The mother-in-law was more complicated. Born into a family of wealthy landowners, where there were as many sharecroppers as fingers on two hands, she had never gotten over marrying beneath herself. Thus, according to Jeremy, she had spent her life cheating on her husband.
Like mother, like daughter, Virgile thought as he listened to the story. But “no family’s perfect,” was all that he said. They were contemplating the vines, now, and Valentin was playing with a yellow truck Virgile had bought for him at a gas station.
Virgile turned to Jeremy and looked him in the eye. “So, do you still love Cecile?”
“Maybe more than ever. But what’s the point?”
“Perhaps, with her grandparents gone, she’s thinking about the choices she’s made. She might need you now.”
“I have no way of knowing that, Virgile. Besides, you told me how she pretended she was somebody totally different when you met her on the ferry. How would I believe her if she did say she needed me?”
“She’s an actress. She was just playing a role with me—honing her craft, if you will. I was a stranger, and I didn’t matter to her. Or it could be that she remembered I was a friend of yours, and she didn’t want to bring all that up. But you’re different. You’re the man she loved.”
Virgile waited for Jeremy to respond, but his friend didn’t say anything.
“It’s never too late…,” Virgile ventured.
Just as Jeremy was about to speak, Valentin came over. He was whining and rubbing his eyes.
“Want to go home and take a nap?” Jeremy asked the boy, picking him up.
They carried Valentin back to the house and enjoyed a quiet afternoon while the child slept. They tasted the new wine, and Jeremy got a big flame going in the fireplace to roast some chestnuts from Bouriane. Pauline was at a friend’s house—making quince jelly, she said.
Virgile excused himself at the end of the day, having promised Benjamin that he would put in a few hours at the office.
Virgile left in a pensive mood. He had urged Jeremy to act on his feelings. But who was he trying to persuade—his friend or himself?
34
Place Gambetta was a concert of beeping horns and a ballet of white headlights. And the drizzle soaking Bordeaux since nightfall was making traffic even worse.
Inspector Barbaroux parked himself on an upholstered chair in the Régent dining room and didn’t wait for Benjamin Cooker before ordering a glass of white wine. He asked to see the bottle: a Pessac-Léognan.
He looked at the label and nodded without even bringing the glass to his lips. He had been studying enology and was excited about his meeting with Benjamin Cooker.
Antoine Barbaroux had put together what he considered an expert’s wine cellar—and had managed to do it on a police inspector’s salary. Yet rarely was a colleague invited to share any of his bottles. Enjoying the wine wasn’t the purpose of the cellar. Rather, it was proof that he was a sophisticated man who wasn’t to be taken lightly, even though that’s exactly what some people in the prosecutor’s office did.
“That Barbaroux,” they’d say. “He’s just a traffic cop.”
His meeting with the distinguished winemaker was getting a rather late start. He opened the copy of the Sud-Ouest he had just bought to read a follow-up article on the double homicide. The premise of robbery was finding new resonance. Barbaroux snorted. Like Benjamin Cooker, the reporters were late. This was stale news. The papers had their place. Every once in a while they’d turn up a snippet of information that he didn’t have, but as far as the Lacombe case was concerned, they had nothing that he didn’t already know.
Barbaroux folded the paper and looked at his watch. Benjamin Cooker’s tardiness was putting him in a grumpy mood.
§§§
Benjamin turned up the collar of his Loden and opened his umbrella. He walked quickly down the Allées de Tourny, fretting over all the work left behind at Cooker & Co. Still, he hadn’t wanted to put off this meeting. When he got to the restaurant, he glanced around the room and spotted Barbaroux right away. The winemaker couldn’t help thinking that the shaggy-haired inspector in the wrinkled raincoat looked like a caricature of a cop. He almost smiled as he wondered if the look was a guise to throw people off.
“Please forgive me for the delay,” Benjamin said, sitting down. “Too many last-minute calls.”
