“Let’s hope that’s soon.” Taittinger nodded and clicked fingers together, in time with Harry Connick Jr singing something old and up-tempo. “If you’re interested, Hector can tell you more about designing the cellar at his Drunken Rabbits and Oenology lecture, day after tomorrow. You’re all invited and he’d love you to come. But firs—”
Case pushed the small dog away from his legs. “Hector?”
“My old friend. He’s a landscaper with the most developed palate you’ll ever come across. He’s starting up a small, private winery, and his Côt Noir is astonishing.”
Well, that was an interesting bit of news. Mae handed Taittinger a glass and Connick stopped crooning. Wine swirling, her employer spread out his hands, Gene Krupa’s hammering beats of the swing classic Sing Sing Sing a stage introduction to his excitement. “Who wants to find out what fucking incredible tastes like?”
“Jools, sugar,” Ruby grasped his arm and smiled up at him, “would you mind turnin’ that music down a little?”
“Yes, please turn it down.” Basil had a seat on a leather ottoman, lifting his wineglass away from the dog. “I was wondering if I could see the Sunbeam again?”
His perfect moment of music and staging gone, Taittinger’s shoulders slumped slightly. He took a mobile from his pocket, lowered the music’s volume. “Later, Baz.”
“Sunbeam?” Case swirled garnet liquid in his glass. “Is that the winery your landscaper’s starting?”
“No, no.” Taittinger chuckled. “The winery is Drunken Rabbits; the Sunbeam is an old sports car.”
“What’s for lunch, Jools?” Nash shoved his nose in the top of his glass.
Taittinger rubbed his goatee and glanced at Mae. “Sand-crab lasagne, Dr Jools,” she said.
“You know I’m vegetarian, Jools. Vegetarian means no seafood or chicken.”
“Mr Nash,” Mae handed Ruby a new wine to taste, “I’ve a pasta alla Norma for you. That’s aubergine with tomato and pasta.”
“You know, Bob,” Taittinger shook a finger, “catering for you sure cost me a pretty penne.”
Germy Mr Grant blew his nose with a honk.
Case shot a look at the sick butler. “Ian will love to see the cars you’ve restored, especially a Sunbeam.”
“Boys and old cars you fix up and never drive.” Ruby tore a chunk of bread in two. “My, you are pretty, but,” she pushed the curious dog, “this is my bread.”
Taittinger patted his thigh. “Sorry for the inter-ruff-tion. Everybody, this is Felix.” The animal ignored the man and roamed about, smelling every new smell in the room.
Basil rose, expectorated wine in the spittoon, casting a wary eye over the slim animal attempting to mount his knee. “Is he a Whippet?” He pushed the dog away, unamused.
“Felix, off,” Mae said softly. The dog moved on to sniff Mr Case.
“Italian Greyhound.” Taittinger grabbed a water cracker from the table. “He’s a rescue. Can you believe someone abandoned him? Italian Greyhounds were once the favourite companion of noblewomen in the Middle Ages.” He looked around at his guests. “Hope no one’s allergic to dogs,” he said as Grant sneezed.
Case took the glass Mae offered, nodding politely. “Is this a 2001?”
“It is.” Basil chose a plain cracker. “Grant’s a sommelier. He can tell us about this vintage. Grant, if you would.”
Grant blew his nose, tucked the handkerchief into a pocket, lips tipping into a weak, polite smile. “Thank you, sir.” Clothed in the traditional white shirt, tie, tailored black jacket, and grey waistcoat, the uniform worn by many butlers, he stepped from the side of the great room, where he’d taken an unobtrusive position. “Autumn weather transformed a dismal growing season into an exceptional vintage. This Syrah Valentine has ope—”
“Hey,” Ruby said. “I think all of us here are experienced enough to know vintage characteristics.” She gave the butler a smile. “No one here wants whatever it is you’ve got. No offence, honey.”
“None taken, ma’am,” Grant returned to the edge of the room, swabbed his nose, and avoided the pooch interested in sniffing his soiled handkerchief.
Taittinger glanced at Mae before holding out the cracker. “Felix, come.”
The dog trotted over and sat beside the Taittinger, eyes on the cracker, licking chops, waiting. “Bone appetit!” the man said. Cracker barely down his throat, Felix wrapped white-tipped paws around Taittinger’s leg.
