Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) (2 page)

“This is the first time I’ve visited Beaujolais, boss.”

“Is that so? I’m surprised by the gaps in your education, Virgile. In any case, you’ll like it, I’m sure.”

“I hope so. We didn’t cover Beaujolais wines very much in school. They’ve got that shit-wine reputation.”

“Ah yes, the
vin de merde
scandal. You are surprisingly behind the times, son. The critic who called them that was sued for defamation. Beaujolais is working hard to redefine its identity, and the region produces some interesting wines. They’re actually a bit like you.”

“What do you mean by that, boss?”

“You assume they’ll be rustic, but in reality, they have a certain finesse.”

Virgile didn’t respond. He slipped into the left lane, accelerated, and passed three cars before gliding back to the right and returning to cruising speed.

“What’s this Périthiard after? You still haven’t told me what he expects from Cooker & Co.”

“For now, he wants an opinion. That’s all.”

“Really?”

“Considering the bill I intend to send him, he’ll get an expert opinion.” Benjamin was, after all, France’s most reputed winemaking consultant and author of the well-known
Cooker Guide
.

It took Guillaume Périthiard only a few seconds to choose from the fifty or so suits hanging in a neat row under the recessed lights of his dressing room: a dark blue Kiton cashmere was ideal for the event. He liked the understated refinement of classically tailored suits made from luxurious fabrics. They were meticulous yet comfortable enough to look falsely casual. For him, luxury meant discretion. He then consulted his collection of 468 watches and selected a 1940 Patek. It worked impeccably, but he still made sure its gold and steel-blue hands moved smoothly over the cream-colored dial.

Perfectly attired, he left the mansion and walked over to his 400-horsepower Maserati GranSport. It had a hot temperament and racy lines, yet the overall look was refined. This coupe was sexy and sophisticated, just what he was going for.

It would take him less than two and a half hours to reach Lyon, a drive with no music or news on the radio, just the purr of the engine cradling his plans of conquest.

Benjamin and Virgile scowled as they bit into their sandwiches. They were unappealing—chicken, mayo, and wilted lettuce on a soft baguette—but the winemaker and his assistant were hungry. Benjamin played with the radio until he reached a news channel, but he quickly switched it back to a classical-music station. His stomach couldn’t handle both the sandwich and the news: higher prices for public transportation, heating, and electricity; an air-traffic controllers strike in Paris; doping in a major European soccer club; a new record from some anorexic singer from Quebec. He asked Virgile to step on it.

“We just passed Avignon, boss. We’ll be there in less than two hours.”

“Maybe I should have taken Périthiard up on his offer,” Benjamin said, gazing absently at the countryside.

“What offer was that?”

“He wanted to send his private jet for us.”

Virgile turned and looked at Benjamin. “And you refused?”

“Eyes on the road, son. I don’t like playing to the whims of a rich man. And, as I told you before, this trip will be worth our while.”

“You see, boss. No need to freak out. We have five minutes to spare,” Virgile said as he turned onto the quays that ran along the Saône River, where the Chavannes Real Estate Agency was located. The firm specialized in high-end properties. Virgile parallel parked behind a Maserati GranSport and in front of two Audis.

“Look at that, boss. His and hers cars.”

“Let me guess what you’re thinking. The dark gray A3 probably belongs to an older man looking for a balance of comfort and control, and the red A1 must be a woman’s—but a woman to watch out for, as that’s a grown-up, fun-to-drive car.”

The winemaker got out of the Mercedes, put on his Loden, and started heading toward Guillaume Périthiard. The two men were well enough known to recognize each other.

Benjamin shook Périthiard’s hand and introduced his assistant. Périthiard then led Benjamin and Virgile into the agency. Eric Chavannes, who looked well beyond forty, approached them with unfeigned cordiality, and soon his wife, Solène, arrived. She was wearing a raw-silk suit with a nipped-in waist.

“A3 and A1, boss,” Virgile whispered.

The winemaker elbowed his assistant and continued to watch Périthiard, who seemed entirely focused on the woman’s nearly translucent blue-green eyes.

“Mr. Périthiard, you were right to come quickly. It’s quite an interesting property, and I don’t think it will be on the market long.” Solène Chavannes held out the description, which Périthiard grabbed just a little too quickly.

Benjamin and Virgile moved in to view the few flattering photos and read the details.

