“All right. It did throw me. And I haven’t been happy since. But face it—I made that decision, too. You know how the vines are in my blood. I would have been miserable in Paris. So I tried to make a life for myself here. It’s just that nothing’s worked out. If I had gone to Paris, at least I would have had Cecile. Now I have nothing.”
Virgile leaned across the table and put his hand on Jeremy’s arm. “Something happened, Jeremy. What is it?”
Jeremy’s face crumpled. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Valentin’s not my son! He’s our former cellar master’s kid. There, now you know everything.”
Virgile was speechless. He stared at his friend, waiting for an explanation.
“She just told me. My wife’s a lying whore. And to think she didn’t even have the decency to let you be his godfather, the one thing I asked of her when Valentin was born.”
Jeremy ran his fingers through his short hair. His lower lip was trembling, and Virgile was afraid the man would collapse right there, in the bar. He just hoped that Jeremy would get past his feelings of betrayal and continue being a good father to Valentin. He knew Jeremy loved the boy.
“Jeremy, you’re Valentin’s father in every way that really counts. You’ve been there with him from the day he was born. You’ve cared for him, taught him, made him feel secure and cherished. Pauline could never take that away from you. I’m so sorry that she’s hurt you this badly.”
“It does look like she has it out for me, doesn’t it,” Jeremy said.
“Is she still seeing this guy?” Virgile asked.
“She says no, but how can I believe her?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see. But for now, you’ve got to get hold of yourself and not do anything crazy. Valentin needs you. He’d be devastated without you, and you have your career to consider. It’s taking off, Jeremy.”
Jeremy looked up at Virgile and mustered a teary smile. “You’re right. I don’t want to let Valentin down. He’s been the only person I’ve really loved since Cecile.”
“All right, my friend. You hang onto that.” Virgile called for the check, and the two men left the café. It was getting dark.
“Are you hungry?” Virgile asked.
“No,” Jeremy answered. “Let’s take a drive.”
Jeremy was still shaky, and Virgile didn’t know if getting in a car with him was such a good idea. But he didn’t want his friend driving off by himself either.
“Okay,” Virgile said. “Let’s take my car. I’ll drive.” He steered Jeremy toward the Mercedes convertible.
When he saw it, Jeremy let out a whistle. “So that’s your car? Shit, you’re quite the showoff these days, aren’t you.”
“No, it’s my boss’s. He let me use it so I could get here faster. Like I said, he’s a good guy.”
“A good guy,” Jeremy said. “How lucky for you.”
Virgile ignored the crack and unlocked the door.
But instead of getting in, Jeremy kept walking. “I don’t want to take your fancy Benjamin Cooker car,” he said. “We’ll take mine.”
Virgile had an uneasy feeling. Jeremy’s mood had hardened. But Virgile didn’t want to argue. “Where are you taking me?” was all that he said.
Jeremy didn’t answer. He pointed to his car, a Toyota Yaris, and slipped behind the wheel. Virgile got in the passenger side and buckled his seatbelt.
22
The evening at the Delfrancs was cheerful. There was no talk of politics or the double homicide, just a fine meal and a few timeless moments unique to long-lasting friendships. Because Benjamin was woozy when they left the Delfrancs, Elisabeth took charge.
“Benjamin, you’re in no shape to get behind the wheel. I’ll drive. I’ll bring you back tomorrow to pick up Virgile’s car.”
Slightly rebellious but happy, Benjamin left Alain and Chantal laughing on the doorstep.
“I bow to my lovely bride’s better judgment,” the winemaker said, sliding into the passenger seat.
He was nodding off when his cell phone rang. “No intrusions allowed!” With that, he threw the accursed device into Elisabeth’s purse.
The full moon bathed the Gironde in silver incandescence. It was a short drive from Saint-Estèphe to Saint-Julien-Beychevelle, and Benjamin was snoring in the front seat of his wife’s four-by-four when they arrived home. When she shook him awake, he was just lucid enough to comprehend what she was saying: “My dear Benjamin, the truth, as you claim, may lie at the bottom of the glass, but it’s going to be hard to swallow in the morning.”
