“Mr. and Mrs. Cooker! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You asked me for a picture to redo that cellar master’s portrait on the Toussaint Roussy.”
“Indeed, show me.”
The winemaker held out the photo-booth pictures and waited for Pascale Dartigeas’ reaction.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Cooker, but you look horrible in this picture. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Cooker?”
“I haven’t even seen these. Show me,” she said. “Yuck, it would have been hard to make you any uglier.”
“What am I going to be able to do with a face like that?” Pascale said, a little vexed.
“I’m counting on your talent to tidy it up,” Benjamin said with a laugh. “You speak the truth, so paint me with the same honesty.”
“I’ll work from memory,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, as if she wanted to grab her client’s mischievous expression and natural distinction.
Elisabeth had wandered to the back of the workshop and was examining the soft pink flesh of a Baroque angel that was flying in the swirls of a long purple scarf.
“Have you made progress on the overmantel?” Cooker asked. “I don’t see your intern.”
“Julie is not here today, but she is working on it, don’t worry,” the restorer said. “It will be finished at the end of the month. Your overmantel is intriguing. I just talked to a man who was examining it and said he owns one just like it.”
“Say again?”
“A rather corpulent man in a wheelchair who came in not more than 10 minutes ago.”
“Do you know who he is?” Cooker asked, suddenly nervous.
“Not at all. It was the first time I’d seen him. He just told me that his was in better shape and that all he had done was clean it by rubbing a cut potato on the varnish. A heresy! That’s an old wives tale that never worked and could ruin a canvas.”
“When did he leave?” Benjamin asked.
“I told you. Ten minutes ago. He went toward the bell tower. His wife was pushing the wheelchair. They can’t be too far.”
The winemaker quickly said goodbye, promising to come back during the week. He grabbed Elisabeth by the wrist, tearing her away from the flying angel. “Quick. It’s important,” he whispered into her ear. She barely had time to say goodbye to Pascale Dartigeas before she found herself outside the store, grasping her husband’s arm. They walked quickly through the stands along the sidewalk in front of the Passage Saint-Michel, stepping over piles of old mechanical parts spread on the pavement, bumping into a grandfather clock and nearly knocking over a very kitsch psychedelic lamp.
“What’s happening, Benjamin?” Elisabeth asked, catching her breath.
“We’re looking for a man in a wheelchair.”
“And you think we’ll find him at the flea market?” she asked.
This was not her husband’s first flight of fancy, and she was used to even more comical situations, but she felt completely lost. Benjamin summed up the conversation she had missed while she was contemplating the celestial creature.
“We absolutely have to find this fellow,” Benjamin continued, lifting his hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun.
His wife did the same and slowly turned to examine the surroundings in a broad circular movement.
“Over there, to the right. That looks like a paraplegic,” she said calmly.
“Where?”
“Near the café, on the other side of the square. His wife is helping him get in the car.”
“I don’t see anything!”
“To the right, I said. She is folding up the wheelchair and putting it in the trunk. It’s a white station wagon with an antenna on the roof.”
“I see it. By the time we cross the square, they’ll be gone already. Follow me.”
The couple ran to the convertible that was parked on the Rue des Allamandiers and started it with a six-cylinder roar that scared a crowd of bystanders, who stepped aside like a single person. They sped around the church and came out on the Rue des Faures. The station wagon was already on the street that led to the Capucins market. Benjamin slowed down a little, reassured that he would not lose the car now. Elisabeth was quiet, holding onto her seat. They drove up the Cours de l’Yser after running a red light as they cut across the Cours de la Marne. When they arrived at the Place Nansouty, the white station wagon had already disappeared behind the clump of flowers in the center of the roundabout, having turned onto the street leading to the Saint-Jean train station.
“What the …?” Benjamin spat out, stopping behind a delivery van that was blocking the road.
“They turned left. Calm down,” his wife said, putting a hand on his arm.
