15

A stranger would have surmised that peace had been restored at Château de Tremblay. Farm workers paced the northward-running plots. In the distance, a tractor wobbled between rows of chenin vines. Above them, a buzzard circled lazily. The police were gone. By this time, most of the samples collected at the scene had been analyzed in a laboratory smelling of formaldehyde.

Benjamin entered the house without calling out. He didn’t encounter anyone and took the flight of steps leading to David Navarre’s private rooms. He knocked on the cherry-wood door and turned the knob.

“What the hell are you doing here? Did I invite you?”

The winemaker had expected this. “Hello, David. I came over to find out how Simone’s doing.”

“She’s the same—stable. Do you think you can barge into my home whenever you like?” “You know very well it’s not my habit, but you haven’t been answering my calls. I took the liberty to…”

“To come bother me! I don’t need anyone making things worse.”

“Listen, David. I can only imagine how angry that Voici! article must have made you.”

“That ass-wipe magazine already has my lawyers on their back! As for your assistant…”

“Let me tell you, my assistant is as furious as you. He’s in custody in Tours.”

“But just who is that little shit?”

“A very good young man in whom I have total confidence. You’ll see for yourself when he comes to help you revive your land and develop your vintage. I believe everything he’s told me. He did, indeed, dance with Simone, and they exchanged a few words, but it was nothing more than that.”

“The picture tells a different story. Don’t waste your breath, Benjamin.”

“I know Virgile, and I can assure you that he’s an honorable young man from Bergerac who has worked for me for years. Virgile would never drug a girl, and he did nothing untoward the night of your party. He danced with her, that’s it.”

“I don’t know your assistant from Adam, but I have no illusions about Simone’s fidelity. I’m familiar with all of her compulsions—more than she realizes.”

Benjamin decided to throw caution to the wind. He had to bring it up. “David, I must ask you,” he said, looking the actor in the eye. “Who, other than your personal assistant, can verify that you went to bed early that night and slept through everything?”

“What are you suggesting, Benjamin? That I would do that to Simone?” David’s face was flushed. “You’ve got to be kidding. But if you really want to verify—and what an insult that word is—you’ll have to ask my assistant if anyone else checked on me. I couldn’t tell you. I was out of it.”

“I’m sorry, David. I spoke with your assistant while we were waiting for the ambulance, and I have no reason to doubt her. I hope her word is good enough for the authorities.” Benjamin waited a moment. “As for Virgile, I vouch for him unconditionally. He’s a remarkable professional, and I’d trust him with the keys to my office, without question. In fact, I have. He’s incredibly honest and has values I find perfectly acceptable.”

Benjamin had said all this firmly, looking straight at David, whose blue eyes were tinged with fine red veins, signs of his pain and loneliness. The actor looked down and said nothing. Then, sighing, he got up and staggered over to a liquor cabinet on the other side of the room.

“What are you drinking, Benjamin?”

“I’m not drinking anything, thank you.”

David reached for a bottle of pure malt whiskey. He poured himself a full glass and gulped it down. “I’ve been getting hammered for more than forty-eight hours now,” he said, wiping his mouth. “That’s the only way I can cope.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this to yourself, David. You must keep it together. Simone will need you when she comes out of her coma. And you’re not alone. You know you can count on my support.”

“When she comes out of her coma? Who knows when that will be? That’s if she survives.” The actor was about to pour another drink when someone knocked on the door.

“That must be Gayraud. An hour late, as usual.”

The producer came in, wearing an unctuous smile. He threw his raincoat over a chair and gave the winemaker a weak handshake. “What a surprise to see you here, Benjamin.”

“You’re late!” David bellowed before Benjamin could answer. He downed his whiskey.

“Forgive me. I had a meeting with Max Armond and my investors, and I couldn’t break free. Then there was heavy traffic on the highway.”

“Problems with your fellow schemers and connivers?”

Gayraud ignored the swipe. “They don’t want to move ahead until they know what’s going on with Simone. As a matter of fact, they’re talking about replacing her.”

“You’re kidding, I hope.”

“I managed to pacify them, but we might have to acquiesce. I’ve got a binder with the photos and bios of possible replacements in case Simone can’t finish the job.”