23
Jeremy stepped on the gas and shifted gears with a vengeance as they left town. Virgile could hear the bottles destined for his boss rattling in the trunk. Jeremy took a steep road lined with low stone walls. And then Virgile saw the sign for the Mont Saint-Cirq picnic area and observation point.
A minute later, Jeremy braked, and they got out of the car. A carpet of lights glimmered at their feet, merging in the distance with the star-studded sky. Two lovers on a nearby bench were kissing under the cloak of darkness.
Virgile heard some people talking in the distance, and he turned in their direction. Three joint-passing teenagers were walking toward them. When they got closer he could see that they were wearing goth makeup, along with multiple piercings and sleeve tattoos.
“What is it with kids these days?” Jeremy asked once they were out of earshot.
“Who knows,” Virgile answered. “But we had our own unique way of dressing back in the day. Don’t you remember those muscle shirts and pastel jackets with shoulder pads? We weren’t so perfect either. Remember the time we lifted Milou’s bottle out of his pocket? We poured out two-thirds of the liquor and replaced it with water. Oh, the look on his face when he took a swig!”
“Yeah, I remember,” Jeremy said. “Good thing he was almost passed out when we took the bottle.” A grin had replaced Jeremy’s sad-sack expression, and they sat down on the parapet to take in the view. Mont Saint-Cirq was a balcony opening onto an infinite nighttime panorama.
After a few minutes, Virgile spoke. “The Lacombe funeral ceremony was beautiful.”
What he really wanted to talk about was Cecile, an obsession they now had in common. Virgile was tempted to tell Jeremy about the episode on the ferry, but he held back. It wasn’t the right time. He did, however, describe the funeral in detail.
“Cecile was there? How was she dressed? Was she by herself?” Jeremy wanted to know everything.
Virgile described the narrow coffins, Cecile’s dark glasses and haircut. He told Jeremy that he and his boss had run into Mrs. Dubord at the cemetery, and he elaborated on their visit in Jeremy’s childhood home.
Virgile was surprised to learn that Jeremy wasn’t following the investigation. He didn’t read the papers and rarely listened to the radio. The recent harvest, moreover, had taken his full his attention. Virgile told him about the arrest.
Jeremy’s reaction was immediate. “And they expect us to believe all this? A junkie kid murdering two old people in their sleep for two lousy gold-plated wedding rings? You know as well as I do that someone like that would just grab a purse off a woman on the street or rob a corner store.”
Jeremy, realizing he was almost shouting, stopped to regain his composure. Virgile waited.
“If you really want to know, there was only one thing of value that would have motivated someone to break into their home.”
“What was that?”
“Their gold!”
“But you just said, those rings weren’t worth anything.”
“I’m not talking about their wedding rings.” Jeremy took a deep breath. “Their one and only fortune was their reserve of Yquem. It was a damned war chest! For years, the Lacombes harvested at the château. And every year, they left the harvest feast with two bottles under their jackets or in a shopping bag. The old Yquem cellar masters liked them. One of them was a cousin of René’s. They felt sorry for them, too. René and Éléonore had l
ost Pierre and were bringing up Cecile when they should have been relaxing and enjoying themselves.
“They’d get the phone call, and up the magic hill to the Yquem château they’d go, always claiming the same baskets, numbers fifty-five and fifty-six. ‘We don’t like to change our habits,’ Éléonore told me once.”
Virgile noted that the memories were dissipating some of Jeremy’s tension.
“When all the grapes had been picked, they’d attend the harvest feast. The entire staff of Yquem and the pickers would be there. After the chocolate profiterole dessert, they’d collect their envelopes: one for René, the other for Éléonore. Two pay slips and two checks that René would deposit in the Preignac bank the next day. And then someone would slip them the wine.”
Virgile was stunned. “How do you know this?”
Jeremy leaned in. “Virgile, I saw those bottles myself,” he said, nearly whispering.
“What? How did that happen?” Virgile’s heart was beating faster.
