Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) (7 page)

11

Virgile had been enjoying his peaceful retreat. Esteban and Mercedes Ambroyo, with their imperturbable calm and informal hospitality, went about their lives as usual, and Virgile returned their hospitality with fresh food from the market and dishes he had learned to cook with his mother. When Benjamin told his friends and assistant that he was coming back, Mercedes insisted that Virgile simply enjoy the reunion. He didn’t have to “work for a place to sleep.”

“I’ll call a caterer in Belleville to make us a delicious dinner.”

“What will people think?” Virgile said, flashing one of his lady-killer smiles.

“Don’t worry, we already have quite a reputation: the artist who pounds rock while his wife pounds the keyboard. Fortunately, we managed to raise three girls without starving them to death,” Esteban said with just a hint of sarcasm. He lit his meerschaum pipe, which he had sculpted himself with a pocketknife.

The three welcomed Benjamin at the end of the day and ushered him to a table loaded with mouthwatering dishes.

“Mercedes, what happened?” Benjamin said. “I didn’t think you could cook.”

“I still can’t, although your assistant here has been threatening to teach me. He’s quite talented in the kitchen. Were you aware of that?”

“I think he told me once that he used to help his mother cook,” the winemaker answered, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“So, Benjamin, Elisabeth must be livid about your leaving home so soon after her return,” Mercedes said as she served her husband and guests the catered
quenelles de brochet
with
sauce mousseline
.

“Frankly, I think she’s too jet-lagged to notice I’m gone. I almost brought her along to get her mind off of Margaux. Now that Margaux is starting to long for home, Elisabeth can’t wait for her to move back to France. But some things you just can’t force.”

Benjamin squirmed in his chair when he saw Virgile’s eyes light up. As fond of his assistant as he was—he even thought of him as a son—he couldn’t see Virgile with his precious daughter. Virgile was still too footloose and fancy-free. But Benjamin did muster the generosity to tell Esteban and Mercedes how gallantly Virgile had cared for Margaux after her terrible car accident during a trip home and how he had been key in the discovery that the accident was really the result of criminal sabotage.

Before Virgile could expand on the story, Benjamin changed the subject and asked about the Ambroyo girls.

“They couldn’t be more different from each other and what we expected of them,” Mercedes said. “Do you remember how shy and conservative Anaïs, our oldest daughter, used to be? She’s a high-wire artist in a Munich circus now. Our student, Tamara, is a stay-at-home mother. She has five kids, including triplets. Nina, who was so mischievous and extravagant, is an accountant for a funeral home in Maubeuge.”

“‘Instead of what our imagination makes us suppose… life gives us something that we could hardly imagine,’” Benjamin said.

“Who’s that from, boss?”

“Marcel Proust.”

“How right he was,” Esteban said, emptying the last of the 2011 Château des Jacques into Benjamin’s glass.

The conversation veered to unfulfilled dreams, impossible loves, and disappointments to overcome. By the time they had moved to the living room, settled into the large armchairs, and started sipping their Cognac, they were talking about adapting to rural life after living in the city.

“Do you know many of the locals?” Benjamin asked.

“Not really. We stay home most of the time. This little house is our haven,” Mercedes said.

Eventually, they switched from Cognac to linden-mint tea, and Benjamin started talking about the world wine crisis, the complexity of various vinification processes and grape varieties, and the disturbing spike in the price of grands crus classeés.

“Tell them about Périthiard, boss,” Virgile said, breaking in. “I’m sure the writer in Mercedes will appreciate the story. It’s rife with desire, ambition, vengeance, and questionable behavior.”

“Oh, by all means, Benjamin. That’s right up my alley.”

Benjamin took a sip of his tea and started telling his hosts all about the entrepreneur so used to success who had come riding in on his high horse, cash in hand, thinking he could rule the region, rival the best
négociant
, and produce a top cru wine. Not only that, now he was planning to start a chain of
bouchons
.

“It seems there’s no stopping the man,” Mercedes said.

“He even jumped the real estate agent,” Virgile added.

“Of course, we needed some sex in there. I presume she wants something from him.”

“I think she’s been wanting to do those restaurants for a while and saw him as her sucker,” Benjamin said.

“I like it: a rich businessman out to get what he wants, a
négociant
fretting over his turf, a greedy real estate agent who’s willing to trade her sexual favors for a chain of restaurants. Is there a wife? I think we have what we need for real intrigue and even a murder or two,” Mercedes said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, there is a wife, but I haven’t seen her yet,” Virgile said. “I don’t think she’s supporting her husband’s ventures here. As for the murder or two, we almost had one, but that might be just a hunting accident.”

