Requiem in Yquem Read online

  “Does Cecile ever come around?”

  “Not very often, and when she does, she doesn’t stay more than a few days, if that.”

  “How were things between her and her grandparents? Did they get along?”

  “Well, Inspector, if they didn’t, Éléonore wouldn’t have told me. She worshipped that child.”

  “Did you ever notice anything out of the ordinary at the Lacombes?”

  “No, they were quiet people. Did pretty much the same things year in and year out. René was a postal employee before he retired, and Éléonore worked from home as a seamstress. René would take vacation time in the fall to harvest at Yquem, and Éléonore would go with him. They kept that up even after René left the postal service. Sometimes I do wonder about Cecile, though. She brought some boys around who I wouldn’t have wanted at my house.”

  Barbaroux straightened in his chair. “Oh? What was it about those boys?”

  “They all looked kind of scruffy. One was always coming around on a motorcycle. A loud one. I could hear him going up and down the Lacombes’ drive day and night. Another one drove a rusted-out sports car with Paris plates.”

  Barbaroux asked for the boys’ names, and when Mrs. Soules said she didn’t know, he gave her his card and asked her to call if she remembered.

  “Do you recall anything else?” he asked.

  “You mean were there any other visitors? No, not really… Éléonore said the old gamekeeper would come by now and then and try to get René to go pigeon-hunting with him. René would always tell him that he didn’t hunt anymore. The guy gave Éléonore the creeps. She had her church-lady friends, of course, but she never entertained anyone.”

  Barbaroux got up and thanked Mrs. Soules for the coffee and information. “If you think of anything, please call me.”

  He put on his wrinkled coat and showed himself out. He didn’t like the weather. He liked this case even less.

  9

  “Virgile, I’m happy to see you! You haven’t changed. Nice threads and still a babe magnet! You haven’t settled down? Better not wait too long, or you’ll lose all the hair on that good-looking head of yours, and the girls won’t go for you anymore.”

  Virgile felt a tinge of annoyance but pushed it aside. “No, I guess I’m too busy with my work.”

  “I see your boss in all the papers. Tell me, what’s it like, working for your Benjamin Cooker?”

  “It’s good, Jeremy. He keeps me on my toes.”

  “With all that experience you’re getting, I bet you’re thinking ahead and making plans to go into business for yourself. I’m sure any number of estates would be eager to hire you as a consultant.”

  Again, Virgile was feeling annoyed—even pressured. Why was his friend doing this?

  “No, Jeremy. I haven’t been making any plans to start my own business. I’m still doing my post-graduate work, and by that I mean working for Cooker & Co. I have a lot to learn from my employer.”

  Virgile changed the subject and ordered an espresso for each of them. He was still irritated.

  Jeremy reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held it out to Virgile, who shook his head.

  “Not smoking? That can’t be easy. I’ve heard that your boss always has a cigar burning.”

  “I’m over cigarettes. Besides, Mr. Cooker really doesn’t smoke all that much. He’s much cooler than you’d think. And he’s a good guy.”

  Virgile paused and smirked. Here was his opportunity to turn the tables. “I have to tell you, though. I asked him to taste your wine—the sample you sent me. He said it was like watery vine shoots, and you didn’t deserve to be my friend.”

  Jeremy turned pale, and his fingers stiffened around his coffee cup.

  Virgile had enjoyed his moment, but he knew he’d feel bad if he kept the charade up. “Just kidding! In fact, he asked me to bring him back a case. He said Cahors is harder to produce than a well-made Sauternes, and because of that, you’re even more deserving of accolades.”

  Jeremy relaxed, and the two men were soon talking more easily. Still, Virgile sensed that something was wrong, and maybe Jeremy was trying to keep him off balance by questioning how well he was meeting his milestones.

  Jeremy told him about the changes he had made at the estate. He seemed to take pride in his accomplishments, but finally he dropped the mask, waving over the server and ordering two glasses of red wine—his wine.

