6

To celebrate Virgile’s arrival, Benjamin Cooker uncorked a bottle of Bonnezeaux from the Petits-Quarts estate, a 1997 Le Malabé. The honey-colored wine was just as sweet as it should be, full of fruit and flowers. It was the perfect accompaniment to convivial conversation. Virgile admitted that he knew nothing about this wine, which came from three small shale hills overlooking the village of Thouarcé.

Cooker just had to slip outside, his glass in hand, to admire his car. The convertible had not suffered during its absence. It was as shiny as it had been the day he bought it. There was just a little scratch on the right side.

“I had to show my credentials to get the keys, and I almost came back empty-handed,” Virgile recounted, clearly satisfied with having brought his boss’s wheels back.

“The Germans are a bit persnickety, to say the least,” Cooker said, still delighting in his car.

“Worse than that, I’d say, more like pains in the ass.”

“A true German can’t stand the French, but he gladly drinks their wines. I’m not the first person to say this. I’m quoting a German writer. Who do you think it is?”

“Um, I’d say Goethe,” the assistant guessed, looking a little embarrassed.

“Congratulations, Virgile. You always surprise me.”

“I don’t deserve any praise. He’s the only German writer I know. By the way, you have forty-eight hours to change the license plates, or else you’ll have more problems on your hands. There’s a special permit from the Leipzig police in the glove compartment.”

“It’ll be done tomorrow,” Cooker said.

“So we’re not hitting the road tonight?” Virgile asked.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, considering all the miles you’ve just driven.”

“I don’t feel tired at all.”

“But I do,” Cooker said firmly.

“You’re still recuperating, sir.”

“True, but that isn’t the only thing that’s been on my mind,” the winemaker said, knitting his bushy eyebrows. “Strange things have been happening here.”

“What kind of strange things?”

“Two crimes in under twenty-four hours.”

“And that’s all?” Virgile said, whistling. “Yes, strange things, as you say.”

“And I haven’t told you the half of it.”

“Well you have either told me too much or too little. Two crimes—that’s something.”

“I agree.”

The wrinkles on Cooker’s forehead deepened, making him look even more pensive, and then he added, “The Bonnezeaux awaits us. We don’t want it to get too warm.”

“In the meantime, you’re teasing me. What’s the weapon? Who are the victims? Is there a motive?”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“That doesn’t seem like you.”

“And yet that’s the way it is. But this is not a conversation to have without a drink. Quick, let’s go in.”

They stopped at the reception desk, and Cooker reserved a room for his assistant. Then they found a small lounge where they could discuss Oksana’s murder and Gaétan’s supposed suicide. Virgile listened attentively. He looked perplexed. Then he said, “I really like the aromas of ripe, almost candied fruit, the citrus and exotic fruit, along with a hint of toasted…”

Cooker was surprised. This was not what he expected to hear from Virgile. Then he thought better of it and followed his assistant’s lead. “I wonder if I don’t prefer the following year. It’s in the same range, with flattering aromas, concentrated flavor, and a fine finale. It is very representative of the appellation—both intense and light, refined and flowery, without being diluted. It is always refreshing but with a kind of warmth. Bonnezeaux is a sure bet, like the Coteaux du Layon, and they age well. One day, we will come back to explore the Anjou wines under circumstances that are, well, calmer. I am sure you’ll like it here.”

“You are in brilliant form, Mr. Cooker! I’m happy to see you like this, after what you have been through. But I still don’t know if you invited me to the Loire Valley to get your car back or to help you unravel this strange case of an Eastern European whore who was bumped off for who-knows-what reason.”

“You wouldn’t talk like that if you had met Oksana.”

“Which means?”

“The Virgile I know would have been all over her in a minute and not too long thereafter in her bed.”

“No, that is for other men. For an inexperienced concierge, perhaps, or a lonely hotel guest suffering from midlife lust. That’s not my style. You understand, don’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Cooker said, clearly goading Virgile.

“I never was very good at drawing pictures.”

“Then I’ll let you off the hook. But follow through on your thoughts. I’m interested.”

Cooker had picked up the bottle of wine and was preparing to fill Virgile’s glass. The young man stopped him.

“I’m no cop, but I’d bet a case of your Bonnezeaux that this has something to do with Morton, the Morgan Man.”

“What makes you so sure of yourself?”

Cooker was not ready to accept this suggestion. Robert Morton, the refined and cultivated dandy who had been his well-mannered compatriot for a day, had to be an honest man. He would bet on it. He was prepared to stand up for Morton’s integrity. Except that he knew absolutely nothing about this person, who said he worked in wines but had no business card to show for it.

“He said he had to leave right away for an important meeting in Bordeaux,” Cooker said without much conviction.

“In Bordeaux. Well, well.”

“There’s nothing unusual about that for an international wine broker.”

“If you say so,” Virgile said. “Then we just might run into him. You can’t cross the Aquitaine Bridge in a Morgan Plus 8 without being noticed. So, sir, tell me, do you know a lot of English brokers who drive across France in that kind of convertible, when vintage car collectors are hard pressed to take that kind of car out of the garage once a year?”

The winemaker did not like the young man’s tone, but he had to admit he had no arguments to counter Virgile’s line of reasoning. With his innocent air, Virgile had once again found faults in a pristine picture.

