Dying on the Vine (25 page)

The excellence of the food had almost distracted me from the surprise of seeing our host. I was beginning to put the pieces of the puzzle together but that which concerned the identity of Monsieur la Viscomte had caught me completely unawares. I looked at him again. He gave me a smile and a nod and resumed his conversation with Monika. She was resplendent in an iridescent silvery gown that was a startling contrast to her usual sporty style.

Following the mousse came Goujonettes of Lotte, Mediterranean fish that had been cooked in
nage.
This is a recent development in French cuisine and comes with the trend toward lighter, lower-fat cooking. A
nage
is an infusion of herbs and vegetables used strictly for poaching fish. Previously thickened with cream, the modern way is to use vegetable puree. Scallions had been blanched in the
nage
and I guessed that the seasoning came from ginger, coriander, and lemon-grass. Slivers of truffle adorned the fish, and again murmurs of admiration rippled through the room.

There was a switch of wine at this point. This one was a Premier Cru from the Peregrine vineyard, more assertive than the Musigny but balanced and charmingly flavorsome. The viscomte must have acknowledged the quality of the best wines from Peregrine, I thought—then I realized that until now I had missed the point of this completely.

I looked again at our genial host, the Viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget, now discussing a fine point of vine growing with Gerard Girardet. Most of the aspects of the mystery were falling into place and I wondered just how many of those in the room had already known the identity of Monsieur le Viscomte …

He was Grant Masterson—millionaire businessman, owner of the spectacular yacht
Windsong,
and the man who had invited me to accompany him to the truffle market.

The table service continued to be ultra-smooth. The lotte was followed by Becasseau Truffée. Becasse is woodcock, one of the tastiest and tenderest of game birds. The becasseau is a bird under seven months old and the trick is to get birds right on that borderline of age so that they are large enough to be meaty but young enough for the flesh to be delicate. These were perfect, and although my mind was really on the viscomte … Masterson, I could not help being interested in the discussion between Tourcoing and Rostaing that concerned the cooking of the dish. They were concluding that it was sautéed in very hot butter, chicken livers and truffles were added, then it was finished with lemon juice and brandy. It was served with straw potatoes, the very fine crisp sticks, and accompanied by cardoons, popular in Provençal country cooking but seldom used by known chefs. This was clearly a shame because the large edible thistle is a close relative of the artichoke and, if attentively prepared, even more delicious.

The wine waiters poured a Pomerol with it—the Trotanoy that is made from several grape varieties, principally Merlot and Cabernet Franc. It was fruity but only enough to accent the game, and the steely tannin gave it character.

A lemon sabayon in a very tall fluted glass had champagne poured over it upon serving and cleaned the palate perfectly. Then came the dessert, Branched Truffle Fritters. The batter was light as a feather and a comment from Doctor Selvier that this was a very rare dish was quite true. It requires thick slices of truffle and these make it too expensive to calculate.

Conversations flowed on a dozen subjects but my participation was limited to nods and simple answers. Finally, Monsieur le Viscomte—as I had now come to think of him—announced that coffee and liqueurs would be served in the library. Cigars for the men, he stated, adding with a laugh that they were for the women too if they so wished.

In twos and threes, the assembly rose and proceeded in the direction of the library. As I passed the thronelike chair at the head of me table, the viscomte put a hand on my arm.

“Let's go into my study. You and I have a few things to talk about…”

I
T WAS A DREAM
of a study, most of the books leather-bound and mellow with age and gilt lettering. Subdued orange lamps cast a restful glow and two large globes on floor stands showed the ancient and modern worlds. Masterson indicated a couple of deep leather armchairs and we sat. A waiter appeared and took our orders for coffee and I went along with Masterson's suggestion of the Ethiopian brand.

I found I was thinking of him as Masterson again, now that we were alone. He leaned back and eyed me with an amused grin.

“It took a long time for you to figure it out, didn't it?”

