12

Virgile had no interest in waiting while Benjamin had his X-rays done. The bench in the waiting area was hard. The fluorescent lights were harsh, and he had better things to do. With Benjamin’s blessings, he decided to pay Inspector Fauchié a visit.

The police station on the Rue du Chasseur was relatively calm. Nobody was waiting around in handcuffs. The green plants in the corridor were perfectly watered, and the female officer behind the reception desk was bent over the horoscopes in the Dernières Nouvelles d’Alsace. When Virgile’s arrival was announced, the inspector emerged from his office right away. In a gesture of friendship and perhaps affection, Fauchié even put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“How have you been since yesterday morning, Virgile? And how is Mr. Cooker?”

Fauchié motioned Virgile into his office. Virgile sat down and gave the inspector a brief but comprehensive summary of the previous forty-eight hours. He didn’t omit a single detail: the trip to Thierenbach, the winemaker’s unfortunate fall, the consultation with Dr. Cayla, the information regarding repetitive-motion injuries, Véronique Deutzler’s wrist problems, the scene with the Mercedes convertible, and André’s suspicious behavior, including his escape like a bat out of hell on a Yamaha 350, with his sister-in-law clinging to his back.

“A motorcycle, you say?”

“Yes, orange. An old model. Not very classy, but it really hauls ass!”

“I see,” Fauchié said, playing with a paperclip.

Virgile was fully enjoying the moment. He had delivered the solution to the mystery on a silver platter. All that was left to do now was trail and then snatch the couple like ripe grapes. Catching them in the act was Roch’s job. He alone, along with the public prosecutor, of course, could deal the final blow.

“Unless,” suggested the inspector, his gaze lost in the black-and-white photo where he stood beaming with his wife and the young Damien.

“Unless?” Virgile asked.

Watching the way Fauchié was playing with the paperclip, undoing every bend and working out each kink, Virgile could only imagine the strategy the police inspector was silently formulating. The law-enforcement machine was far too complex for Virgile. He didn’t even want to think about it.

Hailstones began hitting the windows of the inspector’s office. A storm had been threatening for an hour, and the city had been blanketed in a thick veil of dark crepe. Now it had started.

Having been manipulated too much, Fauchié’s paperclip finally broke. Fauchié leaned his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled. Virgile thought he saw a trace of mischief—even cunning—on Fauchié’s face when he opened his eyes again.

“Virgile, it’s my turn to give you some first-hand information, which should please you.”

“I’m eager to hear it.”

“I’ve been forcing myself to drink two glasses of Bordeaux at each meal, and I have to admit I derive a certain pleasure from it.”

“It’s about time,” replied Benjamin. Virgile turned around and saw the winemaker standing in the doorway, the blue envelope containing his X-rays peeking out from under his drenched Loden.

Dr. Cayla had been entirely correct. The X-rays confirmed a mild sprain, which would heal nicely as long as Benjamin used a crutch, iced his ankle as often as possible, and put his foot up whenever he could. He had promised the blond technician that he would do just that before taking the large blue envelope and saying good-bye.

“Delighted to see you again, Mr. Cooker,” Fauchié said, inviting Benjamin into his office. “Please take a seat. Virgile told me all about your problems. There’s no fracture, I hope.”

“Just a sprain,” the winemaker answered, leaning his crutch against a side table.

“Your timing couldn’t be better, in light of the information your assistant has just relayed. It’s invaluable. To reach our goal, however, I need what you might call…”

“A bending of official procedure?” Benjamin could read the inspector’s mind.

“A bending of procedure?” Virgile said. “I’m not following.”

“We’re not talking about a bending per se, son,” the winemaker said. “It’s more of a dislocation involving the two arms of law enforcement. I believe Dr. Cayla would describe a dislocation as the displacement of two articular surfaces that have lost their natural connection. In this case, we’re talking about the gendarmerie and the police. They work together most of the time, but their connection isn’t compulsory.”

“My friend, I see that you understand me completely,” said Fauchié.

“To put it plainly, Virgile, the police inspector does not intend to give any new ammunition to Roch. Especially since the little twerp… Pardon me, Inspector Fauchié. I hope you’ll excuse the term.”

Fauchié chuckled and picked up another paperclip.

“Especially since Roch is already passing himself off to the prefect as the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker,” Benjamin said.

Virgile got up from his chair and began pacing around Fauchié’s desk. The inspector made no objection. He then picked up Benjamin’s crutch and pointed it at a large wall map of Alsace, stretching from Strasbourg to Colmar.

Like a general brandishing his baton at the mock-up of a battlefield, Virgile aimed the crutch at Ingersheim, a winemaking village on the edge of Colmar.

Benjamin and the inspector looked at each other, speechless.

“Could you be more explicit, Virgile?” Benjamin asked.

The stormy weather had dissipated, leaving an ashen sky and a barometer pointing to dry cold. Snow had even made an appearance in the Vosges Mountains and would reach the plains and valleys in a matter of hours. The old winemakers watched the winter weather arrive as they checked their vines and prayed that the maniac with the power tool would spare them.

