Deadly Tasting

Praise for

The Winemaker Detective

Twenty-two books

A hit on television in France

“Will whet appetites of fans of both
Iron Chef
and
Murder, She Wrote
.”

—Booklist

“Unusually adept at description, the authors manage to paint everything.... The journey through its pages is not to be rushed.”

—ForeWord Reviews

“I love good mysteries. I love good wine. So imagine my joy at finding a great mystery about wine, and winemaking, and the whole culture of that fascinating world. And then I find it’s the first of a series. I can see myself enjoying many a bottle of wine while enjoying the adventures of Benjamin Cooker in this terrific new series.”

—
William Martin
, New York Times bestselling author

“An excellent mystery series in which you eat, drink and discuss wine as much as you do murders.”

—Le Nouvel Observateur

“A series that is both delectable for connoisseurs of wine and an initiation for those not in the know.”

—Le Figaro

“Perfect for people who might like a little treachery with their evening glass of Bordeaux, a little history and tradition with their Merlot.”

—AustCrime

“A wonderful translation...wonderful descriptions of the art, architecture, history and landscape of the Bordeaux region... The shoes are John Lobb, the cigars are Cuban, and the wine is ‘classic.’ As is this book.”

—Rantin’, Ravin’ and Reading

“Combines a fairly simple mystery with the rich feel of the French winemaking industry. The descriptions of the wine and the food are mouth-
watering!”

—The Butler Did It

“Benjamin Cooker uses his composure, erudition and intuition to solve heady crimes that take place in the exclusive—and realistic—world of grand cru wines.”

—La Croix

“An enjoyable, quick read with the potential for developing into a really unique series.”

—Rachel Coterill Book Reviews

“I finished it in one sitting! I learned so much about wine making…. But more than that is was a good little mystery—nothing wasted. The book would be perfect for a book club to have a ‘wine’ night.”

—Bless Your Hearts Mom

“A fine vintage forged by the pens of two very different varietals. It is best consumed slightly chilled, and never alone. You will be intrigued by its mystery, and surprised by its finish, and it will stay with you for a very long time.”

—
Peter May
, bestselling author

“This is an excellent translation. You never have the feeling you are reading a translated text. The author obviously knows Bordeaux extremely well, and he knows quite a bit about oenology. The book should be a hit with lovers of Bordeaux wine.”

—
Tom Fiorini
, The Vine Route

Deadly Tasting

A Winemaker Detective Mystery

Jean-Pierre Alaux

and

Noël Balen

Translated from French by Sally Pane

All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in France as

Saint Pétrus et le saigneur

by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

World copyright
©
Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2005

English translation copyright ©2014 Sally Pane

First published in English in 2014

By Le French Book, Inc., New York

http://www.lefrenchbook.com

Translation by Sally Pane

Copyediting by Amy Richards

Cover designed by David Zampa

Proofreading by Chris Gage

ISBNs:

Trade paperback: 9781939474216

Ebook: 9781939474209

Hardback: 9781939474223

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Let beer be for those who are perishing,

wine for those who are in anguish!

Let them drink and forget their poverty

and remember their misery no more.

Book of Proverbs, 31:6-7

1

Drinking unsweetened Darjeeling tea was not a problem. Resisting the three crispy little biscuits taunting him from the white porcelain dish was another thing. The evening before, his wife had told him the time had come to shed the extra pounds that were making his shirts gape between the buttons. Benjamin Cooker had, indeed, filled out a bit over the past few months. He preferred to think that his heavy neck and chin, full cheeks, prominent belly, and belt hooked in the first notch gave him the look of a bon vivant, a well-off and satisfied man in his fifties.

Elisabeth Cooker, however, did not agree. The extra weight wasn’t good for his looks or his health, so she had taken matters into her own hands. She had gotten hold of a cabbage soup diet purportedly prescribed by the cardiology department of a large urban hospital for obese patients who needed to lose weight before surgery. Elizabeth had cut a large head of cabbage, four slivers of garlic, six large onions, a dozen peeled tomatoes, six carrots, two green peppers, and one stalk of celery and plunged them into three quarts of water with three cubes of fat-free chicken broth. The mixture, seasoned with salt, pepper, curry powder, and parsley, had been boiled for ten minutes and then simmered until all the vegetables were tender. Benjamin was supposed to eat this soup whenever he was hungry over the course of seven days. It was not meant to be the only source of nourishment, and to avoid nutritional deficiencies, he would be allowed fruits, additional vegetables, rice, milk, or a piece of red meat, depending on the day.

