Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “Did you notice any antagonism between Monsieur Lowell and the other hunters?”

  “No more than is normal among xenophobic people. I’m sure they had strong opinions about him refusing to shoot an animal, and obviously somebody didn’t like him taking pictures.”

  “You seem to have some antagonism toward the hunters.”

  Olivier bored in on him with his eyes. “If you try to use your psychological crap on me again, Monsieur, I will call our respective bosses in Paris and, trust me, you don’t want me to do that. Now, back to tonight’s shooting. I think Tim Lowell is dead because of photos he took at a small party hosted by the private investigator, Yves Laroche, and at the hunt. That is all you will learn from me.”

  The threat was effective. In a more modulated voice, Dubois said, “Monsieur Laroche was indiscreet with his business affairs, as you probably know. The Lyon police had their eye on him because of his heroin purchases, and were about to intervene. But that’s not my territory.”

  “I must call it a night,” Olivier said, looking around and seeing that everyone else was already gone.

  “Very well, I’m off,” Dubois said, and with that he walked out the door.

  Olivier said to Abdel, “It’s people like that who make me want to leave this profession.” He looked around and felt he was seeing the B&B for the first time. The decor was somewhat eccentric and eclectic with ancestral paintings dating back at least to the seventeenth century, mixed in with folk art. Antique furniture that could have come from a grand estate was casually placed with “found” pieces. Tim was a bachelor with a degree of success with his B&B, and perhaps some family money to keep him going. Olivier recalled Max’s instant rapport with him, how she had found him amusing and intelligent.

  He wandered through the rooms, looking for…what? The three guest rooms were orderly. A half bottle of wine, an Auxey-Duresses from Domaine Michel Prunier et fille, was open on a kitchen counter. To Olivier’s mind, it showed the discerning taste of the consumer. Tim had to be an oenophile. This bottle, more than anything, told Olivier that he would have enjoyed a repast with this man who also listed cooking classes in his brochure, and who had the volume turned up on a Schumann piece.

  The police had taken quite a few items with them, but would return in daylight to analyze others. They had Tim’s laptop, iPad, and phone which, these days, had much more credibility than anything jotted on the slips of paper that were scattered about. LUCY was written in caps on a post-it. Tim had doodled a heart next to her name, and beneath it he had written the date he took her to Paris. Olivier suddenly longed to be with Max. He asked Abdel if he would care to stay at Isabelle’s, but he said he preferred driving back to Lyon.

  Olivier reflexively thrust the note into his pocket and, locking the door behind him, walked to Isabelle’s house, going over in his mind the awful exchange with Dubois. He hadn’t been forced to take the case, but Dubois and also Caron, in his way, were making it clear that he was an outsider, something he had rarely experienced. He knew why he lobbied for the case. He felt responsible. And now that Tim was dead, he felt that he had failed in a big way. If he and Max had gone immediately to Tim’s instead of first enjoying a wonderful dinner, he might still be alive. Olivier had experienced a moment of jealousy for the man, not because he was worried about Max being attracted to him, but because he himself would love to be more like Tim. Someone so comfortable in his life, and in his environment, that he exuded a rare positivity.

  On my behalf, he thought as he neared the porch of the great house, I have no doubt that were I not in charge, the murder of Yves Laroche and the shooting of Lucy Kendrick would have been ruled accidents by the authorities and justice would not be served.

  This would be his last investigation before joining the Anti-Terrorism Division. This coming on top of his and Max’s engagement wasn’t fair to either of them. Their wedding loomed large. Would they cancel if Lucy couldn’t be found? He suddenly had a horrible and vivid image of her lying dead in the forest, covered with leaves. It left him gasping. The front door was unlocked, and he quietly stepped in and removed his shoes, trying not to wake anyone.

  Max whispered hi when he entered her bedroom. He stripped off his clothes. “I almost decided to go check on you, you were gone so long,” she said in a soft voice, “but I was feeling too emotional about Tim to go back. Are you okay?”

  “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  She laughed softly.