Domaine du Vol-au-Vent
— Winemaking estate with beautiful eighteenth-century manor house surrounded by Régnié cru vineyards, just 35 kilometers from Lyon, on Route 37, at the base of Mont Brouilly. Fireplaces – large courtyard – garage – garden – central heating. Foyer, chef’s kitchen, dining room, living room, office, veranda, eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, separate WC, large game room with billiard table. Property includes 50-square-meter shed, fully equipped 300-square-meter winery, and three-car garage. The 17.5 hectares of vineyards include several
appellations d’origine controllée
– Régnié: 10 ha; Morgon: 2.5 ha; Beaujeu: 3 ha; Brouilly: 2 ha. Asking price: 3,200,000 euros, plus real estate taxes and 5% agency fee.

Guillaume Périthiard folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. He stared into Solène’s turquoise eyes, and a carnivorous grin spread across his face.

3

Benjamin Cooker always paid attention to signs. They were highly instructive. The way Guillaume Périthiard drove his Maserati GranSport, for example, told him a lot about the man. Périthiard’s turns were smooth and always anticipated, which indicated he had a rational approach to life. He didn’t leave anything to chance. He was determined, perhaps overly so, and always set on overcoming the obstacles in his way. He would use any bumps in the road to his advantage and, if needed, cut corners. To follow him, one had to pay close attention.

Benjamin had no intention of letting his client get the better of him. He stepped on the gas.

“Tell me, Virgile…”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever noticed how the way a person drives says a lot about who they are?”

“I might agree with you on that score, boss. I know the day I interviewed for my job with you, I forgot to release the emergency brake for a good ten kilometers, stalled at every red light, and cut off a school bus.”

“You didn’t seem that nervous when you arrived for the appointment.”

“Nervous isn’t the word. Terrified sums it up. It’s hard to drive with all that adrenaline running through your veins.” Virgile opened the window and looked out. “Now that we’re talking about not being in great shape, you didn’t seem to be yourself this morning.”

“I didn’t want to be late. I looked into our fellow’s background, and he seems to be a stickler for details of that sort.”

“As much as you are?”

The winemaker frowned and pressed down on the gas pedal.

“That’s likely, Virgile. I may have even found my master. According to the gossip, nothing escapes the man, and he can be extremely punctilious with his partners.”

“That’s perfect then. He’ll have his hands full with us.”

“What are you insinuating?”

Virgile stuck his head out the window and took a deep breath, like a hunting dog sniffing out its prey. Then he turned back to Benjamin. “I mean that he can try all he likes to challenge us. But when he sees how we work, he’ll find out that his standards aren’t nearly as high as ours.”

“I like your confidence, Virgile. And it’s not unwarranted. Périthiard didn’t pick Cooker & Co. from a hat. He’s perfectly aware of our reputation.”

The winemaker and his assistant fell silent. They entered the village of Régnié-Durette and sped past the church with two steeples, a symbol of the cru, and continued west, toward the hills. Périthiard wasn’t slowing down, and he was making tighter and tighter turns.

Finally, without bothering to use his signal, Périthiard swerved and hit the brakes in front of a rusty gate. Benjamin carefully pulled up behind him, wondering how much damage he had done to his shock absorbers during their drive. He watched as Périthiard got out of his car, walked around it, and opened the passenger-side door. Out came a spike heel, then an exquisite calf, an elegant knee, and the beginnings of a shapely thigh that a black silk skirt refused to entirely uncover. Benjamin heard Virgile gulp as Solène Chavannes exited the car with studied grace.

“Careful, son,” Benjamin whispered. “Don’t let the man see you drool.”

“The view is magnificent, isn’t it,” Périthiard said, turning away from his companion and sweeping his arm over the landscape.

“Yes,” Benjamin said. “Fine southeastern exposure. The orientation is perfect, and the soil is a fine pink granite. I’d say this is a good start.”

Solène slid a heavy key into the lock and twisted it this way and that before the mechanism finally gave way. The gate squealed and resisted as she tried to push it open. It took Virgile no more than a couple of seconds to leap over and help. He put his shoulder to the gate and used all his weight to force it open.

Benjamin smiled. The boy never missed an opportunity to impress a good-looking woman.

“This property pleases me enormously, Mrs. Chavannes,” Périthiard said, starting down the hornbeam-lined driveway leading to the manor house. “I want to see each and every nook and cranny.”

“I would like to begin by inspecting the winery,” Benjamin said. “Afterward, I suggest that you visit the house while Virgile and I look over the vineyards.”

