Mayhem in Margaux Read Online Free PDF Page B

got to know the cellar master, Stéphane Sarrazin. I think he’s still there. Actually, I’d like to see him again. He was a quite a guy.”
    “In what way?”
    “I might as well confess. He fixed me up with the château’s secretary, who was a bit stuck up—the type who knows very well that she’s pretty and looks down on you. I don’t know how Stéphane did it, but as soon as he walked into a room, all the girls noticed him. He had a knack for making women laugh. Still, he never took advantage. He was a family man and faithful to his wife. At any rate, he introduced me to the secretary, and thanks to his charm, she warmed up to me. Funny, isn’t it?”
    “Uh-huh.” Benjamin smiled. “It seems your internship at Gayraud-Valrose was especially beneficial in the area of women’s studies.”
    “You have no idea.”

6
    Benjamin took in the château perched above the estate and knew it was exactly what tourists expected to see when they drove along the wine roads of the Médoc. Built in the late nineteenth century, the aristocratic residence of the Gayraud family was situated on a hilltop covered with fine gravel and sandy soil. It was a structure commensurate with the once-powerful family’s commercial success. The massive square mansion topped with a slate mansard roof stood at the end of a driveway lined with palm trees and rosebushes, which once grew wild here. Cast-iron Medici vases lined the entry steps, and little windowpanes reflected the green of the surrounding vineyard. The nearby buildings, used for winemaking, had a proud, solid, and graceful allure. Surrounded by ampelopsis shrubs, they blended with the landscape.
    The winemaker studied the eroded sculpture of a beautiful disciple of Bacchus, a layer of moss covering her tangle of grapes. Virgile, meanwhile, headed to the wine cellar to look for Stéphane Sarrazin, walking past a man wearing a beret who was squatting next to a moped with a wrench in hand. When Benjamin joined them, the two men were already deep in conversation. Sarrazin greeted Benjamin with a strong handshake.
    “I will be with you in two minutes, Mr. Cooker. I just need to give some instructions on topping up the barrels.”
    Benjamin and his assistant left the building and sought shade under a chestnut tree. It was only ten, but the sun was already beating down. Benjamin missed the sea breeze he’d left behind in Cap Ferret that morning.
    “So?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “Was he surprised to see you?”
    “No, I don’t think so,” Virgile said, shrugging. “At least he didn’t say so. It was as if we’d seen each other just yesterday.”
    They didn’t have time say more. Stéphane Sarrazin emerged from the wine cellar. He motioned to them to wait where they were and joined them under the tree. Benjamin guessed that he was in his forties, and he was still a handsome man: average height, rather slim, short slightly graying hair, broad forehead, bushy eyebrows, and playful eyes. But his somewhat weary gait and nonchalant bearing suggested underlying disappointment. No bitterness or regret, but an awareness of pain.
    “From your description yesterday, I was expecting a more jovial-looking man,” Benjamin said.
    “Well, they’ve just gotten some unsettling news, boss. But it’s true, I remember that Sarrazin could be cold sometimes, and he didn’t have any illusions about people.”
    “I’ve come to see you on unofficial business, Mr. Sarrazin,” Benjamin said when the cellar master reached them. “You probably know why I’m here.”
    The man sized up Benjamin with amused eyes. He didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed to find himself in the company of one of France’s best-known wine experts. Courteous, respectful, and full of himself, Benjamin was thinking.
    “Virgile mentioned that he knew you,” Benjamin continued. “So I’ve taken the liberty to come see you. I hope you will forgive the interruption.”
    Stéphane Sarrazin