Grand Cru Heist Read Free Page B

Tortinière’s turrets. Cooker could no longer see Montbazon, and the cows had disappeared from the pasture as if by magic. The winemaker felt a chill and returned to his room. He would order dinner from room service before calling it a night. Tucked in his pocket was the hotel chef’s recipe for saffron honey ice that Gaétan had gotten for him. Elisabeth would enjoy it.
    Cooker went to sleep with Madame de Mortsauf. He had stopped at an antique book stand in the city of Tours and picked up a leather-bound copy of Honoré de Balzac’s The Lily of the Valley that, curiously, had been used to dry flowers. Yellowed linden leaves and flower petals garnished every chapter, like exquisite bookmarks. The book gave off faded floral aromas, and Cooker devoured the novel. La Tortinière was his. He was alone in this manor that smelled of wax polish and holly. The owners lived in another building a hundred yards away.
    “You’re the master of the house,” owner Anne Olivereau had said with a genuine charm that impressed the wine expert.
    He had no bad dreams that night. Cooker was healing. The next day, he would get back to writing his guide. He had not told his editor what had happened and did not intend to. Saying nothing about it was a matter of pride.
    § § §
    When Cooker woke up, he spotted a Morgan Plus 8 parked majestically in front of La Tortinière. It was deep green, very English, and gleamed on the white gravel. The winemaker smiled and left his room to admire the sports car. Such a jewel deserved respect. He was sure that its owner was a subject of Her Majesty the Queen.
    The license plate proved Cooker correct. He caressed the chrome, as he would a sleeping tiger. He walked around the car several times, peering in the windows to examine the convertible’s interior.
    A Morgan! He had dreamed of this car since he was a kid. The mechanics were way too fragile, but nothing could top it for luxury and elegance. Twenty years earlier, he had almost bought a very fine model that had belonged to French novelist André Malraux’s son. But by the time he had convinced the bank to lend him the money, the beautiful English car had been snatched up by some fifteen-minute celebrity. The winemaker had never gotten over it and had fallen back on his Mercedes 280SL, which he now missed.
    The concierge came to greet him and listened to Cooker expound on the car: how it could hold the road, the custom interior, the fine cylinders, and the specific sound its exhaust made. Gaétan was not particularly passionate about vintage cars but nevertheless asked a number of questions that Cooker was happy to answer. In exchange, Gaétan gave Cooker the name of the owner, a certain Sir Robert Morton, a middle-aged man accompanied by a gorgeous young blond woman who spoke “approximate” French and seemed to come from some Eastern Bloc country.
    “They arrived at dawn, demanded a copious breakfast served with champagne—he wanted nothing but Moët—and asked not to be disturbed under any circumstances,” Gaétan said, lifting an eyebrow.
    The young man looked up at the lovers’ room, where the shutters were closed. Cooker imagined the couple intertwined under wrinkled sheets. Surely, it was some secret liaison that had found refuge in this isolated hotel.
    “I’ll take my tea in the small dining room,” Cooker said, rubbing his hands in anticipation of meeting this Mr. Morton.
    He was impatient to see the mysterious owner of the Morgan and his conquest. He wolfed down two croissants and drank three cups of tea. Then the winemaker had to go see the car again. The air was brisk, but the sight of the chrome reflecting the January sun revved Cooker’s imagination. With his British background, he would find the right civilities and some common ground with these people, who shared his passion. He was already imagining himself riding through the countryside behind the wheel of that convertible. But the shutters remained hopelessly