17

At Château de Pray, the winemaker watched his assistant wolf down a Rabelaisian breakfast. Then he sat in the garden, making notes while Virgile took a hot shower and shaved.

Virgile joined the winemaker thirty minutes later, wearing a plum-colored sweater with cropped trousers and black tassel loafers.

“We simply can’t leave Touraine without visiting Domaine Huet,” Benjamin said, tucking his notebook into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. “I’d planned to do that today, but something’s come up. David’s insistent that I investigate the skeleton matter, and I can’t let him down. He’s in a bad way.”

“Doesn’t Liza have plans for us?”

“I’ll call and tell her we’re tied up. She’ll have to find something else to do.”

“Okay, boss. So where do we start?” Benjamin rose to his feet. “With the medal. David said it’s engraved with the name Octave. Let’s check the birth and death registries in Vouvray and Montlouis.”

“Why Montlouis?”

“David told me his estate belonged to a family that owned properties in both communes at the beginning of the twentieth century, when the Vouvray and Montlouis agricultural zones were still unified.”

“Checking the records in both places could take a lot of time, boss. How much do we have?”

“I don’t know how much we’ll need, but I’m hoping the records are computerized. And there are two of us, so with any luck, it might go more quickly than we think.”

They decided to go to Vouvray’s town hall first. Once there, Virgile flirted with the clerk, a twentyish woman named Yvette with curly strawberry-blond hair, and she agreed to help. Two hours later, they had come up with scores of deceased Octaves, but each had a grave.

Virgile thanked Yvette and gave her a wink before leaving.

“I see you’re still charming the girls, Virgile.”

“No, boss. I was just being friendly. And weren’t you happy to have her help?”

Although Benjamin didn’t approve of the tactics, he was, in fact, grateful. But he didn’t comment, and the two men were quiet during the ten-minute drive to Montlouis.

They weren’t as lucky there. A retirement-age clerk greeted them. He showed them to the records and walked away. Alone this time, Benjamin and Virgile waded through the birth and death documents. Again, they found many Octaves.

“Bingo!”

Benjamin looked up.

Virgile was nearly jumping out of his chair. “An Octave with no grave, boss!”

The winemaker got up and hurried over to his assistant.

“His name is Octave Pastier. What now?”

“Let’s find the town newspaper,” Benjamin said, already heading toward the exit. They might have something in their morgue.”

As soon as Benjamin gave his name to the newspaper’s receptionist, the editor was downstairs, shaking the winemaker’s hand. “What a surprise! Benjamin Cooker of the Cooker Guide! What brings you here?”

“We’re doing a little research, and we have a favor to ask,” Benjamin said. “We’d like to use your morgue.”

The editor grinned. “We call it the library these days. And certainly you may use it. But may I request a favor in return? Would you agree to a short interview with our food and wine writer before you leave?”

“Fair exchange,” Benjamin said. The winemaker and his assistant followed the editor to the library, where they were introduced to the woman in charge.

“This is Alice” the editor said. “She’ll help you with whatever you need.”

Benjamin thanked him, and Alice showed them how to access the archives.

After an hour of searching, Benjamin found an article from July 1937, which reported the disappearance of Octave Pastier, who had gone fishing near Rochecorbon, at the foot of La-Ville-aux-Dames. Five days later, there was an obituary: six lines on page four.

“Octave Pastier was front-page news on Monday and just six lines on an inside page by Wednesday—a poor slob swimming with the fish,” Virgile said.

“Not quite,” Benjamin said. “His body wasn’t found in the river. It wasn’t found anywhere. But they still declared him dead. Why they did that is yet another mystery. So, according to the first article, he was an old guy, a loner who was in the habit of fishing on the right bank, at the bend of the river before it reaches Saint-Pierre-des-Corps. You can’t really see the spot from the highway.”

“Think we should go find it for ourselves?”

“Yes, I do, son. But first I have to do that interview.”

Thirty minutes later, Benjamin and Virgile were in the Mercedes again, driving to the fishing spot where Octave Pastier had disappeared. It was secluded and overgrown, much the way it was in the nineteen thirties, Benjamin surmised. They lingered there, envisioning the old man inspecting his line, baiting his hook, and looking for fish.

“I can see him now, boss. A hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips. Wearing an old pair of trousers, flannel shirt, and suspenders, his face bruised and battered with age, a snack in his bag.”

Benjamin nodded as he looked down the river, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “Let’s go back to Montlouis and find someone who can tell us about our Octave.”

He had jotted down the names of the residents interviewed in the original article and hoped to locate a few of their relatives. Octave’s housekeeper was one of the interviewees. She had lived in his rather large home, which was perched on a hill above town. They decided to make the former residence their first stop.

Arriving, they discovered that the place had been totally renovated and was now gated. Benjamin parked by the side of the road and got out. A white-haired man in a suit had emerged from the house and was heading toward a Citroën C4 Picasso in the driveway. Seeing Benjamin at the gate, he waved and walked over.

“Yes? Can I help you?” he asked.