“Down! Off!” The man pushed at the dog, driving him into Mr Nash and the box beside him. “Sorry. You can see he’s still learning.” Taittinger gave a sheepish grin. “Still working on the training and stuff.”
Nash snorted. “You need to get that animal neutered.”
Ruby leaned over and examined the dog’s hind end. “He is neutered.”
In an instant, the discussion turned to neutering, gelding, castrati opera singers, and meandered to one about phalluses, Venus figures, and Vinalia, Roman festivals of wine. Felix grew bored and flopped down on a warm, sunlit patch of Persian rug. Mae went on listening and watching, filling glasses with Chateau Peby Faugeres, Saint-Emilion Grand Cru. The hour slid into the usual friendly chit-chat, tasting, nibbling on finger-food. Another bottle was uncorked for tasting, then another, and another.
Mae went about usual business, alert to guests. Sober turned to tipsy and Taittinger got down to the business at hand. “Now that we’ve tried a few of the bottles I’m serving tonight, how about we get to seeing what’s up for tomorrow and then move on to lunch?” He placed his glass on the table. “Didn’t know ’til half an hour ago, but Milt Foley’s decided to come tonight with—are you ready? A 1996 Krug Clos d’Ambonna. Looks like Milt wanted to get in ahead of the Chungs. In the meantime, as always, Ruby’s representing a buyer.”
“Ya’ll.” Ruby reached for a velvet bag she’d set at the side of the sofa, “My client has this here Jacques Selosse Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Brut 1990.” She moved to the table, and unzipped the bag, pulling out a white, blue, and yellow-labelled bottle from a padded interior. “Now, I’ve only got one with me, not exciting I know, but this is luscious, salty caramel, stone-fruit, umami and, heck, even a little pixie dust. There are six bottles in total and I can have ’em here tomorrow.” She set the bottle on the table. “Basil?”
“Thank you, Ruby.” Basil gave a nod to Grant. Bleary-eyed, the man found his employer’s leather case and placed the bottle inside it on the table. “Very good, Grant. Now, have a seat before you fall down.” Basil waved his butler away.
Grant found a chair. The guests gathered about Basil’s dark green magnum bottle, its label age-speckled brown. “A 1947 Château Lafleur. I have seven others, eight in total. And this is all so exciting,” Basil said.
Taittinger began to hum along with Peggy Lee and Fever.
Case got to his feet, wooden box in hand. He opened his hinged box, removed a layer of moulded rubber padding, and lifted out a hand-blown, dark green bottle. The top was secured with a thick, black wax seal, the label handwritten and brown with age. The level of the contents sat just below the curve of the bottle’s neck. “Kids, I’ve got a Bordeaux, from American history’s greatest wine connoisseur: Thomas Jefferson.”
A hush fell over the group.
Chapter 4
Mae knew wines were expensive because they could be, but value was subjective and the afternoon was less about tasting wine than it was about owning wine. Owning a rare bottle had prestige. Ensconced beside the table, she watched covetous guests gather around the old bottle Case put on the table. Taittinger rubbed the lenses of his glasses on the bottom of his tee, swallowing as if salivating. Ruby gnawed a thumbnail. Basil wore an amused smile. Nash scowled at Case.
“Ho-lee shit.” Taittinger raised a sceptical eyebrow, moved forward to examine the bottle, and slid his spectacles back up his nose “You’re the guys with the 1787 Jefferson Lafite, the actual Jefferson Lafite.”
“We tried to keep it quiet, but you’ve heard rumbles, and
it’s verified by Jefferson scholars.” Case nodded. “The label, the capsule, and the wax all match records and letters written by Thomas Jefferson held in the collection at Monticello. This bottle came from a property restoration outside Simeon, Virginia. That’s a few miles from Monticello. The estate scholars can provide further provenance if you want it. Why don’t you show us what you’ve got, Jools?”
After chewing his lip for a moment, Taittinger moved. He lifted the box Mae had placed over his bottles earlier. “Let me introduce you to four legendary beauties.” He said and with a flourish, he whisked away the tea-towel to reveal a 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild, a 1961 Jaboulet Hermitage La Chapelle, a 1964 LaTâche, and a 1964 Romanée-Conti.
The Irishman cleared his throat. “Impressive, Jools. That ’61 Jaboulet Hermitage is, no other words for it, fucking delightful, but this, this is beatific.” Nash opened his padded case. Set inside a cushion of moulded blue foam were two bottles. With the utmost of care, Nash drew one bottle forth, turning the 1945 Mouton Rothschild.