“Yes. The meal tonight clinched it, of course. It was not just a meal—it was also a statement.”

He considered that. “I think that sums it up—yes, a statement.”

“Every course contained the truffle,” I said. “But they weren't just truffles—they were a sublime improvement on the original, they were truffles raised to the nth degree.”

He nodded, pleased. “So what's your summary?”

“The blue truffle is still a legend, of course and always will be, but we can call this one the blue truffle. Chantier found it—a hybrid, some natural offspring of the finest black truffle with a very much higher percentage of glutamic acid, the component that enables the truffle to accentuate the taste of any food it accompanies. Chantier cooked it for his friend, Emil Laplace.

“Chantier probably knew only that it was a super-truffle but Laplace recognized its potential value and bought some truffle pigs to look for more. It was convenient to spread a rumor about sangliers—that would keep others away and would explain the presence of the pigs. Finding that the truffle grew only on Willesford land, Laplace struck a deal with Arundel to sell it. As he didn't have the money, Arundel approached you, and he's been working for you ever since. You probably told him he could take over control of the vineyard when you bought it. At the same time, you were telling Girardet he'd be in charge.”

He regarded me, unperturbed. “What you have been doing is testing out all these truffle dishes by using Le Petit Manoir. I don't know how much you told Rostaing, but he knew he was onto something good and sent samples to his cousin Tourcoing to try out on the Paris market.”

I paused to let the waiter bring and pour the coffee. Masterson sipped.

“Don't you find this Ethiopian brand really excellent?” asked Masterson.

I marveled at his complacency but was not going to let him know it.

“Yes. The pity of it all is that you found it necessary to kill several people to develop this blue truffle, sensational as it is.”

Masterson shook his head, slowly and sadly.

“I'm disappointed that you think that of me. I was rather hoping you might join me in this great crusade to bring the food world a breathtaking discovery.” He sipped his coffee approvingly. “I didn't kill any of those people, you know.”

His barefaced denial took me unawares. “Chantier?” I asked.

“Drowned accidentally.”

“Laplace?”

“Gored by a sanglier.”

“Fox?”

“An accident. A crossbowman stumbled and his weapon discharged. He shouldn't have had a bolt—”

“Morel?”

“Signs warn against unauthorized prowlers in Herculanum. Those two-thousand-year-old buildings are just not safe.”

I gazed into his face. Somehow, he looked different from my companion at the truffle market. … “You don't really believe ah that.”.

“Certainly I do.” He gave me an injured look. “I'm Grant Masterson—I haven't killed anybody.”

I had the creepy feeling that his acquisition of the title of viscomte was segregating his two personalities—and establishing a convenient way of dismissing responsibility. It was probably the same approach he had used with Arundel, others, too, perhaps including Monika.

“You brought in Fox to dowse for truffles …”

Masterson nodded. “The pigs weren't doing the job. We turned them loose.”

“But then Fox's dowsing found a large bed of truffles. He was so pleased, he was drinking and talking about it. You had the crossbowman kill him before he could say too much.”

“Professor Rahmani has the task of cultivating the truffle,” said Masterson. “And, d'you know, he may succeed! If he does, I'll be sorry I let my enthusiasm soar and made those offers for Willesford. Suvarov and his ultralights took care of local transport, of course—with the help of an experienced rally driver.”

He went on in chatty fashion. “The first blue truffles we found had a very short life—we had to rush them to the table. We handle them better now.”

“Your two red herrings worked very well,” I said. “The story of the Treasure of the Templars, the planting of that coin at the pawn shop—that was good. Even better was the tale of the wonderful wine that helped people live to a ripe old age.”

“Everyone wants to believe that's true,” purred Masterson.

“You had stories spread around about how many old people were in the region. Doctor Selvier was a willing helper too.”

“The doctor likes seeing his name in print.”

“So all the villagers were convinced that Willesford wine helped them live a long time.”

Masterson pulled a wry face. “That was the original intention, but they're a stubborn lot. Too many of them were not convinced.”

