Requiem in Yquem

by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

  Benjamin decided to take Mrs. Dubord up on her offer. She refilled their glasses.

  “Mr. Dubord, about those men Cecile brought back. Does any one of them stand out in particular?”

  “There was one who came back a few times. He had a motorcycle you could hear coming from miles away. He needed a shave and a haircut—”

  Mrs. Dubord cut him short. “I hear the clean-shaven look is out of style. Right, Virgile?”

  “Some men do prefer a five o’clock shadow,” Virgile answered. He changed the subject. “I think we should make a toast.” He raised his glass and turned to the old couple. “To our reunion!”

  Mrs. Dubord raised her glass and looked at her husband. “Here’s to your health, my dear.”

  “Here’s to you,” he muttered. “You could have opened a Sauternes, Hélène. It’s not every day that we get to see Virgile. At least you’ve had success, not like our Jeremy, who went off to Cahors, only to find a wife as likable as a pit bull. But she does have one thing going for her: she gave us a grandson. Let’s not complain too much.”

  Benjamin decided to press on. The toast had made Mr. Dubord just a bit charitable. “In your opinion, Mr. Dubord, who did it? Who would have harmed the Lacombes? Do you have any idea?”

  “Any idea? Of course I have an idea! In my opinion, it’s…” He stopped and looked at his wife. Saliva was running down his chin again. She wiped it off, and Mr. Dubord continued. “In my opinion, it’s the whore!”

  “You mean Cecile?” Benjamin asked.

  “Yes, Cecile!”

  “Why would she want to murder her grandparents? It seems they were generous with her.”

  Charles Dubord smirked. “Don’t you understand? A greedy person is never satisfied.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Dubord. ‘There is no torrent like greed.’” The winemaker turned to Virgile. “Do you know who said that, son?”

  “No, who was it?”

  “Gautama Buddha, also known as Siddhartha.”

  Mrs. Dubord looked down at her hands and smoothed her skirt. “Charles, the girl just needed some money from time to time, and I don’t care what anyone says. They couldn’t have had very much to give her.”

  Benjamin wanted to hear more from her husband. He gulped the last of his ratafia and waited for the man to start talking again.

  “My dear fellow, it wasn’t a common thief who murdered the Lacombes,” Charles Dubord finally said. “It was someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who wanted those people dead. And who would have wanted them dead more than the person who was in line to get everything they owned?”

  “So you’re convinced that it was their granddaughter?”

  “Exactly.”

  Ite, missa est.

  14

  A log in the hearth broke with a thud, startling the winemaker as he mentally reviewed what he had heard. Was it possible that Cecile Lacombe hated her grandparents enough to murder them in their sleep? He shivered.

  “Mr. Dubord, we’ve already established that the Lacombes were giving the girl money,” Benjamin said, turning to the old man. “Why would she need to murder them?”

  Mr. Dubord curled his lip. “For all we know, they got sick and tired of her shenanigans and stopped the payouts. Want me to tell you what poor René and Éléonore had to put up with? When… When she came with one of her scumbags, she would ask her grandparents for cash for cigarettes, or a movie, or coffee at the café. My ass! They were after drug money. One time she showed up with a scumbag, and off to the bank they went with René. Cecile and her piece of dirt needed a lot of cash—quick. They were in a rush to leave for some island where there’s always a party.”

  “Ibiza?” suggested Virgile.

  “Yes, some name like that. How do you know it?”

  “I went there a few years ago.”

  “What were you doing there? I didn’t think you were the kind of young man who goes in for that sort of thing.”

  Benjamin looked at his nightlife-loving assistant. How would he squirm out of this one?

  “Actually, sir, it isn’t all nightclubs. You can go diving and sailing on Ibiza. Some people even attend yoga retreats.”

  “Believe me, Cecile and her piece of dirt weren’t interested in any yoga retreats.”

