30
Benjamin pulled up to the historic château, with turrets on both sides and pristine landscaping all around. Rows of vines stretched as far as the eye could see. The winemaker had been here many times before, but the sheer size of the Yquem château and grounds still impressed him.
“So here we are, Virgile, the magic hill where the king of Sauternes has ruled for centuries. I know we’re on our way to the funeral, but I called the Yquem estate yesterday and arranged a visit. Given all the energy we’ve been pouring into the Bommes matter, I thought it would do us some good to refresh our memories and renew our spirits.”
The two men got out of the car and admired the view. Yquem, the highest spot in the Sauternes, had its own microclimate, which allowed winds from the east to sweep through the hundred-plus hectares of vineyards and remove unwanted moisture at the end of the growing season, when the noble rot did its work.
Benjamin heard footsteps and turned around. A woman in a suit and heels was walking toward them from the state-of-the-art winemaking buildings. “It’s an honor to see you here, Mr. Cooker,” she said, extending her hand. “And this is your assistant, Virgile Lanssien?”
“Yes, it is,” Benjamin said. “The honor is all ours.”
“A pleasure, Virgile.” The woman turned to Benjamin. “I’m sorry I can’t escort you myself. I have an appointment. But please, feel free to walk the grounds and visit the buildings.”
She walked away, and Benjamin turned to Virgile. “How long has it been since you were last here?”
“Not since I attended school, boss.”
“Then let’s not waste a minute getting started.”
Benjamin took his assistant’s arm and led him toward the vines. “These have been called the most pampered vines in the world, Virgile.” He squatted and picked up a handful of dirt. “Look at this. The topsoil’s warm and dry. The smooth pebbles and gravel allow the soil to hold the heat. The land has excellent water reserves and several natural springs.”
He stood up again. “So Virgile, tell me: what are the three components needed to produce great Sauternes?”
“Boss, you realize that I’m not in school anymore.”
“I know, son. Just humor me.”
Virgile sighed. “Okay, sweetness, complexity, and acidity. What about it?”
“Right—the semillon and sauvignon blanc grapes in the vineyards here are harvested with varying levels of Botrytis, which affects those three components.”
Benjamin started walking down one of the rows, with his assistant close behind. “What a labor of love,” he thought as he examined the vines, which had been pruned severely during the growing season to allow for optimal rot. Harvesting was under way. The estate’s nearly two hundred workers would go through the vines several times, picking the grapes one by one, before they were finished.
He plucked one of the berries, covered with a fine coat of fur, and handed it to Virgile. “Can you believe that each of these vines yields just one glass of wine? No wonder Sauternes is so precious.”
“As precious as that pair of shoes you’ll be buying for Mrs. Cooker?”
Benjamin shot his assistant an annoyed look and grunted. “Even more precious. But that wasn’t always the case. Would you believe that in the mid-nineteen seventies you could buy a bottle of Yquem for thirty-five francs? At that price, a wise collector would have stocked his cellar.”
Virgile looked back at the château. Its turrets seemed to almost touch the cloudless blue sky. “A lot of history here. Five centuries in the same family, until that buyout.”
Benjamin nodded. “Yes, and by the same group that attempted the hostile takeover of the family-run Hermès. Fortunately, Alexandre de Lur Saluces stayed here until his retirement.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s move along, son. We have a funeral to get to.”
The winemaker and his assistant made their way to the barrel room, a subterranean chamber that held hundreds of oak casks.
“They blind test from the latest vintages and eliminate any wine judged sub-par,” Benjamin said, pointing to one of the barrels. “The sub-par wine will be Sauternes, but not Château d’Yquem.”
From there they decided to visit the elegant tasting room, where they took in the glowing wall of wines, a visual display of Yquem vintages from youngest to oldest. They passed on the two-ounce samples and went back outside, where once again they silently surveyed the seemingly unending rows of vines from their privileged hilltop perch. Benjamin felt a reverence for this land, so close to his home, and yet so removed.
