Requiem in Yquem Read online

  The younger man ordered another round. “I understand the murdered couple lived here all their lives. Did you know them?”

  Suddenly, a heavy hand came down on Virgile’s shoulder. He jumped.

  16

  “Hey! Aren’t you young Lanssien from Montravel?”

  Virgile recognized the owner of the hand bearing down on his shoulder. He was the man who had studied him suspiciously when he entered the café. The man let go but inched closer.He was blocking Virgile’s exit.

  “So, you don’t remember me?”

  The intruder’s breath had an unpleasant anise odor. He continued. “Answer me. Aren’t you Lanssien, the one with the strange first name? You wouldn’t happen to be a graduate of La Tour Blanche, by any chance?”

  Unmasked, Virgile stammered, “Yes, yes…”

  “So, just like that, you forgot Emile Talayssac, the school custodian?”

  Virgile grinned in recognition. It was the man they had nicknamed Milou, after Tintin’s brave companion, who rescued Tintin from one predicament after another. Emile Talayssac wasn’t an especially brave man, but he had protected Virgile. The custodian with a warm heart and bottle in his pocket had always looked the other way—provided there was an incentive—when Virgile or anyone else wanted to sneak off the school grounds. Milou was cool. All a guy had to do was slip him some booze.

  “This is good stuff,” the student would claim.

  Milou would look at the bottle and reply, “You’re right! Good stuff!”

  Virgile couldn’t understand why at least some of the education the students were exposed to day in and day out hadn’t rubbed off on old Milou. After all the years he had spent at La Tour Blanche, he should have demanded something better than plonk. But he never did. He was a drunk, and he was satisfied with anything that put him in a daze. Well, there was something else that satisfied him, and that he got from the cafeteria cook, a buxom woman named Mrs. Laguépine. Their liaison wasn’t a secret.

  After a few years of studies, the graduates of La Tour Blanche would go off to promising careers in Médoc, Buzet, Bergerac, Madiran, or elsewhere. But Milou would stay behind to greet yet another class, like a schoolchild held back.

  In an apologetic gesture, Virgile gave the man a hug. He reeked of pastis, sweat, and old tobacco, and from the looks of him, alcohol had taken its toll. He was bloated, and his cheeks were filled with spider veins.

  “So you’re not at La Tour Blanche anymore?” Virgile asked.

  “No, I retired some years ago. I’m enjoying myself these days. Relaxing, playing cards. The world’s my oyster.”

  Virgile wondered if he was still hanging out with Mrs. Laguépine, but he didn’t feel like asking.

  “It’s great to see you again, kid! Can I buy you a shot?”

  “No, I gotta go, Mr. Talayssac—”

  “You call me mister now, not Milou, like in the days when you’d sneak off the school grounds.”

  Virgile had an impulse. “Milou, follow me. I have something for you.”

  He pulled Emile outside, as if to tell him a secret. Because the old man was weaving, Virgile held him firmly by the elbow while they crossed the road. He opened the trunk of his car and rooted around, finally extracting a bottle of Burgundy from the Côte-d’Or. His boss had given it to him after a consulting trip, and Virgile had forgotten to take it into his apartment. Virgile had no intention of telling his employer about this faux pas.

  “It’s good stuff,” Virgile whispered as he handed over the bottle.

  Old Milou would never know just how good this stuff was. But that was okay. He inspected the label and thanked the former student. “You’re right!” He laughed, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “And what are you doing around here?”

  Virgile let out an inconsequential white lie. “I’m looking into some local châteaus.”

  “Oh, really? Who for?”

  “It’s secret government business,” Virgile said with an air of mystery.

  “You’ve always been secretive, Lanssien. By the way, do you hear from your pal Dubord? We never see him anymore—not since he told his bastard father to go to hell.”

  For some reason, the custodian’s question triggered a memory. Virgile was thinking of the Lacombes again. He was recalling the stormy night the old couple answered the knock on the door. He could hear the deafening sound of the rain hammering the Lacombes’ roof. He could see their photo of Cecile. Then the memory of Camille—or, rather, Cecile—on the road to Lamarque came to mind, followed by the image of the girl hiding behind the sunglasses.

