Deadly Tasting (2 page)

2

“Oh no, sir, you’re not too heavy!”

“Come now, Virgile, don’t flatter me. You don’t need to be polite.”

“Maybe a little chubby. That’s all.”

“In any case, I’ve never been svelte. I get that from my grandfather Eugene. All the Frontenac men are built like rugby players. It’s in the genes.”

“Well, on a frame like yours, the weight is fine. You just have that kind of build.”

“Yet, on the English side they are all a bit lean and even rather thin. My brother looks like a Cooker, but my father is the best example of that lineage.”

“I’ve never had the honor of meeting him.”

“He’s very distinguished and elegant. Elisabeth finds him very classy.”

“Your wife probably put you on a diet to prevent future health problems.”

“That’s right. Take her side! Why don’t you just go ahead and say I’m fat. You’ll sound just like her.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest anything, sir. I’m just trying to imagine what made her prescribe this little diet for you.”

“You must be kidding, boy. A little diet? I had to cancel an important luncheon appointment today. Instead of having a nice meal with a colleague, I’ll be choking down my nasty ration of cabbage soup, which will supposedly work miracles by the end of the week.”

“How do you mean?”

“Elisabeth’s goal is to have me lose ten pounds and no less!”

“Oh, that’s very doable, sir,” Virgile said.

Benjamin was getting irritated with Virgile, who was being entirely too cheerful and supportive of this god-awful eating plan. Sometimes it was better to just keep your mouth shut. But Benjamin could see that his annoyance was having an effect on his fiercely loyal assistant, and he immediately regretted his peevishness.

He got up from his swivel chair and smiled at the young man. “You’re right, my boy. It’s certainly very doable. In any case, I’ve never been able to say no to my wife.” Benjamin sighed. Of course, she had only the best of intentions, and he loved her for wanting to take good care of him. “Come, follow me!”

They walked to the small place at the end of the hall that served as kitchen, storeroom, and library for Cooker & Co.

“Look what Jacqueline bought us.”

“Your secretary has gotten us a microwave?”

“I suspect Elisabeth had her buy it for us.” The Cooker & Co. office had a certain Second Empire patina that was becoming increasingly hard for Benjamin to maintain. The copy machine, computers, and wireless router were rude intrusions. And now there was a microwave.

“For
us
, you say? Do you mean I am involved in this, too?”

“To tell the truth, Virgile, I don’t know how to work this machine. And I have no intention of polarizing any of my molecules while I’m heating up this damned soup.”

“It’s not very complicated,” Virgile said, reaching for the plastic container next to the microwave.

He lifted the lid, stirred the vegetables floating on top of the broth, sniffed the mixture, and turned to his boss with a broad smile.

“This cabbage soup doesn’t look bad at all! And if you don’t mind, I’d be happy to share it with you.”

“You’d do that for me, Virgile? You’d share this ordeal with me?”

“Why not?”

“In that case, be my guest.”

They returned to Benjamin’s office with their steaming bowls of soup. And as they sipped, they began organizing the tasting program they needed to finish by the end of the following week. Benjamin was counting on Virgile to help him elaborate on his impressions and confirm his notes so that he could perfect his chapter on Languedoc-Roussillon wines for the next edition of the
Cooker Guide
. The Fitou, Minervois, Saint-Chinian, Faugères, and Cabardès appellations, as well as all the Quatorze, La Clape, Picpoul de Pinet, Cabrières, Saturnin, Montpeyroux, Saint-Drézéry, Saint-Georges-d’Orques, and Pic-Saint-Loup estates had already been completed, but they still had much to do.

New samples awaited them in the laboratory directed by Alexandrine de la Palussière on the Avenue Chapeau Rouge. Benjamin knew she was having an increasingly difficult time figuring out how to store, classify, and prepare the tasting sessions. The rooms were at capacity, and the incessant deliveries were filling every nook and cranny, often hindering personnel and slowing the analyses for Cooker & Co. clients. Such was the price of success, and Benjamin was aware that sooner or later he would have to enlarge the space to accommodate the numerous wineries that were clamoring for his services and advice.

