It was a popular fishing spot for the old men of Bommes. The dead branches of the alder trees lining the banks of the Ciron River slowed the current just enough to hinder the movement of the carp. The fish pooled here and anglers spent hours, even nights, casting their lines.
But on this day, the carp weren’t the attraction. It was the clothing: the dark corduroy pants and canvas jacket with fur collar clinging—like flood victims who couldn’t swim—to the tree limb floating in the river.
Dino, the son of the Château Lafaurie-Peyraguey manager, grabbed a branch and tried to free the garments. The clothes were waterlogged, however, and too heavy for the branch. Finding a sturdier limb, Dino continued to poke at the rags. Finally, the spongy mass rose to the surface to reveal the swollen face of old Macarie, with gaping mouth and wide eyes.
Dino gasped and waded into the water. But before he could reach the body, the dead limb gave way, and the current carried Macarie down the river. Horrified, Dino watched as the shapeless specter, whose pale and blistered skin threatened to burst like a wineskin, shrank into the horizon.
It was true that Macarie didn’t know how to swim, even though he fished almost daily. The gamekeeper had made no secret of it. Some simple souls related this to the authorities. Others, more numerous, claimed cryptically that he had come to the end he deserved. He had acquired many enemies over the years and no friends. Being a loner wasn’t a crime, but it was quite another thing to relentlessly report the harmless misdeeds of your neighbors. Macarie was destined to die this way or a similar way—at the end of a shotgun or at the point of someone’s knife.
The Langon authorities, who were well aware of the informant’s past, conducted their investigation. The file would be forwarded to the public prosecutor in Bordeaux, where it would probably be archived. After all, wasn’t drowning a reasonable death for an individual accustomed to operating in murky waters?
26
Benjamin listened to Virgile while Alexandrine presented several samples of red wine for tasting. Watching the perfunctory sniffing and chewing, Virgile figured they wouldn’t be spending the entire morning in the lab.
“Let’s go to our offices. We won’t be as distracted there,” Benjamin grumbled.
Virgile knew his employer wasn’t engaged in the work. After hearing the story of the root cellar filled with bottles, Benjamin had made two phone calls, getting voice mail both times. That was when his mood turned sour. Virgile feared the winemaker would become short with Alex if they stayed any longer. She certainly didn’t deserve any surliness. He shot her an apologetic look, and she winked in return. Virgile understood. “No problem,” she was saying. “Now get out of here.”
It took five minutes to walk from the pristine lab on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge to the hushed Cooker & Co. offices. The two men concluded during those five minutes that the Lacombe root cellar had surely been emptied of its liquidities.
“And if that’s not the case?” Virgile asked.
“Cecile will have to be notified.”
“Unless… Do you think she could have gone that far?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Virgile. We don’t do that with the wine we judge. Neither should we do it here. Besides, I’m sure she’s not the only possible suspect.”
When they arrived at No. 46, Benjamin told Virgile to go to his office.
“If anyone asks, we’re not here,” he instructed Jacqueline, his secretary, who handed him a thick black signature file.
“Margaux called,” Jacqueline told him. “She wanted to know if you forgot Mrs. Cooker’s birthday. She’ll call back later.”
“Shit!”
Virgile was sure it was loud enough for the people in the offices next door to hear.
Then: “Jacqueline, do me a great favor: go to the florist on the Rue Huguerie. Choose an enormous bouquet. Roses, please!”
“Very well, Mr. Cooker.”
Grumbling, the winemaker joined Virgile. “I’ll have to take her shopping. Maybe she’d like another pair of Louboutins. Or what’s the name of that shop that has the scarves inspired by paintings at the Musée des Beaux-Arts? Petrusse? She might like one of those. I don’t think you’ll have any use for this piece of advice, Virgile, but I’ll tell you anyway. Never forget your wife’s birthday.”
“Right, boss. You know what they say in the United States: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”
A minute later, Jacqueline appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Cooker’s on the line. She says the roses are beautiful.”