§ § §

For the first time since he had arrived in the Touraine region, Cooker had no trouble falling asleep. Calm had returned to La Tortinière. They departed at the first light of dawn. Cooker left a thank-you note at the reception desk while Virgile put their bags in the car. Then the winemaker slipped into the beige driver’s seat. He rubbed the leather-covered steering wheel and the walnut dashboard. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror. Finally, he turned the key and revved the engine. Virgile was already asleep by the time they got onto the A10 highway.

Cooker turned the radio down low, so as not to disturb his sleeping assistant, who had a smile on his lips. He appeared to be having a sweet dream.

Cooker was enjoying the pleasure of driving and the anticipation of seeing Elisabeth and returning to his offices. Yet as the day went on, his anxiety began to rise. His retreat in a setting as refined at La Tortinière was meant to provide him with needed rest, but he was not feeling rested at all. He thought he could heal himself, but had he chosen the right remedy? The time spent in pampered elegance had only put off the fear of once again being in crowds and dealing with the everyday realities of life. Quick, nervous questions shot through his mind. They were choppy, like the white lines on the highway.

Cooker grew tired of the radio commentator’s conventional analysis of the Israel-Palestine situation. He preferred listening to a CD of Marianne Faithfull that was in his glove compartment. The first track was his favorite. It was called “Sleep.”

Virgile had curled up on his seat. He grumbled, sounding just like Bacchus, and crossed his arms. Cooker turned up the heat. He, too, was getting cold. Marianne Faithfull’s throaty voice reassured him. It was warm and vibrant, melding smoothly into the orchestration.

Virgile mumbled, “Where are we?” He fell back asleep before Cooker had time to answer.

Large clouds rolled over the Charentes region, and a hard rain began to fall. The windshield wipers had trouble keeping up. A sign announced “Next Exit, Saint-Jean-d’Angély.” They would be back in Bordeaux in two hours.

When the Mercedes began to shake, Virgile rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch, and then glanced at his boss, who was clearly alarmed. The vibrating was becoming even more pronounced.

“Shit!” Cooker shouted. “What did those bastards do to my car? Was it shaking like this when you drove from Leipzig?”

“No, it was fine, boss,” Virgile responded. “Maybe we blew a tire. We should check.”

Cooker pulled the car to the side of the road and got out to inspect the tires. All four seemed to be okay.

“We’d better find a service station,” Virgile said.

Cooker glanced around and said, “Let’s get off at the Saint-Savinien exit. It shouldn’t be far now, and I’ve heard it’s got just about the only roadside restaurant worth consideration on this road to Bordeaux. At least we could make the best of a bad situation.”

The shaking didn’t let up, and the two men stayed alert while Marianne Faithfull kept vigil. To be safe, when they reached the exit, Cooker took the first road after the tollbooth.

They found a service station that no longer sold gas but did do repairs. A rusty sign read “Dollo et Fils.” A man in dirty overalls pulled himself out from under a rusty van. He was ageless, wore a felt beret too small for his head and had an engaging smile.

“What can I do for you?”

“Everything!” Cook said, sounding like he believed in miracles.

“What a week. All of Europe seems to be stopping by, and like they say on TV, most of it is breaking down. Yesterday, I saw an old Italian clunker from Fiat. Earlier an English car drove by, right before that a Porsche came in and now more German wheels.”

An apprentice with a shaved head was fixing a tire in the corner. There were huge holes in his gauged earlobes. Cooker had seen these outlandishly stretched piercings on other teenagers in Bordeaux. The boss probably didn’t like it, Cooker thought, but cheap labor was cheap labor. In this corner of Saintonge, they were not even making good cognac anymore, and customers had to be rare. The winemaker tried to explain the car’s symptoms, imitating the wobbling car.

“Is that so?” the mechanic said, brushing his beret to the back of his head. “I bet it’s the alignment. Hit a hole in the road maybe?”

Cooker looked accusingly at his assistant. “Did you run into any potholes on your way from Leipzig?”

Virgile shrugged. “I don’t think so, boss.”

“No worry,” the mechanic said. “It’s easy to fix. But you’re in no hurry, I hope. With a car like that, you must have all the time in the world.”

“That is not really the case,” Cooker retorted, looking at Virgile. The assistant stood by in silence as the winemaker undertook negotiations that required some diplomacy.

“I don’t mean to pry, but what exactly do you do?” the mechanic asked.

Cooker realized that things were turning sour, and he would not be seeing Bordeaux’s Tour Pey-Berland so soon.

“I’m a winemaker,” Cooker said.

“Are you making those garage wines everyone is talking about these days? You have to tell me how you do it. Maybe it’s the wave of the future for garagistes like me,” the mechanic said with a wink.

Mr. Dollo’s face was purple. He clearly liked the fruit of the vine.

“Come on, tell me how you do it, and maybe I’ll become a Saint-Émillionnaire and drive a Mercedes myself.”

Cooker and Virgile both laughed, and the winemaker saw an opportunity to advance his cause. If he wanted this bizarre individual to focus on his car, he would have to uncork one of the bottles of Vouvray he had picked up in the Loire Valley. The trunk was full of them, and the winemaker liked the idea of using it to grease the mechanic’s palm.

“But, sir, before I get to the Mercedes, I gotta finish off the Porsche. The guy’s in a hurry and was here before you. It shouldn’t take long. Just the belt and the hose. He gave me a nice tip to have it ready this afternoon at four. Know what I mean?” the mechanic said with another wink.

“I believe I do,” Cooker said, taking a Taille aux Loups 1993 Clos de Venise from his trunk.

The mechanic grinned and wiped his hands on his overalls.

“I won’t say no to that. You’re not the kind to run out of gas, that’s for sure.”