Benjamin kept tapping the steering wheel with his fingers as he waited for the van driver to deign to start up again. Then he rushed onto the Rue Pelleport and slowed down to look into the side streets.
“There they are,” Elisabeth cried out. “They parked on the Rue de Cérons. On the left. She is unfolding the chair.”
“It’s one way. I’ll have to take the next street and go around the block.”
It took them only two minutes to drive around the block, but they arrived too late. They barely caught a glimpse of the wheelchair disappearing into a dull-looking building as the entrance door clacked shut. Cooker stopped his convertible in the middle of the street without turning on his blinker or turning off the engine. He walked up to 36 Rue de Cérons and read the enameled sign above the doorbell: “Yvonne Soulagnet. No soliciting.”
“It’s not right to disturb people this early on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said to his wife. “Since we’re in the neighborhood, let’s go buy some cannelés from Laurent Lachenal’s bakery, and we can pick up some of his sesame bread. I’m starving after this little adventure.”
BENJAMIN felt a little muddled after spending two hours in traffic jams. He had just driven across all of greater Bordeaux without putting the top of the convertible up, breathing in gas fumes, his hair gathering the dust from the ongoing construction. When he arrived on the Rue de Cérons, he had no trouble finding a parking spot in front of No. 36. He rang the bell several times before an elderly woman stuck her nose through a crack in the door, which was held firmly by a safety chain. He introduced himself, using a fake name. He didn’t bother to provide any lengthy explanations, preferring to get directly to the point.
“I’m looking for a disabled man who was here yesterday. I know that he likes paintings, and I would like to talk to him about a canvas that could interest him.”
“I live alone,” the woman mumbled.
She had a husky voice that didn’t seem to go with her frail body. Her yellowing complexion was wrinkled like a baked apple, and she had sparse hair and hunched shoulders.
“Excuse me for insisting, Mrs. Soulagnet, but I am sure that he will be happy to meet me. I have a painting that I’m certain will interest him.”
“Another lousy painting that does nothing,” the old woman said. “The house is full of them.”
“I promise you that Mr. Soulagnet will really …”
“That’s not his name! He’s my son-in-law. Unfortunately. My poor daughter fell in love with a good-for-nothing, instead of his brother, who knew how to make money. It’s a good thing my grandson was able to take over the business. Paintings don’t feed the family!”
“You are right, Madame, but please, allow me to insist.”
“You are stubborn aren’t you?” the old woman chuckled.
“At least give me his name and address so that I can get in touch with him. I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Gilles Guéret. He is a printer in Bègles. You’ll find him in the phone book. The Béglais Pratique free sheet is his. My grandson’s Sébastien Guéret. He’s in charge there now.”
Then she let out a grumble in the guise of a goodbye and slammed the door.
Benjamin walked slowly back to his Mercedes, looking concerned. He turned
the key, began to leave the parking space and then suddenly cut the engine. He grabbed his cell phone and called Virgile.
“Where are you?”
“Hello. I’m at Moniales. I’m finishing up with the samples to bring them to the lab.”
“We can see that later.”
“But, sir, Alexandrine is waiting for them.”
“I said later! Does the name Sébastien Guéret ring a bell?”
There was a brief silence and the crackling of the telephone was annoying to Cooker’s ear.
“He was an intern on the list. We went to the same wine school, but I didn’t know him very well. He wasn’t in my class. He is two years younger than I am. We talked to each other occasionally.”
“Excellent. You will need to get in touch with him right away.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Figure something out. He’s running a printing press that publishes an advertising paper. Find something to sell and go there now. It’s in Bègles, the Guéret Press. It’s not that complicated. I’m sure you’ll find it in the industrial park.”
“Something to sell?”
“Anything, it doesn’t matter. Be there in a half an hour.”
“Maybe my car? It’s a rundown Renault 5. I don’t have any idea how much it’s worth.”