He was still reflecting when Virgile turned to him.
“Yes, son?”
“I guess you could say we’ve hit the sweet spot, boss.”
The winemaker groaned. “Virgile, would you stop with the puns, already. Didn’t anyone ever tell you they’re the lowest form of humor?”
“Well then, why do the French love them so?”
31
Despite their stop at Yquem, Benjamin and Virgile arrived at the cemetery early. Waiting for the funeral procession, they got out of the car and began walking past the graves. Some were festooned with purple, yellow, and white chrysanthemums, but no fresh arrangements adorned the Lacombe couple’s site. No one had even bothered to remove the wilted wreaths and bouquets.
Benjamin stopped to read a note attached to an arrangement. “With deepest sympathy, Yquem.”
A bell tolled, and the winemaker turned toward the Bommes church. Behind a pine coffin devoid of flowers, a handful of men were walking toward them.
Benjamin tugged Virgile’s sleeve and pointed to a cypress tree several feet away. They slipped behind it to avoid being seen. The winemaker listened to the muffled sound of ropes rubbing against the coffin as it was lowered into the earth. A man in a black coat kept coughing and spitting. Another, a bit older, was standing as straight as an arrow next to the mayor. This man was wearing a dark beret and had a military medal on his lapel.
The matter was quickly concluded. They laid down a tricolor wreath with a ribbon that read “Hunting Federation of the Gironde.”
The men filed out of the cemetery, but the one in the beret stayed behind. He stood quietly, watching the others leave. When the heavy iron gate clanged shut, he turned back to the grave and spiplat on it. After wiping his mouth with his hand, he saluted and walked off.
32
Inspector Barbaroux stepped into the shoebox-size apartment and glanced around. Through the window, he could see the gothic façade of Saint Eustache Church and a patch of blue sky. His eyes stopped on the black and white photos on the walls.
“Those are mostly from my portfolio when I started modeling,” Cecile said, turning on the light. “It’s kind of dark in here, even with the skylight. It clatters like a tray full of silverware when the rain comes down. Sorry the place isn’t picked up. Please, sit down.”
She pointed to a threadbare coach and pushed some magazines to the side.
Barbaroux couldn’t help thinking of his own daughter. She had lived in a couple of places like this. Dumps, but she had made do. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Longer than I intended, Inspector. It’s cramped, I know. I miss the open spaces and salt water.”
“Miss Lacombe, what exactly is it that you do for a living?” Barbaroux asked as he settled in.
“I model, and I act when I can. I’ve been in lingerie ads. Before that I did a soup commercial. Once I accepted a job as a receptionist for a television station just to be around artists and maybe get a few job leads.”
Cecile started to pull out a hardback chair for herself but stopped. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? I’ve got some instant in the cupboard.”
Barbaroux caught himself before declining. He didn’t want to discourage her.
“It sounds like hard work—finding work, I mean.” He watched her heat the water on a two-burner hotplate.
“You’ve got that right, Inspector. Sometimes I have to be somebody’s arm candy at a
fashion show or cocktail party just to be seen, which means I’ve got to find something decent to wear. I go to auditions and hang out at agency lounges. When I’m not doing that, I’m collecting phone numbers from people I meet and looking for jobs online. And believe it or not, I have had some luck.”
“Oh?” Barbaroux leaned forward on the couch.
“I’ve landed small parts in three TV movies, and I even made a brief appearance in a Claude Chabrol film.”
“So do you make enough money to get by?”
Cecile handed the inspector his coffee. “Well, I admit that I’ve had to ask for help. A guy from Ireland that I dated gave me something from time to time.”
Barbaroux sipped his coffee. It was chalky and bitter. “Has there been anyone else?”
“Yes. Ralph, the musician. He didn’t have much money, but that wasn’t going to stop him. He promised to take me to New York or maybe Hollywood. My grandpa took a shine to him. Ralph told him, ‘When we make it big, when Cecile’s a movie star and I’m writing music for Spielberg, we’ll come back and settle here. We’ll replant the vines and buy a château—one that’s even more beautiful than Yquem.’”