“Mr. Lacombe showed me his collection one afternoon: vintages from the nineteen fifties and on. Some bottles were better than others, of course, but all together, they were a liquid-gold treasure. Mrs. Lacombe was on some pilgrimage in Verdelais. She would have killed her husband if she knew he was divulging their secret. He made me swear on my mother that I wouldn’t tell anyone. ‘No one, understand?’ he said.”
“Where was Cecile?” Virgile asked. “Did she know about all those bottles?”
“Mr. Lacombe had sent Cecile to the store to pick up a few things. To answer your second question, I have no idea if she knew, but I suspect not. I think the Lacombes intended to sell the bottles and give her the money when she got married or just leave them to her when they died.”
Virgile was having a hard time digesting all this information. The value of the Lacombes’ booty was mind-boggling. He stopped multiplying and looked up at the sky. Thick clouds had moved in, obscuring the stars. A harbinger of rain?
“Do you know how much that collection is worth?” Jeremy asked.
“I can hazard a guess,” Virgile said. “A single bottle could go for a thousand euros, give or take. Not quite the hundred grand that a 1787 fetched in 2006, but when you consider the sheer number of bottles, the Lacombes’ collection has to be worth a fortune.”
“Try two thousand euros for a single bottle,” Jeremy said. “That’s what you’d pay for a 1959.”
“Jeremy, you could have married Cecile and used those bottles for your own vineyard.”
“I know my marriage to Pauline was one of convenience, Virgile, but I wouldn’t have asked Cecile to do that for me. Growing grapes wasn’t her thing. Remember?”
“Where were the bottles hidden?”
“In a small root cellar under the kitchen. They didn’t use it for anything else. There was a trap door near the sink, and they had a rug covering it. That afternoon, Mr. Lacombe opened the door, and we climbed down a short ladder. I’ll never forget the sight when he lit the candle. All those bronze bottles flickering in the light. Decades of Yquem—can you imagine? It was beautiful.”
“Why do you think he shared his secret with you?” Virgile asked.
“Another question I can’t answer, although I can guess. He knew Cecile and I liked each other, and maybe he thought I was the closest thing he’d ever have to a son again. Maybe he was just having a weak moment. Go figure.”
“Do you think they’re still there, Jeremy?”
“No idea. I probably shouldn’t have told you. But if those bottles are gone, I don’t think it was the junkie kid who took them. There’s no way he could have gotten all of them out and sold before he was arrested. He wouldn’t have had any place to put them, either.”
Virgile assessed his friend’s confession. The fortune under the Lacombes’ kitchen certainly could have been a motive for killing the couple. Jeremy had told him about the bottles, but could he be harboring another secret? Money problems? Or was he angry with the couple over something? Something to do with Cecile? Virgile doubted that his longtime friend was capable of committing an act as horrific as murder, but still…
“You and Cecile’s parents were close at one time. Why didn’t you go to the funeral?”
Jeremy picked up a clump of dirt and pitched it into the darkness. “Yeah, I suppose I should have gone, but I just couldn’t. Funerals aren’t my thing, you know?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the bottles sooner?”
“The old man swore me to secrecy, and even now I feel like it’s a betrayal. Don’t ask why.”
A strong westerly wind had come up, whooshing through the trees and scattering the leaves. Virgile zipped up his jacket and looked at his friend.
“What are you thinking, Virgile? That I’m a louse for not going to the funeral? That Lacombe trusted me enough to tell me his most guarded secret, and I didn’t have the courtesy to pay my last respects? Why do you care, anyway?”
Virgile took an evasive tactic. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you attended the funeral. I was just thinking about Cecile.”
“What about Cecile?”
“You aren’t the only one who’s been keeping a secret.” Virgile finally told Jeremy about crossing the Gironde with the beautiful stranger.
“I get the feeling that you were attracted to her. Have you been seeing her?”
“No! Not in the way you’re thinking. But yes, in fact, I have seen her—at the funeral and then again today.”
“Did she remember you?”
“Am I the kind of guy a girl can forget?”
