Nightmare in Burgundy Read Free Page B

gave an enormous yawn, and stood to go stretch his legs in the welcome hall. On the way, Cooker shook some hands, patted the back of some old acquaintances, brushed past quite a few people without really excusing himself, and joked with one of the knights of the Order who was observing from the back of the room. After a few moments, he returned to his seat and quickly took a small swallow of each wine without spitting. He reread his notes, crossed out two or three words, and then rose again to join the session chairman.
    Seeing him proceed this way, some people lost a bit of their assurance and kept their eyes on him. Cooker felt their cautious curiosity. A number of them seemed to be losing their bearings. They wore doubtful expressions and seemed absorbed in unspoken questions. So this was how the dreaded Benjamin Cooker operated? The man who was believed to be so serious, almost ascetic, was behaving like a dilettante with an approach that would have been considered casual if he had not proven his talent.
    Ultimately, one-third of the wines tasted were worthy of the coveted stamp. The award winners would have the distinguished honor of putting the famous insignia created in 1935 by the French artist Hansi—Jean-Jacques Waltz—on their bottles. The insignia was a purple shield with a small barrel at the bottom, a knight’s helmet in the middle, and, at the top, a white-bearded, red-faced member of the Order of the Knights holding a cup and a bottle. A rope of green vine leaves framed the picture. Cooker did not wait for the complete announcement of the results before taking his leave. He said good-bye to the organizers and explained that he had another business meeting. He promised to stop by and see them at the offices of the Confrérie in Nuits-Saint-Georges.
    As he left the château, he checked his cell phone for messages. His assistant’s hoarse voice suggested some possible bad news about an Entre-Deux-Mers estate, and he called him right back.
    “Virgile, what’s going on?”
    “Hello, boss, you don’t need to worry. I solved the problem.”
    “Meaning?”
    “I went to Sadirac myself to do the decanting, and I brought the samples back to the lab. Alexandrine will analyze them this afternoon if she has time. Otherwise, tomorrow morning at the very latest.”
    “Don’t take advantage of her conscientiousness. Miss La Palussière is overwhelmed these days.”
    “No worries, sir, I know how to handle it, and, well, she accepted a lunch date.”
    “Bravo, Virgile. I see you are not giving up. Aside from that, how’s the weather in Bordeaux?”
    “Nice, as usual. I hope we’ll be able to eat outside.”
    “Enjoy it while you can! It’s awfully cold here.”
    “So the life of a knight is not so easy?” Virgile could not resist joking.
    “It’s unbearable. I just tasted some little gems, including a Morey-Saint-Denis that was quite magnificent. I am going to have to spend some more time in this region.”
    As he spoke, Cooker was walking toward the village, his wool scarf wrapped around his chin. He picked up his pace to get warmer, gave a few final pieces of advice to his assistant, greeted the lab director, and promised to call back the afternoon of the following day.
    As he approached the grocery store, he spotted a police van parked at the corner. Uniformed men were interrogating the shopkeeper, while some of their colleagues were taking pictures of the graffiti on the bridge.
    “We can’t let this drag on,” one of them said. “The same thing is happening in Gilly.”
    Cooker kept on walking as if he had not heard anything and headed for his hotel. In the distance, the massive silhouette of the Vougeot château seemed to be dozing in the middle of a burial ground of vines whose bony limbs and gnarled stumps were packed all the way to the back of the vineyard. A thick sky was brushing against the points of the towers where the crows were performing sinister and mocking spirals.
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