Grand Cru Heist (4 page)

The silence that followed confirmed Cooker’s hunch. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy. The hotel owner could not believe that Gaétan, her loyal employee, could possibly be involved in such a sordid affair. Not him! It was not possible.

“You don’t think that…?” Mrs. Olivereau stammered.

The winemaker let the captain answer.

“I’ll have to put out an APB immediately. You must admit, ma’am, that the disappearance of your concierge does coincide with the young girl’s murder.”

“Yes, I understand,” the hotel owner said, clearly reluctant to admit the obvious.

The bottle of Deutz stood in the bucket of ice, and nobody even considered pouring more. The four cops had put their hats back on. La Tortinière was in a state of shock. Even Benjamin Cooker could not imagine the young man he had just met was a murderer. This quiet retreat on the banks of the Indre wasn’t turning out to be so restful.

4

A day had not gone by without a phone call from Virgile. Cooker suspected that it was a feeling of helplessness, rather than thoughtfulness, prompting his assistant’s calls. He sensed Virgile worried that the convalescence would drag on and that he couldn’t carry on all by himself. After all, Cooker was overly sensitive, as much as he tried to hide it behind an easy-going attitude or the opposite, a foul temper. He was also impulsive and never went half way. This supposed retreat in the country, which he had decided on without really consulting Virgile, would inevitably have some repercussions.

And to be quite frank, rest and relaxation were not Cooker’s strong points. The sooner he got back to his office on the Allées de Tourny in Bordeaux, the sooner he would return to his usual witty, strong-minded self. Furthermore, over the past two weeks, samples had been piling up in the lab, and a number of his loyal customers had been trying to get in touch with him. He was being summoned not only to South Africa and Argentina but also to Burgundy and near Rasteau in Provence, where, according to his lab tech Alexandrine de la Palussière, there were a few pending emergencies. Without Cooker, day-to-day business was turning into a mess.

“Sir, you’re wanted all over the place.”

“That’s giving me too much credit. For now, I’m doing a Vouvray cure. Once I’ve gotten through it, perhaps, my dear Virgile, I will focus on the small concerns of Cooker & Co. As for Rasteau, you should go, my good man. And give me a report.”

Before hanging up, Cooker added, “By the way, Virgile, from now on, you are forbidden to say anything bad about the police. This morning, I learned that they found my convertible. It got picked up in Leipzig!”

“Where’s that?”

“In Germany.”

“You can’t expect me to know the names of twenty-five hundred grape varieties and also be skilled in geography,” Virgile said, clearly pleased with the news.

“I agree, but you could improve very quickly by taking the first plane to Berlin and bringing my favorite toy home, if you see what I mean.”

“Which implies that I swing by the Loire Valley to pick you up, I gather.”

“You’re a quick learner. Go strut your stuff across the Rhine.”

“What about Rasteau?”

“Rasteau can wait. They are as close to paradise as you can get. Nature serves them well. Isn’t patience the mother of all virtues? Use that as an excuse when you talk to the head of the co-op. He’s a friend of mine, another one of those winemakers who left Bordeaux, selling his soul to the devil in Provence.”

Virgile laughed. He seemed to be pleased with the turn of events and the tone of the conversation. “I’ll be at La Potinière in under two days.”

“It’s Tortinière, Virgile. Clean your ears, for God’s sake.”

“And what about your notebook? Still no news?”

“Don’t even mention it.”

Changing the subject, Cooker asked, “Anything new in Bordeaux?”

“Yes, in fact, the shop La Vinothèque de Dionysos on Cours de l’Intendance was robbed last night. It was weird. Just like in Paris, they took only the Angélus.”

“I’m surprised my friend Hubert de Boüard has not called me yet. How many bottles?”

“I don’t know, but it’s your friend Mr. Delfranc, the former cop from Saint-Estèphe, who called the office to tell you. He asked after you and wants you to call him when you have a chance.”

“Nothing else?”

“Oh, yes. Someone broke into Alexandrine de la Palussière’s apartment.”

“What did they take?”

“Nothing. That’s what’s strange about it.”

“It’s not a thief, then, but one of her exes,” Cooker said, sure of himself.

“That’s going a bit far, sir.”

“Women are ghastly to each other, my dear Virgile. You’re too young to know that.”

“Excuse me for being so naïve.”

“I’m not interested in Ms. de la Palussière’s private life. But before you get your ticket for Germany, go sniff around La Vinothèque de Dionysos. I want to know which vintages were stolen, how many bottles, and, for that matter, how the thieves pulled off the heist.”