Virgile shoulder-bumped his friend, and Jeremy grinned. “Who are you kidding? I know your ways. Remember, we go back.”
“Whatever,” Virgile said. “At any rate, she hasn’t been the least bit interested. She came out into the yard, and as soon as she saw me, she ran back into the house.”
“One piece of advice, Virgile: Forget her. She’s not your kind.”
“Probably not. Besides, I’ve been thinking about someone else lately—a woman who’s living in New York now.”
No sooner had he said this than the sky let loose a deluge. Virgile was relieved that he didn’t have to confess any more. The two men got up and raced to the car. But when they got there, Jeremy discovered that one of his tires was flat.
He slammed the top of the car with his fist. “Damned pothead kids! They probably let the air out of my tire.”
“Let’s not be so quick to blame the kids, Jeremy. You probably had a slow leak.”
“Well, I don’t have a spare. It had a leak too.”
“Jeremy, you may be a gifted winemaker, but did anyone ever tell you that you’re an airhead?”
For the first time that night, Jeremy laughed. “And I see you’re still making those corny puns.”
They slipped into the car to avoid getting any wetter, and Virgile used his cell phone to call for a taxi. Then he sent his boss a text: “I believe I’ve found a valid motive for the Lacombe murder. We have to confirm it as soon as possible. Call me, please.” It wouldn’t be read before the next day, but there wasn’t much they could do at this late hour, anyway.
Jeremy invited Virgile to spend the night at his family’s estate, and he accepted. The bed was soft and warm, but Virgile couldn’t get to sleep. The gutters never stopped gushing, and his mind wouldn’t shut off. In the early morning, he’d drive back to Bordeaux with a trunkful of the Cahors that would make its debut in the Cooker Guide.
24
The vending-machine coffee at the Bazadais rest area on the A62 motorway was undrinkable, and the attendant, with her purple lipstick and spiked hair, was surly. But it would take more than that to dampen Virgile’s mood. He had just left Jeremy. The rain had subsided, and a thin mist blanketed the countryside. Virgile loved autumn mornings like this. The fragrances of undergrowth, wilted ferns, and sweet resin made him regret his return to Bordeaux’s heavy traffic.
His cell phone rang when he reached La Réole. His boss had jus
t read the text and wanted to know more.
“Good morning, son. How’s your friend?” Benjamin said. Virgile picked up a bit of a drawl in the winemaker’s voice—the kind he had after a meal accompanied by a few too many fine wines.
“Better, I hope. In fact, I have his bottles in the trunk. Are you okay, boss?”
“Just fine, son. Why do you ask? No, never mind that—what’s the motive? What did you find out?”
“I think you’ll find what I have to say very interesting,” Virgile said, grinning into the phone.
“I can see you’re intent on drawing out the suspense. Well then, meet me at the lab. By the way, when was the last time you had your brakes checked?”
Virgile cleared his throat. He had called Jeremy an airhead, but in truth, he and Jeremy were also alike in matters of vehicle maintenance. “Not since I bought the car from Stofa. I’ve been meaning to do that.”
“That Peugeot ran like clockwork when you got it. Remember? I was there. But cars do need to be maintained, Virgile.”
“Did you have a problem?” Virgile cringed, waiting to hear the answer.
“Well, we came within a hair’s breadth of eating wild-boar pâté today.”
“An accident?”
“No, but I had to use the emergency brake to avoid a pig as big as a buffalo.”
Virgile didn’t know exactly what to say, so he said nothing.
“Reassure me, young man: you haven’t encountered any deer while you’ve been driving my Mercedes, have you?”
“No, boss. Your Mercedes is purring beautifully. She was just thirsty. I gave her a drink at the gas station, and I’m bringing her back to you in perfect condition.”
“So hurry up, Virgile. I’ll have coffee waiting for you.”
“Make it a double, boss.”
It was high tide when Virgile drove along the left bank of the Garonne. A low and ashen sky hung over Bordeaux. Rain was not out of the question.
25
Requiem in Yquem Page 9