  As he had on an evening long ago, when he confessed that he thought his father never loved him, Jeremy poured out his unhappiness. Things hadn’t worked out the way he had hoped. There was his beautiful son, Valentin, of course. But he could no longer stand the cattiness of his in-laws and Pauline’s rejections in the bedroom. His feelings for her were growing duller by the day. Although his responsibilities at the winemaking association gave him the chance to stray from time to time, there was nothing very satisfying in that. Occasionally, he did see Angela, a married woman at the wine cooperative. Her cuckolded husband, who was in the fertilizer and pesticide business, traveled often.

  Jeremy’s story trailed off, and he sighed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

  “Because I’m your friend, the same way I was at La Tour Blanche, when we told each other everything. Remember?”

  The sun had set, and Virgile realized he couldn’t easily end this reunion, which was taking a sober turn. He would invite his friend to dinner—and expense it to Cooker & Co. After all, he was on business for the boss.

  “Come on, let me take you to Le Gindreau. What do you say?” It was the best table in the region. “Remember when you’d have me over for dinner at your house?” Virgile asked as he paid the tab.

  Jeremy nodded. “Mama loved to cook. I don’t know how you could stand eating with my father, though.”

  Like his own parents, Jeremy’s seemed poorly matched. His mother, a fine cook, was warm and affectionate. His father, a serious hunter, was sullen and authoritarian. He criticized Jeremy mercilessly. Jeremy even wondered if he was his real father. They had nothing in common.

  But worse than that, the man had forced Jeremy to abandon his dreams. He had suffered a stroke and had sold his land to the château whose vassal he had been for twenty years. Jeremy, who hadn’t been consulted, felt robbed and humiliated. After his graduation from La Tour Blanche, Jeremy had made a clean break with Bommes. He had turned the page the same way a farmer allowed the earth to lie fallow, abandoning it to thistles and weeds. Certificate in hand, he had gone looking for work at any estate, provided it was far from the belfry of Bommes. A few years later, he had met Pauline.

  “Your father was a grump, I have to agree with you there,” Virgile said. “But your mother sure did work her magic with those rabbits he brought home.”

  10

  Over dinner at Le Gindreau, Virgile and Jeremy rehashed their memories, their trips to the vineyards, and their training in the double canoe on the Ciron with their coach, Mr. Bousqueton, the family man who was in the habit of showering with his young athletes. As it turned out, Mr. Bousqueton had taken advantage of some of their classmates and was now behind the bars of Gradignan prison.

  “We were the lucky ones, Jeremy,” Virgile said. “He never tried anything with us.”

  “He knew we would have knocked him flat.”

  “Yeah, some of those kids were pretty young. And the guy could make you feel like he was really interested in you.”

  “That was when he wasn’t yelling at us. ‘Flex your muscles, dammit!’”

  “Hey, do you still have those cups and medals?”

  “In a drawer somewhere. Maybe I’ll take them out when Valentin is older. Remember Miss Lafon, who taught agricultural law? She had one sweet figure. I always thought she had the hots for you.”

  Virgile grinned. “She did make me stay for detention a couple of times.”

  Virgile and Jeremy savored their dos de lièvre à la royale. Jeremy was smiling again and seemed far more at ease. Vi
rgile decided to take advantage of his friend’s relaxed mood and introduced the subject of the double homicide.

  “This murder that’s been in the paper—did you know the Lacombes?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? Don’t you remember them? They took us in one night. It began storming when we were coming back from practice. Lightning hit the bridge over the Ciron. Scared the hell out of us.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do remember them. We knocked on their door, and they let us in right away. Nice old couple.”

  Virgile shook his head. How had he failed to recognize the Lacombes in the newspaper photo? Suddenly the image of the couple’s kitchen came into view. Virgile could see the table covered with an oilcloth and set for dinner. The Lacombes had been getting ready to sit down. There was a large steaming tureen, a bottle of red wine, and a loaf of bread under the yellow glow of a single light bulb. The couple had asked Virgile and Jeremy to join them for dinner.

  “What a rainstorm!” Éléonore Lacombe had said. “But the worst is over. It’s headed for the Garonne. Now have a bite to eat. The rain will have stopped by the time you’re done.”