“Please pardon the intrusion,” Benjamin said. “I’m looking for relatives of Octave Pastier, who used to own this place, or his housekeeper. I’m wondering if you might be able to help.”

The man scratched his head. “Pastier lived here a long time ago, and he was a bachelor. He didn’t have any survivors to speak of, although I did hear that he had a relative in Vouvray. As for the housekeeper, she also died a long time ago. But I can put you in touch with her granddaughter. She’s my contact at the catering company my architecture firm uses.” He pulled out his phone and looked up her number, which he then gave to Benjamin.

“Thank you,” Benjamin said. “You’ve been a great help.” He walked back to the Mercedes and called the housekeeper’s granddaughter, Denise Tolbert. They arranged to meet at a café.

The meeting with Denise Tolbert lasted well over an hour. It seemed that Octave’s disappearance coincided with a dispute he was having with the relative in Vouvray—a cousin who owned a substantial estate.

“If I’m not mistaken, that estate’s where the actor David Navarre lives now—the Tremblay place,” Denise said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

Benjamin and Virgile looked at each other.

“You know him—the actor?” Denise asked.

“We’re acquainted with him,” Virgile answered. “So, can you tell us more about what happened to Octave?”

“One night he didn’t return from fishing,” Denise said. “No one was especially worried, as he sometimes stopped for a few drinks before going home. It was my grandmother who sounded the alarm. Actually, they were a little more than employer and employee, if you know what I mean.”

Benjamin nodded. “Go on.”

“You can imagine the uproar when everyone realized he’d disappeared. The locals organized a search for Octave, and his cousin was at the head of the pack. They went up the river in a boat, combed the smallest islets, and scoured the banks to the foot of the cliffs. Finally, they gave up and faced facts: Octave was gone. Either he lay at the bottom of the Loire, or the current had carried him much farther downstream. They decided he was dead.”

Denise sipped her coffee. “I’ve told you quite a bit about Octave and my grandmother,” she said, putting her cup down. “Now, can you tell me why you’re so interested in them?”

“You deserve as much,” Benjamin answered, motioning to the server for more tea. “David Navarre has asked us to investigate a discovery at his estate. A skeleton was found behind a wall in his wine cellar, and we believe it was Octave.”

“No kidding,” Denise said. “After all these years? How would it have gotten there?”

Benjamin stared at the steam rising from his tea, which had just arrived. “After taking in all this information, I may have a theory.”

Virgile leaned in. “And it’s…”

“It’s a matter of time and place. First: Vouvray and Montlouis are separated by the Loire. But in the nineteen thirties, something else came between them. Vouvray and Montlouis were divided into two distinct wine-growing areas. Remember when I told you they were in the same district once? Vouvray became the first appellation of controlled origin in the Loire Valley, while Montlouis was considered something of a poor relative. That’s not the case today, mind you. Montlouis is well respected for its wine. But being split up more than eighty years ago fueled a rivalry. According to some people, they keep a close eye on each other even now.”

“And what does that have to do with Octave?” Virgile asked.

“It’s possible that Octave’s cousin, the estate owner in Vouvray and the old bachelor’s sole heir, murdered Octave to get his hands on both the land in Montlouis and the hectares Octave owned in Vouvray, which, coincidentally, adjoined the Tremblay estate. Why hide the body in the cellar, you ask? In my opinion, he wanted to put him in a place where no one would go searching. Or rather, where no one would dare to, because the cellars around here are virtual sanctuaries. You don’t go poking around in them.”

“And the cousin was probably trying to avoid suspicion by heading the search party and pretending to be worried,” Virgile said.

Benjamin looked at Denise. “Would you happen to know the exact location of the land in Vouvray?”

Denise shook her head. “That I can’t tell you, but it would be easy enough to find the answer.”

Benjamin finished his tea. “You’ve been quite helpful,” he said. “And the next time you’re in Bordeaux, please give us a call. Since you’re in the catering business, you might be interested in seeing what we do,”

“That’s most kind of you, Mr. Cooker.”

Benjamin picked up the check, ready to leave.

“It’s too bad, though, what happened to the cousin.”

Startled, Benjamin turned his attention from the check back to Denise. “Oh? What happened?”

“According to my grandmother, dead-arm disease hit the vines shortly after he inherited the land in Vouvray. None of the neighboring vineyards were affected. The vines died. Then he came down with a dental infection that spread to his brain. He lingered in acute pain for some time before passing away.”

Benjamin tried to keep his jaw from dropping. “Thank you for that piece of information.” He said a hurried good-bye and headed toward the café door, with Virgile close behind.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, boss. Where are we going now?”

“Back to the town hall in Vouvray.”

Once there, they found the same clerk, Yvette.

“I’d like to see the property records for the Tremblay estate and the parcels adjoining it,” Benjamin said. The winemaker combed through all of them until he found what he was looking for. “Just what I thought, Virgile.”

Virgile leaned over his shoulder. “It’s the same parcel that David wants us to revive.” He pulled over a chair and sat down beside the winemaker. “Do you believe in jinxes, boss?”