  “Hey, you still with me?”

  Virgile shook off the images. “Sorry, Milou.”

  “You were good friends, the two of you. When one was there, the other was never far away.”

  “Jeremy’s married now and has a child. And he makes a very good wine,” Virgile said. Without knowing why, he added, “I think he’s a happy man.”

  “That’s good. Just as well, then. He wouldn’t have been happy with the Lacombe granddaughter.”

  “Why do you say that, Milou?”

  “That girl Cecile had visions of grandeur. But your friend Jeremy wanted something different for himself. He was the kind who kept his nose to the grindstone.”

  “How did you know about them?”

  “You can’t keep a secret from old Milou. If you ask me, Dubord selling off his vines was a blessing in disguise. It forced Jeremy to get away from here and make something of himself. As for the girl, she was bad news. Still is. She was always one for herself. I don’t blame Dubord for not liking her. He would have done anything to keep her from getting her hands on his vines. Too bad he had to have a stroke to get that done.”

  Milou seemed to enjoy sharing what he knew. Virgile decided to dig a bit deeper.

  “What do you think about that junkie murdering those two old people for their rings?”

  “Get outta here! It’s bullshit. Fernand Macarie just wanted to look like a big shot. He’s a liar. He became a gamekeeper just so he could poach. He doesn’t have legs to hunt anymore, so he fishes. In season and out of season—it doesn’t matter. Macarie’s nasty too. Badmouths everyone. He sees a junkie, and there’s his target.”

  Milou coughed up a glob of phlegm and spit it on the gravel.

  “Seriously, Lanssien, do you believe that story in the paper: a junkie kid murdering the Lacombes in their sleep just to get their wedding rings and pawn them for a few bucks? I’m wondering how the cops swallowed it.”

  The pale sunlight was breaking through the red plane trees on the town square. Milou wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and locked eyes with Virgile.

  “I agree with you, Milou,” Virgile responded after a few seconds. “The cops needed a culprit, and fast. That junkie had bad timing. He came into Bommes on the day of the murders, and he was ripe for the picking. He has the looks of a hooligan. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.” Milou looked back at the café. “In this town, nobody has anything good to say about the kids today. Don’t like the clothes they wear. Don’t like the music they listen to. Don’t like their attitude. Can’t say they haven’t got a point. The drugs some of the kids are into—it’s a damned shame. Not like it used to be, Lanssien. All you and your chums did was drink.”

  Virgile smiled. Well, they did more than drink, but Virgile wasn’t about to get into that. It was true, though, that these were different times.

  Emile Talayssac was once again the Milou Virgile remembered. He was on a roll. The old man would have gladly chatted for hours, but Virgile put an end to their reunion. He lied and told Milou he had a meeting to attend. Virgile wanted to find his boss.

  17

  The vines, finally free of the white shroud they had been wearing all morning, looked glorious in their purple and fiery hues. Passing the vineyard at Château Mauras, Virgile made a point of looking for the Florentine-like turret planted on the grounds like a sentry.
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  Assuming his boss had actually come to Bommes without a specific goal in mind, Virgile speculated that he was somewhere on the banks of the Ciron. Virgile instinctively headed for the river, and sure enough, the winemaker’s dark blue convertible was parked near the bridge, not far from the washhouse.

  Now he just had to find his trail. Was his boss following the course of the river or walking upstream? Virgile spotted a runner and gave him a description of the man he was looking for. But the athlete hadn’t seen anyone in a Loden. Virgile decided to wait by the car. Soon it would be noon, and his employer would be getting hungry.

  Twenty minutes passed, with no sign of Benjamin Cooker. Virgile had second thoughts and started walking toward the village. As he got closer, the church, with its single spire, came into view. The cemetery gate was open, and a man in a fedora was standing at a flower-covered grave. It was the Lacombe grave, and the man was his boss. What was he doing here?

