Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) (8 page)

13

The next day, Benjamin and Virgile woke up early. When they arrived at Vol-au-Vent, they found that the gate had been repainted. It was cracked open. They left the car outside and walked up the driveway, scanning the property.

“There aren’t any cars,” Virgile said.

“But the grass has been mowed.”

“Oh wow, look at the winery, boss. Someone’s been painting there too, although I don’t think it’s a job our Mr. Périthiard will be signing any checks for.”

“Right you are, Virgile. Graffiti. How do you think that happened?”

The two men hurried over to the winery to get a closer look at the message: “Go back where you belong.”

“That’s about as direct as it gets,” Virgile said. “I’m guessing it’s one of Dujaray’s people.”

“It could be any winegrower in the region, Virgile.”

As they examined the large red letters, a silver Peugeot 405 Saloon pulled up and came to a stop. Sylvain got out of the vehicle and joined the winemaker and his assistant. Once again, he was wearing freshly pressed pants and a crisp shirt.

“Sylvain, I see that work is well under way,” Benjamin said. “But someone is trying to sabotage our efforts. How did this happen?”

“I found it like this when I came to work.”

Benjamin noticed a slight twitch in his left eye, and his lips were pressed together.

“Have you found any other vandalism on the estate?” Benjamin asked.

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

With that, Sylvain assured Benjamin that all would be in working order by harvest, wished them a good day, and started heading toward the manor house.

“A man of few words, boss.”

“Yes,” Benjamin said, shaking his head. “You’ve been spending some time over here. What’s it been like working with him?”

“He does what he has to. I can’t say he shows a lot of initiative, but he seems to know the right people.”

“Were you able to charm him into telling you anything about his relationship with his cousin, our Guillaume Périthiard?”

“Not a word. It’s like he’s made of stone. So, I guess it’s back to Bordeaux for us. Right?”

“There’s nothing more that we need to tend to at the moment. Sylvain says the work’s on schedule, and Annabelle has everything under control at Maison Coultard. I’d say we can get going.”

“I’m curious, boss. Just how much are you going to charge Périthiard?”

“Too soon to say, Virgile. Let’s get through the harvest and the launch of his
primeur
. Then we’ll see.”

It was late. Annabelle was finishing up some e-mails, when she heard a knock and Fabien Dujaray stuck his head through the door. Annabelle looked up and greeted him, noting that the suit he was wearing today was more casual and a better fit. His shirt and tie were more stylish, as well. Fabien’s eyes were a deep brown, and his face was sculpted to perfection. She had a hard time looking away.

“Fabien, I thought you called it a day hours ago.”

“No, I’m still here. What are you working on?”

“I still have some people to call in California, but I’m almost done. Why don’t you go home?” She shot the man a smile designed to be cool and devastating at the same time.

Annabelle had spent her first days on the job systematically undoing the methods her predecessor had put in place. She gave more responsibility to underlings, delegated important tasks to the ambitious, lightened some administrative procedures, and did away with hierarchical protocol. She made it clear that she was open to dialogue. At the same time, she maintained a sophisticated distance from those under her, even her closest colleague, Fabien Dujaray.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Fabien, looking back at her computer screen. He retreated, closing the door behind him.

Respect came naturally, and Annabelle knew she didn’t need to be overly familiar or abuse her power. She also knew that allowing her head to be turned by someone so handsome was asking for trouble. She was here to focus on business. Orders were already flowing in. Soon the business would take on new hires for the release of the year’s Beaujolais Nouveau.

Guillaume Périthiard was thrilled. With a sales VP of this caliber, he’d surely dethrone Dujaray senior. Annabelle had just gotten some new Korean clients and had managed to unload two hundred pallets with an importer in Saint Petersburg. Périthiard rubbed his hands together as he envisioned his prosperous future. He had been smart to ally himself with women. They had offered him their unstinting support, and in return, he had given them his compete trust.

Solène Chavannes was not to be outdone by her lover’s vice president. She was scouting sites in the historic center of France’s third-largest city, where Prince Régnié bistros could soon rival the best Lyon
bouchons
. She planned to visit several other cities—Strasbourg, Metz, Nancy, Mâcon, Roanne, and Dijon—to check out their potential. She had also set her sights on a few strategic neighborhoods in Paris, including Bastille, the Marais, and the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. The adventure was only beginning.

It hadn’t taken Périthiard long to note that Solène and Annabelle were similar. Both were untiring, single-minded—and sexy as hell. It seemed only natural to bring them together for a business meeting at La Tour Rose. Over a dinner of blue fin tuna in pastry and sea bass with ginger and lime, the two inventive women would find solutions for each of the problems he brought up. Périthiard’s idea was simple: combine Annabelle’s business acumen with Solène’s media savvy to create a marketing strategy that would take his business to new heights.