Benjamin remained cloistered in his room the entire day, putting his tasting notes in order, reflecting on his evaluations of some rather unpromising samples of sparkling wines, and keeping his leg up. He had called Elisabeth to tell her about his accident, and she had made him promise to take care of his ankle.

“Promise or I’ll call Virgile,” she threatened. “You know what a nag he can be.”

“I promise, dear. I’ll be almost as good as new by the time I get home. I can’t wait to see you.”

When the church bells rang, Benjamin had a compassionate thought for Séverin Gaesler, who was being buried in a cemetery plot without many flowers or wreaths. Perhaps there might be some yarrow pulled from the hills near the Koenigsbourg castle. Benjamin also thought of Jeanne and pledged to say a prayer for both her and Vincent Deutzler near the Pillar of Angels before leaving Alsace. He didn’t think he had the courage to look at the Grim Reaper in the clock. He’d make it a point not to be there on the hour, when the Reaper banged the bronze bell. He was sure Virgile wouldn’t join him. His assistant had already seen the clock, and he’d be more interested in the holiday market stalls on the square.

All day long, Benjamin Cooker was feeling a nostalgia that bordered on depression. He’d put his pen down and look out the window. Then he’d pick it up again and look blankly at his notes. His ankle was hurting, even though he was keeping it up and icing it. “I should have gone back to see Dr. Cayla,” Benjamin muttered. “And here I thought I was a hale and hearty English-gent-turned-Frenchman. What a joke that was.”

Benjamin realized he had to face facts. Yes, he had many good years ahead of him, but he was getting on and had to pay more attention to his health. And the three deaths he had encountered during his stay in Alsace had certainly delivered the message that he was mortal. He thought about Jean de la Bruyère, who wrote: “Death happens but once, yet we feel it every moment of our lives; it is worse to dread it than to suffer it.”

The motorcycle was racing toward them, along the secondary road connecting Colmar’s industrial zone and the town of Ingersheim. Wearing bulletproof vests and fluorescent armbands, Inspector Fauchié’s men had placed a spike strip across the road. All of the officers were armed with submachine guns. A few yards uphill, a camera mounted on an unmarked car had been activated fifteen seconds earlier.

Coming upon the roadblock, the motorcyclist braked hard and started losing control. He tried to make a U-turn, but two officers on motorcycles and three in a cruiser quickly overtook him. The motorcyclist’s last attempt to escape failed. The machine skidded on the asphalt, sending out a shower of sparks before hitting a tree.

When the groggy motorcyclist tried to rise to his feet, two officers pounced on him and cuffed his hands behind his back. As they started to hoist him up, one of the officers shouted to his superior.

“All right, boss, we’ve got him!”

Inspector Fauchié walked over to the motorcyclist, whose helmet had probably saved him from a fatal head injury. Checking for weapons, he patted the boy’s torso and quickly detected something metal. Fauchié ran his hands down the boy’s back and around his middle. That was when he found the battery charger, attached to a power pruner by a wire sewn into the liner of his leather jacket.

When Fauchié finally removed the helmet concealing the identity of the vandal who had sown terror across Alsace, the man spit in his face. The inspector responded with an uppercut that transformed André Deutzler’s mouth into a mass of Burgundy-colored pulp.

With some parting advice, Dr. Cayla put Benjamin Cooker on the path to recovery. Benjamin didn’t mind that he’d still have to use the crutch. He knew he’d be feeling better soon, and the follow-up visit with the doctor was already improving his spirits. It gave him the opportunity to discuss Alsace wines and perhaps catch up on some gossip.

“So tell me, Dr. Cayla, have you heard how Véronique Deutzler’s doing?” Benjamin asked.

“Since her father-in-law died, I understand she’s gotten a part-time secretarial job at the wine cooperative in Ribeauvillé. She doesn’t have to do any more pruning, and she’s been able to get out from under her husband’s thumb. He’s never been the easiest person to live with.”

As Benjamin left the doctor’s office, he tried to pay the man his well-earned fee. The doctor wouldn’t hear of it, so Benjamin promised him some bottles of wine he had just had the pleasure of helping to produce in Germany, along with a bottle of Saint Émilion grand cru classé. Benjamin had recently learned that the property was in the process of changing hands.

Saying a warm good-bye to his new Alsatian friend, the winemaker added, “Don’t drink to my health, or else we might never see each other again.”

Benjamin sniffed the crisp air and sensed that snow was on its way. He had intentionally parked his convertible on a dead-end street across from the Rue des Tonneliers. From the Café des Sports, he watched the comings and goings of Dr. Cayla’s office. He saw Véronique Deutzler go in, her arm still in a sling. When she came out, the winemaker improvised a chance encounter. The young woman backed away and tried to cut short any small talk.