  The gravel under Virgile’s feet crunched as he approached the winemaker. A minute later, Benjamin Cooker turned around.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Virgile.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t try to explain. You’re very late.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that—”

  “What do you want to tell me that I don’t already know? That you don’t believe the authorities? That they extorted a confession out of a kid who couldn’t take the pressure? I’m with you, Virgile. The kid didn’t do it.”

  Virgile thought about Milou. The old guy would have been happy to know he had an ally. By now Emile Talayssac was probably getting drunk on his former student’s really good stuff.

  “But boss, why are you hanging around the cemetery? Think you can get the dead to talk to us?”

  Benjamin scowled. “No, Virgile, I’m not listening for any voices. I’m here for the sense of place. I’m taking it in. Then, maybe, everything will become clear.” He lost the scowl and patted his assistant on the back. “Come, take a walk with me.”

  Though he doubted they would get anywhere, Virgile followed the winemaker’s lead and strolled with him through the cemetery. He studied the inscriptions on the gravestones: “We will never forget you.” “Time erases all but will not erase memory.” “Our dear little sister.” “Gaston, our faithful friend.” “An angel called to God too soon.”

  Then his eyes wandered to a corner of the cemetery, where two dogs were pawing at a grave. He grimaced, and the winemaker took his arm. “There’s nothing to be squeamish about, son. Death is part of life, and you mustn’t be afraid of it. The dead can guide the living.”

  All this was too esoteric for Virgile, whose mind was on something closer than the beyond. “That’s fine, boss, but my stomach’s gurgling. I’m starving.”

  “Darroze in Langon? Sound like a good idea? You can tell me what you think of their Grand Marnier soufflé. You need to get your color back. And you didn’t tell me everything after you went to see your friend Jeremy.”

  The vision of the light-as-air dessert had Virgile’s mouth watering, but he could wait a little longer. “Before we do that, could we take a small detour?” he asked.

  “I thought you were starving.”

  “I hunger for the truth.”

  The winemaker grinned.

  “We may have two ways of going about things, boss, but we always seem to reach our destination together.”

  “Right you are, son.”

  Now Virgile was leading the way. “I just want to take a look,” he said tersely.

  §§§

  The clematis was still blooming on the trellis at the front door, and the vegetable garden was impeccable. The blue shutters were closed, however, and the mailbox was overflowing with junk mail. The courtyard, meanwhile, was deserted, with the exception of a large motorcycle parked squarely in the middle.

  In the backyard, a rooster crowed, while a feral cat searched for something to eat.

  Just as Virgile and Benjamin were approaching the house, the door opened, and Cecile appeared. She started to step out, but realized that Virgile was staring at her. She glared at him before doing an about face and slamming the door behind her. Now Camille was really dead.

  “It’s true, boss. I owe you some details that you’ll find very interesting. I only hope the meal is long enough.”

  “Not to fear, son. On this occasion, we can take our sweet time.”

  Benjamin chuckled.

  “I get it, boss: Sauternes, sweet…”

  “Yes, Virgile, you get it.”

  18

  Foie gras with a fine gelée de consommé à la truffe noire and roasted monkfish with pumpkin and sweet onions satisfied their appetites. A white wine from Pessac-Léognan complemented the animated discussion Benjamin and Virgile had been craving since undertaking their unofficial homicide investigation.

  They both rejected the hypothesis put forward by the authorities in the newspaper. A young addict ready to do anything for drug money was an easy person to pin the crime on. But murdering an elderly couple for wedding rings worn thin by sixty years of marriage hardly qualified as booty. Further, had the authorities turned up any hard evidence? Neither Benjamin nor Virgile had seen anything on that score. Everything seemed to rest on the kid’s confession and a gamekeeper’s account. Was this some sort of ruse from Barbaroux, or was the inspector having a bad day?

  To end the meal, Virgile ordered the soufflé. Benjamin opted for a chocolate dessert with caramelized hazelnut ice cream. He declined the sommelier’s suggestion of a Sauternes accompaniment. In the winemaker’s opinion, the honey-like body of Sauternes was too syrupy to pair with this chocolate. He favored Maury, a complex fortified wine that played well with his rich dessert.

