promptly disclaimed any knowledge of Masterson's businesses. “I run this boat,” he told me. “I take him anywhere he wants to go, anytime he wants. That is my role.”

“Does he spend much time on me boat?”

“Alas, not a lot. His activities take him all over Europe and often to the USA and he flies mostly. But he loves to spend time here on
Windsong.”
He waved a hand invitingly. “Have you looked over her?” I admitted that I hadn't. “Let me show you through,” he offered.

The chance to see such luxury is rare. The main salon had enormous round windows reflected by floor-to-ceiling columns of mirror. The next deck was the entertainment area where TV programs from all over the world were received by satellite and shown on giant screens and pulsating disco lights accompanied a laser show. The carpet was fiber-optic material and vibrated with different colors as dictated by the music. From controls at your bedside, underwater color TV cameras relayed pictures to monitors on the walls and ceiling of your stateroom.