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

“He had AIDS,” Benjamin said. “So he preferred committing suicide to dying a slow death?”

“He didn’t realize that there are effective treatments for AIDs these days. But it may have more to do with his wife having left him a year earlier, taking their son with her.”

“One disaster leads to another.”

“That’s for certain. He proved that by choosing the time and circumstances of his departure: shooting himself during a hunt, knowing full well that questions would be raised. I think he was angry—angry at the world, but also angry at his wife and angry at Dujaray because he didn’t think he was treated right when he was working for him. And in the end, he probably figured Périthiard, with all his money, could replace him with someone else.”

The doctor looked at his desk and started shuffling papers. “So much for patient-doctor privilege. I’ve known you for less than an hour, and I’ve already broken my oath. Mr. Cooker, no wonder you know all those winemaking secrets. You have a way of getting information.”

“If you’ve read my guides, then you know that I never reveal our vintners’ secrets.”

“True enough… On another subject, I’m writing a brochure for water drinkers—you know, the ones who go on tirades against wine and don’t want any of us to enjoy life. I’d like people to know that wine is a healthy drink. The piece isn’t especially long, just long enough to contain the pertinent information.”

“I hope you’re telling people not to mix water and wine?” Benjamin said, causing Virgile to roll his eyes.

The doctor smiled. “Yes, one must never water down the wine. The real point I want to get across is that moderate consumption—one glass a day for women and two for men—can be good for the health.”

“You don’t need to convince me, doctor. You’re preaching to the choir.”

“Exactly, Mr. Cooker. But did you know that one or two glasses a day can reduce your risk of depression, as well as your risk of developing colon cancer? Wine has anti-aging properties. While consumption of other alcoholic drinks can increase a woman’s chances of developing breast cancer, red wine in moderate amounts can actually lower that risk. One study has even found that a chemical found in wine can improve your sensitivity to insulin. That means you’re not as vulnerable to diabetes. Quite an impressive argument, don’t you think, Mr. Cooker?”

“Indeed, doctor. I just hope the alcoholics I’ve met don’t use it as justification to drink even more.”

“I’m just saying that a moderate amount is fine, Mr. Cooker. Those water drinkers should get off their high horse.”

“Please send me a copy of the brochure when you’re finished.”

“You can count on it. In the meantime, let me prescribe something for you.”

The doctor stood up and took a wine bottle and three glasses out of his armoire.

“It’s simple.”

“I see.” Benjamin smiled at the bottle, whose ruby color let one imagine all kinds of virtues.

They raised their glasses.

“To your health, Mr. Cooker.”

15

Virgile was behind the wheel, driving slowly down the tree-lined driveway.

“Maserati—Périthiard; Peugeot saloon—Sylvain,” Benjamin said, guessing the guests by their cars.

“The Mini Cooper S with leather seats is Annabelle’s,” Virgile said. “The Audi A1 is Solène’s, and that A3 is Mr. Chavanne’s. We saw them the first day we were here.”

“Okay, then the Jaguar belongs to Mrs. Périthiard, and the Range Rover is Fabien Dujaray’s.”

“How do you know that?”

“Quillebaud drove the same model, and Dujaray junior would probably try to copy him.”

“If you say so.”

The men got out of the convertible and walked to the back of the manor house, scanning the vineyards as they went. The Beaujolais rows were like purple and golden-brown taffeta. Autumn had begun to make its appearance.

Benjamin headed first to the vines. “I see the damage now—how odd.”

After inspecting the vines, they joined the other guests, who were gathered on the lawn. Annabelle and Solène were off to one side, whispering. Fabien was nibbling a canapé and keeping his eye on the women. Sylvain was planted near the stone fountain. He had shaved. Eric Chavannes was pouring himself a glass of wine. Guillaume was holding the elbow of an elegant woman with a blond bob cut and pearl earrings.

“Ah, Mrs. Périthiard. What a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Cooker, the pleasure is mine. Do call me Bérangère.” With pursed lips, she held out the tips of her fingers.

Benjamin nodded, and as he took her proffered hand, he watched her turn her attention to her husband, who was staring at Solène. Without bothering to say good-bye, Bérangère walked away and joined Sylvain near the wine table. They exchanged a few words, and it almost looked like she giggled—if a woman of her upbringing and standing were prone to giggling.

Virgile arrived with two glasses in hand. “It’s not a Vol-au-Vent, of course, and it’s not even a Régnié.”

Benjamin sniffed, swirled, and tasted.

“Sylvain makes a basic Beaujolais. This must be his wine.”

As the evening wore on, guests continued to arrive: local personalities, members of the wine community, and upper management from Maison Coultard-Périthiard. Benjamin and Virgile mingled and tasted several local wines.

“It looks like Périthiard wants to showcase some local estates,” Virgile said. “Do you think he’s being diplomatic and trying to make friends?”

“I think Mrs. Périthiard planned this party, Virgile, and I think she’s trying to rub his face in the competition.”

The sun was setting, and Benjamin was raising a glass of a neighboring estate’s wine to his lips when a tormented scream from the winery pierced the twilight calm.

After the body was fished out of the maceration vat and identified as Solène Chavannes, the guests were ushered into the manor house to be questioned by the police.

Benjamin stood near the marble fireplace in the living room and watched as an officer started calling the guests into the dining room one by one. Virgile joined him.

“I heard the cops say blunt-force trauma, boss.”

“Hit on the head and tossed in with the grapes.”

“Boss, who do you think did this?”

“Any one of the guests could have slipped away and done it.”

Annabelle was sitting as stiff as a board on a vintage sofa with a wooden frame of carved vines. She was staring into the distance. Although her mascara was smudged, she looked entirely in control. Her silk Gucci minidress wasn’t even wrinkled.

