Late Harvest Havoc (3 page)

“What bad luck you've had, Mr. Cooker. I hope you're not thinking your whole trip is jinxed,” the oldest Haegelin daughter said when she heard about the winemaker's car problems. “We'll have to begin your tasting with the Bollenberg.”

“And why is that?” Virgile asked as he studied the golden color of the riesling the Haegelin daughter had just poured for him.

“The Grand Ballon, which is also called the Ballon de Guebwiller, is the apex of the Vosges Mountains. The best wines in Alsace are made on its rounded slopes. Isn't that right, Mr. Cooker? But some people believe the Bollenberg attracts witches.”

The young winemaker lowered her voice and continued. “Each summer, on the night between August fourteenth and August fifteenth, pilgrims from all over the region congregate near the chapel at Bollenberg. They light a bonfire and burn an effigy of a witch to banish the evil spirits. Some people say it's an effigy of the devil. I've never seen it myself. Anyway, this year—”

“This year what?” Virgile asked before the storyteller could finish.

“This year it was pouring so hard, it was impossible to set a fire. The rain was coming down in buckets. You couldn't even strike a match.”

“And so?”

“People around here aren't as superstitious these days as they used to be, but the witches bonfire still has meaning. It seems that in the years when there's no bonfire, something bad always happens. We might have a bad harvest, or even worse.”

“Meaning?” Benjamin asked.

“A big disaster—an epidemic, for example. In 1862, the year before the onset of the great phylloxera blight, they weren't able to burn the effigy because it was raining too hard.”

While Virgile hung onto the pretty young woman's every word, Benjamin busied himself with scribbling down the aromas he was picking up in the Haegelin riesling. When he done, he began telling his assistant about the Bollenberg.

“Did you know, Virgile, that the most beautiful flora and fauna in Alsace grow on the slopes of the Bollenberg? More than one hundred and fifty plants have been identified. It's actually a protected area. There are wild tulips, clematis, anemones, orchids, thistles, and more. It's also known for its birds and other wildlife: the buntin, the linnet, and the lark, as well as many insects and reptiles.”

Benjamin repressed a sigh when he saw that Virgile was only half-listening to him. He watched as his assistant took a sip of his riesling.

“I have to say the acidity is quite to my liking,” Virgile said, smiling at Régine Haegelin and taking another sip. She was holding the long-necked green bottle, ready to pour more if they asked.

Benjamin agreed with Virgile as he chewed his wine. Finally, he delivered the verdict.

“This is a gift from heaven!” he said, emptying the rest of his glass into the spittoon. “Trust me. No witch has touched what I just tasted.”

Régine Haegelin handed him a glass of Lippelsberg.

“I hope you're right,” she said. “I don't consider myself a superstitious person, but sometimes I feel like knocking on wood, just the same.”

“Yes, boss, you can't deny that there's evil in the world. And it can have a human face. Look at Ammerschwihr, at the Ginsmeyers' vineyard: someone destroyed a decade of work in a single night. You can't tell me that this wasn't an evil act.”

“Your assistant is right, Mr. Cooker. Whether it's devil's play or God's will, once the damage is done, it's done. Okay, in the case of the Ginsmeyers, you don't feel exactly sorry for them. They're stinking rich. They have beautiful vineyards and a fantastic terroir, and the two sons married well with those Keller twins, who have the most profitable
winstubs
in Riquewihr. The daughter married someone with money too. It's not surprising that they would provoke envy.”

“‘The spirit of envy can destroy. It can never build.'”

“Who said that, boss?”

“Margaret Thatcher, son. So true in Alsace, as it is in the rest of the world. But let's taste this wine, Virgile. Something tells me it could be the envy of many a winemaker.”

Benjamin picked up the glass and gave it a close inspection. The riesling's yellow transparency slowly gave way to infinite emerald reflections. Musky aromas wafted to his nose.

Virgile also picked up his glass, looking like a jeweler appraising a precious stone. Then he plunged his nose into the glass, a part of the process he frequently rushed right past. He was always in a hurry to taste the wine.

“Damn!”

“Virgile! Your language!”

“But, boss, all these aromas take my breath away.”

Benjamin said no more and silently watched his assistant taste the Lippelsberg, rolling its freshness and perfectly balanced acidity over his reliable palate.

“Ah, it puts on such a good show,” Virgile said when he finished. “Notes of citrus, tropical fruits, lime, grapefruit… Hats off. Truly.”

At that exact moment, Materne Haegelin entered the tasting room. It was as if he had been listening at the door. Benjamin gave Virgile a knowing wink, and Virgile emptied his glass in one swallow. But instead of looking pleased with the praise heaped on his wine, the family patriarch was wearing a somber expression.