The dinner, however, unfolded in a way that even Périthiard couldn’t have predicted. At first the two women were tense, each trying to eclipse the other. With a brunette on one side and a blonde on the other, Périthiard saw that they had two different visions of the world. Nothing constructive would come from the encounter, he concluded. But what came next astonished him. As the wine flowed, the women began to relax and exchange ideas. Soon they were talking right past him, as though he weren’t sitting between the two of them. Their opposition to each other became complicity—a complicity he longed to be part of. As he watched their subsequent game of seduction, he became determined to return to his basic principle: it was better to divide and conquer.

He looked at his 1972 Rolex Oyster. “Time to call it a night,” he declared.

The two women looked at him.

“Annabelle, I’ll see you in my office at 7:30 a.m. to go over this month’s objectives.”

Annabelle gathered her things and gave Guillaume one of her work smiles. “Of course, Mr. Périthiard. With pleasure.”

Then she turned to Solène, tilted her head ever so slightly, and gave her a sexy little pout. Périthiard watched as she headed toward the door, her black designer dress hugging her body. When she reached the entrance, she looked over her shoulder and winked at Solène.

In unison, Solène and Périthiard gulped their wine.

14

“It’s crap,” Virgile said. “Kitsch. Cheesy even.”

Despite their heavy workload, Benjamin and Virgile dropped everything in September, when Périthiard called, and made a quick trip to Beaujolais.

Périthiard had sent Cooker & Co. proposals from the Lyon-based communications office for his labels and logo. He wanted their feedback. And feedback he got.

“Who came up with this?”

“Solène… It was her idea.”

“Well, it’s a bad idea,” Benjamin responded.

It didn’t take more than that from Cooker & Co. for Périthiard to change his mind. It wasn’t that he was weak, but he did know who had more wisdom when it came to wine. To be on the safe side, he asked Annabelle Malisset what she thought. As usual, she cut to the core.

“It’s not outright vulgar. I can think of campaigns more uncouth than that. But it’s not your style,” she said, looking back at her desk and arranging some papers.

His mind was made up. Clearly, Solène had no talent for the wine business. His passion for the woman had cooled since their dinner at La Tour Rose. Solène and Périthiard had seen each other less often and more quickly. They no longer spent long nights together. Finally, the two agreed to end it, but pragmatically decided to maintain their business partnership.

Thinking Solène and he had handled their affair like two intelligent adults, he wasn’t prepared for the scene Eric Chavannes made the day before the first Prince Régnié was scheduled to open a few streets from the Place Bellecour. He had just learned what all of Lyon had known for a long time. He stormed into the dining room and demanded an explanation. His wife looked at him with ice in her eyes. Périthiard stared at him with cynicism-tinged compassion. The cuckold’s belligerence deflated instantly. He turned around and walked out.

“Pitiful,” Solène said.

“Pathetic,” Périthiard added.

Rumors of Périthiard’s affair, now a thing of the past, had also made their way from Vol-au-Vent to Versailles. Bérangère Périthiard, the perfect society wife and exemplary mother of their two children, took the news stoically and without any great surprise.

“Darling,” she said to him over the phone. “Just yesterday, I was with friends, enjoying macarons from Ladurée with hot chocolate from La Maison du Chocolat. You know how we women love to talk.”

She then demanded, in exchange for conjugal peace, that he renovate the vast mansion in Versailles—the mansion she never intended to move out of and the place he would never live in again.

“I also expect the manor house at Vol-au-Vent to be ready by now,” she added. “I plan to pay a visit.”

Meanwhile, the Dujarays were going through a rough patch. Maison Coultard-Périthiard had proved to be a formidable opponent, as many had expected. Laurent Quillebaud’s death continued to weigh on the Dujaray employees, and the eldest son’s subsequent defection to Coultard-Périthiard had crushed the old man’s morale. In the village marketplaces and cafés, everyone was talking, and Dujaray himself could hardly stand to visit the spots he had once frequented.

The situation took a strange turn one night, when Marceau, the farmhand who had been hunting with Quillebaud, downed too much Beaujolais Villages at a community bingo game. He got up on a table and starting spewing a confession. The hundred or so prosperous winegrowers, well-dressed citizens, representatives of senior citizens associations, and presidents of major sports clubs listened in utter silence.

“Marceau’s no dummy… I tell you, I’m the one who done him in. Yeah, me. Marceau. Stuck his piece in his gut and pulled the trigger. Me. No respect for his boss, one of the nicest bosses you’ll ever find. Gave me a job when nobody else would. It was me. I done it.”

Before he could say another word, one of Marceau’s drinking buddies got up on a chair and took his elbow. Marceau tried to shake him off, but he finally agreed to get down.

“Now, now, Marceau. Nobody believes you,” his buddy said. “You’d never hurt a soul.”

The whole hall was silent as Marceau’s friend led him out of the building. When the door closed, those at the bingo hall started drinking and talking again. No, nobody believed Marceau, who had suffered a cruel fall from a second-floor window when he was just a boy. He couldn’t have killed Laurent Quillebaud. And many agreed that Dujaray was, indeed, one of the region’s better bosses.