The first day promised to be especially grueling. Other than the soup, fruit was all that Benjamin was permitted. And that was limited. He couldn’t have any bananas. Benjamin surmised they were too tasty for this Spartan regimen. For drinks he could have only unsweetened tea, natural fruit juice, and water. The wine expert had initially rebelled, citing his professional obligations, upcoming wine tastings, and business lunches. Elisabeth had responded by giving one of his love handles an affectionate pinch. Surrendering, he had leaned over her and planted a grumpy kiss in the hollow of her neck.

There were only a few patrons on the terrace of the Café Régent in downtown Bordeaux, and the damp morning foreshadowed the first chill of fall. Benjamin drank his scalding-hot tea, reached for the small white dish without looking at the perfectly golden crust on the biscuits, and offered it to the person at the next table: an elderly lady with hair pulled back in a bun who was attentively reading the last pages of the local daily newspaper, the
Sud-Ouest,
which contained the weather forecast and the horoscopes. She thanked him and gobbled the pastries in three quick bites. He stood, nodded good-bye, and resolutely took off toward the Allées de Tourny.

He was about to climb the large staircase to his office when a digital toccata rang out from the cell phone deep inside the pocket of his Loden. He dug the device out, pressed the answer button, and Inspector Barbaroux’s gravelly voice assaulted his eardrum. Getting straight to the point without so much as a greeting, the police inspector asked Benjamin to come immediately to 8B Rue Maucoudinat. The detective had a clipped, authoritative tone, perhaps to give away as little information as possible. Irritated, Benjamin made a quick about-face and headed for the Saint Pierre neighborhood. He was not in the habit of complying so swiftly, and he was almost angry with himself for doing what the captain wanted without getting any explanation.

Arriving at the Place Camille Jullian, Benjamin spotted two police cars blocking the narrow street, their doors wide open and lights flashing. An ambulance was parked nearby. The street had also been cordoned off. A uniformed officer recognized Benjamin from afar and unhooked the crime-scene tape to let him pass. He explained that the captain was waiting for him on the third floor of the small building at the corner of the Rue des Trois Chandeliers. Other police officers were holding back a crowd of onlookers, many of whom were standing on their toes to catch a glimpse of whatever was happening behind the flowerpots on the balcony. Benjamin rushed up the two flights of wooden stairs without so much as holding onto the railing and made his way down the hall, where two plainclothes detectives were talking with a woman in a white coat. They all turned and looked him up and down without a word.

“Hello,” Benjamin panted. “I believe the inspector is expecting me.”

“I don’t know if he can be disturbed,” said one of the men. “Access to the area is prohibited.”

“This way, Mr. Cooker,” Barbaroux bellowed from inside the apartment.

In the hallway, an empty gurney sat next to an umbrella stand, which was also empty. The wallpaper, with tedious rows of droopy floral bouquets, oozed a musty odor. Faded prints of religious scenes, shepherds on the heath, and dove hunters added little charm to the stuffy dark tunnel that opened onto a cramped living room furnished in birch veneer.

“Sorry to trouble you, but I needed to see you right away,” the inspector said, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“What happened?” Benjamin asked, overlooking the fact that Barbaroux hadn’t bothered to shake his hand. “It must be serious if you’ve blocked the road off.”

“Everyone says you’re the most brilliant wine expert of your generation,” Barbaroux said. “Some even claim that you’re one of the best in the world. Is that true?”

“You didn’t bring me here to shower me with compliments, I hope.”

“Don’t think I’m being sarcastic, Mr. Cooker. That’s not my style. But it happens that I need your expertise right now.”

The woman in the white coat came into the room. Her hand was raised, and she appeared to be asking permission to cut the conversation short. Two morgue attendants wearing serious expressions were standing behind her.

“My team has finished, Chief. Can we remove the body now?”

“You haven’t forgotten anything?” Barbaroux growled.

“Everything’s ready to go. We have what we need.”

“What about those samples we rushed to the lab?”

“You should be getting the results any minute now.”

“In that case, get him out of here!”

The men pushed the gurney through a door that Benjamin had not noticed before, leaving it open as they attempted to lift the half-naked and bloody body. It took several tries, and at one point they almost dropped the corpse. The wine expert averted his eyes and made a sign of the cross.

“Jules-Ernest Grémillon, ninety-three years old,” said Barbaroux. “Not a bad age to die.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened in this apartment or not?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, looking Cooker in the eye. “Well then, follow me.”