  Éléonore had then looked at Jeremy. “You’re the Dubord boy, aren’t you?”

  Virgile’s companion had responded with an embarrassed “yes.”

  “I know your mother,” Éléonore Lacombe had said. “She’s a good woman who hasn’t had an easy life with your father. He’s not a Dubord for nothing.”

  There was a strained silence. Virgile didn’t dare say anything, and Jeremy seemed even more embarrassed.

  Finally, Mrs. Lacombe spoke. Turning to Virgile, she said, “And are you his cousin?”

  “No, a classmate,” replied Virgile. “I’m studying at La Tour Blanche, like Jeremy.”

  “Oh, you want to be a winemaker, too?”

  “Yes,” Virgile answered. He broke off a piece of bread and looked around the room. A statue of Jesus presided over a loudly humming refrigerator. In the hearth, two miserable embers were battling it out in a pile of ashes that smelled of goose fat. To the right of the hearth was a buffet with dinnerware. Several photos in mismatched frames were arranged on a walnut sideboard. Virgile’s eyes lingered on one of the photos—a bucolic scene with a young women. It was hard to make out her face.

  “Isn’t my granddaughter beautiful?” Mrs. Lacombe said before Virgile had a chance to say anything. “Her name is Cecile. She’s studying with a girlfriend tonight. ”

  Virgile nodded and put his bread back on the table, next to his plate.

  “You still look a bit chilled,” Mrs. Lacombe said. “Let me pour you boys some ratafia brandy.”

  “You’re too kind, Mrs. Lacombe,” Jeremy responded. “But we can’t impose on you any longer, and we have to get home. My parents will be worried.”

  “I understand,” the grandmother replied. “But you can’t go out there all wet like that. Let me give you some of my son’s clothes.” She was already trotting over to a tall cabinet with a carved cornice.

  “No, ma’am, that’s okay,” Jeremy said. “But thank you for everything.”

  The memory of that stormy evening in the Lacombe house had come rushing back to Virgile. He recalled Éléonore’s clear blue eyes, which seemed to mist up when she offered her son’s clothing, and René’s mustache, which he smoothed just a little too often.

  “The poor Lacombes,” Jeremy said.

  “Who do you think did it?” Virgile asked.

  “How should I know?” Jeremy said, looking taken aback.

  “Because you know everything about Bommes—the family quarrels, squabbles over inheritance...”

  “I know… I only know what everyone else knows. At least what the newspaper says. And besides, Sauternes isn’t my town anymore. There’s my mother, who I visit from time to time, and my bastard of a father, who’s in the process of dying like a dog but still manages to give my mother grief. I don’t give a damn about the rest. Some nutcase probably did it. A man like Thierry Paulin, the guy in Paris who attacked old ladies and tortured them just to get a few bucks for dope.”

  “Thierry Paulin’s motive was a little more twisted than getting dope money, but that’s not the point. The person who murdered the Lacombes didn’t take anything,”

  “Tell me, Virgile, why are you so interested in this? Did you become a cop? Or does your Mr. Cooker take himself for Sherlock Holmes? I’ve heard that he does some sleuthing on the side, but isn’t wine his area of expertise?”

  Virgile didn’t answer. A long silence followed, and he could tell that he had lost his friend’s trust. Virgile watched the crème glacée au Marsala melt on his plate. Even the Saussignac dessert wine wasn’t helping.

  “You’re angry with me, aren’t you,” Virgile finally said.

  “No, but you’re being a pain in the ass, going on and on about this Lacombe thing. What is it that you want to know, exactly?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to figure it out. That’s all.”

  Virgile didn’t want to hurt his friend. He understood now that he had been through a lot since their school days. Jeremy had a farmer’s sturdy build, but inside, he was fragile. Virgile changed the subject to wine prices. Then he talked about the weeklong Cahors Blues Festival, which he hoped to attend the following year. All the while, Jeremy said little or nothing. He sat in his chair, his turtleneck pulled up to his chin and his arms folded across his chest.

