Tainted Tokay (3 page)

4

B
enjamin had met Claude Nithard many years earlier, before he had even finished his first
Cooker Guide
.
Although he was already a leading wine expert, Benjamin didn't consider himself a writer. The publishing-house executive had taken the winemaker under his wing and given him both guidance and support. Since then, the
Cooker Guide
had succeeded well beyond expectation, and the two men had become good friends. Two or three times a year, they would go to Lutétia in Paris and share an epicurean feast. Three saints would invariably join them—Saint Julien, Saint Estèphe, and Saint Émilion. They would spend a few hours in heaven and leave the restaurant in a serene stat
e of communion.

This year, Claude had called Benjamin a few hours before the newest edition of the
Cooker Guide
was scheduled to go to press. He wanted to do something more spectacular than going to the Lutétia, as he was celebrating not only the updated
Cooker Guide
, but also a milestone birthday. Claude asked Benjamin and Elisabeth to join his girlfriend and him on a Danube
River cruise.

“We'll visit the Tokaji winemaking region,” he had told Benjamin. “It was my girlfriend's idea. She's already making the arrangements with my secretary. The publishing house will tre
at, of course.”

A romantic cruise on the Danube: as soon as Claude made the offer, Benjamin was envisioning himself gliding through the waters, his glass in hand and his preferred cigar between his lips. They'd board in Vienna and cruise to Budapest, where they'd take in the city's smoky cafés, Turkish baths, quaint hotels, and baroque character. And finally they'd get on the legendary Bartók Béla and travel by rail to Bald Mountain, which, ironically, was covered with for
ests and vines.

Claude claimed to know little about Hungary, except for having played an interminable game of chess in the well-known Széchenji baths of Budapest. The winemaker enthusiastically offered to be the ad hoc guide, knowing, as he did, all about the liquid gold that trickled down the languid slopes o
f Mount Tokaj.

That had been several weeks earlier—before someone smashed in Alexandrine's face. Although he knew Virgile would take good care of her and Cooker & Co., he didn't feel right
about leaving.

“What's wrong, darling?” Elisabeth asked as they headed
to the airport.

Benja
min harrumphed.

“You're such a worrywart. I talked to Alexandrine. She's shook up, but she insisted that you not concern yourself. Virgi
le's with her.”

Elisabeth leaned over and kissed him
on the cheek.

“Think of what awaits us,” she said. “The proud Buda, the boisterous Pest, the stalls of paprika, the Herend porcelain, the sweets at the Gerbeaud café. How long has it been, sweetheart, since we've had a geta
way like this?”

Benjamin relaxed a little and cleared his throat. “I see we even got a new set of luggage. Was that rea
lly necessary?”

“Oh, don't be a curmudgeon. Wait until you see the clothes I bought. There's a little lacy thing that I think you'll es
pecially like.”

5

A
s soon as they arrived at the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, Benjamin called Alexandrine, but she didn't answer her phone. He left a quick message telling her he was thinking of her. Then he
called Virgile.

“So?”

“She'll be in the hospital for a few days, boss, and won't be able to work for more
than a month.”

“What's the extent
of the damage?”

“The attack was brutal. Her brow's fractured. Her nasal septum's broken, and her optic nerve may be injured. The doctors think she might need reconstru
ctive surgery.”

Benjamin pictured her delicate and perfectly shaped nos
e and grimaced.

“Has she talked
to the police?”

“Yep. She gave them a short description of the man. Late forties, square face, short hair, crooked teeth. That's all. She said he seemed to have it in for her. He called her names and hit her hard several times. Then he grabbed her purs
e and ran off.”

“Odd.”

“What
's that, boss?”

“That's a lot of violence for a purse snatching. Where did
it take place?”

“In the Allées des Tourny p
arking garage.”

“It's a busy place. There must be cameras. Check with the police and make sure they're lo
oking into it.”

“Um, boss, do you think the police will want me to tell them how to
do their job?”

“Call Inspector Barbaroux. H
e owes me one.”

“Doesn't he work homicide? This is j
ust a mugging.”

“Just a mugging?” Benjamin could feel his blood pressure rising. “How can you say that? This is Alexandrine we're
talking about!”

Benjamin ended the call without saying good-bye. He took a few deep breaths, straightened his jacket, and joined Elisabet
h in the lobby.

6

B
enjamin found Elisabeth in the grand salon. Her simple beige dress accentuated her slender frame and classic good looks, and she looked effortlessly chic in her go-with-everything trench coat, Hermès scarf, and buckled low-heeled pumps. Elisabeth smiled and took his arm as he cast his eyes over the luxurious banquettes and marble pedestal tables laden with sweets. Clearly, the sin of gluttony was
a virtue here.

“You did promise there'd be no mention of the word ‘diet,' right?” Benjamin whispered as they sat down at
their table.

“It
is
hard to resist a Sachertorte with all that decadent chocol
ate, isn't it?”

“Especially with a dollop of whipped cream. Turning it down would
be sacrilege.”

Elisabeth looked him in the eye with a gaze that caused Benjamin's heart
to skip a beat.