  Benjamin cleared his throat. “Perhaps she was just a bit immature. We’ve all made youthful mistakes—haven’t we, Mr. Dubord? I understand she’s been successful enough to land at least some work as an actress. Have you seen her on television?”

  Mrs. Dubord answered for her husband. “Yes, once, but I wouldn’t have recognized her if Éléonore hadn’t told me about it. She had short hair. She was always such a pretty girl.”

  “You mean she was always such a bitch!” Mr. Dubord said.

  “Charles, you’re getting carried away. She was a free spirit. And she had the right to do whatever she wanted after she and Jeremy broke it off.”

  Mrs. Dubord turned to Benjamin. “But I do believe Éléonore had some misgivings about those boys. I ran into Éléonore at the market during one of Cecile’s stays. Her hands were shaking, and her coloring was all washed out. I asked her what was wrong. She managed a smile and said, ‘Well, you know, René and I have gotten used to having the house to ourselves. It can be stressful, entertaining guests.’ I didn’t question her, but I knew there was more to it. ‘You just come over whenever you need to get away,’ I said. ‘We’ll have some tea and a nice chat.’”

  Mrs. Dubord fell silent just long enough to take a deep breath and look Benjamin in the eye. “But you know what, Mr. Hooker? I think Cecile was still carrying a torch for Jeremy. I saw her right after that. She knocked on the door, and she was by herself. ‘Jeremy changed his phone number,’ she said. ‘Could you give me his new number?’”

  Once again, Benjamin and Virgile exchanged a glance.

  “I asked her to wait while I called him for permission. I don’t like to give out his number without his okay. He’s married now, you know. I left her at the front door to call him, but she was gone by the time I got back.”

  “What did Jeremy say when you told him Cecile wanted his number?” Benjamin asked.

  “He never answered the phone, and I didn’t leave a message.”

  Mrs. Dubord got up from her chair and slid a cast-iron pot on the stove. “Will you have a bite to eat with us?” she asked.

  “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Dubord, but we must get back to Bordeaux,” Virgile said.

  Benjamin nodded in agreement. He had no desire to share a meal with the embittered Charles Dubord. His poor wife probably had to spoon-feed him, as he appeared to have only partial use of his right arm. Benjamin had noticed this when the blanket slipped off his lap.

  Once again, Mrs. Dubord asked them to stay, but the winemaker had already put on his hat. Virgile embraced her affectionately and simply nodded to the man who had so ferociously condemned the Lacombes’ only grandchild.

  Hélène Dubord threw on a jacket and walked Virgile and the famous Mr. Hooker to his convertible.

  “You mustn’t pay any attention to what he says. Ever since the stroke, the only thing that works is his tongue,” she said.

  She and Virgile hugged again, and Benjamin started up the car.

  “Geez, boss, he’s some churlish old man,” Virgile said as they drove away. “And from what I could tell, the only real thing he had against Cecile was the fact that she and Jeremy broke up.”

  “Strokes can change a person’s temperament, son. And sometimes they can make a disagreeable person even more ill-humored.”

  Virgile looked out the window and fell silent. The fog had finally lifted, but Benjamin sensed that he was feeling troubled.

  “You seem pensive, son. What is it?”

  “Just thinking, boss. I guess when you’re young, you don’t envision the consequences of what you’re doing. It’s only later—”

  Benjamin cut him off. “‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to ev
ery purpose under heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.’”

  “There you go, getting all philosophical on me again.”

  “Call it wisdom, son. Could it be that you’re finally acquiring a bit of that yourself?”

  15

  The Cooker & Co. laboratory took up the entire third floor of a posh building on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge. The tiny three-person elevator was antiquated and sluggish. Virgile always preferred taking the stone staircase. Barely winded, he pushed open the door, brushed past Alexandrine de la Palussière, who was holding a tray of test tubes, and rushed down to the room at the end of the hall, which overlooked the Grand Théâtre. Thinking he would find his Benjamin there, he burst in.

  “Where’s the boss, Alex?” he asked the lab director, who had followed him down the hall.

