Read Online Mayhem in Margaux by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen
Tags: France, amateur sleuth, cozy mystery, Food, whodunit, Gourmet, wine novel, wine, French culture, Bordeaux, gentleman detective, European fiction, European mysteries, illegal immigration, modern slavery, Margaux
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secret,” Margaux whispered, batting her eyes. “Isn’t it, Virgile?”
Virgile was plainly ill at ease. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, cleared his throat, and pretended to be interested in the label on the jar of jam in front of him: “oranges, sugar, gelling agent, pectin. Fifty grams of fruit and forty-five grams of sugar for every one hundred grams.”
“I see you haven’t wasted any time getting to know each other,” Benjamin said, pouring himself a cup of coffee because there was no tea.
“I admit that I was very surprised when I found this young man lying on the couch, snoring away,” Margaux said, putting her hand on Virgile’s arm. Benjamin thought she was being entirely too perky. “It was a nice surprise. You and Maman have told me so much about him.”
Virgile’s cheeks were turning pink. He continued to read the label on the jam. “Calories: 183. Protein: 0.4 grams. Carbohydrates: 45 grams. Lipids: 0.1 gram. Fiber: 1 gram. Sodium: 3.3 grams.”
“Can we take off when you’ve found the expiration date, Virgile? We have a lot of work today.”
“Do you want to go right away?”
“Yes. I just need to take a shower, and then we’re off.”
On the road to Bordeaux, they hardly spoke to each other. Benjamin mumbled sullenly in response to Virgile’s offhanded remarks. The winemaker was annoyed with himself for reacting this way. He had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t been in such bad shape the night before, Margaux wouldn’t have met his assistant.
Too handsome, too clever, and obviously too funny, Virgile was a fox in the henhouse. All the more dangerous because his daughter apparently had a weakness for charmers. He hadn’t been aware of this trait before her flirtation with Antoine Rinetti. Benjamin was feeling a twinge of jealousy. But it was more than jealousy. His daughter was in a vulnerable state and needed to be protected. Even if Virgile’s intentions were honorable—and he had reason to question that, based on his experience with the young man—a model assistant didn’t necessarily make an ideal son-in-law.
As they approached the first vines of Léognan, Virgile slid open the 403’s sunroof and ventured a comment that helped to lighten the mood.
“I took a look at your white wines at La Planquette. Are you angry with the Alsatians?”
“On the contrary, you know how much I love Alsace whites. I only go there three or four days a year to taste them on site, but they’re memorable, believe me.”
“I thought so,” Virgile said. “And I thought you had quite a few of them in your cellar.”
“Good observation,” Benjamin said. “I didn’t bring any to La Planquette. We have so many great wines in the Southwest.”
“I did see some Touraine, though.”
“That was Ludovic. Oh, I grabbed a few Côtes de Beaune, but I wish I had brought some selections from Alsace, which can be quite magnificent.”
The winemaker stretched out his legs and sank deeper in his leather seat. He launched into a discourse on the way Pfaffenheim and Gueberschwihr wines were improving and the strong personality of Loew estate riesling. Then there was the pinot gris produced by the Domaines Schlumberger, whose cuvée Les Princes Abbés he particularly enjoyed. The list didn’t stop there: André Ostertag’s old-vine sylvaner had sophisticated elegance, and Richard Auther produced a perfectly fermented grand cru Winzenberg riesling.
“I have a weakness for gewurztraminers,” Virgile managed to get in.
“Oh, then you’ll love the late harvests from the Rolly Gassmann estate, which are exceptional in every way, and the excellent cuvée Laurence produced by the Weinbach estate.”
“I don’t even know where that is. All I know about Alsace I learned in high-school geography—I can locate Strasbourg and Colmar on a map, and know the highest spot in the Vosges mountains: the Grand Ballon of Guebwiller. But all those names full of consonants do me in: Rorsh-whatever,
Virgile was plainly ill at ease. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, cleared his throat, and pretended to be interested in the label on the jar of jam in front of him: “oranges, sugar, gelling agent, pectin. Fifty grams of fruit and forty-five grams of sugar for every one hundred grams.”
“I see you haven’t wasted any time getting to know each other,” Benjamin said, pouring himself a cup of coffee because there was no tea.
“I admit that I was very surprised when I found this young man lying on the couch, snoring away,” Margaux said, putting her hand on Virgile’s arm. Benjamin thought she was being entirely too perky. “It was a nice surprise. You and Maman have told me so much about him.”
Virgile’s cheeks were turning pink. He continued to read the label on the jam. “Calories: 183. Protein: 0.4 grams. Carbohydrates: 45 grams. Lipids: 0.1 gram. Fiber: 1 gram. Sodium: 3.3 grams.”
“Can we take off when you’ve found the expiration date, Virgile? We have a lot of work today.”
“Do you want to go right away?”
“Yes. I just need to take a shower, and then we’re off.”
On the road to Bordeaux, they hardly spoke to each other. Benjamin mumbled sullenly in response to Virgile’s offhanded remarks. The winemaker was annoyed with himself for reacting this way. He had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t been in such bad shape the night before, Margaux wouldn’t have met his assistant.
Too handsome, too clever, and obviously too funny, Virgile was a fox in the henhouse. All the more dangerous because his daughter apparently had a weakness for charmers. He hadn’t been aware of this trait before her flirtation with Antoine Rinetti. Benjamin was feeling a twinge of jealousy. But it was more than jealousy. His daughter was in a vulnerable state and needed to be protected. Even if Virgile’s intentions were honorable—and he had reason to question that, based on his experience with the young man—a model assistant didn’t necessarily make an ideal son-in-law.
As they approached the first vines of Léognan, Virgile slid open the 403’s sunroof and ventured a comment that helped to lighten the mood.
“I took a look at your white wines at La Planquette. Are you angry with the Alsatians?”
“On the contrary, you know how much I love Alsace whites. I only go there three or four days a year to taste them on site, but they’re memorable, believe me.”
“I thought so,” Virgile said. “And I thought you had quite a few of them in your cellar.”
“Good observation,” Benjamin said. “I didn’t bring any to La Planquette. We have so many great wines in the Southwest.”
“I did see some Touraine, though.”
“That was Ludovic. Oh, I grabbed a few Côtes de Beaune, but I wish I had brought some selections from Alsace, which can be quite magnificent.”
The winemaker stretched out his legs and sank deeper in his leather seat. He launched into a discourse on the way Pfaffenheim and Gueberschwihr wines were improving and the strong personality of Loew estate riesling. Then there was the pinot gris produced by the Domaines Schlumberger, whose cuvée Les Princes Abbés he particularly enjoyed. The list didn’t stop there: André Ostertag’s old-vine sylvaner had sophisticated elegance, and Richard Auther produced a perfectly fermented grand cru Winzenberg riesling.
“I have a weakness for gewurztraminers,” Virgile managed to get in.
“Oh, then you’ll love the late harvests from the Rolly Gassmann estate, which are exceptional in every way, and the excellent cuvée Laurence produced by the Weinbach estate.”
“I don’t even know where that is. All I know about Alsace I learned in high-school geography—I can locate Strasbourg and Colmar on a map, and know the highest spot in the Vosges mountains: the Grand Ballon of Guebwiller. But all those names full of consonants do me in: Rorsh-whatever,
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