at its eighteenth-century façades and had every reason to be happy with its recent face-lift. The city shone anew and was experiencing a renaissance. Cooker was among those who were pleased. The city was like its wines and deserved to have its reputation supported at all cost, even if it meant a little artifice.
Welling did not spoil the scene. He was wearing a duffle coat that, with his graying hair, made him appear somewhat lost in the modern world. He removed it with such a pronounced British flair, the effect was almost theatrical. Welling gave Virgile his best smile and shook Cooker’s hand warmly. They each said they were dying of hunger and unrolled their napkins without waiting. Straight out, the Englishman ordered a 1988 Canon la Gaffelière. Then the waiter sent an order for three entrecôtes , rare, to the kitchen.
“Perhaps some mineral water?” the waiter asked.
“I think I was clear, young man,” Welling answered.
“Could there be a teetotaler among us?” Cooker added.
The waiter put on a poker face and held up his order pad.
“A what?” Virgile asked, hardly fooled by his boss’s act.
“A teetotaler,” Cooker pontificated. “A race of individuals not to be recommended, incapable of communicating about wine, with a natural repugnance for alcohol.”
The three diners broke out laughing. The waiter timidly joined in.
He filled their glasses with Saint-Émilion, which exhaled Oriental spices. Cooker noted aromas of cooked cassis. Virgile added cedar, while Welling, who chose his words carefully and spoke with affectation, mentioned smoked oak. What followed was a tasting by experts that intrigued the couple sitting to their left. The woman looked like she was soaking up Cooker’s words. She and her companion did not appear well-suited for each other, but this evening, they shared curiosity. Restaurants always seemed to be full of bored couples who enjoyed eavesdropping.
“Welling, you are looking well since you gave yourself up to the police.”
“Did you know that they weren’t even looking for me? I wasn’t even a suspect.”
“Thanks to your feet,” Cooker said.
“What do you mean?” Welling asked, pausing his knife above his steak.
Virgile was wolfing down his shallot-topped meat between mouthfuls of grand cru classé. The winemaker, distilling his deductions like an old rusty alembic, did not say much. His astuteness excited Welling, who emptied his glass of Canon-la-Gaffelière rather quickly. As Cooker explained how he had been exonerated in the Oksana case and then in the disguised suicide of the concierge, Welling tossed in “that’s right” after each forkful.
“There’s no hiding anything from you, Benjamin. It’s as if you were there when I talked to that cops. Do you know the captain?”
“A little,” the winemaker said evasively, eyeing his seemingly passive assistant. “But tell me, James, you didn’t really invite me here to tell me what I already know.”
“No, but to let you in on a good deal. It’s the least I can do for you. A private sale tomorrow. Nothing but treasures. Marvels, I assure you.”
“Like what?” Cooker asked.
“For starters, 1955 and 1975 Pétrus, 1983 Margaux, 1989 and 1995 Latour, 1995 Ducru-Beaucaillou, 1989 Cos d’Estournel, 1998 Calon-Ségur, 1996 Pichon-Longueville, 1970 Conseillante, 1977 Pape Clément, 1990 Talbot, among others.”
“Stop, stop, my cellar is already full,” Cooker said, trying to conceal the disillusionment in his voice. This list was worthy of a forger. “A private sale, you say?”
“Yes, I’m in cahoots with the Belgian broker I stood up on the night Oksana walked out on me. We have an appointment tomorrow morning at the Hôtel de Villesèque.”
Virgile, who had so far been quiet, nervously pulled off his sweater, as though the Canon-la-Gaffelière was making him too hot. He asked the waiter for water.
“Mineral water, please.”
Welling and Cooker both stared at him. Virgile
Welling did not spoil the scene. He was wearing a duffle coat that, with his graying hair, made him appear somewhat lost in the modern world. He removed it with such a pronounced British flair, the effect was almost theatrical. Welling gave Virgile his best smile and shook Cooker’s hand warmly. They each said they were dying of hunger and unrolled their napkins without waiting. Straight out, the Englishman ordered a 1988 Canon la Gaffelière. Then the waiter sent an order for three entrecôtes , rare, to the kitchen.
“Perhaps some mineral water?” the waiter asked.
“I think I was clear, young man,” Welling answered.
“Could there be a teetotaler among us?” Cooker added.
The waiter put on a poker face and held up his order pad.
“A what?” Virgile asked, hardly fooled by his boss’s act.
“A teetotaler,” Cooker pontificated. “A race of individuals not to be recommended, incapable of communicating about wine, with a natural repugnance for alcohol.”
The three diners broke out laughing. The waiter timidly joined in.
He filled their glasses with Saint-Émilion, which exhaled Oriental spices. Cooker noted aromas of cooked cassis. Virgile added cedar, while Welling, who chose his words carefully and spoke with affectation, mentioned smoked oak. What followed was a tasting by experts that intrigued the couple sitting to their left. The woman looked like she was soaking up Cooker’s words. She and her companion did not appear well-suited for each other, but this evening, they shared curiosity. Restaurants always seemed to be full of bored couples who enjoyed eavesdropping.
“Welling, you are looking well since you gave yourself up to the police.”
“Did you know that they weren’t even looking for me? I wasn’t even a suspect.”
“Thanks to your feet,” Cooker said.
“What do you mean?” Welling asked, pausing his knife above his steak.
Virgile was wolfing down his shallot-topped meat between mouthfuls of grand cru classé. The winemaker, distilling his deductions like an old rusty alembic, did not say much. His astuteness excited Welling, who emptied his glass of Canon-la-Gaffelière rather quickly. As Cooker explained how he had been exonerated in the Oksana case and then in the disguised suicide of the concierge, Welling tossed in “that’s right” after each forkful.
“There’s no hiding anything from you, Benjamin. It’s as if you were there when I talked to that cops. Do you know the captain?”
“A little,” the winemaker said evasively, eyeing his seemingly passive assistant. “But tell me, James, you didn’t really invite me here to tell me what I already know.”
“No, but to let you in on a good deal. It’s the least I can do for you. A private sale tomorrow. Nothing but treasures. Marvels, I assure you.”
“Like what?” Cooker asked.
“For starters, 1955 and 1975 Pétrus, 1983 Margaux, 1989 and 1995 Latour, 1995 Ducru-Beaucaillou, 1989 Cos d’Estournel, 1998 Calon-Ségur, 1996 Pichon-Longueville, 1970 Conseillante, 1977 Pape Clément, 1990 Talbot, among others.”
“Stop, stop, my cellar is already full,” Cooker said, trying to conceal the disillusionment in his voice. This list was worthy of a forger. “A private sale, you say?”
“Yes, I’m in cahoots with the Belgian broker I stood up on the night Oksana walked out on me. We have an appointment tomorrow morning at the Hôtel de Villesèque.”
Virgile, who had so far been quiet, nervously pulled off his sweater, as though the Canon-la-Gaffelière was making him too hot. He asked the waiter for water.
“Mineral water, please.”
Welling and Cooker both stared at him. Virgile
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