“Okay, no diet, but only if you keep your part of the deal.” She leaned over and nu
zzled his neck.

Benjamin Cooker, the staid half-English Frenchman, felt himself blush li
ke a schoolboy.

He cleared his throat and looked up when he heard his name called. Claude Nithard, wearing a perfectly tailored jacket, narrow trousers, and pointed leather shoes, was waving and walking toward them with a ravi
shing brunette.

“Let me introduce Co
nsuela Chavez.”

The Cookers stood up to greet Claude and Consuela with the traditional French cheek kisses. Despite a marked difference in age, the Nithard-Chavez couple seemed compatible. They were holding hands, and Consuela was giggling. Benjamin wondered where she was from—perhaps from Central or South America? She was beautiful, indeed. And one who seemed to crave attention. Benjamin hadn't missed the smoky eye makeup and the way she swayed as they were walkin
g to the table.

“I hope we haven't kept you waiting
,” Claude said.

“We had just enough time to decide that our first adventure would be Sachertorte.” Benjamin started to pull out a chair for Consuela, but Claude hastened to do it himself, giving his lover an intimate look as she sat down. Benjamin wrinkled his nose. Their bond smelled
of fresh paint.

“Will that be four servings?” Benjamin asked
, sitting down.

Consuela declined. “I'll have a Viennese coffee, without too much whipped
cream, please.”

“Oh, but you must try the Sachertorte,” Claude pressed, explaining that the confection was a specialty of the grandest hotel in Vienna. Generations of Austrians had been willing to sell their souls for just a taste. Such grand words were a bit too much, e
ven for Claude.

Still, the woman refused, giving her lover a pouty look with her own version of
creative drama.

Elisabeth glanced at Benjamin, and he knew she was going to roll her eyes. He hastened to make som
e conversation.

“Did you know that the pastry chefs who make the Sachertorte here go through more than a million eggs every year, plus eighty tons of sugar, seventy-five tons of chocolate, thirty-seven tons of apricot jam, twenty-five tons of butter, and no less than thirty
tons of flour?”

Elisabeth raised her hand to quiet her husband. “Stop showing off, Benjamin. I love chocolate cake as much as anyone else, but all that tonnage is mak
ing me queasy.”

“Not me,” Claude said, motioning to the waiter. “Benjamin, you and Elisabeth should write a cookbook for us. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. You have the perfect name: Cooker. I can see the title now:
Cooking with the Cookers
. With the dishes Elisabeth turns out and your wine pairings, we'd have the makings of a bestselle
r, I tell you.”

“Claude, you were the one who said no work on this trip,” Benjamin answered. “And now you're trying to convince me to write another book? As if there weren't mountains of cookbooks already. And who buys them anymore? Margaux says that everyone gets recipes off the Intern
et these days.”

Across from him, Consuela was fingering the silverware and giving him a provocative look. The winemaker caught himself feeling intrigued. Elisabeth's quick jab under the table stopped him. He gave his wife a sheepish look and was grateful when their sweets arrived. He picked up his spoo
n and dived in.

“Did you know that there's a fascinating story behind this cake?” the w
inemaker asked.

“Really?” I
t was Consuela.

“Yes,” Benjamin said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, stamped with the hotel's coat of arms. “It was at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Prince Klemens Wenzel von Metternich ordered his bakers to create a unique dessert for some dignitaries he wanted to impress. ‘Do not disappoint or shame me,' the prince told the kitchen staff. Unfortunately, the head pastry chef was bedridden, and it fell on his sixteen-year-old apprentice, Franz Sacher, to take up the challenge and prepare an amazing chocolate cake. You can imagine how his knees were shaking when he presented the cake. But as it turned out, his creation delighted both the prince and his guests. It wasn't long before the cake became renowned throughout Vienna. And today, as you can see, people come from all over to order this ve
ry confection.”

“It's good,” Elisabeth said, putting down her spoon. “Very good, even. But legendary?
I don't know.”

Benjamin smiled at his wife. She was a discerning woman. One of the many qualities he lo
ved about her.

“Things aren't always what they seem,” he said. “Perhaps the legend doesn't come from the actual cake, but from the story surrounding it. Franz's son Edouard carried on the family tradition and perfected the cake while working for the competition—the Demel Bakery. He did well enough to open his own hotel—the Sacher Hotel. But it wound up going bankrupt, and Edouard's son returned to Demel. By 1938, however, the Sacher Hotel was up and running again under different ownership. It began making the cake too. The rivalry was on, eventually leading to litigation. Each side laid claim to the origina
l Sachertorte.”

“Sounds like a classic copyright dispute,” Claude s
aid. “Who won?”

“The tussle lasted for years. The two sides set in motion the entire Austrian legal machine, whose rulings were challenged one by one. Pastry chefs from all over the world were asked to give their expert testimony. Finally, in 1965, the Vienna Supreme Court ruled in favor of the Hotel Sacher, affirming it as owner of the original Sachertorte. The recipe was placed in the establishment's vault, where it remain
s to this day.”