“Quite all right, Mr. Cooker. I brought your last edition of the Cooker Guide, which I hope you’ll sign for me. I even picked up a few of your recommended bottles.”
Benjamin, relieved that Barbaroux didn’t seem to be harboring any resentments from their testy exchange on the phone, asked what he was drinking and suggested a better wine at the same price. He called over the server, who brought two new glasses.
“So, Inspector, I’m eager to hear where we are in the unfortunate Bommes matter.”
“In fact, I want to thank you for your tip… I’m sure it was no surprise to you that the hiding place was empty.”
“And your leads? Any progress? What about that gamekeeper? Could his death be connected?”
Barbaroux shot Benjamin an indignant look, and the winemaker realized that he’d have to be diplomatic. Barbaroux was as proud as he was astute. Any suggestion that he was less than on top of his game wouldn’t go over well.
Barbaroux waited a moment before answering. “As for the gamekeeper—it’s been ruled a homicide. We’re questioning his bar chums. To answer your question, we haven’t turned up any connection to the Lacombes, other than they lived in the same town, and he had dropped by the couple’s residence to ask René to go hunting with him. We’re still missing some pieces. If, as I understand, Cecile’s old boyfriend, Jeremy Dubord, was the only person who knew about the hiding spot, we’ll have to check out his alibi. I’ve already interviewed the girl, and I didn’t get anything on the Yquem.”
“She didn’t know about the collection?”
“I grilled her. She didn’t say a single word about it, and she seemed sincere.”
“You believe her, then.”
The inspector sipped his wine. “She’s in a difficult financial situation, I grant you. She’s three months behind on her rent and faces eviction if she doesn’t come up with the money. But yes, I do believe her. She seemed genuinely fond of her grandparents and it was clear that a watch from her grandfather was the only thing of value that she stood to inherit.”
“She is an actress, so I’m sure she could sound quite convincing,” Benjamin said. “And she appears to be leading a reckless life, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Barbaroux answered, “but that’s true of quite a few young people who would never hurt anyone. It’s a phase.”
When Benjamin didn’t respond, the inspector leaned in. “Mr. Cooker, let me make a confession. My own daughter went through a rebellious period when she was younger. She had always been a shy girl, but then she got sucked in by a jerk who wound up dumping her. She went into a downward spiral—started hanging out with the wrong kids, drinking, smoking, staying out late, what have you. But we hung in there, and if you met my daughter today, you’d never think she caused us a worry in the world. She’s on a terrific career path, is married to a great guy, and has two kids.”
Benjamin thought of his own Margaux, who had never given Elisabeth or him a moment’s trouble. Maybe they were just lucky. Still, he wasn’t ready to let Cecile off the hook.
“Even if she’s isn’t the one who actually murdered the couple, it could be that she knows who did,” he said.
“You’re thinking one of her current boyfriends could be the murderer?”
“Well…” Benjamin spotted the server and motioned for another round. “Have you found that Ralph guy on the motorcycle?”
“The girl says they broke up. His name’s Ralph Shuller, aka Michael Duforest. We don’t have an address, and apparently he quit his job as a bouncer at a nightclub in the Marais.”
“Are you looking for him?”
The inspector s
hot Benjamin another indignant look. “Mr. Cooker, I don’t edit your wine guide. I appreciate your input, but please don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“Forgive me,” Benjamin said. “I’m just eager to see this thing resolved. So, if you will, tell me how you explain the disappearance of the Yquem.”
Barbaroux cleared his throat. “In fact, I think Mr. Lacombe may have sold the bottles himself at about the time of the anniversary celebration.”
“I thought the townspeople of Bommes paid for that party.”
“No, I’m not saying he sold the bottles to pay for the celebration. I think he may have sold the Yquem because Cecile wanted the money. But then he had second thoughts, for whatever reason.”
“That could have made her very angry,” Benjamin pressed.