  “What kind of Maurys do you have, young man?” Benjamin asked.

  “Mas Amiel, sir.”

  “Perfect. Virgile, would you also like that?”

  Virgile agreed, and the winemaker ordered two glasses. He let the first sip caress his palate before giving his assistant a sly smile.

  “So, son, tell me. Is this Cecile Lacombe an old acquaintance?”

  “Certainly not old,” Virgile answered. “We met barely a week ago. Remember the day you invited me to lunch at Grangebelle? I was in Bourg, so I took the ferry over.”

  Without omitting a single detail, Virgile described his crossing on the Médocain and his meeting with Camille, who, as it turned out, was really Cecile. He covered the flirting, the landing at Port de Lamarque, and the strange parting—in short, everything about the affair that had troubled him for days now.

  “It took your Yquem to cure me!”

  “Why didn’t you say anything after the funeral yesterday? You did recognize her, didn’t you?”

  Virgile took a sip of his Mas Amiel. He put his glass down and looked Benjamin straight in the eye. “Because I suspect she’s capable of the best, as well as the worst…”

  “In that case, let’s talk about the worst. Do you think she could have—”

  Virgile stopped him. “I don’t share Mr. Dubord’s opinion. I think he’s just a bitter old man who can’t let go of his resentment. Emile Talayssac seems to think he sold off his vines just to keep Cecile from getting her hands on them. He was that set against Jeremy marrying her—to the point of ruining Jeremy’s chances of ever taking over his vineyard. But so far, I haven’t heard enough to conclude that Cecile is as bad as he wanted us to believe.”

  “Maybe he has some dementia. It can cause people to be overly suspicious.” Benjamin took a bite of his cake and put his fork down. “All the same, I sense that you aren’t immune to her charms. I’ve seen her, Virgile, and I wouldn’t blame you. But if you want my advice, stay away from her. Dementia or no dementia, Charles Dubord’s suspicions could be well founded.”

  “I understand, boss.”

  “Just keep your distance. What about the boy on the motorcycle at the cemetery? Do you think he might be the Ralph who Mrs. Dubord mentioned?”

  �
��Possibly, boss.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No. I’m just guessing he’s her boyfriend of the moment.”

  “It seems she and her ‘boyfriend of the moment’ were bleeding her grandparents dry.”

  “Did you hear that from anyone other than Mr. Dubord?”

  “I picked up some gossip on the banks of the Ciron, when I got there at the break of dawn.”

  Benjamin was trying to make his assistant feel guilty about not finding him sooner, but Virgile wouldn’t take the bait. “Who’d you hear it from” was all that he said.

  “A fisherman.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like all fishermen, Virgile! A pole in his hand, a cap on his head, in his seventies. He said he couldn’t talk long, because he needed his morning pick-me-up.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing we don’t already know. That the Lacombes were good people, and their granddaughter had a reputation.”

  “It had to be Macarie.”

  “Who?”

  “The same guy who talked to the reporters. He’s the gamekeeper. And a swine, according to the old custodian at my school. He’s the one who got that kid arrested.”

  “You met the custodian from La Tour Blanche?”

  “Yes, on my way to find you. I stopped at a café, and he was there. I didn’t even recognize him at first. He doesn’t think the junkie kid bumped off the two old folks either.”

  Benjamin ordered two coffees.

  By now the terrace where they were dining was deserted. A honeyed sun was heating the tabletops, and the autumn warmth had a fragrance of apples left in the attic.

  Benjamin took a robusto from his shagreen case and snipped off the end with his silver guillotine. The cigar’s blend of peppery and spicy tastes with just a hint of leafy and woody flavors was perfect for a day like this. God, he loved a good cigar in the fall!

  He lit up and took a puff while he organized his thoughts. There was much to do. He had to revisit the Camille/Cecile matter and find an alibi for the brain-damaged homeless kid. Then there was the motive for the homicides. What was it? He was studying the smoke rings and sorting through everything when Virgile’s phone rang.