  Finally, Jeremy sighed and leaned in. “Okay, I’ll tell you, since you want to know so bad. I slept with the Lacombe girl. Yes, Cecile. The one in the photo you admired. Actually, she might be the only girl I’ve ever loved. She wasn’t of age when I met her, and we had to sneak around to be together. We couldn’t let her grandparents find out. My own parents didn’t give a damn. But her grandmother, as harmless as she looked, wasn’t all that easy-going. She watched over Cecile like a hawk. Funny thing is—she just let her run off to Paris in the end.”

  Virgile took a sip of his Saussignac dessert wine, as if to chase away the bitter taste of Jeremy’s brusque revelation. He felt betrayed. Why hadn’t Jeremy ever told him? And why was he confessing now? Virgile listened without daring to look his friend in the eye.

  “It didn’t last very long. Six months, maybe eight. It all came to a head one day not long after my father sold his vines without even warning me. I can’t tell you how devastated I was. Cecile and I met, and I told her what my father had done. I had to leave and find a job on an estate somewhere. The only thing I ever wanted to do was work with the vines. I didn’t know where I was going, but I wanted her to come with me.”

  They both fell quiet as the waiter cleared their plates.

  “She just looked at me, Virgile. Silent. Finally, she said, ‘I can’t go with you.’ I was stunned. I asked why and she told me she couldn’t envision a future in the countryside. She wanted to be an actress or a model, and she had to go to Paris for that. She asked me to come with her. ‘You could work as a wine merchant, even have your own business if I’m successful,’ she said.

  “But this time I refused. As she turned around to leave, I saw the tears streaming down her face. I hurt her, and I’m sorry to this day—not that I didn’t go to Paris, but that I caused her so much pain.”

  “Do you ever think of how different your life would be if you had married the girl you loved?”

  “No, Virgile. I can’t bear to think about it. I’ve made my decisions. I’m living with them.”

  Virgile reflected once again on his own life. Jeremy had made a series of pragmatic but bad decisions, and he was paying for them. He, meanwhile, had made no life-changing decisions, other than working for Benjamin Cooker. That was a good move. But otherwise, he was treading water and waiting. Waiting for what?

  Virgile shook off his thoughts and ordered two coffees.

  “So there you are. Now you know everything,” Jeremy said. “I never saw the Lacombes again. I was ashamed. I never even passed their house. That’s one more reason I left Bom
mes to build another life in the vineyard, a life far from Yquem, Barsac, and Fargues. And then the other day I saw a movie on TV. I thought I recognized Cecile. She was even more beautiful. But I told myself it wasn’t her. I was dreaming. I watched the credits, and it was someone named Cecile Castaing. I thought it might be a coincidence—someone who looked like my Cecile.”

  He dropped a sugar cube in his coffee and twirled his spoon in the dark brew.

  “I haven’t thought about anything but Cecile since I heard the news about her grandparents. You’re the only person I can talk to about it.”

  The expression on Jeremy’s face was heartbreaking.

  When the two friends left Le Gindreau, they promised to meet again the following week. Then they talked a half hour longer, not quite knowing how to leave each other.

  11

  Riding shotgun in Benjamin’s Mercedes, Virgile couldn’t relax. The convertible was slicing through a heavy fog shrouding the countryside. Benjamin had turned off the radio so that he could concentrate better.

  “Want me to drive, boss?” Virgile asked. “You’ve been at it for a while now. You could sit back and reminisce about the murky fogs of your childhood in London.”

  “I’d take you up on that offer, son, but I don’t even want to pull over.”

  Virgile wondered what Sauternes would be without these banks of moisture rising off the Ciron River and continuing up the hillsides. Starting in mid-August, the fogs would form at nightfall and prevail through the following morning. Only in the afternoon would it become clear which power would dominate: the sun or the fog.

  The phenomenon of cool mist giving way to sunny warmth was indispensable to Botrytis cinerea. But the rot had to occur at just the right time in the growing season—when the grapes were ripe. The fungus penetrated the grapes through the pores and cracks in their skin and sped up the ripening process, intensifying the flavor and amping up the sugar, glycerin, and acidity. When the grapes turned brown, the fungus had done its job, and they were ready to be picked.