“It doesn’t matter, I told you. Run an ad and try to talk to this Sébastien Guéret. Dig around, ask questions and bring back what you can.”
“So I don’t even go to the lab?” Virgile asked.
“It’s urgent! You should be on your way already!”
“I’d say, sir, that things are picking up.”
“It’s about time!”
12
THE PRINTING PRESS’S OFFICE was functional, with a clinical ugliness that reflected the tastes of the entrepreneurs who had located in the industrial park. Virgile approached the counter, looking kind of timid, and grabbed an ad form. The secretary flashed him a big smile.
“Madamoiselle, I’m not sure how to fill in this form.”
“I’d be happy to help you.”
“Well, I’d like to sell a, well, a somewhat old car. Actually, a really old car. Let’s just say it’s not in such good shape, and I don’t exactly know how to describe it without scaring potential buyers away.”
“That is a little sensitive. You could say, ‘Average condition. Passed inspection.’ Or ‘Sold as is. Price negotiable.’ That’s what people usually put, but I don’t know anything about mechanics.”
The conversation continued in a bantering tone used by two people who seem attracted to each other without daring to show it. Virgile was playing for time, talking about things while he watched staff members come and go behind the window at the reception desk. A surly and sad-looking secretary was yawning as she made photocopies, a man was pushing a cart of newspapers, and a worker dressed in blue overhauls was on his way to the employee restroom to wash his hands. After a quarter of an hour, Benjamin’s assistant had barely filled in 10 lines of his ad form and was still chatting with the secretary, with no end to topics he cared nothing about. They talked about the Aquitaine Bridge project, the 35-hour work week, the point-based driving license, the teachers strike, traffic jams at the Place de la Victoire, the next Johnny Hallyday concert, taxes, the bad season for the Girondins soccer team—so many things that reassure people about their ability to judge the state of the world.
He was beginning to feel desperate when he finally caught a glimpse of Sébastien Guéret’s chubby cheeks. Their red hue betrayed poorly contained anger. The woman doing photocopies suffered a volley of reprimands and disappeared into the restroom to compose herself. Sébastien looked like a prosperous employer. An extra 10 kilos had been enough to settle him in life, giving him the self-satisfied look of a leader. When he approached the secretary, he took on an entirely different tone.
“Corinne, my dear, don’t forget to bring in my signature book after lunch break,” he said in a tender voice.
“Hey, we know each other, don’t we?” Virgile said, sounding almost enthusiastic.
Sébastien Guéret looked up and saw him. Dimples appeared on his blotched chubby cheeks.
“That’s right. You went to the wine school. Lanssien, isn’t it? Mr. Virgile Lanssien!”
“We were not so formal back then.”
“Sorry. It’s a habit. What are you doing these days? Still in wine?”
“Oh here and there. Some seasonal work on the estates when they need extra workers.”
“That’s finished for me. For a while, I thought I liked it, but after my father’s accident, I had to take care of the business. And in the end, I like it. If you’ve got some time, I can show you around. It’s all brand new. We moved in last February. It was a lot of work but was worth it.”
Sébastien wasn’t exactly boastful, but he couldn’t hide his pride. He invited Virgile to follow him and gave him a detailed description of each of the offices, starting with his, paneled in faux cherrywood veneer, followed by the accounting department, the invoicing computers and the storage room. He went on about the advertising market that was growing with the chamber of commerce and other institutions, paper he bought by the ton, rising prices and storage issues. Virgile listened and nodded, pretending to be impressed. The personnel began to disappear for lunch.
“Don’t forget to lock up after yourself!” Sébastien yelled out.
Then, lowering his voice, without dropping the haughtiness, he added, “You have to keep a tight rein, otherwise they’ll be the end of you. Jerks! Believe me, it’s not easy to run a business like this.”
“I’m sure,” Virgile said, giving him a knowing look.