  “I have no idea. He certainly isn’t here.”

  “I thought for sure he’d be coming to the office.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you.” Alexandrine returned to her work area, and this time Virgile followed her.

  “You examining the Saint-Émilion?”

  “Yes, and I should have my report to you this afternoon. That is, if I’m not interrupted anymore.”

  Virgile silently admired the finely sculpted shape under the white lab coat. They had been lovers once but had decided not to pursue a romantic relationship, in part because Alexandrine favored women. Since then, they had remained friends.

  Alexandrine turned around. “Would you quit staring at me and let me get back to work?” She grinned. “Now get out of here!”

  “All right, I’m gone.” He left the office. Skipping the elevator again, he reached for his cell phone in a pocket of his leather jacket. Then he realized he had left it in his car in the Quinconces parking lot. “Dammit!”

  He retrieved his phone and tried to call Benjamin once he reached the Quai Louis XVIII. A ship had docked, casting its shadow on the freshly restored façades of the graceful eighteenth-century buildings. Waves of Chinese tourists were taking snapshots from the railings.

  His boss didn’t pick up, so Virgile left a message. Then he tried Mrs. Cooker at Grangebelle.

  “No, he’s not here,” Elisabeth said. “He left early this morning. I think something was bothering him, but I didn’t press him. Sometimes it’s best not to ask, you know.”

  She didn’t need to say any more. Virgile was all too familiar with his boss’s moods. He was often the most cordial man imaginable. Sometimes, though, he was silent and pensive. And every once in a while he was downright grouchy.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cooker,” he said. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I’ll find him.”

  Instinctively, Virgile sensed that his employer was in Bommes. Maybe he had seen a follow-up story about the murders in the paper. Or perhaps he was just lingering on the banks of the Ciron, taking time to reflect. Whatever the reason, Benjamin Cooker was on the prowl in Sauternes country.

  Virgile studied the fog unraveling above the Garonne as he assessed his options. He had work to do at Cooker & Co. Alex would soon be finished with her report. But it wasn’t urgent. He walked back to his car and turned the ignition key. At La Brède, he’d veer off the highway and take the D1113 along the Garonne in the direction of Langon. Benjamin Cooker wasn’t the only one who needed time to think.

  Once on the road, Virgile turned on the radio. There was news of an arrest in the double homicide. The reporter had interviewed several Bommes residents, all of whom expressed relief.

  §§§

  The fog was still heavy by the time he exited the highway at Pondensac. The vines looked ghostly, and the asphalt was slippery. Virgile turned off the radio and put on his headlights. He parked in front of the first café he found on the outskirts of Bommes. He was starving.

  Old men were playing cards on the plastic tables. Wedged behind the counter, the overweight café owner was absorbed in the Sud-Ouest and took no notice of her new customer. An old man in a hunting jacket was sitting at the bar, his shoulders slumped. Beside his cup of coffee was a glass of white wine. At the back of the room, a teenager with an acne-covered forehead was leafing through a pornographic magazine, whose cover he was doing a clumsy job of hiding.

  “A perroquet!” one of the card players called out to the owner of the café.

  “Make that two!” said another.

  The café owner looked up from the paper and slowly took the pastis and crème de menthe off a shelf behind the counter. She poured the spirits into two glasses and filled two other glasses with water. She delivered the aperitifs and water and then turned to Virgile, who had taken a table next to the window.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Coffee, please,” he answered.

  “Croissants?” she asked.

  Virgile nodded. The café owner trudged back to the counter.

  He peered out the window, but there was nothing much to see—just a rugby stadium in the distance, its two goalposts stretching into the mists above the Ciron.

  One of the card players, his face flushed from the drink, studied Virgile as he waited for his croissants. It made him feel uneasy.

  The acne-plagued teen finally abandoned his magazine and coughed up the money for his coffee.