“He sounds like a dreamer.”
“I wouldn’t call him that. But we had fun. We went to Ibiza once. We hitchhiked: Bordeaux-Toulouse, Toulouse-Barcelona. Then we took the boat with some money Grandpa gave us. We promised to come back for the harvest, but then I had a screen test for a Patrice Leconte movie. I couldn’t turn that down.”
“Did you get the part?”
“No.” Cecile hesitated. “Do you really want to hear about all this stuff?”
“Miss Lacombe, you never know what information might be useful in an investigation. Sometimes the smallest piece of trivia can be a key factor. Tell me more about Ralph.”
“Well, okay. His real name was Michael. He had the coolest leather jacket—said it was like the one Marlon Brando wore in The Wild One. Cost him a fortune. And that motorcycle of his. The chrome was something. I felt safe when I was with Michael.”
Her voice trailed off.
“That safe feeling—did it last?”
Cecile shook her head. “When I think about it, I can see he was playing a role too. The motorcycle, the jacket—they were for looks. He was all friendly with my grandparents, but he didn’t really like them. He couldn’t stand their house, the way it smelled like furniture polish and mothballs.”
Barbaroux spent a moment studying the young woman: her straight brown hair, ripped jeans, and slender frame. She was beautiful, but inside she seemed fragile. He had an instinct for such things.
Cecile fidgeted, and Barbaroux stopped staring.
“But if you’re wondering about Michael, he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she said.
Barbaroux nodded and remained silent.
“I guess I’m waiting for my Vie en Rose, like Marion.”
The inspector smiled. “A role like that comes once in a lifetime. Meanwhile, you must support yourself. So, this Ralph—or Michael—it sounds like you broke up with him. What’s his full name?”
“Michael Duforest. Yeah, we broke up. Not long after the funeral. We were both in Bommes, and then I got a call for an audition for Cyrano de Bergerac. He took me to the train station and said he’d close up my grandparents’ house for me. But before I knew it, he was sending me a text saying we were done.”
“That must have hurt,” Barbaroux said.
“It did—it does. But really, it was for the best. We weren’t meant for each other.”
“Have you seen or heard from him since?”
“No. I called but got a message saying his number was no longer in service.”
Barbaroux gave a knowing nod and tried to look sympathetic.
“By the way, Miss Lacombe, what’s happening with your grandparents’ estate?”
“I got the papers from the notary in Langon, but I haven’t read them.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what I’m going to do with the house…”
“It’s the home where you grew up. I’d think you’d be attached to it.”
“Yes and no.”
“And your grandparents’ money?”
“There’s not much left after the funeral expenses. My grandparents weren’t exactly the Rothschilds. The only thing of value Grandpa had was Didier Daurat’s aviator’s watch. Do you know who I’m talking about? The First World War pilot who was operations director at the airmail company that became Aéropostale and then Air France? He was friends with Saint-Exupéry and the one who hired Jean Mermoz. Grandpa told me that Mermoz was a showoff aviator. Daurat said, ‘I don’t need circus artists. I need bus drivers.’ But they wound up being good friends, the two of them. I keep the watch in a display case. I’ll never sell it, never in a million years.”
“That’s to your credit. It’s a way to preserve your grandfather’s memory.”
“He kept it in the wooden clock in his bedroom. The clock had a little compartment. Grandpa and I were the only ones who knew about it. He told me, ‘In case something happens…’ When I came back to Bommes for the funeral, the clock was the first thing I checked. The watch was still there, safely hidden. I don’t know if I really care about the house, but I do care about the watch.”
“Have you had it appraised?”
“No, as I said, I would never part with the watch. It has sentimental value. When my grandfather wound his clock, he would wind his watch, too. You could hear it ticking through the frame. It still works. Would you like to see?”
“Okay.” Barbaroux was curious.
Cecile took the watch out of its case.