“Some of them miss the old man and try to make things hard for me. I’ll end up firing them one day or another, believe me. For that matter, I want to build an entirely new team.”
“Times change,” Cooker’s assistant said, thinking that might be an appropriate comment.
“If I had listened to my old man, we’d still be in the old neighborhood with run-down offices, only 1,300 square feet, crappy orders and no potential for growth. His accident and his dead legs are really sad, but to be honest, he had turned down the wrong road awhile ago. No pun intended. He put all his money into printing catalogs for regional artists, for Sunday painters nobody knows about. His passion for lousy paintings cost us a lot of cash. Not to mention all those paintings he felt he had to buy to help out those freeloaders who didn’t have enough cash to buy their own paint.”
“He was like a patron.”
“Patron my ass! It almost ruined us, and my mother was happy when I finally took over the business. It’s not always easy for her. She has to take him around in his wheelchair like a kid, wash him and help him to the bathroom. You get the picture. But he leaves us alone now. We give him enough to buy one or two paintings from time to time, and that’s all he asks. Come on, let me show you the best part yet.”
He opened a double door that led to the machine room filled with shiny new rotary presses. Sébastien explained how each one worked, talked about the 10-year loan, the write-off, how he had to keep changing the equipment for the graphic designers, particularly since Le Béglais Pratique had tripled its print run. Virgile couldn’t stop him, and it took his cell phone ringing and ringing before he consented to a break.
“Excuse me. I’ll be just a moment,” Sébastien whispered. “If you want, you can wait for me in the hallway and have a coffee. I’ll be right there.”
“No problem. Take your time,” Virgile said.
Once Virgile was alone, he walked around the deserted offices and looked under some piles of papers without really knowing what he was looking for or even if there was anything to find. He put a euro into the coffee machine and continued his tour with a burning-hot cup in hand. Sébastien Guéret’s office was open, the lights were on, and his computer was snoozing. Virgile hit a key, and the screen lit up. He clicked on the “mail” file and scanned the list, which he judged to be of no in
terest, and then he opened the file called “projects.” Several files were arranged under small colored icons. Cooker’s assistant shuddered when he saw one called “Moniales” at the bottom of the list.
Without thinking, he clicked on the web browser icon and pulled up the Cooker&Co.com webmail. It was taking forever. He logged in and sent the file to Cooker’s address. His heart was pounding, and his shirt was suddenly damp. If only Sébastien could keep talking on the phone! The seconds dragged on. When the file was fully transferred, he opened the privacy settings window and erased any traces of what he had done.
He immediately returned to the lobby and had time to finish his coffee before Sébastien came back, excusing himself for being so long. Virgile told him he had an appointment in town and promised to stop by again. They said goodbye with an emphatic handshake.
As soon as he got into his rundown Renault 5, Cooker’s assistant called his boss, “Sir? Are you at the lab? I’ll be at Allée de Tourny in 15 minutes. Wait for me in your office. I just sent you an email.”
THE Cooker & Co inbox had several messages in it, including one from the owner of Vistaflores in the Argentine Pampas, where Benjamin was expected for the next winemaking season. There was also a note from Margaux, who wrote with news from New York, but Virgile immediately clicked on the Moniales file. It took awhile to download, but when he was finally able to open the document, Cooker had a totally unfamiliar reaction.
“Holy shit! That can’t be!”
The third overmantel was right there, lit up on the screen. Occupying the entire page was the Château Moniales Haut-Brion and its perfectly balanced facade, its rounded steps, its Doric columns and its dark slate roof. The little chapel’s tympanum was depicted in heavy brushstrokes. The painter had portrayed the building correctly, without respecting the enclosure’s proportions. The vineyards appeared larger and spread beyond the walls. Because the overmantel had been photographed and scanned, the colors were exaggerated. The graphic designer who had laid out the accompanying information had been careful not to cover any part of the château’s imposing structure, because it illustrated the significance of the announcement:
Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 9