They soon found themselves in a damp, half-lit building. A thin layer of mold covered the walls, and cobwebs hung from the rafters here and there. Benjamin squatted near the dripping spigot of an oak barrel. He stood up slowly and inspected the ceiling. The wood beams seemed healthy. With a cleanup, they could make wine here, but the end product would be better if they insulated the place to avoid temperature variations.

While Solène and Guillaume looked on, the two men from Cooker & Co. nosed through the winery without talking to each other. Beaujolais was not Bordeaux, but Benjamin and Virgile were clearly in their element. In this sort of atmosphere, with its abundance of winemaking paraphernalia, they felt entirely at home. The
terroir
and local customs and practices didn’t matter. The scrape of an object being moved and a tap on the side of a barrel were the only sounds interrupting the silence in the building, along with an occasional expletive from Virgile or a grumble from Benjamin.

The Vol-au-Vent’s equipment was usable, although dated. Benjamin looked over the large wooden vats, called
foudres
, and the old-fashioned concrete tanks. He could almost feel the work that had gone on for generations in this wine cellar. The investment in new vats would be significant. All the equipment would have to be replaced eventually, with the exception of a few ordinary tools and the grape de-stemming machine, which was in decent shape. Périthiard, however, had the money to put into the place, and if he made a few essential purchases initially, he could have his wine cellar up and running in time for the harvest.

“You don’t look overly enthusiastic,” Guillaume said, lifting his chin like a general, as if it would help him better understand the conclusions he expected from the famous winemaker.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Benjamin said, rubbing his hands together. “But honestly, I didn’t anticipate anything else. It’s not uncommon to find a winery in this state on a property that hasn’t been in operation for a number of years.”

“I imagine you’ve seen enough to form an opinion.”

“I would prefer to visit the vines before I tell you what I think.”

“Let’s go see the manor house,” Solène interrupted. In her fashionable silk suit, she looked ready to leave the spiders and mice behind. And her fine Italian perfume certainly didn’t belong in a place smelling of saltpeter.

Benjamin watched as she walked toward the door, tiptoeing in her spike heels over the hard-packed floor. He knew his testosterone-driven assistant was following her every bounce and sway, appreciating the curve of her hips, her nicely muscled legs, and the long blond hair falling around her provocative neckline. He suspected his client was doing the same thing.

Benjamin cleared his throat. “To be perfectly clear, only the
terroir
can tell us what can be done here. While Mrs. Chavannes is outside, let me advise you to negotiate the price down, as you will need quite a bit of cash to get this place back on its feet.”

“I like it a lot. You know as well as I do that it’s hard to find this kind of estate in Beaujolais. There’s not much on the market. I’ve been looking for quite some time now. I’m ready to do what it takes to get this one working.”

Before Benjamin could respond, Virgile turned and left the wine cellar. Benjamin appreciated his assistant’s ability to read his mind. The winemaker wanted a few minutes alone with his client to better size him up. Benjamin figured Périthiard wanted to do the same thing. In some ways, they seemed to be similar. They were men of instinct who needed to experience the other’s presence, see how the other reacted, and perceive what the other held in his eyes. Only then would they know what to expect.

“I would tend to agree with you,” Benjamin said. “Vol-au-Vent is in an excellent location, and you would have to look long and hard to find something better or even equivalent. But as I said, the state of the vineyards themselves is key, especially the ten hectares of Régnié planted around the manor house. The peripheral
terroirs
included in the sale can be handled later, but in general, I’m less worried about the Morgon, Beaujeu, and Brouilly appellations, which cover less area.”

“Each is between two and three hectares,” Périthiard said.

“Yes, indeed. They’re probably older vines, and those appellations are well known. With the elegance of a Brouilly, the power of a Morgon, and the consistency of a Beaujeu, we would certainly be able to produce some wines that would ensure Vol-au-Vent’s reputation.”

“I expect nothing less of your science, Mr. Cooker.”

“Of course,” the winemaker said. He turned toward the door and started heading outside to join Virgile and the lovely real estate agent.

As he expected, he found Virgile flirting with Solène. They were in front of the manor house. Benjamin couldn’t help noticing that she was reserved, despite all of his handsome young assistant’s attentions. Yes, this woman had experience, but was that a hint of pink in her cheeks? Could Virgile actually be winning her over? Benjamin ruled out that possibility when he got close enough to see the icy look still present in her turquoise eyes. There was no weakness in Solène Chavannes.