“What? She has them already? How did that happen?”
Jacqueline gave Virgile a conspiratorial smile. “I took the liberty of ordering them as soon as Margaux called.”
Benjamin leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Thank you, Jacqueline. You’ve saved my hide.”
The secretary went back to her desk in the outer office, and Benjamin turned to his assistant. “What would we do without the women in our lives? Don’t answer. It’s a theoretical question.”
§§§
“Okay, let’s get to work,” Benjamin said, opening his humidor. He wavered between a Cohiba and a Lusitania before settling on a Punch Rare Corojo. This rich-tasting square-pressed cigar was available only once a year. He sniffed it from top to bottom, but after a moment’s reflection, he returned it to the box. No, he didn’t deserve a reward this morning.
“A cigar, Virgile?”
“No, thanks. Another time, maybe?”
Benjamin closed the humidor and delicately stroked the mahogany cover. Just as he was about to move it out of reach, his phone rang. The winemaker looked at the screen. It was Alain Delfranc.
“Why hello, Alain. You called just in time to save me from my weakness.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“I was almost giving into the temptation of lighting up a Punch Rare Corojo. But I’ve thought better of it. Thanks for calling me back. Virgile is here with me, so I’m putting you on speaker.”
Before even greeting Virgile, Alain shared the news. “They found the Lacombe wedding rings,” he said. “Our hunches have been confirmed. They’ll have to release the junkie. And they’ve got another body on their hands: the Bommes gamekeeper was fished out of the Ciron this morning. It seems he didn’t know how to swim.”
“They’ll say it was an accident, I suppose. But given the kind of guy I hear he was, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a rock tied around his neck.”
“I agree.”
“And the rings—where did they find them?” Benjamin asked.
“At a jeweler’s in Langon. The Lacombes wanted to refurbish their wedding bands. The jeweler called the police as soon as he read about the suspect. Obviously, that motive makes even less sense than it did before.”
“Agreed. But now we have even more reason to believe that robbery was the motive.”
“What are you talking about, Benjamin?”
“Virgile and I are convinced the murderer was looking for liquid gold.”
“Liquid gold, huh? Wine, perhaps? You’re being very mysterious, Benjamin. Where did you get that notion?”
“From a well-informed source. The Lacombes had a hiding place under the kitchen floor, near the sink. There are two possibilities: the authorities will find ninety or so bottles of Yquem dating as far back as the nineteen fifties or nothing at all. In any case, I need to get in touch with Inspector Barbaroux. He’ll have to search the Lacombe home again.”
“Ah yes, Antoine Barbaroux, the inspector you worked with on the Pétrus case. If I remember correctly, you were instrumental in solving that mystery.”
“We’ve stayed in touch since then. He’s become quite the wine enthusiast. Of course, he’s always been a talented cop, despite that rumpled look of his. But I do need to give him a piece of my mind. How could he possibly have taken that kid into custody?”
Alain chuckled. “Well, we all make mistakes, Benjamin.”
“So true, my friend. I have to confess that Elisabeth’s birthday s
lipped my mind.”
“Uh-oh. Not good. How much will that lapse set you back?”
“Fortunately, Jacqueline saved me and had the florist deliver flowers. I’ll take Elisabeth shopping for Louboutins.”
“I just bought a pair for Chantal. Forked over more than a thousand euros. I have to say, though, her legs look spectacular when she’s wearing them.”
“‘If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.’”
“Who does that morsel of wisdom come from?”
“Anatole France, my friend. Let’s get together soon.”
Benjamin put the phone down and looked at Virgile. He leaned forward and slid the humidor his way. If Elisabeth was getting a pair of haute couture heels, then he would have his limited-edition cigar.
27
“Benjamin Cooker here.” The winemaker had finished his cigar, which had met every expectation, when Inspector Barbaroux called.
“I saw you called earlier, Mr. Cooker, but left no message.” Barbaroux’s voice was as raspy as ever. “Can I assume that you’re not contacting me about an intriguing new wine you’ve discovered? I’ve got a hunch that you have something on the Lacombe case.”