They went into the kitchen, which looked hardly bigger than a few square feet. The floor, laminate counter, and wall tiles were splattered with dark stains that looked nearly black, except where the dim ceiling light reflected ruby red spots. Cooker felt his stomach lurch, and he was grateful there wasn’t much in it. He frowned.

“Total carnage!” Barbaroux said. “The old man was butchered like a pig. What a mess! According to preliminary findings, the victim tried to defend himself before he was struck. It looks like the killer attacked quickly. Over there, the clean dishes on the drain board fell onto the dirty dishes in the sink. They’re all smashed. And there, the pans were knocked off the hooks. A box of macaroni is spilled all over the floor.”

Benjamin looked on without a word, trying to control the revulsion he felt in this ravaged, bloodstained kitchen, a repugnant cesspool where the most barbaric violence had mixed with the ordinary misery of everyday life.

“But the strangest thing, Mr. Cooker, is behind you,” the inspector said, touching the winemaker lightly on the shoulder. “Turn around. I want you to see this. Odd, isn’t it?”

On a small wooden table wedged behind the door, right beside the refrigerator, a dozen wine glasses were arranged in a semicircle. Only one, the glass on the extreme right, was full.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Benjamin asked, dumbfounded.

“Well, exactly, it’s incomprehensible! We’re all shocked, I have to admit. This neat little scene in the midst of bloody chaos. Obviously, the murderer took his sweet time leaving a calling card. But what’s the message?”

“And what’s in the glass?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not the victim’s blood. I’m sure it’s just red wine. We sent a sample to the lab. We’ve taken all the photos and measurements we need. We’ve dusted for fingerprints, tested everything—absolutely everything—under UV light. Now all I need is you.”

“And how can I be of use?”

“Other than you, I don’t know anyone who can tell me what is in this glass.”

“You’re kidding, Inspector. You want me to do a blind tasting on the spot, at the scene of the crime, amid this slaughter?”

“I suppose these are not ideal conditions, but you would be doing me a great favor.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector. I would like to help you. But how do we know that what’s in the glass, which looks like wine, hasn’t been tainted? You can’t ask me to taste it without giving me some assurance that there’s nothing in it that could make me sick.”

“As I said, we sent a sample to the lab, and they’re rushing a tox screen. I’ll know in a minute or two.”

Benjamin didn’t have enough time to refuse the detective’s request. Barbaroux’s cell phone rang. The inspector pulled it out, put it to his ear, and mumbled a few words before ending the call and tucking the device back into his pocket.

“That was the lab. Quick, aren’t they? It’s wine, and the tox screen didn’t reveal anything worrisome. You can go ahead and do your tasting.”

Benjamin sighed. There was no way out. He picked up the glass and tipped it carefully to observe the color, search for particles, and examine the density of the surface reflection. Then he brought the glass to his nose and closed his eyes. There was dead silence, barely interrupted by a slight swishing sound when the wine finally rolled into Benjamin’s mouth. He savored it slowly, taking some air into his throat before letting the wine slide to the back of his mouth. He spit the wine onto the dish shards in the sink. Then he began all over, his eyes still half-closed, as the inspector watched. Benjamin sensed the man’s impatience but still took his time, employing the same expert approach, the same palpitating nostrils, lip movements, and slow, almost lazy chewing, punctuated with wet and noisy clicks.

“Well?” Barbaroux asked, unable to conceal his impatience any longer.

“Astonishing!”

“Where’s it from?”

“A very nice nose! Delicate, generous, balanced!”

“Where’s it from?”

“On the palate, it’s a bit disappointing.”

“But where’s it from?”

“The aromas are elegant, but the mouthfeel is somewhat faded.”

“You don’t know?”

“Time has softened the structure.”

“And where’s it from?”

“Pomerol.”

“Without a doubt?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And what else?”

“Let me see...”

“What estate?”

“I have an idea what it might be.”

“So tell me, for God’s sake!”

“I can never be sure, but...”

“But?”

“Pétrus.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost sure… Yes, absolutely.”

“Almost or absolutely?”

“Both.”

“What year?”

“You’re asking too much.”

“More or less?”

“An old vintage.”

“Approximately how old?”

“It could be sixty years old. Possibly even older.”

“Really? You don’t say! Still, you’re not being very precise.”

“Sorry.”

“Any memory of it?”

“I never tasted it before.”