“Fine, Mr. Cooker,” Virgile said, sounding excited.

“Perfect. I’ll let the authorities in Leipzig know that you are coming, and before you leave, send Alexandrine some flowers from me.”

“Roses?”

“Whatever you like. After all, you’re the one who knows how to communicate with women.”

Cooker cut the conversation short when the hotel owner told him a certain Hubert de Boüard was on one of the hotel’s lines.

“I’ll take it right away,” he said.

An impish look was returning to his eyes.

“Hello, Hubert? I need to give you my cell phone number again so you don’t have to keep calling the front desk. I just heard the news from Virgile. You’ve devised a very clever publicity campaign, my friend. Your wine will be all over the papers tomorrow.”

“Oh… Why do you say that?” The man from Saint-Émilion spoke in a hushed tone, his anxiety seeping through. “Benjamin, I got another one of those messages in the mail today.”

“A message?” Cooker asked, just a bit impatient. “Explain yourself.”

“This morning, I got another card. It was the same as the other day. But this one said, ‘Your Angélus is gone, and you don’t stand a prayer.’ And after that, well—”

“And after that, what?”

“It said, ‘Two from you.’”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“Where was it sent from?”

“Spain. Madrid to be exact.”

Cooker paused. “Two from you? This has to be connected to the heist that took place last night at La Vinothèque de Dionysos in Bordeaux. I can’t say that I’m happy to be the one to break the news.”

“This is unbelievable,” Hubert de Boüard said.

“As was the case with the Place de la Madeleine in Paris, the thieves took only your Angélus. I bet the investigators are going to think you’re behind this. I hope you have a good lawyer.”

“But, Benjamin…”

“I’m not kidding. This is very curious. Do you have any enemies? Be honest with me, Hubert.”

“I swear, Benjamin, I don’t understand this at all. I just hope it’s some kind of prank, a practical joke.”

“This could very well be a practical joke, Hubert. There’s no reason to panic. Let’s just wait and see.”

Cooker promised the Angélus estate owner that he would stop by as soon as he was back in Bordeaux, perhaps as early as the following week.

“What about you, Benjamin? How are you feeling after what happened?”

“Helping out friends like you is restoring my appetite for life. You wouldn’t believe it, but one of the guests at the hotel where I’m supposed to be resting was found murdered on the banks of the Loire, and the concierge has inexplicably disappeared. It’s alarming, isn’t it?”

“My mysterious cards must seem dull in comparison.”

“Don’t be so sure. I wouldn’t let anyone sully the image of Angélus. You know how highly I regard your wine. Actually, I think it’s polite of your robbers to inform you every time they commit a break-in. And, as far as I know, they take only the best years. Connoisseurs. You should be happy, Hubert, at the quality of the people who are getting your fine wines into the news.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Frankly, you would be wrong to think of them any other way,” Cooker said.

“Perhaps you are right,” the Château Angélus owner said, still a little bit skeptical. “Do you think I should tell the police?”

“Wait for the next card. That way you’ll have ample evidence, and you can minimize the possibility of being treated badly by some dismissive rules-obsessed detective.”

“Before this is all over, I might be saying a few extra prayers myself—I don’t care what the card said.”

“I see you have recovered your sense of humor. Sleep soundly, Mr. de Boüard.”

The winter sun had barely won the duel it had been fighting since the early hours of the day with the layers of fog spread over the Indre. Now its pale rays were sparkling on the lazy river. The winemaker felt like walking to escape the grim atmosphere in the château. He was starting to really miss the Médoc. And he could not get his mind off the Angélus case.

Cooker was used to taking long walks in the vineyards and pine groves in the company of his impertinent dog, Bacchus, but he had underestimated the distance that separated La Tortinière from the banks of the Indre. The path he took—it was the one the concierge had liked so much—ran through the woods, the moor, and pastures where cows grazed nonchalantly. He had dressed warmly and had picked up a hazel tree branch to use as a walking stick, as well as a weapon. Since his attack, he was always on guard. He turned to the right and followed a wall bordering a battalion of poplar trees filled with noisy birds. Otherwise, everything seemed peaceful. Cooker sat down on a worm-eaten fallen tree trunk between two weeping willows whose flimsy branches dipped into the slack waters of the river.

