Grand Cru Heist Read Free

some shorthand for nine centimeters for ninety-nine snowflakes. He apparently got a good reprimand from his boss.”
    Cooker puffed up when the nurse laughed at his story, showing her flawless teeth. Then Virgile burst into the room. Carole turned around quickly, smoothed out her scrubs, and nearly knocked the winemaker’s IV bag off the stand.
    “Your torture is nearly over, Mr. Cooker. You should be getting out tomorrow.”
    Virgile watched the way Cooker and the nurse looked at each other as his assistant handed over the morning paper with a mischievous grin. The front-page story in the newspaper France-Soir caught the winemaker’s eye immediately: “Grand Cru Heist. A hundred bottles of the famous 1989 Angélus premier grand cru classé were stolen last night from the renowned cellar at the Place de la Madeleine in Paris. The burglar stole only this internationally acclaimed Saint-Émilion and selected the very best vintage, which received top ranking in the Cooker Guide .”
    Cooker pulled out the latest edition of his guide, which Virgile had brought him, and read his tasting notes in full.
    “Who could want anything more for Christmas than some 1989 Angélus?” he asked.
    Behind the attempt at humor, there was concern in his voice. He was thinking about his friend Hubert de Boüard de Laforest, who owned the premier grand cru mentioned in the article.
    “How are you feeling today, sir?” Virgile asked.
    “Like an ass who wasn’t brave enough to fight and ended up in his shorts on the sidewalk.” Cooker suddenly felt enraged. He tensed his jaw and pushed out his chest, as if he could not breathe. “They took everything, Virgile. Everything! All my notes. My entire guide. And my memories, my pride, my honor.”
    Virgile stared at his boss. Cooker pulled himself up on the bed and grimaced when he tried to turn to the window to hide the sob he felt coming on. Carole touched his shoulder.
    “It’s nothing, Mr. Cooker. Calm down. You’ll be home tomorrow. You’ll forget about it over time.”
    “And you’ve got all those notes in your head,” Virgile added, also putting his hand on his boss’s shoulder.
    Just then, a cell phone rang.
    “It’s probably Elisabeth worrying about me,” Cooker said. “Oh, it’s you, darling? My little Margaux. I’m happy to hear your voice.”
    A smile came over his face. Virgile and Carole caught each other’s eye and left Cooker, who was already looking more optimistic.
     

 
     
     
     
     
    2
    At the bottom of the valley, the Indre River flowed through patches of reverent willow trees. It was January, but it felt like an aging autumn in this part of the Touraine region. Lazy cows grazed in the pasture, just as they had in the summer. From the terrace of the Château de La Tortinière, Benjamin Cooker stared at the blurry lines of the landscape. In the distance, the Montbazon castle showed off its tower from another era. The Virgin Mary that rose above the edifice would have been demoralized by the ruins of the fortress. Recently, city workers had pulled off the ivy that had overgrown the fortifications, perhaps offering some redemption to the copper statue.
    “Rest.” Everyone—his doctors, of course, but also Elisabeth, Margaux, Virgile, and the others—kept saying the same thing. Sometimes Benjamin Cooker showed worrisome symptoms, with long silences that nobody dared to interrupt.
    “This kind of attack is a violation, Mr. Cooker,” a psychiatrist had told him in the hospital. “You will need weeks, perhaps even months to move on.”
    Cooker had closed his eyes. He was not convinced that Grangebelle, his retreat-like home in the Médoc, was the ideal spot for his convalescence. He needed new surroundings and new people.
    He told Elisabeth and Virgile that he had chosen the Touraine because he still had a lot to learn about the wines in that region. He had visited the Loire River valley several times in the past. Vouvray, Bourgueil, and Chinon had pleased