18

Benjamin called David Navarre. He planned to share his news about Octave Pastier and his cousin, but not all of it right away. Two other matters had precedence. He needed to restore Virgile’s reputation in David’s eyes, and he intended to get the actor out of his château. David had been holed up there, knocking back tumblers of whiskey far too long. It was late in the afternoon, but they still had time to squeeze in a visit to Domaine Huet. Benjamin asked David to join them. He initially refused, offering a feeble excuse, but he finally relented.

Sitting on the hood of the convertible, Benjamin and Virgile waited for the actor. Less than a quarter of an hour later, David arrived on his motorcycle, sans helmet, jacket, and boots. Freshly shaved and in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked younger than his age. Benjamin had to hand it to him. The man was still able to muster up the sense of ease and a way of winking at life that had made him so magnetic on screen. True, he had put on a few pounds, and his features had thickened, but there remained something intact in him: a permanent state of grace that allowed him to hold on and bounce back. It almost seemed that he could rise from the ashes.

“So, what’s this news you have for me?” he asked, getting off his motorcycle.

“I think we may have solved your skeleton mystery,” Benjamin said. “We have reason to believe it’s the remains of the cousin of a former owner of your estate.”

“Really?” David said. “Tell me more.”

“You deserve the whole story, David, and we will share it with you, along with the police. The story also involves that parcel you want to revive.”

“Now you’ll have me stewing, Benjamin. Must I wait?”

“Not to worry, David. We’ll sort through everything. But I also asked you here to give my assistant a chance to talk with you himself.”

Benjamin turned to Virgile, who cleared his throat.

“Mr. Navarre, I’m so sorry about what happened. I never could have guessed that a simple dance would have such repercussions.”

Virgile’s apprehension was written all over his face. That David did his own fight scenes was well known. And despite his hallmark charm, he could nurse a grudge. Benjamin braced himself to intervene. But instead of turning red-faced and balling up his fists, the actor grinned.

“Okay, don’t worry, kid. I got it. I’m sorry the cops screwed you like a rookie. I hope you do better in the wine cellars. From what your boss tells me, you’re the man.”

“That’s where I’m on safe ground, although you could say there’s always a tremor or two in the wine industry.”

“Virgile and I work as a team,” Benjamin said. “When you hire Cooker & Co., you hire both of us.”

“Understood,” David said, shaking Virgile’s hand.

Benjamin smiled, relieved that relations were finally restored. As the three men walked toward the office, a man in a zip-up cardigan, plaid shirt, and jeans came out to greet them.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Domaine Huet. I’m Pierre. Jean-Bernard Berthome, our cellar master, extends his apologies. He was called away.”

“It’s we who should apologize for giving you such short notice,” Benjamin said. “My assistant, Virgile, and I are in the area to film a documentary, and I just couldn’t leave without squeezing in a visit. This is Virgile’s first time. And we asked Mr. Navarre to join us.”

“Good to see you again,” David said, shaking Pierre’s hand. “Benjamin, I’ve been here many times. You could call us neighbors.”

“Yes, we’ve been following Mr. Navarre’s work at his estate with great interest,” Pierre said. He looked over Benjamin’s shoulder. “But you mentioned a documentary? I don’t see anyone with cameras or microphones.”

“We’ve just stopped by to say a friendly hello,” Benjamin said. “I have no intention of taking out my notebook or evaluating your latest vintages. We’ve come to bother you as simple tourists.”

“I’m sure Mr. Berthome will appreciate that.” This was said tongue-in-cheek. Domaine Huet had never complained about its ratings in the Cooker Guide.

The thirty-five-hectare Huet estate, established in 1928 by Victor Huet, comprised three properties: La Haut-Lieu, Le Mont, and Le Clos du Bourg. In 1971, Noel Pinguet, the son-in-law of second-generation owner Gaston Huet, joined the estate. Together, Gaston and Noel crafted legendary wines for more than three decades.

When Gaston fell ill in 2002, a search for a business partner who could ensure the estate’s legacy was launched, and New York financier Anthony Hwang was brought in. After Gaston’s death that year, daily operations were handed over to Pinguet.

Pinguet, the mathematician son of a butcher, became the face of the domain. He was called meticulous—even maniacal—insisting on farming without chemicals and following the phases of the moon.