“That would be Quillebaud,” Esteban said.

“So you read the papers,” Benjamin said.

“I don’t. She does.”

“Yes, Benjamin. As they say, truth is stranger than fiction. Like the cases I handled at the insurance agency, a newspaper story about a far-fetched murder can serve as inspiration for a book. At an international mystery-writers conference I attended a few years ago, an author on one of my panels actually said she got some of her ideas from watching that American crime show
Lockup
.”

“Mercedes, you always surprise me,” the winemaker said. “Who would have thought that such a warm and cheerful woman could spin so many dark tales.”

“Albert Camus said, ‘There are crimes of passion and crimes of logic. The boundary between them is not clearly defined.’ That line intrigues me. I’ve always looked at the world with equal parts compassion and disgust, and I’ve learned that horror can lie anywhere.”

“So I assume you do a lot of research when you’re writing a book,” Virgile said. “Am I right?”

“Yes, Virgile, I do. Just last week, I spent a couple of days at the police forensics lab in Lyon, catching up on the latest research in ballistics, toxicology, DNA analysis, and document forging. It was fascinating.”

“So you have connections there?” Benjamin asked.

“Yes, why?”

“I’m interested.”

“I can put you in touch with a wonderful man named Nicolas Curutchet. He’s from your part of the world.”

“From Bordeaux?” Virgile asked.

“From Basque country. Close enough.”

“Don’t ever say that to a Basque, or you could have a fight on your hands.”

“Whatever. In any case, Curutchet has taught me a lot about violence and misery. People are so quick to criticize the police, but they’re the ones who put their lives on the line every day to protect us. They’re the ones who get their hands dirty when nobody else will. Truth is, we can’t function without them.”

“I agree one hundred percent,” Benjamin said. “It’s hard work, and you have to be tough to face depravity on a daily basis, to be constantly dealing with rape, sundry other kinds of assault, swindling, prostitution, drugs, murders, and so much more. What is wrong with the world?”

“Sex and money. That’s what drives humanity,” Mercedes said, sounding disenchanted.

“That reminds me of a story I heard last week,” Virgile said.

“What kind of story?” Benjamin asked.

“It’s a funny story… A former buddy from school—”

“Spare us if it’s in bad taste.”

“It’s not all that salacious, boss. It’s just a lesson about life.”

“All right. Go on, Virgile.”

“This story takes place in the countryside, near Palermo. A sixteen-year-old Sicilian girl comes home and announces she’s pregnant. Her father goes crazy, forces the man’s name out of her, grabs his gun, and swears to Mother Mary that he’ll shoot him. The girl begs her father: ‘He’s a good man. He’ll do right by me.’ At that moment, a flashy sports car swings into the driveway, and a classy guy with gray hair gets out. He’s wearing a tailored suit, shiny designer shoes, and a gold watch—just like Périthiard. He addresses the parents, saying, ‘I had sexual relations with your daughter. My family obligations forbid me from continuing the relationship, but I’m a man of honor, and I’ll make sure she and the child will never be in need. If she has a boy, I’ll open an account in his name with two million euros, and when he reaches the age of consent I’ll provide him with five Alfa Romero dealerships. If it’s a girl, she’ll get the same amount and a chain of ten hair salons in Palermo and Catania. If she loses the child…” At this point the father interrupts him and says, “You’ll bed her down again.”

Virgile grinned and looked around, waiting for a response. Two seconds later, everyone was laughing.

“Virgile, you’re just what we need around here when things get too serious,” Mercedes said. “I wish you could stay longer.”

“I’d be inclined to let him stay,” Benjamin said. “But he’s just what I need too.” He turned to Virgile. “Now don’t go thinking you can use that to ask for a raise, boy.”

12

Benjamin parked his convertible next to the large concrete, glass, and steel structure. Although it was a relatively new building, it already looked outdated. It was the kind of impersonal place that commonly housed insurance companies, bank headquarters, and foreign companies. This one was home to the Lyon Police forensics lab.

The winemaker gave his name to a surprisingly nice receptionist and sat down on one of the plastic chairs in the hallway. He didn’t have to wait long before a man in his forties with broad shoulders, dark skin, and a shaved head came hurrying down the hall to greet him.

“Mr. Cooker, I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mr. Curutchet.”

“Anything for Mercedes de Ambroyo.”

“From what she tells me, you gave her invaluable information that helped her tie up her last thriller.”