The church bells in Montbazon rang out at noon. Cooker was getting hungry, and his stomach was beginning to growl. High up on the top of the hill, La Tortinière was nothing more than a rock formation surrounded by a luxuriant English garden. Gray wisps of smoke were floating out of the chimneys. The winemaker followed them until they melded with the clouds. A sudden desire to eat roasted perch renewed his energy, and he decided to cut across the fields. He was a little winded and trying not to slip on the wet ground when he saw a tall form under a gnarled apple tree.

Wearing dark pants and a white shirt spattered with mud, Gaétan was staring straight ahead, a hemp rope tight around his neck. There was a surprised look on his bluish, nearly purple face. His mouth was open, and his swollen black tongue was hanging out. At the foot of the tree, the winemaker noticed footprints, as if the boy had hesitated at length before putting an end to his life.

5

I didn’t think I would see you again so soon,” the police captain said, sounding almost pleased when he saw Cooker holding his hands in front of the fireplace to warm them.

“We are going to end up being regular fixtures here at La Tortinière,” Cooker said, trying to sound friendly.

“I would gladly have skipped that honor considering the circumstances,” the captain responded. “I must say, though, the investigation is moving along.”

“Is it?”

“It’s all clear now. Don’t you think, Mr. Wine Expert?”

Cooker figured the detective wasn’t going to let him get the upper hand again.

“Not really. I think it’s an even bigger mystery.”

“How is that?”

“For now, nothing proves that Gaétan murdered the girl.”

“Yet you are the one who clued us in.”

“I know, but we need, oh, sorry,
you
need more solid evidence.”

“Remorse, Mr. Cooker. Remorse. Perhaps there was no premeditation to get rid of the girl. But you know, this is a classic case. A prostitute refuses to submit. They have words. There’s the excitement, the violence, the rape perhaps, and in the heat of the moment, the irreparable. Then his conscience takes over, and he doesn’t want to be judged by others. He is horrified by what he has done and needs to pay the price.”

“If I may toss a little sand into this well-oiled machine, Captain. Do we know if the killer took advantage of his victim?”

“The girl’s autopsy results won’t be in for another hour, but it is highly likely.”

“Haste makes waste, Captain.”

“I’ll grant you that.”

“I presume you will order an autopsy on the concierge.”

“Of course, that’s procedure, even though it is a fairly obvious suicide.”

“I recommend that you visit the site where he was found. The view of the Indre is very picturesque.”

Cooker spoke without too much sarcasm. This police captain was friendlier now than he was the first time they had met. “Didn’t you notice the mud on his clothes and the scratches on his arms?”

The captain did not give Cooker the opportunity to continue his argument. “It’s likely that the girl tried to fight him off. Maybe she even bit him.”

“If I remember correctly, there was no sign of a struggle. At any rate, you’ll compare the DNA, I suppose.”

“You’re not trying to tell me how to do my job, are you?” the captain asked, smiling.

“That is not at all my intention.”

“In any case, although the two deaths are most certainly related in some way, the first scenario might not be the right one.”

“The only connection between the concierge and the girl is the concierge’s phone number,” Cooker said.

“Now that we’re on that, I’m wondering if it was his handwriting,” the captain said.

“You didn’t check?” Cooker asked.

“You’re being a nuisance, for God’s sake. Do I ask you if the wine you make is watered down, or if you take kickbacks from certain estates listed in your damned guide?”

The winemaker did not bat an eye. He stood up calmly and headed toward the armchair, where he had left his jacket. He took out a small notebook and scribbled a few notes in pencil. The detective watched without saying a word.

As Cooker wrote, the flashing blue and red lights of the police cruisers and ambulance began sweeping the walls of the lounge. Cooker heard heavy footsteps and dull voices. He went out to the front to watch the ambulance leave, taking Gaétan’s body to the morgue in Tours. Cooker remembered the question that Gaétan had asked him not that many hours earlier. The naïveté had moved him: “Tell me, Mr. Cooker, how do you become France’s most famous winemaker?”

“You know, Gaétan, I am just an amateur, but I don’t settle for anything less than the best. The rest is just luck.”

“Luck?”

“Yes, luck,” Cooker had said.

Fatigued and demoralized, Cooker returned to the hotel lounge. The captain had vanished. The hotel staff, meanwhile, had red eyes and long faces. The winemaker went to his room to rest, but he could not find sleep. Virgile would arrive the next day, before this tragic story could be cleared up. The girl’s murder had shocked Cooker. She had seemed so vulnerable. And what part had Gaétan played in all of this? He had been such a conscientious hotel employee.

There was a knock at the door. Two shy knocks.