“But they all drink Willesford wine,” I protested, puzzled.

“Of course they do,” grinned Masterson, “but to get them to do it, I had to subsidize the bars, cafes, restaurants … I paid thirty percent of the cost. They didn't know the money came from me. Arundel made it look like Willesford was doing it to push its own product.”

“When the Peregrine wine was poured at dinner tonight, I knew right away that you own Peregrine.”

“Of course.”

“Yet you subsidized the drinking of Willesford wine. …”

“The Peregrine vineyard is nothing. I bought it on a whim—many men have a dream of owning a vineyard. I thought of expanding it, then I lost interest. When the blue truffle came, the vineyard was a perfect cover. It's nothing compared to the market for the blue truffle. It will be worth millions, millions!”

For the first time, I saw a gleam in his eye that was not entirely normal. The man was a megalomaniac.

“You already have millions.”

He shook his head vehemently. “You don't understand! It's not the money! I'll have absolute control over the supply of the most powerful flavor enhancer in the world. I'll make so many people happy—I'll be able to give them taste sensations like they've never known before!”

“You bought the title of the viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget,” I said, wanting to bring him down from his gloating.

“I bought the château—the title came with it.”

He was striving to find justification for his actions and I was getting irritated at his high-handed attitude.

“That doesn't make you nobility. You're no more a viscomte than I am.”

His eyes flashed and he sat bolt upright.

“My family is French, on my mother's side. There was a title in the family at one time—it might have been one of the Rougefoucault family who deprived us of it. I was merely claiming my heritage.”

I drank some coffee and tried to slow down. Most of what I had come to see of his elaborate scheme had been correct. As far as I knew, all the interfering elements had been eliminated. Except one …

I drank some more coffee. “You didn't send Johann Ditter to kill me, I'll give you that. I just learned today that the bees here are not deadly. The bee lady at the fair here told me that none of the bee varieties in the south of France are deadly unless one has a specific allergy to them.”

It had been quite an instructive day at the fair. On another stand, I had learned from the pig expert that in the region around the vineyards, sanglier hunt singly. The ‘terrifying' creatures that I had encountered in the cave were certainly in the plural so they must have been friendly pigs as Delorme said. It was while talking to the pig man that the use of pigs as truffle hunters had arisen.

“The bee episode was a warning—though it served the double purpose of getting me in a position where Monika could introduce me to you, quite “accidentally.” When we went to the truffle market in Aupres, you wanted to find out how much I knew.”

He made no reply.

“I knew nothing at that time—I guess you found that out.”

It was a while before he spoke. “I was disappointed. I had hoped we might work together.”

“In killing people?”

It was a reckless thing to say and it was out before I could stop it.

There was a glint in his eye that I wished weren't there.

“No, you didn't know anything then,” he said in a tone without emotion. “You were just a nuisance. I supposed you were another nosy parker, come to find out why Morel hadn't reported. I do so hope you'll be the last.”

“Morel—yes, he found out, didn't he?”

He grimaced. “Instead of denouncing me, he wanted money.”

“So you took him on your yacht to Corsica, tried to work a deal with him. It didn't work so you had one of your men kill him at Herculanum and try to frame Veronique and me for the murder.”

He finished his coffee. I was dragging mine out—I didn't want to face what might happen next. “The viscomte is having a hunt tomorrow. I know you'll join us,” he said silkily.

“Hunting what?” I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“Oh, there's lots of game around here. Even some—well, some fairly big game.” He smiled without mirth and there was that maniacal flicker again.

A servant came in to say that Captain Gregali wanted to speak to him urgently. Masterson nodded. Gregali came in looking grim and I walked out of the study, leaving Masterson sitting there, unmoving.

One of the uniformed staff was outside the door. He stepped aside to let me pass. Another of them was at the bottom of the stairs and again I racked my brain to figure out why they all had such a similar look. Build, appearance, manner—what was it?