  Virgile noticed another copy of the Sud-Ouest on the table next to him and reached for it. A headline trumpeted the news he had heard on the radio: “Arrest in Bommes double homicide.” There was a photo of a kid barely past adolescence flanked by two police officers. His head was shaved, and he was wearing a sweater and jute wristbands. Apparently, the boy was homeless.

  The café owner delivered Virgile’s order and glanced at the article.

  “It’s so sad to see an out-of-work kid killing good people. What could he get in a robbery like that anyway? A few pieces of junk jewelry?”

  Virgile didn’t say anything, and the café owner finally walked off. He quickly ate his croissants, pausing only to gulp down his coffee, while reading the newspaper’s account of the arrest. It had taken place concurrent with the funeral.

  According to the article, the homeless boy in custody, an addict, had initially professed his innocence, but after four hours of questioning, he had admitted his guilt. He had been after the couple’s wedding bands.

  The boy was linked to robberies in Cognac and Royan. He had also been taken into custody in connection with pharmacy robberies in La Rochelle and Lormont. But the authorities had released him for lack of evidence.

  A native of Angoulême, the boy sometimes squatted on the Rue Perchepinte in Langon. The night of the crime, he had been seen wandering in the vineyards and the washhouse in Bommes with another kid. A fisherman had given the authorities this description: shaved head, body piercings, fatigues, and combat boots.

  The fisherman was quoted. “My son would call them schkins. They looked like kids to me, but they had definitely hit puberty. One had a Mohawk—you know, like the old roosters we have around here. He didn’t stay with the skinhead very long. The skinhead had a dog on a leash, a kind of black wolfhound. He gave the rooster guy something in a bag, and then the rooster took off down the Brumes-d’Or trail. The skinhead just stayed there, on the other side of the river. Finally, he noticed that I was watching. He smoked for a long time, leaning against the edge of the washhouse. Then he walked over to the river, unzipped his fly, and pissed in the Ciron.

  “‘What are you looking at?’ he yelled. He gave me the finger and put his thing back in his pants. He turned around and took the path toward town.”

  Virgile looked up from the paper and stared out the window again. He didn’t know what to think. There was so much information in the article, but did it make sense? Why would a homeless kid shoot two old people in their sleep, when he could have sneaked in and gotten their wedding rings without even waking them? Who was this other person? What was in the bag? And was it even important to the investigation?

  Virgile heard
the door of the café open. A young man carrying a motocycle helmet walked in. Virgile recognized him. He was the biker who had picked up Cecile after the funeral. The man scanned the room, took a seat at the bar next to the hunter, and ordered a coffee.

  Virgile turned back to the paper and continued reading. The fisherman, Fernand Macarie, had gone to the authorities as soon as he heard about the double homicide. In the hours after he gave his statement, the authorities questioned several young people living on the fringes of Bordeaux, as well as in Libourne and Langon.

  The boy who was subsequently arrested claimed that even though he had been a bit high that night, he would have remembered committing two murders. Finally, however, he confessed.

  He had been abandoned as a child. After several unsuccessful placements in foster homes, he had been put in an orphanage, where he stayed until he hit puberty. Since his departure, no one had bothered to look for him. The homeless kids who knew him said he turned tricks for drugs and was HIV-positive.

  Virgile stopped reading. He already knew too much. Or, in fact, not enough. He ordered another cup of coffee, carefully folded the newspaper, and put it back on the table next to him. His boss had surely read the same account. What did he think of it? Virgile was eager to compare his instincts with his employer’s. He checked his cell phone. No calls.

  As he put his phone down, he noticed that the biker was making conversation with the man in the hunting jacket. He turned his head to hear better.

  “There are some bad things happening in this idyllic town,” the younger man said.

  “Bad things happen to good people all the time. Look at me. I’m seventy-six, worked my whole life, and now I’m living in a trailer down by the river, all by myself.”

  “You must have plenty of friends if you’ve lived here that long.”

  “They’re not the kind of men you’d want to spend a lot of time with,” the man answered. “They’re always talking about me behind my back. I don’t care. I don’t need their company.”