Barbaroux admired the curved crystal and copper armatures before saying, “To think that these are the hands that guided the pioneers of postal aviation.”
“Would you like another cup of coffee, Inspector? It’s no trouble to heat it up.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m sorry I have nothing else to offer.”
“Not even a glass of Sauternes?”
“Believe it or not, even though my grandparents harvested their entire lives at Château d’Yquem, I’ve never had a drop of it. Grandpa promised that for my wedding, maybe…”
“Perhaps he saved a bottle in the cellar?”
“I wish!”
“Did you check?”
“No—I know that house like the clock in Grandpa’s bedroom. If there was any Sauternes, I would have found it.”
“Maybe there was a spot t he didn’t tell you about?”
“The only bottles we found were in the back of the kitchen cabinet, and we drank them in one night. We got drunk as skunks.”
“Yes, Miss Lacombe, and that was right after the funeral. So you made it to Bommes for the service, but you missed your grandparents’ anniversary celebration?”
“Inspector, I’m in small theater productions in Carcassonne, Avignon, Nancy, and Paris. It means a lot of traveling. Sometimes I’m just the understudy, and I have to learn the lines of several characters. It doesn’t pay well, but I’m determined to be successful and prove that those small-town gossipmongers in Bommes are all wrong.”
“Were you in a production at the time of the celebration?”
“I’d planned to be at my grandparents’ anniversary celebration, but unfortunately, or perhaps not so unfortunately, I was the understudy for the lead in Ondine. It’s a play by Jean Giraudoux. Ondine is a mermaid who falls in love with a man. My grandparents remind me of the elderly parents in the story. They lose their own child and raise Ondine when they find her abandoned. It’s a fantasy, of course, but it’s like my life!”
“I think you’d want to pay them homage.”
“I did. I planned to go. But just as I was about to hop on the train to Bommes, I got the call from the director. The lead actress’s mother had died, and they needed me to take her place. I’m not sure my grandparents understood why I couldn’t be there, and I’m sure all their friends were talking about m
e. It’s so ironic, though. I always hoped that they would see me on stage, and here was my possible break. But it came at the one time they couldn’t leave Bommes.”
“How did the performance go?”
“As disappointed as I was, I forced myself to clear my mind and focus. I was surprised at how easily the tears came when I recited the lines, ‘Oh, how difficult it is to live among you, where what has happened can never again not have happened. How terrible to live where a word can never be unspoken and a gesture can never be unmade.’ I felt like I was talking to Jeremy.”
33
Jeremy had asked Virgile to pay a visit, and Virgile was happy to comply. The Lacombe story had taken a strange turn, and with the hidden Sauternes revelation, the Dubord son had become implicated.
Jeremy’s wife was on good behavior. For his part, Virgile played the role of model family friend. Jeremy and Virgile took Valentin for a walk along the limestone plateau near Sauzet, and when they were alone, the two former classmates lingered in the wine warehouse.
In the dark cellar, Jeremy demonstrated how he punched down the wine, a common practice in the Bordeaux region. It involved breaking up the solid mass of skins, stems, and seeds that floated to the top of the vessel during fermentation and pushing them down again. It was an unconventional method in this corner of the Lot Valley. Virgile, however, supported the practice, as it had a clear impact on a wine’s quality.
Benjamin’s assistant discovered more about his friend and his growing reputation in the region. Jeremy was enhancing the alchemy of winemaking in the cellar, as well as the maintenance of grapes in the vineyard. And although Jeremy did endure some criticism, he received an equal number of awards at agricultural competitions. Virgile didn’t doubt that the inclusion of his wine in the Cooker Guide would be a feather in his cap.
Virgile learned that Jeremy was respected—and even admired—by his father-in-law. He had saved the family’s honor and rehabilitated a vineyard inevitably headed for tenant farming. The old man was too proud to show his gratitude, but his silence was a sign of approval. Jeremy made do with that.
Requiem in Yquem Page 11