“It was an honor. I’ve read all of her books, and I’ve loved each one. I can’t wait for the next book. It’ll be her eleventh in the series.”

They had climbed two floors during this conversation and were walking down a long quiet hallway lined with doors. Nicolas Curutchet finally stopped at one of them and opened it. He motioned to Benjamin and followed him in.

“How can I help you?” the man asked as he pointed Benjamin to an orange imitation-leather armchair.

On the white wall behind Curutchet’s desk was a nighttime picture of Biarritz. The photo, taken from the Virgin’s Rock, captured the city lights, including the luminous Hôtel du Grand Palais next to the Beach of Kings. In the distance the lighthouse cast its thin beam.

“I’m here, I’ll admit, out of both curiosity and necessity.”

Benjamin glanced around the office. In a pencil holder, there was a miniature Basque flag. A colorful Bayonne festival poster hung on another wall, and a pelota ball rested atop a metal file cabinet.

“A case you are involved in?” Curutchet asked, unwrapping a chocolate bar and offering Benjamin a piece.

The winemaker shook his head to decline the chocolate. “You could say I’m more interested in the case than involved in it.”

“Mercedes says you’re from Bordeaux.”

“Absolutely. My offices are downtown, but I live in Médoc, near the town of Saint-Julien-Beychevelle. Are you familiar with it?”

“Stop, you’re making me dream. I asked for a transfer more than ten years ago, and I’m still wasting away in these damned offices. Okay, okay, there are worse places. I could have gotten stuck in the projects near Paris. But still, it breaks my heart to rot away here, so far from my own region.”

“There’s no hope that you’ll return to the southwest?” Benjamin asked, sincerely sorry for the man, who had such an open face and bright eyes.

“I have a slim chance of getting a transfer later this year.”

“I wish you the best with that. I do have a few contacts and could try to pull some strings for you. I can imagine how hard it is for a man from Basque country to spend his days eating
quenelles
on the banks of the Rhône River while dreaming of
piperade
and the Rhune mountain.”

“As a wine expert, what do you think of Irouléguy wines?”

“I hope you won’t hold it against me if I say ‘no comment.’”

Nicolas Curutchet laughed. “I won’t hold it against you if you’re rough on them. I don’t have any illusions. That said, I’ve tasted some that have merit.”

“Me too, now that you mention it. I know one…”

“Only one? Now that’s cruel.”

“To be kind to your fellow Basques, I will not say which one.”

“So, what exactly is this case that you’re interested in?”

“A fatal hunting accident. I would just like to know when the final test results will be available. The victim’s name is Quillebaud.”

“Can I ask why you need this information?”

“I’ve been hired by an out-of-town businessman to help renovate an old wine estate near Lyon. Unfortunately, Laurent Quillebaud was one of his employees.”

“Officially, I can’t tell you anything, of course. But since you’re from a place so close to my home, and Mercedes speaks so highly of you, I might be able to help.”

With that, Nicolas Curutchet pivoted in his chair, typed on his keyboard, clicked several times, and scrolled through the files, finishing his chocolate bar while he was at it.

“Here it is. File LG/356754397675. Quillebaud… First names: Laurent Charles François… Cause of death: gunshot wound. Two lungs in evidence, testing under way. One 7.65-caliber bullet, waiting for conclusions. Three hunting rifles with ballistics. Other items: hunting jacket, flannel shirt, undershirt, not yet processed. Autopsy report supplied by the coroner. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Which means?”

“That I don’t have much else to tell you. Let’s go see what we can find out in some of the other offices here. Follow me.”

“Am I authorized?”

“Not really, but just follow me, and don’t say anything. As long as you’re with me, you won’t need to explain yourself. Here, put on this white coat, and no one will bother you.”

Before they walked out, Curutchet shoved two caramel praline bars into his pants pocket. The police official opened the door and ushered Benjamin into the hallway.

The first room they entered was filled with test tubes and pipettes, tweezers, and ceramic drainboards. On the edge of a sink, a liver was lying in a glass dish labeled “Ophélie Summerset, 12 years old.” A technician in a white coat and latex gloves was checking a pair of men’s boxer shorts. Benjamin speculated that she was looking for DNA. She had sprayed the boxers with a reactive agent to highlight bodily fluids. After swabbing the boxers, she placed her findings on glass slides.

Curutchet walked over to her. “Yet another pair of boxers, huh, Sophie? Aren’t you tired of seeing them by now?”