They had to keep up a good pace to complete the tastings, especially the Corbières and clairettes of Languedoc and Bellegarde, not to mention the Méjanelle, Vérargues, Saint-Christol, and Malepère slopes. Faced with the magnitude of the task, Benjamin had decided to postpone some assessments of the naturally sweet wines, especially the Maury, Banyuls, Rivesaltes, and muscats of Lunel, Mireval, Frontignan, and Saint-Jean-de-Minervois.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to get it all done in two weeks,” Virgile said, blowing on his spoon before taking another sip of soup.

“It’s a matter of organization. We will work in segments. No more than thirty wines at a time, and I think we can reach our goal in three or four sessions per day.”

“You’re an optimist, sir. Personally, I am saturated after fifty.”

“That happens to me, too. That’s why I need your help. Besides, it’s one of the benefits of working as a team.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t look convinced. But you know very well that if the two of us work together, we can get ten times as much done.”

“You have a funny way of doing math, boss. I’d say we can do at least twice as much, which is pretty good.”

“No, I disagree, Virgile. I’ve often observed that we’ve increased production tenfold when we’ve worked as a team. It may not be logical, but the record speaks for itself.”

The telephone rang. Benjamin put aside his theories, his professorial air, and his bowl of soup and reached for the receiver with a scowl—another interruption that could keep them from getting their work done. As he put the receiver to his ear, he watched Virgile plunge his spoon back into the soup and fish out the last morsels of vegetables. He listened to the caller in utter disbelief, mumbled good-bye, and hung up.

“Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Virgile.

“Something god-awful. Something really sick and disgusting.”

Such trite words weren’t Benjamin’s usual vernacular. He was more likely to use a more formal phrase, perhaps “something horrendous,” or “quite despicable,” or “nauseating.” Benjamin could tell his assistant was alarmed. With good reason. He had just gotten some really god-awful news.

§ § §

On their way to the Place du Parlement, Benjamin told Virgile about the Jules-Ernest Grémillon murder, the carnage in the kitchen at the Rue Maucoudinat apartment, and the glass of Pétrus found in the middle of the mysterious and macabre display. Walking briskly, he shared every last detail with his assistant. Although winded, he was even able to keep a few steps ahead of the younger man.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Mr. Cooker?”

“Why should I worry you? Besides, you always accuse me of sticking my nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”

“But this is different. They came looking for you. And if that was Barbaroux who just called, I bet there must be more trouble.”

“Good guess, my boy.”

Benjamin, followed by Virgile, broke into a jog. The Rue du Chai des Farines, a long and narrow street flanked by the dark facades of tall buildings, most of them dating from the eighteenth century, was filled with police cars, their lights flashing. Once again, there was an ambulance, and crime-scene tape was stretched across the sidewalks to keep curious onlookers out. Benjamin had the feeling of déjà vu.

He recognized the police officer who had let him in that morning and gave him a nod to indicate he was not alone. Virgile flashed the officer one of his charming smiles, and Benjamin and he went through the barricade without needing to identify themselves. They passed under a carriage entrance and crossed the mossy cobblestones of an interior courtyard to the double entry doors, which stood open.

Inside, the forensics team had not finished taking fingerprints, and Inspector Barbaroux greeted them in a hushed voice. He asked them not to touch anything. An old man was lying in a pool of blood on an oriental rug. His cheek was crushed, and his bathrobe had been slashed open at the shoulders and abdomen. Swelling flesh and blood were oozing from the wounds and already congealing on the woolen fibers of the robe. The victim was barefoot, and his toenails were curled upward, like inverted talons of a bird of prey. His sheepskin slippers had ended up near the polished Henry II table, which gleamed under the yellowish light of a hanging porcelain lamp. Twelve wineglasses had been carefully arranged in a semicircle. Two of them, on the right side, were filled with what Benjamin supposed was red wine.

“We’ve already sent the samples to the lab, and they’re clean. I will ask you to repeat what you did this morning,” the inspector murmured.

“Who is it?” Benjamin asked.

“Émile Chaussagne, eighty-eight years old. That’s all I know.”