Benjamin took his fork and poked at the confection. “The two cakes are a bit different. Here it's filled with apricot jam, while at Demel's it's covered with a warm layer of apricot marmalade and frosted with chocolate. If we have time before boarding the ship to Budapest tomorrow, we can
visit Demel's.”

“I don't know, Benjamin,” Elisabeth said. “That's cutting i
t a bit close.”

“So what about the rest of today?” Claude said, finishing his cake. “Would you care to join Consuela and me? We're thinking of checking out the Gustav Klimt paintings at the Schö
nbrunn Palace.”

Benjamin wasn't surprised, considering the erotic nature of Klimt's work. Elisabeth gave him a don't-you-dare glare. He smiled at Claude and said they had their own plans. The Cookers accompanied the publisher and his companion to their cab and
said good-bye.

“So, my love, if not Kli
mt, then what?”

“The H
ofburg Palace?”

The former imperial palace was grand, but Benjamin was hoping to see the house where Mozart had composed the
C
oronation Mass
.

“All right. I'm too thrilled to be in Vienna to argue,” Elisabeth said, smiling and taking her husband's arm. “Let's go see Wol
fgang's place.”

7

B
ack at the hotel, Benjamin
called Virgile.

“Boss, something's off with Alexandrine's story. The police checked the surveillance cameras, and they didn't pick up anything. There weren't any traces of blood in the garage, either. The cops came to see Alexandrine again. I was there. They asked the same question you did: why would someone attack her so brutally just to take her purse and run off. They think she may know the attacker—and they were tough on
her about it.”

“Well, wha
t did she say?”

“Nothing. She was a real clam. She said she passed out after the guy started beating her and barely remembers how she got to the hospital when she came to. A blessing, if you ask me. She's still having a hard time thin
king straight.”

“What
do you think?”

“I think is it's odd that I'm the only one with her at the hospital. Doesn't she have family, boss? Why di
d she call me?”

Benjamin knew the Palussières were an old family from the Gironde that, apart from some vines and a neo-Gothic château in the haut Médoc, had made its fortune in the slave trade rather than wine. Of course, Alexandrine's ancestors had invented a more glorious past involving the sale of spices on Bordeaux's Cours de la Martinique, as well as a lucrative brokerage business on the Cours de l'Intendance, when Bordeaux wines were shipped all over the world and
négociants
fixed the prices on behalf of the owners of gra
nd cru estates.

These days, the family drew most of its profits from real-estate holdings. Rumor had it that they owned a private mansion on the Rue du Palais Gallien in downtown Bordeaux, two single-story houses called
échoppes
in the upscale suburb of Caudéran, an old monastery property in the town of Latresne, and a waterfront villa on the Arcachon Bay, at the tip
of Cap Ferret.

It didn't matter how much money the family had or where it came from. None of it was Alexandrine's. They'd given her an apartment—it wouldn't do to have her homeless—and then cut her off. She
was on her own.

“Virgile, her lifestyle choices alienat
ed her family.”

“That's so provincial, boss. Hardly anybody thinks that way anymore. And even if they disagreed with her so-called lifestyle choices, you'd think they'd come to see her in the hospital. How could parents abandon their daug
hter this way?”

“Her parents haven't spoken to her for years, not since she came out. They might not even know that she was attacked. She called you because we're her family now. Do we know
anything else?”

“The investigator asked if she received any threats or got any suspicious phone calls in the weeks leading up
to the attack.”

“W
ell, did she?”

“She insisted th
at she didn't.”

There was a moment of silence on the phone as Benjamin watched Elisabeth come out of the hotel bathroom in an off-the-shoulder black evening dress and the sexiest spike heels he had ever seen. They had red soles and were nearly see-through. How much had they set him back?
He didn't care.

“Boss?”

“Um, yes. Anything
in the papers?”

“No, I'm doing my best to keep it low-profile. Cooker & Co. doesn't need this kind
of publicity.”

“You're right, but our priority is Alexandrine. We need to protect her privacy and take care of her. Thank you, son, for stayin
g by her side.”

“No problem, boss. I gave her flowers and said they were from all of us, and yesterday I came with some
cannelés
from the Baillardran bakery. She loves them, especially when the crust is caramelized just right around the c
ustard center.”

“Is the work piling
up in the lab?”

“Nothing I
can't handle.”

“If you need to, call in Didier Morel to
help you out.”

There was another silence. This tim
e from Virgile.

Elisabeth had finished her makeup and looked ravishing in her usual understated way. How could any other woman look more beautiful in this luxurious room, with its crystal chandelier and view of the Vienna Sta
te Opera House?

“Virgile, let me share a bit of sage advice: ‘Keep your friends close, and your en
emies closer.'”

“You and your quotes. Well, I know that one. It's from Sun Zi's
The Art of War
.
I heard it
on the radio.”

“Wrong, my boy. It was Michael Corleone
who said that.”

“Who?”

“
The Godfa
ther, Part II
.”

“You're p
ulling my leg.”

“No. It
is
frequently misattributed to Sun Zi. I'll give you that. Now, I'm off
to the opera.”