“Do you think it was Annabelle?” Virgile whispered.

“I’ve known her since she attended wine school.”

“A crime of passion? Maybe Solène broke up with her. Remember what Mercedes said about sex and money.”

“No, Annabelle’s only real passion is her work. And she’s not strong enough to throw Solène into that maceration vat.”

They watched as Fabien Dujaray sat down next to Annabelle and tried to comfort her. A spark of anger seemed to flash in her eyes, but then nothing. She stood up and walked across the room, her spike heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

“What about him?”

“What would his motive be?”

“I can imagine many: jealously for one, if he has a thing for Annabelle. Or he’s actually working against Périthiard. A scandalous murder on Périthiard’s property could help his father.”

“Possibly, but as far as I can see, he’s more talk than action. Remember, his father never put him in charge for a reason.”

“Okay then. What about Périthiard? Maybe he still had a thing for Solène. Everybody says they weren’t seeing each other anymore, but maybe he tried to get back with her, and she rejected him. Maybe he couldn’t take the rejection.”

“Yes, but he is a pragmatic man, Virgile. She was running the Prince Régnié project for him, and we both know business comes first with him.”

In unison, they both looked at Eric Chavannes, who was slumped near the Napoleon III secretary, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“No, Virgile. It’s not possible. He drives an Audi A3.”

“I get your logic, boss, but that’s not a very scientific approach to crime solving.”

“Crime solving also requires intuition, Virgile.”

Benjamin reached into his jacket and pulled out two 1502 Emeralds. He handed one to his assistant and ran his own cigar under his nose. “Honey sweetness. Vanilla and floral aromas. Delicate apple fruitiness. Citrus notes. Some nut and cedar.”

He paused. “Now that’s interesting.”

Virgile followed Benjamin’s line of sight. “What, boss?”

Benjamin, with Virgile in tow, moved slowly across the room.

Sylvain was staring out the veranda door. His arms were crossed, and he was frowning. As Benjamin and Virgile got closer, they could hear Bérangère. She was outside, clearly angry.

“I told you, Guillaume. Coming to Beaujolais was a bad idea. It’s draining your finances. The property is getting vandalized. And now there’s this.”

“Is that why you deigned to even come here, Bérangère? To convince me to stop? I’ve told you from the beginning, I don’t give a damn. I’m going to make my place in this region. Nothing will stop me… Not even you.”

“Guillaume, be reasonable.”

“Is that why you killed her?”

“Guillaume, how could you even think that?”

“Were you jealous because I was banging her?”

“Guillaume!”

Sylvain stepped outside, looking offended, even belligerent.

Benjamin followed suit, with Virgile on his heels.

“Mr. Périthiard,” Benjamin interrupted. “I believe your assumptions are incorrect.”

“And how is that, Mr. Cooker?”

“Sylvain, why don’t you tell us?”

Sylvain looked flustered for an instant, as if a bucket of ice had been poured over him. And then he shot a glance past Bérangère and sprinted off toward the vines. Virgile tackled him before he could get halfway across the lawn.

“What’s going on?” Bérangère called out.

“Mr. Périthiard, you should choose your allies more carefully,” Benjamin said. “Your cousin Sylvain seems to have been quite jealous of your exploits. His wine is nothing compared with what yours will be, and from the looks of it, he even coveted your wife.”

Virgile returned, holding Sylvain by the arm. The man’s shirt was wrinkled and he was looking down, but he said nothing.

Périthiard glared at him. “You always wanted what I had, didn’t you? I thought you’d grown up when I came back with Bérangère and told you we were engaged. You wanted her then. I saw it.”

Sylvain looked Périthiard in the eye for a long, silent minute. Then he spit at his feet.

“He’s the one who has been vandalizing your property, Mr. Périthiard,” Benjamin said.

“You little shit,” Périthiard said. “That would never get me to leave.”

“I think he wanted you out of the picture, Mr. Périthiard. He had never stopped coveting your wife. Isn’t that correct, Sylvain?”

Sylvain looked at Benjamin. “It was her idea.”

“You mean Bérangère’s idea, right?” Benjamin said.

Everyone turned to Bérangère.

“So it was you? You did kill her,” Périthiard said, his cheeks turning red.

“No! The only thing I’m responsible for is the graffiti and some unsightly but harmless pruning.” Bérangère’s cold veneer was beginning to crack. “I just wanted you to come home.”

“So who killed Solène?” Virgile asked.

“That, Virgile, would be Sylvain. When he realized that Bérangère had come here to get her husband back, not to take up with him, he killed Solène.”

“Why Solène?” Périthiard asked.

“Because the suspicion would fall on Bérangère. If he couldn’t have her, he would punish her. And you would suffer too.”

Benjamin watched as the police handcuffed Sylvain and took him into custody. Périthiard’s guests began to filter away, most of them not even bothering to say good-bye.

“Boss, how did you know it was him? Okay, he shaved for Mrs. Périthiard. That I could see, but from getting it that he had a thing for her to pinning the murder on him—that’s quite a leap.”

“It was observation, Virgile. His hands were perfectly manicured and soft when we first met. He has vineyards, but he’s not the one who works in the fields. But tonight his fingernails were torn and dirty. He’s the one who vandalized the vines. Only a vintner would do it in such a way as to avoid really damaging them.”

“How did you know Bérangère asked him to do it?”

“We overheard her and her husband outside, remember? She mentioned the vandalism, but she wasn’t supposed to know about it. Périthiard told his cousin to keep it hush-hush. He barely even mentioned it to me, and made it very clear his wife was not to know. But, of course, she did. She planned it.”

“But she didn’t commit the murder.”

“No. She’s a good Versailles bourgeoise, not prone to passion, son.”

“So how did you know it was Sylvain?”

“I wasn’t sure until he tried to run.”