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

writer’s dual nature. At the end of the central walkway, they passed the small Guérin family puppet-show stage with its wooden shutters closed. They stopped on a metal footbridge that crossed over one of the branches of the large pond.
    “When I was a kid, I was scared to death of falling in among the carp,” Benjamin said, looking dreamily at the water. “Later, I was even more frightened when Margaux leaned over the railing.”
    “Well, it is teeming with fish!” Virgile said, tossing in some stale crumbs.
    Hundreds of fish rose to the surface in a single movement and then launched into a violent combat. Benjamin and Virgile observed this sticky carpet of open jaws, bulging eyes and knife-like fins with distaste. The carp made a ghoulish clicking sound as they swallowed the pieces of bread. Some ducks tried their luck in the fray, in vain. They floundered in the whirlpool of viscous scales without managing to collect anything but the crumbs of the feast.
    The two men then crossed the playground to reach the other part of the pond, where they spread out breadcrumbs for the numerous sparrows that nested near the spillway. Two blond mothers appeared on a walkway. They had the elegant air of the well bred from the Quinconces neighborhood. They were shouting among the flowerbeds, sounding as desperate as they looked sophisticated, “Jean-Baptiste! Eugénie!”
    A uniformed park patrol with a wild mustache followed them and looked through the bushes. Other mothers in straight dark-blue skirts and white blouses had joined the search, followed by a stream of children in English-style clothing. There was something terribly chic about the chaos.
    “Can I be frank with you?” Virgile asked suddenly as he scattered crumbs on the grass.
    “I don’t expect anything less of you,” Cooker answered deliberately.
    “Well, OK, so, uh, I really think that, well, you might think I’m paranoid, but this spoilage thing, it just doesn’t make sense. Not in an estate like Moniales Haut-Brion. Particularly Brettanomyces . Especially not in a cellar that is maintained so well. I’ve been hanging around with the team for a few days now, and I assure you that they are very serious.”
    “I know,” Cooker said.
    “And Denis Massepain knows the business. He doesn’t let anything get by him, has an eye on everything. He’s a real winemaker, and I don’t see how he could have let a contamination of this scope happen.”
    “I think the same.”
    “As far as I’m concerned, there is only one possibility, but it’s hard to voice such a thing.”
    “Go ahead, Virgile. Don’t beat around the bush. Say what you have to say.”
    “Someone had to slip those spores into the barrels,” the assistant said, tossing a small slice of bread to a turkey with a low-hanging wattle. “I’ve thought it over and over, and I can’t think of any other possibility.”
    “You are not alone. I’ve been thinking that for a while now.”
    “Do you know if he has any enemies? Someone who is angry enough to ruin his life?”
    “Not to my knowledge. Denis is loyal, calm and correct. But I am not a good judge. He’s my friend.”
    “Who knows? Maybe something happened with a member of his staff?”
    “His workers and cellar master have been there for years, and the atmosphere at the estate is relatively serene. He is surrounded by motivated people. No, I doubt it’s an inside job.”
    “Maybe one of his competitors wants to throw him off balance? Someone who is jealous and wants to cast a shadow on the estate? Someone full of envy who wants to put him on his knees?”
    Cooker took the final chunk of bread from the bottom of the plastic bag and threw it near a swan, which barely stretched its neck before continuing on its way with disdain.
    “If the profession had to resolve its differences with biological warfare, where would we be, my dear Virgile? You know the wine world. It’s a milieu where people observe and watch each other, sometimes