Régine Haegelin went to her father, who reached for her hand and nervously pressed it to his chest. His own hand was shaking. Benjamin thought of Jeanne, struck down by a heart attack the previous day.

Then the Alsace winemaker straightened his shoulders and walked over to Benjamin, giving him a firm handshake and a pat on the back that spoke volumes about the admiration the two men had for each other.

“Benjamin, I'm delighted to see you. Forgive me for being so downcast. I just found out that someone cut down sixty more vine stocks with a chainsaw. It happened last night in Ribeauvillé. Who would do such a thing, and why?”

“Whose vineyard?” Régine asked.

“The Deutzlers'. No one saw or heard anything.”

“Materne, do you think there could be a connection with what happened in Ammerschwihr?” Benjamin asked.

“It's hard to say. The families aren't related. But if that's the case, the idiot sure can get around. Then again, it could be a copycat.”

“Let's pray that tomorrow it isn't our turn,” said Louise Haegelin, the youngest daughter.

“God help us. I hope not,” Materne said. “Régine, would you pour me a glass of our local cognac? It's the medicine I need at the moment.”

“Cognac in Alsace?” Virgile said. “I didn't know.”

“Yes, it's a witch's brew, you young innocent.” Benjamin made a diabolical face and then winked at his assistant. “It's actually pinot noir brandy, finely distilled the way you would distill plums or potatoes. It's nothing like the
eau-de-vie
from Jarnac.”

“Call it poor man's cognac,” Materne said, drinking the whole glass in a few gulps. “It hits the spot.” His pale face began to take on some color, and he smiled at the winemaker. “So, Sir Cooker, where were you? I don't see you drinking anything.”

“As a matter of fact, we were finishing the rieslings.”

“It's time to get to the Gewürz. Let's start with the best one: the Pfingstberg. What do you say?”

“A work of art. This is an important moment, Virgile,” Benjamin announced in anticipation. “This wine is really a cut above, young man!”

Seeing the dark look on Louise's face and Virgile's disapproving expression, the winemaker said, “Um, I'm not sure that's the best term to use under the circumstances.”

Materne Haegelin concurred. “You can say that again.”

4

Razor-like sheets of rain from the west were attacking the hillsides and mountains. The blue-tinged top of the Grand Ballon was quickly disappearing in the distance. From pointed steeples shrouded in mist, church bells pealed the twelve strokes of noon. The tolling was dull and dreary, reminiscent of a death knell.

The news had spread like a vapor trail. In the cafés and wine cellars, the only topic of conversation was the latest attack, which cast suspicion on everyone.

With one hand on the gearshift and one eye on the rearview mirror, Benjamin Cooker was trying his best to get the hang of the four-wheel-drive vehicle lent by the generous hotelier in Colmar. The winemaker was clumsily shifting gears, overtaxing the brakes, and clutching the steering wheel as if the big vehicle were uncontrollable. Benjamin had left the secondary roads and taken a shortcut on a deeply rutted trail with questionable signage. What did he want to see? Withered grapes hanging from crooked vine stocks awaiting the late harvest? Or was he hoping to catch a glimpse of a mischievous and suspicious-looking character?

Benjamin could sense that Virgile was watching him and enjoying the sight of his boss skidding and trying to avoid the deep puddles and big stones. A couple of times Benjamin had to rock the vehicle out of the mud. Benjamin was already planning his revenge. He'd give his gleeful assistant the job of cleaning the car. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to savor the image of Virgile getting all wet and dirty at the do-it-yourself car wash. He had to swerve to avoid hitting a raging boar followed by her three piglets.

“Damn, that was close,” Virgile shouted.

By swerving right, Benjamin had spared the massive beast and her little ones, as well as the vehicle. Unfortunately, one vine stock had suffered from the desperate maneuver. The trunk of the pinot noir stock had been sliced through. The shoots and branches of the eight-year-old plant would soon wither and die. If it hadn't been daytime, someone might have concluded that the damage was the work of the vineyard vandal.

“What an awful day,” Benjamin cursed as he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his sweaty forehead.

The Toyota was stopped, its engine still running.

“You want me to drive, boss? You look like you could use a break.”

“I'm fine, Virgile. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” He put his handkerchief back in his pocket, and as he did that, he looked out the driver's-side window. What he saw didn't help him breathe any easier. The vehicle was perched precariously above a steep drop. Below him, rows of vines plunged toward Ribeauvillé. Another bad swerve to avoid an animal or a rock, and it would have been all over. The winemaker began shaking and let go of the steering wheel.

“Are you sure you want to keep driving?” Virgile asked.

“This is too much for a man my age.”

“Are you kidding? You did a great job maneuvering in all that confusion! We could have slid off the road and ended our lives here in Alsace. Okay, you sacrificed one vine, but we could have done so much more damage.”