Taittinger shifted his glasses and shrugged. “Okay, you have one,” he said, eyes on the un-yellowed label of the bottle.
“No, I have two.” Nash pointed to his valise.
Ruby leaned closer to the table to examine the wine, her, “Bless your heart!” sounding more like fuck you.
“And like Mr Case, I have ironclad documentation, as I’m sure you have as well, Jools.” Nash said, his smile of triumph a very plain fuck you all.
Basil clucked his tongue thoughtfully. “Each bottle here is valuable—or has the potential to be. I’m not captivated by your Rothschild, Bob, but Jools, throw in the Sunbeam and I’d be happy to deal.”
Case’s phone jangled. He spoke quietly into the mobile, moving away from the table.
“Spend all the time you want talking about worth.” Taittinger bent forward to run a finger over the dark green Jefferson bottle before peering even closer at Nash’s Mouton Rothschild. “I can’t wait to uncork this. I can’t wait to taste it. The complexity, the richness, the anticipation of what history will be like on my palate. Jesus, what a thrill!”
“As you Americans say, ‘money talks and,” Nash sneered in Case’s direction, “bullshit walks.”
Ruby caught the Irishman’s look and rolled her eyes. “Spend all the time you want talkin’ ’bout worth and anticipation. Even if I don’t smell what you’re steppin’ in, y’all remember that Koch got ripped off with his Jeffersons.” She set aside her empty wine glass.
Taittinger exhaled. “Okay. We have a responsibility as collectors regarding connoisseurship, provenance—particularly with Jefferson bottles, but don’t you want to know what it tastes like?”
“Thank you for saying that, Jools.” Basil clasped his hands together. “Yes, we have a responsibility. I too have documentation. Grant can fetch it.” Basil turned to his man.
The butler had fallen asleep, chin bowed on his chest, handkerchief in hand.
Ruby gave a musical chuckle. “Oh, my, that man is positively dead.”
“Oh, dear, dear.” Basil shook his head, a concerned rumple in his brow.
Taittinger patter his shoulder. “We can examine provenance later, Baz.”
“Yes,” Nash hissed, eyes on Case returning to the room. “We’re damn well going to examine provenance before anything changes hands. The Jefferson is an anomaly, too specific, too problematic. I’m not interested.” He had an angry slurp of wine and sloshed it about in his mouth.
“Apologies for the call. Ian’s flight’s been delayed again. What did I miss?” Case slid into an armchair, glancing about at the others before he grinned at Mae.
For an instant, she saw Kitt, a flicker of his smile, as she had once before, but the Australian redhead looked nothing like him and her attention shot to the hacking, spitting Nash who missed the spittoon, gobbing wine onto the cream part of the rug. “Who shat in this bottle?” he grumbled.
Mae blotted the stain and listened to Nash insult Taittinger’s wine choices for the afternoon. Some collected wine for the status, some as an investment, some because they truly loved wine and saw it, like Taittinger, as a piece of history. Nash fell into the first two categories. The tasting had kept her occupied, left her no time to have a wandering mind, or be distracted by anything that might give cause for her to think of Kitt for more than two seconds. She counted on lunch and the rest of the night to be the same. Her life was getting back to a semblance of normal—if normal meant determining if any of those bottles on the table were fake, or if any of the guests were counterfeiters. Mae’s money was on Nash, but only because he was an arsehole.
THE CATERER AND HER black-clad crew moved into the kitchen. The team, six women and three men, were waiters, barmen, and a young kitchen lackey. Everything fell into place. Mae went over the evening’s schedule before relinquishing the kitchen to the very capable caterer and her team. Over the course of the night she’d give direction as necessary.
She went to her quarters to dress. Felix jumped upon the couch, scratched at the blankets, turned in a few circles and snuggled down into the bed linens. Mae plugged her phone into the charger on the end table beside the couch and changed into a simple, black taffeta cocktail dress.
A little before seven o’clock, one-hundred and two of Taittinger’s closest friends, colleagues, and wine-loving acquaintances began to filter into the house. She watched. People laughed, drank wine, danced, and spilled things as Taittinger’s easy listening music played. Like his taste in music, her new employer had an eclectic mix of guests. An indiscreet periodontist disclosed the names of his famous patients with gum disease. A fashion designer boasted about his collection of erotic Japanese art.
