Virgile Lanssien’s bachelor pad on the Rue Saint Rémi was one of those small apartments without much character behind old Bordeaux’s beautiful eighteenth-century facades. It had a tiny living room with a modest amount of molding, a fireplace with a cracked marble surround, a wood floor, a hallway leading to a cramped bedroom with a window, a bathroom, and a kitchen barely larger than a telephone booth.
The best feature of this home was its balcony. The landlord had described it as a “gorgeous little balcony with a view of the Place de la Bourse and the Fountain of the Three Graces.” Actually, it was a merely an opening with a metal barrier in front. From it, Virgile could see a muddy strip of the Garonne River and the plump hips of the muses sculpted long ago.
No matter. Virgile was fine with it. The apartment was neither spacious nor comfortable, but it was two steps from the Allées de Tourny and a stone’s throw from the laboratory on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge. Good thing, too, because he was late. He was supposed to meet Alexandrine de La Palussière—Cooker and Co.’s lab director. She wanted his help because of his ability to discern TCA, or 2,4,6-trichloroanisole, in wine at about two parts per trillion. Not all tasters could pick up cork taint in such small quantities.
Thank God—anything to get out of going to Château Blanchard. He couldn’t stand Didier Morel. His boss loved to compare them, but all Virgile could see was that Didier’s shoulders were just that much wider than his, his features a tad more chiseled, his legs stronger, and, worse, everything Virgile did, Didier tried to do better. It had started at wine school. Virgile would propose a project about organic farming and the effect on wine production in Bordeaux, and two weeks later Didier would hand in something on biodynamic grape husbandry in Burgundy. Even at the bar, Didier would hit on the same women. It was annoying—like being trailed by a gnat. And now that bloodsucker was hanging around the lab—where Virgile was supposed to have been fifteen minutes ago.
Virgile rummaged through the jeans and underwear strewn all over the floor for something clean to wear. Housekeeping wasn’t in his wheelhouse. Sometimes he paid his next-door neighbor to tidy the apartment, but she hadn’t been there in a while. She was out of town, visiting her sister in Mimizan. The place was even grubbier and more cluttered than usual, a dump where a mother cat wouldn’t be able to find her kittens.
He tripped on an empty wine bottle, catching himself on the coffee table, where he knocked over a box from the Indian takeout place.
“Dammit.”
After brushing his teeth and splashing on some Gentleman by Givenchy, he headed to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Three days of dirty dishes were piled in the sink. He opened the refrigerator, and a rancid odor hit him in the face. His phone buzzed.
It was Alexandrine.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Alex. I’m on my way.”
There was silence on the line.
“Alex?”
“Is this Mr. Virgile Lanssien?”
“Who’s this? What are you doing with Alexandrine’s telephone?”
“This is the emergency room at Saint André Hospital. Ms. de La Palussière is here with us. She asked that we call you.”