  Once in the shower, with hot water pouring over him, helping to ease the tension in his body, tears mixing with water, he couldn’t believe how beautiful and soothing the sound of Max’s voice was to him. Perhaps this was what a good marriage was, a partner waiting up for you, and desiring you. He toweled off, and went immediately to her, speaking her name, kissing her over and over, caressing her strong body, inhaling her essence. She responded with equal passion, until the moment arrived when he felt as though they were one.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Max sat at petit déjeuner at her grandmother’s, sipping café au lait, and listening to her grandmother expostulate about Tim’s death. “No one in the village can feel safe anymore,” she said, setting a plate of bread purchased at the local boulangerie early this morning on the table.

  Isabelle was drawn and on edge.

  Juliette said, “Maman, sit down and let me do this.”

  “I’m better off being busy. I barely slept last night.”

  Max, too, had lain awake most of the night waiting for Olivier. When she awoke he was gone. “Off to the prosecutor’s,” his note said. “You are a goddess.” She was barely listening to her grandmother and mother, clinging as she was to those sweet, fleeting moments.

  Juliette fretted. “You have to get some rest. Maybe we should go to Paris for a few days until this murder news isn’t on every headline.”

  Isabelle said firmly, “I can’t leave. I have responsibilities here.”

  “What responsibilities?” Hank asked.

  “What do you mean by that, Henry?” Isabelle snapped. “Are you implying that I don’t have responsibilities?”

  “I think you are weighed down with responsibility, which is why your daughter is worried about you.”

  “There is the wedding to think of…” Her voice trailed off.

  “And there is Lucy.”

  Max felt a shift in energy, and wondered what she had missed. Her glance swept from her father to her grandmother, who had stopped mid-step. Quickly regaining her composure, Isabelle said, “Of course there is Lucy. Everyone has so quickly forgotten about her.”

  Hank had not shifted position. “Her photograph is on the news every twenty minutes, it seems, reminding the world of her disappearance. The beautiful orphan haunting their lives the way missing children’s photos do.”

  “I don’t know where they got that photograph. She looks like a little bird with its feathers gone.”

  “I thought maybe you or Anne gave it to them.”

  Juliette sent Hank a warning look.

  Nice little family moment we have here, Max thought.

  “At least we’re not looking at the face of Uncle George,” Isabelle said, scowling.

  “I agree,” Hank said. “But until he is proven to be an unreliable guardian, he is legally in charge of his niece. It doesn’t look good for the justice system that she has disappeared into thin air. There are sightings everywhere, all false of course. On the news this morning there was speculation that she snuck in and killed her own boyfriend, Tim Lowell.”

  Isabelle’s eyes widened, and she put her hand over her heart. “Mon Dieu, the world is crazy. Our Lucy is the last thing from a murderer.”

  Max had had it. She stood up. “I’m going for a run.”

  Hank said, “Have a seat, Max. This is the only chance we have had as family to be together.�
�� He turned to Isabelle, “You’re going to have to turn her in.”

  Max sat back down, aghast. “Dad…”

  Isabelle looked at him, “I…I…don’t know where she is.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  Isabelle sat stoically for a minute, then nodded.

  “I thought so. Is she under a doctor’s care?”

  “One of us is a retired doctor.”

  Juliette had led her mother to a chair and sat with her arm around her. Max’s thoughts churned around as though they were in a blender. “I’ll call Olivier.”

  “Give your grandmother a minute,” Hank said.

  “I need longer than a minute,” Isabelle said. “I am clear that I won’t make a decision for the group.”

  “What group?” Max asked, still in amazement.

  “Femmes et Vins de Bourgogne. We are in solidarity on this, and are willing to go to prison for our actions. We planned Lucy’s escape from the hospital, and now we are like the Underground Railroad in America, moving her from one home to another.”

  Max said, “I’m a member of the investigation and should not be listening to this.”

  “Lucy is preparing to step forward as soon as George Wyeth relinquishes his right to control her life. He must give up his guardianship.”

  Max said, “There can be no negotiation until Lucy is brought in.” She hesitated, “Does she know about Tim?”

  “Yes. And she’s devastated. He helped with the escape. They had planned to meet up tomorrow morning at her new destination.”

  Hank said, “I want you to take Max and me to her.”

  Isabelle looked at him. “I have to make a phone call.”