“Good Lord, looking down there gave me a scare,” the winemaker admitted. He climbed out of the Toyota and inspected the stock. He confirmed that it was the only one that had suffered any damage. The Toyota, meanwhile, seemed to be in good shape—just covered with mud.

“I don't want to sound superstitious, but I can't help thinking that bad luck happens in threes,” said Virgile, who had climbed out of the vehicle to join Benjamin.

“Stop it with your unfounded beliefs, son. They make no sense.”

“I know, but back in Bergerac, we'd say we've been hit with ‘
mafrés
.' It means bad luck, a jinx, whatever.”

Virgile had told Benjamin all about the superstitions he had been exposed to as a child in southwestern France. And Benjamin had to admit that he went along with some it, even though he himself didn't give such notions much credence. For example, he and Elisabeth would never send a newlywed couple a kitchen knife as a wedding present. According to superstition, a knife could portend the end of a friendship. Benjamin and Elisabeth didn't believe it themselves, but they didn't want the couple to take their gift the wrong way.

“Virgile, just forget your stories of witches and evil spells. What good are all your years of scientific study if you keep hanging on to such nonsense?”

“‘Reason is not always right,' my grandmother used to say.”

Benjamin had to smile. The boy was hopeless. The rain had let up, and he took off his glasses to wipe the lenses.

Virgile wasn't finished. “She also said, ‘When you're sure you're right, you don't need to argue with those who are wrong.'”

“Well, your grandmother was certainly witty,” Benjamin said, putting his glasses back on. “Like your grandfather.”

“Maybe we should go find the vintner whose stock you amputated,” Virgile said, pulling on the windbreaker he had brought with him. “We could go to the town hall in Ribeauvillé. If we look at the land registry we could find the owner.”

“I doubt very much that the town hall would be open at noon,” Benjamin said, wrapping himself in his Loden before climbing back into the mud-encrusted Toyota. “Everybody's probably out having lunch.”

“Well, then, we should get ourselves a bite to eat. I'm starving.”

“To tell you the truth, this business has taken away my appetite.”

“I think you might be letting it get to you too much, boss. Something to eat would do you some good.”

“Son, you're one of the things getting to me right now. Let's just drive into town and see if the land registry office is open.”

“That's fine with me, but wasn't it your distant relative, the English playwright and poet, who said, ‘After a good meal, one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations'?”

“Oscar Wilde said that?” the winemaker fumed as he put the key in the ignition and released the handbrake.

The car plowed through the mud and finally reached the paved road leading to the village. Benjamin tried to ignore his bad mood and didn't say anything. He was glad Virgile was staying quiet too. The back and forth of the windshield wipers took the place of any conversation.

Approaching the Domaine Bott Frères, Benjamin couldn't resist stopping to say hello to the grand master of the Confrérie Saint-Étienne d'Alsace. Pierre Bott was an old acquaintance. The wines he produced, along with those of his son and grandson, always received high marks in the
Cooker Guide
. Benjamin enjoyed his Osterberg and Gloeckelberg grand crus, and Bott's late harvests had the full and hearty support of Elisabeth, who preferred his wines to many Sauternes. She had Benjamin order her two cases of Tokay pinot gris from the Maison Bott at the beginning of each winter. Her love of earthy cuisine blended perfectly with the smoky notes of this full-bodied wine, which had little to do with its Hungarian counterpart. In fact, the kinship was quite distant. For that matter, in 2007 the European Union officially forbade the use of the name Tokay for the Alsatian pinot gris, so that the Hungarians would stop using the name Médoc for some of their red wines.

Elisabeth was unequalled in her flair for pairing the Maison Bott pinot gris with white meat, Rocamadour cheese, and the duck
foie gras
she bought at the Gascony markets near Samatan and Gimont. For Benjamin, it was a ready excuse to pack the back of the borrowed Toyota. Virgile pursed his lips, but Benjamin pretended not to notice. Yes, he would find a way to get it all into his Mercedes convertible when it was time to go home.

Alas, Pierre Bott was away at a union meeting in Riquewihr. Although he was well past retirement age, this Alsatian man was too stubborn to hand over the job of defending the vineyards promised to his descendants.

His daughter-in-law, Nicole, greeted Benjamin and Virgile. At the Botts' residence, graciousness and hospitality were a way of life. Nicole conducted the transaction with tact, charm, and competence. She invited the winemaker and his assistant to share a simple lunch. Benjamin politely declined, despite Virgile's glare.

“First things first, Virgile,” Benjamin whispered when Nicole stepped out of the room for a moment.

