Mayhem in Margaux Read Free

euros.”
    “You sound jealous, Benjamin. But your daughter is a young woman now. And I think she has pretty good taste.”
    Benjamin looked at Elisabeth and tried to smile. “Stop teasing,” he said.
    Although he had accepted Margaux’s transition to adolescence and knew, at least intellectually, that she was now a young woman, she was still his little girl. To him, Margaux would always be the child with bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and pixie nose hugging her teddy bear and whimpering over the slightest boo-boo. The insistent gaze of this young man in an Italian suit seemed indecent and would have even been repulsive, were he not so handsome.

2
    The following day was grueling. Awake at the crack of dawn, Benjamin Cooker put on his country uniform: beige cotton pants, brown checked shirt, khaki vest, and Timberland shoes. He poured food into Bacchus’s dish and apologized to the Irish setter for not taking him out for a walk. Then he quickly drank two glasses of mineral water and took off for his office on the Allées de Tourny in Bordeaux to check his mail. He left written instructions for Jacqueline, his secretary, who would not be in until around eight-thirty. A lab report written by his colleague Alexandrine de la Palussière was lying on a shelf. He scanned the document and decided that he knew enough about the parasitic maladies plaguing some estates around Blaye. The bronze clock showed seven forty. He phoned his assistant.
    “Be ready, Virgile. I’ll be at your place in five minutes.”
    He hung up, gulped a cup of cold tea, and went down to the street to get his convertible to drive to Virgile’s place. When he reached the corner of Rue Saint-Rémi, he found his assistant leaning against the building, looking totally relaxed. He was wearing a white T-shirt, weathered jeans, and navy-blue sneakers. Virgile grinned when he spotted Benjamin and slid into the passenger seat.
    “Morning, boss. It’s going to be hot as hell today. They’re predicting ninety-five degrees in the shade.”
    “Unfortunately, my boy, you won’t be spending much time in the shade. Everyone’s worried about the effects of the weather on the grapes. We’re visiting all our clients on the right bank, toward Camblanes-et-Meynac, beginning with Château Brethous.”
    “That’s fine with me! Cécile and Thierry make a strong cup of coffee, and I really need one.”
    “Just don’t tell me what you did last night. I’ll have no sympathy.”
    Under a leaden sun that burned the skin and dried the lips, they spent the entire day checking the health of the vines. They conscientiously visited a dozen properties, surveying the land without stopping to rest. Many of the vines had been pruned at the usual time to intensify the aromatic and tannic concentration of the grapes. But considering how hot and arid the summer had become, this traditional thinning had proved to be much too early. Who could have known? If the weather didn’t break soon, the vintage would suffer, and the region’s growers were anxiously watching the sky in hopes of spotting even a few lifesaving clouds. The estate owners couldn’t even predict when the grapes would be ready to harvest.
    Benjamin and Virgile were thirsty and exhausted at the end of the afternoon. They returned to Bordeaux and ordered two large lemonades on the terrace of the Régent.
    “I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep in the shower,” Virgile said, sighing and sipping his beverage.
    “We’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow in Léognan, Virgile. We need to focus on the soil conditions and the quality of the grapes. If we have any hope of controlling the winemaking process, it’s absolutely imperative that we get a grasp of what’s happening to the grapes.”
    “So no vacation then?” Virgile ventured. Was that a whiny note in Virgile’s voice?
    “For now, just worry about not falling asleep in the shower, Virgile! We’ll talk about your vacation later. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. At