“Nobody gives a damn about anyone in this business. I don’t care how big you are or how much money you make for them at the box office.”

“Listen, it seems wise not to argue. I agree with you: Simone’s ideal for the part, and if all goes well, she’ll get through this and finish the film. But we must cover our asses and have a replacement lined up. Here’s the binder. If you could give me your opinion right away, I’d be appreciative.”

Jean-Paul Gayraud placed the large black binder on the coffee table and opened it.

“I’d like your opinion, Benjamin,” David said as the producer began flipping through the pages.

“Oh, you’re taking your chances with me,” the winemaker responded. “I’m very particular.”

“How do you like your women?” Gayraud asked.

Benjamin ignored the misogynistic tone. “I like a hint of mystery.”

“Well then, you’re in luck,” said David. “None of these skirts are what they seem. You can count on that. Look at these glamor shots, taken at the best angles and touched up—all of them. And just when you think you’ve found one who isn’t fake, she shows up at the audition and can’t act.”

They went through the binder methodically, quickly eliminating the actresses who didn’t fit the bill. From time to time Benjamin gave his terse opinion. Having known David and a few others in the business, he sensed what they were looking for.

True to form, David didn’t beat around the bush. “Too slutty,” he’d say, turning the page, or “this one doesn’t seem too bright.” The next one was awkward-looking, and the one after that had “too much boob.” Then there were the actresses who looked anorexic and the ones with bad teeth.

They culled the prospects to five possible replacements with sufficient theatre experience and successful supporting roles in the previous two years.

“What about this one?” Gayraud said, pointing to a blonde in a tight off-the-shoulder sweater. “Her features are similar to Simone’s, although she has a mole near her lip.”

“Yes, I see the resemblance,” Benjamin said. “Still, she’s unique. There’s something about her. She has class and an honest face. And yet she looks very… How can I say it?”

“Mysterious?” Gayraud asked.

“Yes, that’s the word. If it were up to me, I’d go with this one.”

“I agree,” David said. “This girl’s alluring. And the mole’s cute. It sets her apart from the rest.”

“I had a hunch you’d pick her,” Gayraud said, closing the binder. And I confess, she’s my choice, as well. So we’ll need to go to Paris. You should watch her audition in person. My fellow connivers, as you call them, want your approval because you’ll be working with her closely.”

“No can do. I have too much going on here. Besides, Simone’s still with us. I refuse to leave as long as she’s fighting for her life. Let’s wait and see. There’s no rush.”

“We shouldn’t wait too long,” Gayraud said.

“Gayraud, you don’t seem to remember that I’ve got the skeleton on my hands too. The cops don’t want me taking off.” David looked at Benjamin. “And while I’m thinking about it, are you on board with investigating that little matter? A few minutes ago you said I could count on you.”

“You got me, David,” Benjamin said, shaking his head. “I did say that, didn’t I. So, yes, I’ll dig up what I can.”

“Terrible word play, Benjamin, but thanks.”

“Have the police given you any more information I can use to get started?”

“Just this: they said the name Octave was engraved on the back of the medal.” David turned to Gayraud. “Once we get to the bottom of the skeleton affair, you should pitch it to our pal Lee Friedman. It would make a great plot for a TV show.”

The producer smiled sheepishly.

David looked at Gayraud with incredulity. “You haven’t locked up that movie deal yet? You scoundrel! You’re going to sign that damned contract and see that he gets paid for his screenplay! Do you want me to buy you the pen?”

“Now just a minute!” the producer shot back. “The financial arrangements are complicated. Very complicated.”

David sneered at Gayraud. “You can’t let go of a ten-cent coin, can you? You’re really a bastard. And what would you do without your whores? The authors, the actors, the technicians? They all hustle while you sit around counting your euros. On top of that, you treat them like shit.”

“Give it a rest, David,” Gayraud said. “Stop with the melodrama.”

For the second time that day, Benjamin had had enough. “Gentlemen, I must leave you now,” he said, getting up.

As he walked back to his old Mercedes 280 SL parked across the field, the winemaker perceived an indistinct movement in the thick hedge to his right. He heard two clicks, like sounds from an empty shotgun. Probably a small animal snapping twigs in the woods, he thought. He stopped and stared at the hedge. It rustled.