Benjamin cut to the chase. “Yes, it’s about the Lacombes. I’m happy to see that you released the boy. Tell me, what were you thinking? There’s no way he could have committed that double homicide. From what I’ve picked up, he has trouble keeping his shoelaces tied.”
Benjamin heard the inspector clear his throat. He waited for Barbaroux’s answer.
“A rogue deputy,” Barbaroux finally answered. “No police department, including Bordeaux’s, is perfect. He took the kid into custody and before I even heard about it, the press was all over the story. He’s been reprimanded. So that’s why you’re reaching out—to call me on the carpet? A little presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?”
Benjamin couldn’t miss the sharp edge in the inspector’s tone. He had insulted the man, and he rushed to soften the exchange. “William E. Massee, the American wine expert, once said, ‘Great wines are magical; and winemakers are mad. Like horse fanciers, they are always trying to improve the breed.’ That’s a characteristic we share, Inspector. Just as I’m dedicated to furthering the quality and variety of our country’s wines, I know you’re committed to keeping Bordeaux’s homicide division at the top of its game.”
For a moment, he thought he might have gone overboard. But in truth, he wasn’t lying. Benjamin valued Barbaroux’s perceptiveness, brains, and dedication to his job.
He heard the inspector sigh. “All right, Mr. Cooker, how can I help you?”
Benjamin leaned back in his chair. It squeaked, and he made a mental note to get it fixed. “Perhaps I can help you. But please bear with me. About that gamekeeper’s death—might it be connected to the double homicide?”
“Too soon to say conclusively,” Barbaroux answered. “But we’re looking into it. A neighbor of the Lacombes told me that he had been showing up at their home, asking René to go hunting with him, even though René had given it up. It made Éléonore uneasy.”
Benjamin nodded but didn’t say anything.
“So, you have something for me?”
“Yes, a piece of information that may be crucial to the investigation. I’ve learned that the Lacombes did have something worth stealing. You wouldn’t have found it in your first search, because it was well hidden. I’d advise you to go back to the residence and look for the trap door under a rug in the kitchen.”
“And just what will we discover when we raise the trap door?”
“Liquid gold, Inspector. The Lacombes had a treasure trove of Yquem amassed over all the years they harvested at the estate. They started collecting the bottles shortly after they were married, and they added to their stash every year after that. But I must caution you—the bottles may or may not be there now. In fact, I’d wager they’re gone.”
A few moments of silence followed, and Benjamin picked up on the inspector’s annoyance. “So tell me, Mr. Cooker. If the bottles aren’t there, then why should we go?”
“Because if the bottles are gone, we may well be closing in on the person who murdered that old couple in their sleep.”
28
The city was still sleeping when Inspector Antoine Barbaroux and his officers left Bordeaux. On Quai de Paludate, the last night owls were gathered beneath the milky glow of the streetlights, and the fishmongers from Arcachon were delivering their baskets of salty cargo to the Capucins Market. The chrysanthemum merchants at the entrance to the Ulysse-Gayon cemetery were shivering in the damp cold.
Bommes was a half hour away, but none of the officers assigned to the search of the dead couple’s home seemed to mind the drive or the early hour. Their leader had fought hard for the warrant, which had been issued at last by a prosecutor who insisting on dotting all the i’s and crossing all the t’s.
Barbaroux was driving, and his deputy was snoring away beside him. “I haven’t gotten any sleep for the last two nights,” he had told Barbaroux. “The baby’s teething.”
“We’ve all been through that,” the inspector had answered tersely. The deputy’s nightly escapades were the real reason for his fatigue, but as long as he was doing his job, Barbaroux wasn’t going to make an issue of it.
The fog was slowing them down. “When’s the damned weather going to lift?” Barbaroux muttered.
Two police officers from Langon were supposed to join them as reinforcements at the motorway tollbooth, but Barbaroux doubted they’d be there on time. Everyone was running late.