Virgile was filling Benjamin in on the gossip when they received the invitation to Vol-au-Vent, which came in the form of a text message: “You are cordially invited to a garden party at Vol-au-Vent, in the presence of Mrs. and Mr. Guillaume Périthiard, in honor of the estate’s first harvest under new ownership. You are expected at 7:30 p.m. tomorrow.”

“That invitation doesn’t say RSVP, does it? It’s more like an order,” Benjamin noted.

“It looks like we’ll be here another day. No worries. Mercedes and Esteban will help relieve some of your stress, boss. You’ve been working way too hard.”

“I’m not so sure Elisabeth will appreciate our staying, but I must admit I’m curious about Mrs. Périthiard. I haven’t met her yet. Do you think Solène will be there?”

“Oh, that’s old news. Solène traded the rich dude for the hot chick.”

“Details, son, details. How often do I have to tell you?”

“Well, when she and Périthiard called it quits, she went straight to Annabelle. And here everyone thought Annabelle would go for Fabien Dujaray, considering how much time they spend together at the office. But no, Solène was the one she wanted.”

“I see the grapevine’s in working order. Anything else I should know about?”

“Some of the vines at Vol-au-Vent have been damaged.”

“What do you mean damaged?”

“Well, I really should say vandalized.”

“Be more specific, Virgile.”

“An odd row here and there, near the manor house, where it’s visible.”

Benjamin woke up several times that night and looked worse for wear the next morning, when he came down to the kitchen for his tea. He told Virgile he was having chest pains and trouble breathing.

“We should get you to a doctor,” Virgile said.

“I’ll be okay,” Benjamin said. He was panting now.

“I’m trying not to freak out, boss, but you’re really scaring me.”

“I said I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t care. I’m not listening to you. You need to see a doctor.”

Benjamin grumbled but was too weak to resist as Virgile helped him to the convertible and raced him to the town of Quincié, calling a local doctor on the way. Dr. Morgonet met them at the car and helped Virgile usher Benjamin into his office and onto the table. Then he calmly examined the winemaker.

“Sir, it’s nothing to worry about. Your EKG is normal. Your pulse is fine, and I don’t see any other cause for concern. You appear to be having a garden-variety panic attack. Are you working too hard? I suggest that you try to slow down a bit. But all in all, I’ve seen worse.”

“Are you saying I still have a few weeks to live, doctor?” Benjamin joked as he buttoned his shirt.

“I think so. But do try to slow down. Prolonged stress can have adverse effects on your health. Now, can I have your name, please? Are you insured?”

“Cooker. Benjamin Cooker…”

Dr. Morgonet grinned and took two steps back to get a better look at his patient. “The
Cooker Guide
Cooker? I read in the paper that you’re working with Guillaume Périthiard. Is that true?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“It’s an honor to treat you. I’m a loyal reader of the
Cooker Guide
.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Benjamin replied, hoping the doctor would end the conversation so he could get out of the office.

“So how do you like our region? Your client is shaking things up around here: taking on Dujaray, hiring his son, making a Régnié, and even opening
bouchons
. No wonder you’re having a panic attack. The man must be breathing fire down your neck.”

“I’m just a consultant, doctor.”

“Well, he sure seems to have something to prove.”

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“You’re aware that he comes from around here, right? His parents were insurance brokers. They ran a small office in Lyon, not far from the Place Bellecour. They had some reasonably well-off clients, and they did all right. They never spent much, and they saved a lot—enough to retire comfortably. They weren’t brilliant, but they were people you could trust.”

“It’s hard to imagine the Guillaume Périthiard I know having such a modest background,” Benjamin said.

“I knew Guillaume when he was young. He had a certain predisposition for pleasure and indolence. A serious case of hepatitis kept him from graduating from high school, and his pride kept him from going back. He had always been bored at school anyway. But oddly enough, he was capable of applying himself in the workplace. He took a menial job in a tile factory in Villeurbanne and proved himself. Unfortunately, his parents, who had always wanted him to get his education, took his decision as an affront. He was ostracized by the family. They were even cool to him when he brought his fiancée around to introduce her.”

“That would help to explain why he’s so intent on making something of himself here. He had a rough start, with that terrible hunting accident.”

“Yes, Laurent Quillebaud. I saw him come into the world.”

“He seemed like such a bright young man,” Benjamin said, interested now in continuing the conversation.

“Yes, he could have had a bright future,” the doctor said.

“It was too bad about his illness,” Benjamin said, leaning in.

The doctor was quiet for a few moments. Finally, he spoke. “He warned me. I should have taken him seriously.”

“Warned you about what?”

“I can’t forget what he said: ‘I will choose the time of my death. I won’t give that luxury to the one some call God.’”

“When did he say that?”

“When I gave him his lab results. His T-cell count had dropped, and he was showing other symptoms, although most people couldn’t tell. He had put off seeing me too long. He needed treatment right away, but he said no. He thought it was too late. I’m amazed that he was able to put so much energy into his work when he was that sick.” The doctor was gazing out the window.