Read Online Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen - Free Book Online Page A

a few days I’ll be able to tell you where things stand.”
    Benjamin and his friend took a few steps around the building, making small talk that was not entirely futile. It relaxed the atmosphere. The winemaker took advantage of the moment to get a closer look at the new cabernet franc stock that had just been planted on a small parcel. Tender sprouts were starting to bud; they would not give clusters for another two or three years. He glanced over the meticulous rows of vines, quickly judging the state of the soil composed of thick Gunz gravel, sand and clay and noted with pleasure that the vineyards had just been plowed. His eyes stopped for a moment on the Haut-Brion estate hilltop that dominated the neighborhood. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to his assistant, “Are you almost finished? We’re off in five minutes, Virgile!”
    THE two men dropped the most recent samples at the lab and by some miracle found a parking spot between two construction-site fences, near the Place de la Bourse. Then they walked up the Cours du Chapeau Rouge, passing in front of the Grand Théâtre’s massive columns and then turning to reach the Allée de Tourny and stop at Noailles . Benjamin had the near-daily habit of lunching at this elegant brasserie, where he was greeted with somewhat affected nods from some Bordeaux citizens of note, although they never dared to disturb him.
    The respectable Mr. Cooker’s table had been held for him, as usual, and the two men were welcomed with the polite friendliness given to long-time regulars. They were ravenous and opted for two quick starters followed by grilled fish served with a dry Pessac-Léognan white. Benjamin let his assistant choose the wine, which took quite some time as he hesitated between a Château Carbonnieux and a Château Ferran before finally deciding on a 1998 Château Latour-Martillac.
    “You deserve it, Virgile!”
    “I have to admit that there’s no time to get bored with you!”
    They talked about this and that, trivial things and insignificant memories that are nonetheless important when two people are getting to know one another. At the end of the meal, Cooker offered the young man a cigar, but he declined politely in favor of an espresso. Then Cooker suggested a digestive walk under the Jardin Public’s blue cedar trees. Before going to the park, Virgile asked to stop at his studio apartment on Rue Saint-Rémi, so they made a quick detour along the top of Rue Sainte-Catherine. Benjamin waited outside, and his assistant came back down quickly, holding a large plastic bag.
    “What are lugging around in that sack?” asked Cooker.
    “Stale bread. I keep it to feed the ducks and the fish in the park.”
    “Do you do that a lot?”
    “I’m a country boy, and where I come from nothing goes to waste. I can’t get myself to throw bread away.”
    “I feel 20 years younger in your company, my dear Virgile,” Cooker said, clearly moved. “I often brought my daughter to the park, and every time, we had our stash of stale bread.”
    “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
    “Ah, Virgile, if you only knew Margaux. She is pretty as a picture, 24 years old and is now living in New York.”
    “What is she doing there?”
    “She is in the import-export business, specialized in regional products.”
    Benjamin said nothing more on the subject. He didn’t like his life to be an open book, and he made it a habit to never give himself away in the first chapters. Virgile asked no other questions, and they walked in silence to the gilded gates opening onto the public park’s bouquet of trees.
    Gravel crunched under their heels. They passed a bronze bust of the French writer François Mauriac, sculpted by the Russian-born artist Ossip Zadkine. The sculptor had given the writer an eagle’s profile, high cheekbones, a sharply carved chin, an excessively hollowed neck and the face of a mystic ascetic, showing a deep understanding of the Malaga