“Angry enough to murder the grandparents who raised her? No. She may be on the wild side and broke, but that’s not enough to pin the homicides on her. “
As he listened, Benjamin had to admit that Barbaroux was making sense. Maybe he was being too hard on the girl.
“As far as you know, is this Jeremy Dubord person the only one who knew about the stash?” Barbaroux asked, sipping his wine again.
Benjamin nodded.
“It’s strange—”
“It’s strange that René Lacombe, who had never stopped grieving for his son, would confide in a boy for whom he had developed fatherly feelings? That doesn’t seem so strange to me.”
“Still—”
“You must also remember that Jeremy was from a winemaking family. Lacombe knew the boy would appreciate the value of those bottles.” Benjamin was growing impatient. He didn’t like the way Barbaroux was casting suspicion on Virgile’s friend.
“I must speak to him.”
“Certainly,” Benjamin said.
“Did he have a key to the house?”
“Not to my knowledge. Why would he?”
“Forget my question. The boy probably had nothing to do with it.”
“I agree,” Benjamin said. “Better to pursue more promising leads.”
“So, Mr. Cooker, do you have any suggestions?”
In fact, Benjamin did have an idea, but he wasn’t ready to tell Barbaroux. He was planning to meet with Thomas Hyde, an auctioneer acquaintance in London specialized in wine. He had booked a flight to London the following morning.
Practically all of the Régent’s most talkative customers had paid their tabs and left. The only ones still there were some older couples, elegant and idle young bourgeois, and an executive focused on his electronic device.
Antoine Barbaroux tried to prolong the conversation, suggesting various other unlikely hypotheses, but Benjamin was done. Seeing the winemaker begin to remove his napkin, the inspector took out his copy of the Cooker Guide and asked him to sign it. Benjamin obliged, advising Barbaroux to go back over the section on Sauternes.
“The answer to our riddle might well be there,” he joked. Benjamin returned his fountain pen to the inside pocket of his jacket and finished his wine.
But Barbaroux wasn’t about to give up. “Another glass, Mr. Cooker? Some cheese? Maybe even a glass of Sauternes?”
Benjamin shook his head. He had to give the man credit where it was due. He was persistent and could hold his liquor.
“No, thank you, Inspector. I have to drive back to Grangebelle tonight.”
Benjamin left the man sitting in the dining room.
35
The winemaker took the short walk to the parking garage, allowing the crisp autumn air to do its work. By the time he reached his destination, he was feeling refreshed and ready for the drive home. But just as he was slipping behind the wheel of the car, his phone rang. It was Virgile.
“Yes, son, what is it?”
“I was wondering if you could stop by the office, boss.”
“It’s late, Virgile. I want to get home. You should be home, too.”
“Yes, but I really think you need to stop by.”
Benjamin started to grumble but caught himself. Virgile’s tone was urgent, and now Benjamin was worried. He hurried back to the Cooker & Co. offices.
“What is it, Virgile?” he said as soon as he opened the door.
“I have news that’s not easy to tell you, boss.”
“Go on, son.”
“Saint Charles Hospital in London called,” Virgile said, avoiding eye contact with his employer. “Your father took a spill.”
Benjamin felt light-headed and sat down.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Elisabeth was just with him. She took him to the doctor and made sure he was being treated for his health conditions. He seemed to be doing so well. We FaceTimed and Skyped. He never mentioned feeling dizzy.”
“Even the healthiest person in the world can take a fall, boss. The nurse said he’s in his own room now, and he’s responding to treatment. He probably won’t be in the hospital very long.”
Benjamin took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Thank God I was already planning to go to London. I won’t have to worry about the travel arrangements.” He got up and started walking toward his office.
“Do you want me to do anything, boss?” Virgile called after him.
“Yes. I want you to take care of Jeremy. He needs you. Barbaroux doesn’t seem inclined to let him off the hook so easily.”
“You can count on me, boss.”
“I know, son. My flight to London’s at eight tomorrow morning. As for everything else at Cooker & Co., do the best you can. I’m entrusting it to you.”
