Tainted Tokay Read Free

Tokaj, where they make more wines than just the sweet nectar we commonly refer to as Tokay. So, you are right. Tokaji it is.”
    Didier flashed a grin and ran his hand over a head of curls. Then he added, “ How’s Margaux?”
    â€œMy daughter isn’t budging from New York,” Benjamin said. It came out sharper than h e had intended.
    â€œSo you’re still keeping her away from the locals like Didier here?” Jules sa id with a wink.
    â€œGoing by the scratches on his forearm, I’d say that’s a good thing,” Benjamin said, pursing his lips. As much as he liked the boy, neither he nor Virgile were suitable matches for his beloved daughter. They were still busy pla ying the field.
    Didier looked down, then shrugged. “Rough mat ch last night.”
    Florence cleared her throat. “Why don’t we start? Wh ere’s Virgile?”
    â€œHe won’t be joining us,” Benjamin said. “A cork- taint problem.”
    â€œToo bad,” Didier said. Benjamin couldn’t tell by his tone if he was disappoint ed or relieved.
    The three men and Florence walked over the grounds to the wine cellar. Benjamin welcomed its coolness. He put on his glasses and took o ut his notepad.
    On a pedestal table covered with an oilcloth, several bottles awaited the verdict of this jury of tasters, just as several other bottles had awaited them the previous year, when, after a gloomy spring and a hot, dry summer, the grapes had been harvested under a copper sun, yielding a perfectly balanced wine bless ed by the gods.
    What would this tasting bring? Benjamin was eager to find out. His conclusions would make their way into his updated Cooker Guide . The guide, five hundred pages long, had become the definitive wine bible, as well as a bestseller, to the great satisfaction of Claude Nithard, his publisher.
    Florence filled the wineglasses without spilling a drop. Benjamin plunged his nose into his glass, sniffed, and scribbled in his notebook. He sipped. Silence. Just as he was about to say something, his cell phone vibrated. He frowned and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was Virgile. “Bad news,” the screen read. “Serious! Call me, ASAP.”
    â€œPlease excuse me,” he muttered as he put his glass down and took leave of the Blanchards. He tapped callback and put the ph one to his ear.
    â€œYes, Virgile. More troubl es at the lab?”
    â€œNo, boss, worse. You’ve got to come. Someone attacked Alexandrine. She’s in bad shape. Her face is a mess. I’m with her in the emergency room at Saint André’s.”
    â€œI’ll be there as soon as I can. Who would do such a thing? To Alexandrine, of all people.”
    â€œI don’t know, boss. She hasn’t told me anything, and I haven’ t pressed her.”
    Benjamin ended the call. Hurrying back to the Blanchards, he asked that sample bottles be prepared for him right away.
    â€œThere’s something I must tend to, and I need to leave. It’s an emergency. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll share my tasting notes with you lat er. I promise.”
    â€œNothing serious, I hope,” Florence said.
    The winemaker mopped his forehead with his linen handkerchief and collected himself. He didn’t want to look as frazz led as he felt.
    â€œI’ll know better when I get back to Bordeaux. Thank you. I’l l be in touch.”
    Benjamin hurried to his Mercedes convertible and sped away. Fortunately, traffic was light. Saint André Hospital, founded in the fourteenth century, was in the center of town. The buildings, situated around a garden, had managed to retain a certain his torical cachet.
    Benjamin rushed into the emergency room, and a nurse pointed him to the cubby where Alexandrine was being treated. When he got there, another nurse was helping her int o a wheelchair.
    â€œMr. Cooker,” Alexandrine said. Her words were muffled, as she could barely