Another guest, a collector who would be at tomorrow’s private wine auction, had a shining bald head, bushy white beard, a heart-shaped port wine-stain birthmark at his left temple. “Show ’em, how it fits, honey,” Milton Foley said to his wife.
Young, ample-bosomed, and golden-haired, Emmy Foley twirled the full skirt of her low cut, red-trimmed, pine-green gown designed by the erotic art collector. Foley haw-haw-hawed raucously, his laugh cutting through the music. A skinny actor known for playing weasels watched her spin and nudged Mae, muttering through smiling teeth, “Look, it’s a Christmas tree with tits.”
Diplomatically, Mae turned her attention to the crowd, moving on to chat with archivists, art collectors, exhibit designers, academics, nuclear physicists, museum curators, and wine enthusiasts. She circumnavigated the room, mixing in the crowd, chit-chatting pleasantly, withstanding a blast of laughter from Foley, an elbow in the back. At the front of Taittinger’s collection of tin toys, cap guns, and sheriff badges, she caught the haggard look on Mr Grant’s face. He bore Mr Case’s heavy arm draped along his shoulders as the twenty-something photographer zeroed in to take pictures.
“You there,” the photographer jerked his head at Mae, “come and squish in with these two.” Clad in a blue velvet suit, and sporting a handlebar moustache, he grabbed Mae’s shoulder and shoved her in between Grant and Case. “Closer. A little closer. A...little closer...annnnd...Happy New Year!” he said, angling the camera for a few photos before whirling about abruptly to Taittinger and Miss Bleuville. “Show him the love, sweetheart!”
With a nod, Mr Case excused himself and Grant turned to her. Pale, except for the red tip of his long nose, the butler coughed into a folded handkerchief he’d taken from inside his jacket. His hacking had grown worse since the afternoon. “How are you holding out?” Grant rasped. His traditional white shirt, tie, tailored black jacket, and grey waistcoat accentuated his pallid complexion and bloodshot eyes.
“Much better than you.”
With a swallow and grimace, his eyes flicked to Case crossing to the other side of the room. “Yes. I can see you are. Thankfully, Mr Basil has sent me to bed.”
“I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks, so do I. Happy New Year.” He leaned in, kissing her mouth.
Mae g
ave him little push. “Mr Grant,” she glared.
“I’m sorry. That was out of line. I best say good night.” With a wavering, sickly smile, he left her and escaped the great room.
Mae wiped her lips, signalled wait staff to move in with drinks and canapés. For an hour, she tended to work, conversations swirled around her. “...it’s only the largest private collection of Georgia O’Keeffe paintings...”
“...say that when you worship idols haw-haw-haw!”
“...hysterical to stomp out the lanterns at the Farolito Walk on Canyon drive...”
“...the wine the Aztecs drank was made of agave, more like a cider...”
“...and California reds will never match the quality of a Bordeaux...”
An attractive, white-haired woman, the companion of a Lab colleague of Taittinger’s, paused to adjust the strap of her shoe. Belle, Bella, Mae couldn’t quite recall her name— “What,” the woman said, “is this music playing?”
Mae tilted her head, listening. “It’s Nancy Sinatra.”
“Jools is stuck in the ’60s.”
“Well,” Mae chuckled and glanced about the great room, “he does like antiques.”
“And I like that tall drink of water over there, the one with the whole Hugh Jackman Australian thing going on.” She waved a finger to the far side of the room, eyes fixed on Mr Case and the back of a slightly taller man wearing a dinner suit and black cowboy hat.
The Aussie wrapped his arms around the cowboy and kissed him firmly.
“Well, shit.” Belle or Bella planted a hand on her hip. “So much for my kissing him at midnight.” With a laugh, she moved on and Mae watched Mr Case and his fiancé head off into the hallway toward the stairs, hand in hand, Mr Somerset’s cowboy hat bobbing.
The photographer snapped photos. Taittinger’s lounge music serenaded. Guests chattered about wine, art, auctions, pornography, and how the Saint Denis civil suits had recently settled out of court. Kitt had mentioned that intelligence work was occasionally dull, particularly when it came to observation, but for Mae it was part and parcel to being in service, a necessary skill for housekeepers and butlers to be attuned to the household, to the hostess or host, to guests. It was vital to keep a low profile, to remain in the background until required. Her proficiency at observing was why she’d been offered this position.
Forever in Your Service Page 6
