Grand Cru Heist Read Free Page A

his palate, and he had often promised himself that he would explore this area further. It was known as France’s garden, and the vineyards grew in the shadow of stone lacework castles. His stroke of bad luck had actually become an ideal pretext to wander the vineyards, even though they were bare at this time of year.
    Cooker intended to stay until January 22, Saint Vincent’s feast day. It was a symbolic choice. Saint Vincent was the patron saint of winegrowers, and with a little luck, the day would be “clear and beautiful” for “more wine than water,” as the saying went. Elisabeth arrived with him and spent a few days, but she had to return to Grangebelle to take care of their dog, Bacchus, who did not appreciate it when they were away too long.
    “Can’t you come home, Benjamin? I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone. You’re going to be bored in that hotel during the off season.”
    “Me, bored? With everything there is to see and drink? Don’t worry, my love. I need to get my head together before I go home. If I set one foot in Grangebelle, I’d have to go to the office. I couldn’t resist.”
    Aware that Elisabeth was not particularly reassured, Cooker saw her off on the bullet train from Saint-Pierre-des-Corps to the Bordeaux-Saint-Jean station, where Alicia Santamaria, the Spanish immigrant who lived with Grangebelle’s gardener, came to get her.
    Elisabeth called her husband to say she had arrived safely and told him that Alicia had once again railed against France’s lax immigration policies. Alicia blamed them for the country’s rise in violent crime. In her mind, the assailants were probably North African.
    “ Por Díos , I can’t believe what happened to monsieur!” Alicia had said, her Spanish accent tinged with Gascon. “They let everyone into France. Qué misería .”
    At Château de La Tortinière, Cooker knew he would find the solitude he needed to get over his fear of driving in cities and people asking him for a light. But he didn’t quite know how he would get through the weeks ahead of him.
    He dropped into a rattan chair that beckoned in front of the balustrade. He wasn’t feeling faint, but he did need to catch his breath. Cooker was about to ask for a glass of water but thought better of it. The concierge, Gaétan, was right there, looking concerned.
    “It’s nothing. I’d like a Bourgueil from the Domaine du Bel Air. Do you have some?”
    He felt better when he saw Gaétan rush off, taking the stairs two at a time and then returning promptly. Cooker seemed to regain his sense of self before the wine glass was even full of the dark red liquid. He lifted the glass to his nose, while Gaétan, looking like a dignified Greek statue on a spacious estate, held the bottle, waiting for a verdict that would be brutally honest. The winemaker sniffed aromas of berries and spices and picked up a few woody notes before bringing the glass to his lips. He savored the Bourgueil with the mannerisms of an experienced wine taster. He rolled the mouthful like a billiard ball on a pool table, lining his palate so as not to miss any of the full, round, ripe tannins in this excellent wine. From time to time, he clicked his tongue to refine his judgment. The concierge waited for the final decision. Cooker patted the chair next to him, beckoning the young man to sit down.
    “I cannot enjoy this pleasure alone,” Cooker said. Gaétan looked flattered by the invitation.
    Cooker was the only guest at the hotel, so they could enjoy this luxury. La Tortinière would close for the season shortly, and the staff had been cut back.
    Cooker shared his impressions of the wine. The concierge was hardly a novice and had a fairly refined palate himself. Cooker had found an ally, not unlike Virgile. Gaétan and Virgile were both about the same age, with expressive faces, a sense of humor, and a little clumsiness that made them charming.
    Cooker and Gaétan chatted until the sun had disappeared behind La