Pinguet and Hwang worked together for ten years, until Pinguet’s 2012 retirement three years earlier than planned. Members of the Hwang family were reportedly pressuring Pinguet to produce more dry wines than he wanted, a claim the Hwang family denied.

After Pinguet’s departure, the winemaking and vineyard duties were transferred to Berthome, who had worked at the estate, focusing mainly on the vineyards, for more than thirty years. His vintages were known for their purity and consistency, and Benjamin considered himself a great admirer.

Pierre nodded toward the cellar. “Follow me,” he said. “We’ll go treasure hunting.”

Pierre proceeded to guide them through an impressive rock labyrinth, kilometers of tunnels carved under the vines. They came upon long corridors bathed in soft light, crypts with high ceilings, narrow passageways, caves holding old bottles, steep staircases difficult to descend, other precipitous staircases even more challenging to climb, and many wide, damp corridors where a person could get lost, even disappear. Thousands of bottles, all carefully stored, were waiting to be exhumed and brought to the light of day.

Both Pierre and David provided a narrative as they moved along, with Pierre stopping occasionally to examine a bottle or recall a harvest memory.

“They’ve upheld the tradition of biodynamic farming—a return to the understanding of nature that farmers had before technology came along,” David said.

Pierre continued. “By attempting to modify everything, we often sever our connection to the earth. Here, we apply copper and sulfate in homeopathic doses and only when necessary. We have the hindsight to know that with biodynamic farming, the risk of vine disease is minimal.”

They reached a vaulted room with columns where the wine presses were once housed. Only the hollowed-out rock with angular friezes remained. Benjamin had the feeling he was visiting an Etruscan tomb.

“I guess we could call it ‘archoenology,’” Virgile joked.

Pierre looked over at David. “Perhaps if we did some digging, we’d find a skeleton here, as well.”

David grunted. “I wouldn’t wish that on you, my friend.”

The group emerged from the cellar and headed for the owner’s house, perched on a plateau at the end of a long dirt road. From the terrace, the panoramic view of the Loire Valley was magnificent. The men collapsed on teak garden chairs.

Just as Pierre was opening a bottle of Cuvée Constance Moelleux, 2005, David’s cell phone rang.

“It’s Molinier,” he said, looking at the screen. “I have to take this.”

David walked away, and Benjamin, Virgile, and Pierre waited. A few minutes later, he returned, smiling. “Good news, gentlemen. Simone is stirring.”

“That’s wonderful,” Benjamin said. “Does it mean she’s coming out of her coma?”

“Too soon to tell, but she could be.”

“I’m truly happy for you, Mr. Navarre,” Virgile said.

“Molinier warned that we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. Even if she emerges completely from her coma, she’ll have a long row to hoe.”

“I propose that we drink to Simone’s improved condition,” Benjamin said. “And there’s no better wine for that than the one we have here.”

Pierre poured the Cuvée Constance Moelleux.

Benjamin turned to Virgile. “What you’re looking at, son, is the crown jewel of this estate’s production. It’s named after Gaston Huet’s mother, Constance. It’s intense and pure. Some even call it ethereal. The grapes are painstakingly selected, one by one, in the perfect state of noble rot.”

Virgile held the transparent sweet wine up to his eyes before plunging his nose into the glass and sniffing. Finally, he tasted it.

Benjamin waited.

“Quince jelly, lemon candy, marzipan, heliotrope, grapefruit, and honey,” Virgile said, looking up. “It’s incredibly light, despite the richness of the honey.”

“I’m astounded you found all those words, Virgile. This wine leaves some people speechless.”

Pierre set a mahogany cigar box down on the table, and Benjamin chose a Punch Royal Selection. Lighting up, he savored the earthy blend of black cherry and chocolate. “You should never resist the instinctive search for contentment,” he murmured. “I don’t remember who said, ‘The best cigar in the world is the one you prefer to smoke on special occasions, enabling you to relax and enjoy that which gives you maximum pleasure.’’’

“You’re sure you don’t know who said that, boss?”

Benjamin glanced at his assistant, catching his drift. “I think it was Zino Davidoff.”

“You think, or you’re sure?”

“Go check for yourself, son.”