“Yeah, I’ve handled thousands. More than a hooker’s ever seen, that’s for sure. Boxers, saliva, nasal secretions, and pubic hair, not to mention skin and gunk from under fingernails. I get it all. But you know I love it. You don’t need more than a pinhead of some of this stuff to nail a bad guy. Now sweat and vomit—that’s a different story.”

Benjamin knew enough from the books he had read, plus—he wouldn’t divulge this to most people—the crime shows he had watched. Hair could be problematic too, as the root held the most information. But unexpected objects could also betray a criminal. Of course, a cigarette butt or chewing gum, but also a hat or motorcycle helmet, a carpet swatch, or a chain bracelet. Mercedes had told him to look for the scanning electron microscope with energy-dispersive analysis by X-ray detector—a long and complicated name for sophisticated equipment used to analyze gunshot residue. The equipment could magnify residue up to twenty thousand times to identify the presence of lead, barium, antimony, and other telltale substances.

Incredible, Benjamin thought.

Curutchet brought the conversation around to case number LG/356754397675.

“What’s the name again?” the lab technician asked. “Quillebaud? A hunting rifle? Yes, I think we have something. I can’t remember exactly. We analyzed at least thirty objects last week. And it’s always urgent. Let me check.”

She walked over to the computer.

“Here it is. We examined the lungs and skin, looking for burns and gunshot residue to determine the distance of the firearm from the subject. I remember now. It took a while. We had to figure out what path the bullet followed. I’ve got the X-rays here. Well, well, Mr. Quillebaud had some health issues: hilar enlargement on the left with an unstable cardiac index, an excess of bronchial mucus at the base of both lungs, parenchymal lesions…. But, hey, where he is now, none of that matters. A 7.65-caliber bullet through his pulmonary lobes from bottom to top at a forty-seven-degree angle. According to the autopsy, the projectile entered through the right lung, grazed the spinal column—there was a point of impact on the dorsal vertebra and rib fractures—and then exited on the left. Classic.”

“Your conclusion?”

“The shot was a near point-blank range, but it’s impossible to determine if it was an accident, a homicide, or a suicide. We’re not soothsayers.”

“Was the bullet from his own weapon?” the police officer asked.

“For that, you have to check with ballistics. I don’t have anything else.”

Curutchet and Benjamin thanked her and left the lab. They walked up a flight of stairs and entered a room that held an impressive machine labeled “Madame Irma.” They were making their way around it when a tall man in polyester dress pants and a nylon turtleneck called out.

“Hey, Le Basque? Snooping around again?”

“Hi, Norbert. I’m just looking for a little information.”

“Be quick about it. I’ve got a ton of work. Seems folks are quick with the trigger these days.”

Curutchet got straight to the point and asked about the Quillebaud case. Norbert was just as direct with his answer. Ballistics had confirmed that the victim was shot with his own weapon. They had test-fired the three rifles—Quillebaud’s, Dujaray’s, and Marceau’s—and examined the breach marks using a comparison microscope. With the help of Madame Irma, they had also examined the man’s jacket, shirt, and undershirt for gunshot residue. There was no doubt.

“Thanks. We won’t keep you any longer.”

They took the stairs down to the main entrance. Benjamin removed his white coat and handed it to Nicolas Curutchet. Once again, the man offered him some chocolate, and once again, Benjamin refused.

“Chocolate reminds me of home,” Curutchet said. “Not good for the waistline, but good for the soul.”

Benjamin took a deep breath of fresh air when he got outside. Back at his car, he found a parking ticket. He ripped it off the windshield and got in, driving toward the Rue Chevreul to find Virgile. He had promised his assistant a feast and had chosen En Mets Fait Ce qu’il Te Plaît, a restaurant highly recommended by Périthiard.

Once he was there, though, he found that he didn’t have an appetite. He poked at his trout, served on a bed of spinach, and barely tasted the Juliénas from the Domaine de la Conseillère.

“Mmm. What do you think, boss? It comes right at you and has a balanced structure.” Between sips, Virgile was wolfing down a large serving of duck, accompanied by vegetables sauteed in olive oil.

Benjamin harrumphed.

“What’s wrong, boss? Mercedes visits CSI and comes back all hyped about it, but you come back in the dumps.”

“‘If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things.’”

“You and your quotes, boss. Are you pulling up that line because the evidence points to an accident, and you don’t believe it?”

“Perhaps. Or I’m feeling a bit negative about human nature as a whole.”

The men remained silent for a while.

“René Descartes,” Benjamin finally said.

“What?”

“That’s who said it.”