Benjamin and Virgile looked away while the morgue attendants picked up the corpse and slid it onto the gurney. A photographer took some final shots of the room. Inspector Barbaroux asked Benjamin to approach the table.

“You know what you need to do, don’t you?”

Benjamin was quick and tasted the two glasses without excessive ritual. He swirled the glasses three times each to gauge the body. He captured the aromas with his nose and took two small chewing sips with his eyes closed. He trusted his memory and remembered exactly all the nuances he had identified in his previous tasting.

“I covered the essentials this morning, and I don’t have much to add,” he said, turning to his assistant. “Virgile, would you like to give us your impressions?”

“No thanks, sir.”

“I thought you were more adventurous,” Benjamin said with a touch of sarcasm. “Does it have anything to do with the effect our lunch is having on your stomach?”

“You’ve got that right, boss.”

“You’re feeling the cabbage?”

“There’s a war going on in my belly. How about yours?”

Barbaroux cleared his throat. Benjamin guessed he wanted to cut the conversation short. The inspector seemed a bit nervous, too. The coins he was jingling in his trouser pockets were the giveaway.

“Is it Pétrus again?” he asked brusquely.

“I think so.”

“The same one as before?”

“I would guess it is. At any rate, it’s the same vintage.”

“What about the bottle?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this Pétrus from the same bottle?”

“It’s impossible to answer that question. I’m not a psychic.”

“With you, one never knows.”

“I know an African witch doctor in the Saint Michel neighborhood. You should try him!”

“Don’t mess with me, Mr. Cooker. This is serious, and for the moment we’re not leaving the Saint Pierre neighborhood.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we all pay him a visit. I just thought you might be interested. At any rate, if I’m not mistaken, you’re thinking that the choice of wine wasn’t coincidental.”

“Yes, there may be a link between where the murders occurred—the Saint Pierre neighborhood—and these glasses of wine—Saint Pétrus.”

“That may be. But it seems to be a very expensive calling card. There has to be more to this. Why announce each murder with wine and such an exceptional vintage at that?”

“That’s the real question,” Barbaroux conceded. “We also need to know why the murderer lined up his twelve glasses that way. I’d put money on the number being significant.”

“Surely the number twelve is important,” Benjamin agreed, scratching his head. “It is often said that this number symbolizes the cyclical nature of the universe, and you find it in many civilizations and rituals: the twelve apostles at the Last Supper, the twelve gates of Jerusalem, the twelve signs of the zodiac, the twelve lost tribes of Israel, the twelve fruits from the tree of life, and so on.”

“
The Magnificent Twelve
,” Virgile threw in.

“No, it’s
The Magnificent Seven
, my boy. Yul Brynner. It was based on
Seven Samurai
. A classic. Rent it sometime.”

“Oh yes, that’s right, I always confuse it with
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
.”

Benjamin sighed and raised his eyes to heaven. Sometimes it was impossible to follow Virgile’s thinking, and there were occasions when he didn’t even want to. He looked at the inspector. “We digress. I am convinced that the number is even more important because it indicates a sequence of events. I think the murderer intends to strike twelve times, since he fills a new glass with each murder.”

“I’m sure of it. He’s telling us that there will be ten more crimes, and all of them will be the same. There’s no doubt about it.”

“He won’t let up until all twelve glasses are full,” Benjamin agreed.

“He must have an impressive wine cellar if he intends to keep using Pétrus.”

“It’s not so much the market value of the bottles that intrigues me, but rather the vintage. This is definitely an old wine and therefore rare, even hard to find. And why this one in particular?”

“The number twelve, this particular wine, the setting: they appear to be symbolic and connected,” the inspector said as he started to leave.

“I’m thinking the same thing. Also, the victims are all more or less the same age. That’s certainly an element to consider in this investigation.”

“Let me do my job, Mr. Cooker. I know very well what I need to investigate and how to proceed.”

“Of course, Inspector. But be careful when you accuse me of meddling in your business. I didn’t just show up and volunteer. You dragged me into this.”

“I would be out of line to accuse you of volunteering for this assignment,” the inspector agreed. “Let’s try to work together as best we can—that is, if you’re intrigued by the case. I only ask that you keep me informed of anything you happen to find out.”