“I need to talk to you, Mrs. Deutzler.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Maybe not to me. But you do owe the police an explanation.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Benjamin simply looked at the wrist in a sling.

“It’s cold out here. Let’s go have a cup of coffee. What do you say?”

Véronique looked down and didn’t say anything. Finally, she nodded and let Benjamin lead her to the café. They seated themselves at the back, on garnet-colored benches, facing each other across a table. All around, posters advertised various brews: Lutèce, Abbaye de Leffe, Affligem, and Amstel.

“How is André doing?” Benjamin asked.

“I don’t know. None of us have been approved for visitation yet. His lawyer says we have to be patient.”

“Has he finally confessed?” asked Benjamin.

“Yes,” the young woman answered. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

“Has he told them everything?”

“I don’t know…”

“He’s protecting you, isn’t he?”

Benjamin looked closely now at the woman who was finally, awkwardly, bringing the cold cup of coffee to her lips. Her hands were shaking, and there was something otherworldly in her gaze.

“I have nothing to do with this business…”

“No, you’re not responsible for your brother-in-law’s mental illness—a brother-in-law who, I believe, is also your lover. On the other hand, you became an accomplice to the acts for which he is in jail today. And it would be useless to deny it.”

The young woman, whose back was to the rest of the room, burst into tears.

“You helped him when there were two attacks several miles apart. You even ended up hurting yourself. He never showed you how to use those power shears, did he? And you already had carpal tunnel syndrome.”

Véronique Deutzler, her eyes still teary, stared at one of the posters on the wall.

“It wasn’t my idea. It was André’s. He became completely absorbed in what he was doing. Every morning he’d run out to buy the papers so he could read what they were writing about him. He reveled in being the most-wanted man in Alsace. He thought he was indomitable.”

As she confided in Benjamin, Véronique slipped her wedding ring off her finger and put it on again.

“I never loved Iselin. I was still living in my parents’ home, with no prospects. Then Iselin showed up, and for the first time I saw a future for myself. That didn’t last long. He wasn’t a good husband. I wound up falling in love with André, who wasn’t anything like his brother. I even dreamed of having a baby with him.”

“And so you just gave up on Iselin?”

“Yeah, you could say that. He has just one love: his wine. The only thing he wants me for is making his supper at night. And his arrogance is insufferable. He’s his daddy’s boy, and he knows it. He was sick for three months the year you gave him a bad rating. He hated you for doing that. And guess who slashed the tires on your fancy Mercedes? It was Iselin.”

The winemaker didn’t react. He simply went from one question to the next.

“And why did André vandalize the Ginsmeyers’ vines in Ammerschwihr?”

“To get even with Laetitia, the Ginsmeyer daughter who snubbed him in ninth grade.”

“Your André knows how to hold a grudge, doesn’t he?”

“He’s not a bad person, Mr. Cooker. It’s just that he’s been hurt. And he remembers each one of his hurts, from the day his mother committed suicide. How different things would have been if she had lived. He just wanted to even the score. He thought it would make him feel better. I told him it was no way to deal with his pain. I told him he’d wind up getting arrested, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“From there to destroying his own vines, now that’s a big leap. Unless it was to quell suspicions,” Benjamin said, looking into the bottom of his cup, where the traces of coffee grounds remained.

“That’s easy to explain. The night before, the old man had drawn up a new will. He was planning to give all the young vines, plus the best parcels of Osterberg, to Iselin. André was getting his least-productive vineyards, and he was furious. He wanted to kill the old man, who was already talking about marrying that bitch of a nurse who was wagging her tongue all over the place about André and me.”

“You don’t have her to worry about her anymore, do you? She’s in jail too. The medical examiners found fibers in your father-in-law’s nose. The fibers were from the pillow she used to smother him.”

“Like I said, she was a bitch. She didn’t like the will either. She and the old man had a son nobody knew about, and Vincent made no provisions for him in the will. Yeah, those two—the old man and the nurse—were a real piece of work.”

Benjamin couldn’t help thinking about the nurse’s limp. Bitch or witch doing the devil’s bidding—which was she? Maybe both.

“Getting back to André, why did he go on to vandalize the Klipsherrers, the Flancks, and all the others?”

“It was them or someone else. It didn’t matter. André was too crazy by that time. He said he had to make the vines bleed every night. It was an addiction. And he was getting more reckless. I knew it would end with him in handcuffs.”

Véronique’s lichen-colored eyes reminded Benjamin of the moss on dead trees. She had stopped crying, but her face was pale, and her hands were still shaking.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Deutzler?”

“It’s just the stress of everything. It’s gotten to me. I can’t stop shaking.”

“A little Alsatian cognac might help you feel better,” Benjamin suggested, putting his hand on Véronique’s wrist.

“Probably it would, but just order one for yourself. I’ll take some water.” Véronique was staring out the window, where snowflakes were softly falling.

A shimmering shroud of snow covered the Rue des Tonneliers. Ribeauvillé had reclaimed its purity.