“Here, Virgile,” he said, tossing him the keys to his Mercedes. “Go get what we need from the trunk. We have some serious work to do.”

Then he headed toward the vines, which he began to survey, walking up and down the rows in his gleaming Lobbs. Benjamin didn’t mind getting his English shoes dirty. Polishing them was one of his solitary pleasures.

The first rows were a bit thin, but some effort had been put into maintaining the plants. The plot had probably been leased out and cared for, but without enough means or perhaps enough initiative. He noted that the pruning had been done properly, and the vines had flowered. They would need to work the soil around the rootstock, taking pains to keep the vines stable. They would have to correct any drainage problems, clean up, and treat the plants to prevent infestations. If nothing else worked, they’d pull out the poorest rootstock and replant. But Benjamin concluded that they would have a harvest in a hundred days, thanks to enough healthy plants, high temperatures, and a short flowering period.

Virgile, aluminum case in hand, arrived at a sprint, ready to play lab assistant. It didn’t take him long to extract the soil samples, following his employer’s instructions to the letter. Meanwhile, Benjamin jotted notes in a spiral-bound notebook. It took them more than an hour to come up with a precise assessment of the ten hectares surrounding the manor house. They would send the samples back to Bordeaux that very day, and Cooker & Co.’s lab manager, Alexandrine de la Palussière, would examine them. They would have the results in two to three days. Until then, they had plenty to do.

“You’ll have a chance to discover the region, Virgile. You’ll get used to it quickly.”

“I’m sure you’re right, boss. What I’ve seen of it so far reminds me of Gascony.”

“There’s truth to that. You’ll find warm-hearted people here who love the land—with good reason. They’re not unlike the winegrowers in the southwest, especially those in Bergerac, where you grew up. They may be a little rough around the edges and even quarrelsome from time to time, but they’re generous, and they have a healthy sense of humor.”

“I can feel that in the landscape, boss. Look at the green hills. Some of them are a bit rugged, but there’s harmony here. Actually, what I’ve seen of Beaujolais so far is like a postcard.”

“Yes, it is, Virgile: a stand of trees here, a steeple rising just around the bend, a cluster of weathered houses in the distance, a stone bridge, a French flag flying from the town hall…”

“Exactly. A mailman delivering the mail on a bike, two old ladies gossiping in flowered aprons… It’s like everything is alive but stuck in time too.”

“Yet it’s changing and evolving. The clock never stops ticking. And even if it all looks like it’s standing still, you must remember that the growers in this area had to fight long and hard to get their wine recognized among the Cru Beaujolais appellations—there are only ten of them. Régnié became a Cru Beaujolais in 1988.”

“I’d like to know more, boss,” Virgile said, still taking in the landscape.

“The region has about 550 hectares of vines and some 120 winemakers. They produce a little over seventeen thousand hectoliters a year. Here, just about everyone is in the wine-growing business, and I can say for sure that Régnié-Durette is a village with both initiative and convictions. The wine speaks for the people who make it.”

“To be perfectly honest, I can’t say that I’ve ever tasted Régnié-Durette Beaujolais. In fact, I’ve never heard of it until now.”

“All right. Let me fill you in. You do know the difference between a Beaujolais, a Beaujolais Villages, and a Cru Beaujolais, right?”

“Of course, boss. Basic Beaujolais can come from anywhere in the region, and a lot of it’s made into Beaujolais Nouveau. Beaujolais Villages is better, and Cru Beaujolais is the best.”

“At least you passed Wine Regions 101. Now we’ll have to arrange for a tasting. You’ll like the wine. It’s youthful and athletic.”

Virgile rolled his eyes. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Professor Cooker?”

Benjamin closed his notebook and slipped it into his brown tweed jacket.

“You can drink Beaujolais early on, but the wines frequently open up three to five years after being bottled. They are precocious and aromatic, but round enough to have a lingering taste. If Périthiard were to give us the necessary leeway, we could easily craft a fine production without having to heavily treat the vines. I would draw out the vatting time and submerge the cap of grape skins during maceration to enhance flavor and intensity. We’d have more color and tannins without destroying the fruity aromas and flavors so characteristic of this wine: raspberries, gooseberries, blackberries, and blackcurrents, with just a hint of spice and minerality.”

The winemaker and his assistant started walking toward the open area next to the manor house, and Benjamin continued his lesson, covering the specifics of the soil and the gamay—Beaujolais’s miraculous grape variety—as well as the various
terroirs
and the similarities and differences among the ten Beaujolais crus.