He also doubted that Cecile Lacombe would still be at her grandparents’ residence to open the door. “You’re sure a locksmith’s coming out?” he asked Deputy Rivard in the backseat.
“It’s all arranged,” Rivard answered.
Barbaroux arrived at the church in Bommes. The lights of a dark blue sedan flashed, indicating the mayor was there, as he had said he would be. At the same moment, a large motorcycle raced past them, narrowly missing the police van.
Grousing, Barbaroux got out and shook hands with the mayor. “That bike almost sideswiped my van. We’re not here ten minutes, and somebody’s already taking aim at us.”
“It was probably the Garrigou kid coming home from work,” the mayor said.
“Or maybe the Lacombe girl and her boyfriend of the moment?” Deputy Rivard suggested.
“We’ll know soon enough.” said Barbaroux.
Although it wasn’t far from the center of town, the Lacombe house was set back from the road and hidden by mature trees. The inspector proceeded up the drive and saw that the locksmith from Preignac was already there, leaning against his car. His beige pajama top was visible under his blue overalls.
The house was quiet. Barbaroux didn’t think he’d need to deploy his officers. He motioned to the locksmith and walked to the front door. He knocked several times, reciting the obligatory warnings. Getting no response, he ordered the locksmith to do his magic, and in less than a minute the oak door swung open. The stench of plonk and old tobacco was overpowering. He called to his officers to join him.
“Looks like they had some party in here,” Rivard said, shaking his head.
Cognac bottles littered the oilcloth-covered table. Champagne glasses had been tossed on the floor, and the ashtrays were heaped with cigarette butts. Lighters and matchbooks bearing the labels of Bordeaux clubs were strewn on the chairs.
Barbaroux picked up one of the lighters and sniffed it. He could smell a rat.
“If it wasn’t for the damned fog, we would have broken up their little celebration,” he said. “They couldn’t have left more than a half hour ago.”
Deputy Rivard lifted the rug near the sink, revealing the trap door. He opened it with ease and lit a white candle that someone—René Lacombe, most likely—had placed on the top step of the short ladder. Barbaroux brushed past his deputy and started down. He didn’t want anyone coming with him. When he reached the dirt floor, he moved the cand
le all around.
“So?” Rivard called down. “Anything?”
“No gold. Just dirt.”
29
Benjamin Cooker wasn’t surprised when Inspector Barbaroux called with the news.
“So, Mr. Cooker, we have no doubt now that greed was a motive,” the inspector said.
“But not necessarily the only motive, Inspector.”
Benjamin heard a honking sound at the other end and waited for the inspector to finish blowing his nose.
“This damned weather,” Barbaroux said. “Aggravates the sinuses.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“We have to confirm that the person who took the stash is the same one who committed the homicides. It’s probable but not a sure thing. And I need to get a better feel for Cecile. Was she angry with her grandparents?”
“I can’t help you there, Inspector.”
“You should see the mess at that house. Cigarette butts and empty bottles all over the place.”
“It would seem that a girl who could do that to her childhood home would have little regard for the people who brought her up,” Benjamin said.
“That may be true, but we still don’t have much on her. Her last known residence was a small apartment in the Les Halles district of Paris. I’ll pay her a visit.”
Benjamin thanked the inspector for keeping him current and ended the call. He didn’t know what to think. Virgile had his doubts about Cecile’s culpability, but Benjamin didn’t like her attitude. It bordered on contempt.
“You have a weakness for good-looking women,” Benjamin had told Virgile. “I fear it clouds your judgment.”
Fernand Macarie’s funeral was scheduled for the following day. Benjamin decided to attend the service to observe those who would accompany the gamekeeper to his final resting place.
Using the excuse of a late grape harvest at the estate of a client in Entre-deux-Mers, Virgile asked if he could skip the funeral. “They really aren’t my thing, boss. You know that.”
Benjamin almost gave his consent. But then he changed his mind. “I want you to come with me. And let’s plan to leave a little early. I want to make a stop along the way.”
Requiem in Yquem Page 10