When she returned, Benjamin and Virgile tasted the reserve wine, the special cuvées, the grands crus, and also the wines stamped by the Confrérie Saint-Etienne d'Alsace. When his palate grew tired, Benjamin deferred the sparkling wine tasting. But he did ask Nicole to prepare two cases of pinot gris, as well as a case of Gewürztraminer.

“My supply of liqueurs is running seriously low, and Elisabeth makes liberal use of them in her desserts,” Benjamin said. “I'd better take a sloe liqueur and also a mirabelle, a quince, and a—”

Virgile finished his sentence. “Williams pear! Mrs. Cooker loves pears.”

“You're right, Virgile. But how did you know?”

“She often says that she spoils you by making mostly what you love. Every once in a while, though, she decides to make a dessert that she likes more than you. I'd say you have it pretty good there, boss.”

“And I'd say that our marriage and whether I have it good or not aren't your concern, Virgile. Are you spoiling for a fight?”

“Sorry. I'm just hungry.”

Benjamin had tucked his tasting notebook into the inner pocket of his Loden. It was a little memo pad with a black fabric cover. The notebook wasn't the one he usually used, but the day wasn't typical either. Everything seemed unusual, even bizarre.

When Benjamin took out his credit card to pay for the purchases, Nicole waved her hand to indicate there would be no money involved. Benjamin balked and even said he wouldn't take the merchandise if he didn't pay for it. Nicole finally gave in and rang up the sale. They walked outside to load the cases into the back of the vehicle.

“Mrs. Bott, I have a question for you,” Benjamin said while Virgile hoisted the wine. “Those vines to the northwest, right there, the ones facing us in the middle of Osterberg, who owns them?”

“That depends,” Nicole said. “We own the five acres to the right of the telecommunications tower. See that land over there?”

The winemaker shielded his eyes with his hand to get a better look at the area where she was pointing. Virgile did the same. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared. The fog banks above the russet vines were drying up like laundry in the sun, and Benjamin could make out the dirt road they had taken to get back to Ribeauvillé after their close call.

“And Deutzlers' vines are on the left. They're on the steepest part of the hill. Did you hear, Mr. Cooker?
He
struck again last night.”

“You mean the person who's cutting down the vines?” Benjamin asked.

“Yes, the madman who destroyed the vineyards in Ammerschwihr. Now he's done it again. More than sixty vine stocks. Can you imagine? Who could be mad at the Deutzlers? As if that family hasn't suffered enough.”

Benjamin was peeved as he climbed back into the Toyota. There was no doubt about it: the stock he had banged up two hours earlier belonged to the Deutzlers. He needed to make amends without delay.

“Good thing we're going. Otherwise the cops who've been searching for clues since early this morning will find the Toyota's tire tracks up there. And then we'll be up shit creek,” Virgile said as if he were reading Benjamin's mind.

“Virgile, stop being so vulgar.”

“Our predicament is more important than my language, boss.”

“So what do you suggest?” Benjamin demanded.

“Not only do we have to apologize, we also have to compensate the poor man, who must be wondering why someone is so against him.”

“Yes, of course. I'm aware of that, Virgile.”

The famous winemaker from Bordeaux was feeling uncertain and weary. Too much had happened. And now he had caused harm to a vintner's stock. He drove erratically, his jaw clenched and his lips pursed.

At the roundabout in Ribeauvillé, Virgile once again suggested that they stop somewhere for something to eat.

“Boss, I think your blood sugar's getting low. You need something in your stomach. And I'm starving. Unfortunately, fast-food restaurants are the only places that are open at this time of day.”

“Goddammit, Virgile, the only thing you think about is eating.”

“Now look who's getting vulgar.”

“Forgive me, Virgile. I'm a little upset.”

“I agree with that. May I suggest that you turn off your windshield wipers? It stopped raining a while ago. I told you.”

“What did you tell me?”

“If it rains before seven, it will cease before eleven. If it rains before eight, it will end very late. Or something like that.”

“You're insufferable, Virgile. Your country proverbs are all bull—”

Benjamin bit his tongue, avoiding at the very last moment a word that was not at all like him. At the same time, Virgile urged him to veer to the left. A huge sign with peeling paint near a roadside shrine read:

Fine wines of Alsace

Deutzler & Sons

Owners — Winemakers

68150 Ribeauvillé

(200 meters)

When the Toyota passed through the tall carriage entrance, Benjamin spotted a young man with muscular arms hosing down two barrels. The man looked up and eyed them suspiciously.

A gendarmerie van barred the entrance to the wine cellar and its sign: a stork holding a stemmed glass in its beak. No sooner had the winemaker stepped out of the vehicle than an officious-looking gendarme with a crew cut emerged from the blue van. He marched up to the two visitors.

“We've been waiting for you, Mr. Cooker. To be honest, we were beginning to lose our patience.”