It was an odd time to think of short-story writer Raymond Carver, but still, he did. Life was short, and the water was rising.
36
A light icy rain was falling when Benjamin landed at Heathrow Airport. He debated renting a car but decided to hop in a cab instead. He’d stop at his father’s Notting Hill apartment and drop off his bags before going to the hospital.
Little had changed in London since Benjamin’s last visit with Elisabeth. Despite the rain, well-dressed women were ducking in and out of the chic shops on Ledbury Road, and the Sri Lankan grocery at the corner of his father’s street hadn’t gone out of business.
Likewise, the two-story house was much the same, although the climbing roses were in need of a pruning. Benjamin opened the door with the key he always kept on his chain. He took in the familiar scent of beeswax and surveyed the apartment: the heavy drapes, the wingback chair, the English refectory table where Paul-William took his meals, and the sundry other things he kept after closing the antiques shop he owned for most of his adult life. Sighing, Benjamin took out his phone and called the hospital.
Someone at the nurses station picked up. “Ah, Mr. Cooker, your brother Edward’s with him as we speak. Let me transfer you. He can fill you in.”
Benjamin stopped her before she could push the button. “I don’t understand why my brother was the first person you called,” he said.
“Why did we call your brother? He was at the top of your father’s emergency-contact list,” the nurse answered.
Benjamin wanted to kick himself. Edward was unreliable, at best. Paul-William had filled out that list years ago. Since then Elisabeth had seen to all his health-care needs. But they had forgotten to update his emergency contacts.
“All right, put me through.”
“Your timing’s impeccable,” Edward said, answering on the first ring. “Dad’s being released.”
“I can get a cab right now and come to the hospital.”
“We’ll probably be on our way home by the time you get here. Stay there. We’ll be back soon.”
Benjamin ended the call and took his bag to the room that he and Elisabeth used on their visits. He unpacked and, suddenly feeling fatigued, lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes.
§§§
A door slammed, startling Benjamin awake. People were talking in the front hallway. Benjamin recognized his brother’s voice, as well as his father’s. But who was t
he woman? He got up and left the bedroom.
“Oh, there you are, Benjamin!” Edward rushed over, his hand extended. “Dad’s been eager to see you.” He turned to the young woman standing beside him. “I’d like you to meet Britney Whatfour, Dad’s nurse. I hired her before we left the hospital. She came with fine recommendations.”
Benjamin did a double-take. The nurse, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, was wearing capri-length leggings and a bright orange hoodie over a cropped top. She looked like she was going to the gym, not reporting for work.
Benjamin wanted to say hello to the nurse, but he was more eager to see his father. Paul-William stepped out from behind Edward and shuffled over. “Benjy, I’m so glad you’re here!” He turned and scowled at Edward. “Your brother took my cell phone, so I couldn’t call you myself.”
Edward turned red in the face. “It must have been in one of the pockets of your jacket, Dad. You know I had all your things. At any rate, I made sure the hospital got hold of Benjamin.”
“I hope they didn’t tell you I was on my deathbed, Benjy.”
“No, Father. They said you were responding to treatment.”
“I took a fall on the stairway. That’s all. I’m as fit as a fiddle. I’ve been doing everything Elisabeth and the doctor told me to do. Benjy, call her right away and tell her I’m fine.”
Edward cut in. “Dad bumped his head on the newel post. They wanted to observe him. I hired the nurse as a precautionary measure, as I don’t know how long I can stay. I have to get back to my law practice and Kathelin.”
“Ah yes, Kathelin,” Benjamin said to himself. His third wife would surely take to her bed with another migraine if he was gone too long.
“You look pale,” Paul-William said, reaching out for Benjamin’s arm. “Are you sure you’re not sick? Would you like a cup of tea?”
Even before Benjamin could accept, his father pointed the new nurse toward the kitchen. He waited for her to be out of earshot.
Requiem in Yquem Page 12