“Leave me alone,” Cooker grumbled.

“It’s Captain Guilhem.”

Cooker got off the bed and opened the door.

“By all means, come in.”

“I wanted to apologize for earlier.”

“No harm done.”

“I should hope not,” the captain said.

“Let’s say the case is closed. I wasn’t too polite to you either. What would you like to drink, Captain?”

“No alcohol. My day’s not finished yet.”

Cooker opened the minibar tucked inside a sturdy wood cupboard. He set two cans of orange juice on the table he used for writing. “With or without ice?”

“Never any ice,” the captain said, having recovered some of his self-assurance.

“You’re right. I hate ice myself.”

“I was right! You’re not the kind to put water in your wine,” the captain said, setting his cap on the bed.

“Too bad I’ll be leaving tomorrow, as I think the two of us could have gotten along,” Cooker added, sloughing off his grumpy attitude.

“Your contribution would, in fact, always be welcome.”

“Consider it yours, Captain.”

“You will return to your wine, and the day after tomorrow, you will have forgotten the misadventures that occurred at La Tortinière.”

“So you call a double murder a misadventure?”

“You don’t believe Gaétan’s death was suicide?”

“Not any more than I believe Oksana was raped,” Cooker said.

“Yes, we did get the autopsy results after you went upstairs: there was no sign of sexual abuse, but hairs found on the girl belonged to the concierge.”

“Do you have the hotel business card that you found in the girl’s pocket?” Cooker asked.

“Yes.”

“Would it be possible to see it?”

“Of course.”

The winemaker took the card and went over to the bedside table, which was piled with wine-related publications and a few glossy wine-auction catalogs. Gaétan’s recipe for the saffron honey ice cream was sticking out of one of the magazines. Cooker compared the writing against what was on the card.

“It’s an ice cream recipe,” the winemaker told the captain. “Gaétan was kind enough to ask the chef for it.”

“And?”

“See for yourself, Captain. There are enough numbers in the list of ingredients to prove that it was not the concierge who wrote down his phone number on that business card.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” the captain said.

“True. One could also imagine that she gave herself to the boy and then wrote down his number.”

“How poetic, Mr. Cooker. I myself am pragmatic. That is certainly why we are not in the same line of work.”

“In the name of that pragmatism, you should know that in prostitution, the john reveals more of himself than the woman who pretends to be enjoying it.”

“Mr. Cooker, you seem to have experience in this area that I, alas, cannot claim.”

“Now, now, it’s human nature. You’re a bit of a prude, Captain. Yet the card was found in Oksana’s jeans and not in his.”

“I’ll give you that. If she didn’t write it down, and neither did her friend, or lover, or customer, whatever you want to call him, then who did?”

“Quite simply, someone who wanted to point the finger at him,” Cooker said.

“You are Machiavellian, Cooker.”

“No, just pragmatic,” Cooker said, smiling.

The captain studied the woodwork while he finished his orange juice, making a face with his last swig. Then there was a knock on the door.

“What do you know. I should open an office here,” Cooker said. “Come in.”

A deputy came into the room. He approached his superior officer and whispered a few words in his ear. The two men then stared at Cooker’s shoes.

“Would you like to know where I get my Lobbs?” the winemaker asked without a trace of sarcasm. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but they are not Berluttis.”

“Excuse me?” the captain said, “I believe this is more criminal than it is political.” After chuckling, he added, as if to polish off his adversary, “Pardon my nosiness, Mr. Cooker, but could you please tell me what size you wear in—what was it now—Lobbs?”

“Well, what a fine idea! Forty-two and a half, European size. I’m partial to that half. At my age, even a demi-measure matters. I see that you have finally decided to analyze the footprints under the apple tree, which I thought were suspicious from the start.”

The captain interrupted him. “Roussin, you can speak freely in front of the gentleman. We are beginning to share the same views on this strange case. I get the feeling this is not our last surprise.”

“We found size forty-one, which corresponds with the concierge’s shoes, and a few between size forty-two and forty-three. I suppose those are yours, Mr. Cooker?”

The winemaker did not answer.

“We also found size forty-five footprints. Actually, they were closer to forty-six. They led down to the river. That’s a lot of people for one dead man,” the captain said, sighing and rubbing his neck.

“I’m pleased to see you’re coming around to my point of view, Captain. If you aren’t susceptible to heartburn, you deserve a second orange juice.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Cooker, but one should never overdo a good thing.”

“Really? I will not insist. I admire your restraint.”