  “Tell Anne that we will be there in ten minutes.”

  She got up and briskly walked out of the room.

  “How did you know, Dad?”

  “Your grandmother hasn’t been herself lately. She has been questioning her own actions, worried about the repercussions for you and Olivier. Anne, I am sure, is the ringleader.”

  Isabelle returned and said, “Anne will be ready.” She fixed her stern eyes on Hank. “If this gets botched up, I will never speak to you again.”

  He nodded somberly and Max was proud of him for not pointing out that she hadn’t spoken to him for thirty years, so why would this be different?

  ***

  Anne smiled calmly as they entered, not in the least contrite. “We should probably leave right away,” Anne said. “She’s tucked away in a remote area.”

  “I should let Olivier know where I am,” Max said.

  “I didn’t agree to Olivier being involved,” Anne said. “Neither you nor Hank can make an arrest. Lucy can talk to you and you can advise her.”

  Max didn’t mention her new position with Interpol. She remained silent and climbed into the backseat of Anne’s car. She didn’t know when, if ever, she had felt her loyalty so torn. Olivier would not understand them leaving him out of this, and at the same time she couldn’t imagine herself sitting at Isabelle’s twiddling her thumbs while Hank was meeting with Lucy.

  Anne said, “I hope you understand why we did what we did. Thirty of the women in our group met, and we were all in agreement that we had to keep Lucy safe until she could speak out for herself.”

  “She was never in a full coma, was she?” Hank said.

  “She was extremely weak and drifting in and out of consciousness. One day, when Isabelle and I were with her she opened her eyes, and said in a tiny voice, “Someone tried to strangle me. I have to leave.”

  Isabelle said, “We leaned over her bed and offered to take her to a safe place, but that she had to give herself time to heal. She began to improve from then on. We were certain the aggressor was her Uncle George.”

  Max deliberated about bringing up Anne’s deviousness around Lucy’s father, and decided to confront her, though not without trepidation. “Anne,” she said, “I’ve learned that you’re promoting as fact the assumption that your husband Gervais is Lucy’s biological father. You even went to Yves to see if he could help, and of course, for a ridiculous sum of money, he could switch the DNA report, and give you what you wanted.”

  “This is awfully presumptuous of you, Maxine.”

  “Yves told Jean-Claude to forget winning the land deal, that a lot more was involved than just land.”

  “Max, this isn’t your business. It has nothing to do with the murders.”

  Max glanced over at her grandmother. “Yves was holding onto a lot of secrets. Dangerous secrets. Olivier and Abdel are currently sorting through the contents of his files. He had no scruples.”

  “I’m doing this for Lucy’s good.” Anne’s voice was strident. “Hugo is going to a great deal of trouble, and enormous expense, to help this girl he has never met. She could just as easily have been Gervais’ daughter.”

  “That’s not fair. Diane Kendrick never met your husband. He was in California at the time of conception. There are photographs of him on the Internet accepting a winemaking award on your behalf. Lucy could easily read the same article.”

  Anne’s lips were pursed. She adjusted her sunglasses. “You Americans have no idea how important discretion is. It’s how the French operate.”

  “I agree with Max,” Hank said. “In this case, discretion is used to camouflage the truth.”

  “And what about the parcel of land you and Jean-Claude are in contention over?” Max asked.

  Anne nodded. “I think it’s a good solution all around. If Jean-Claude acquiesces, I will hire him to manage the parcel until Lucy knows what she is doing.”

  “If Lucy is all that you say she is,” Max said, “then she won’t accept it under the circumstances it’s being given to her.”

  Anne pulled the car over and turned around to face Max. “And why would you say that, Miss High and Mighty?”

  Max’s heart was racing. She waited for Hank to jump in, but he didn’t even turn his head. “Because you aren’t honoring your own daughter’s wishes.”

  “My daughter isn’t here, in case you haven’t noticed. She’s in the ground.”

  Max couldn’t believe her eyes were welling up. “She’s irreplaceable, Anne. Lucy could never fill those shoes. You could still have Lucy come and live with you. Think about her. Her whole life has been a lie. Her mother tried to create a fairy-tale life for her. The princess can return to her roots and find her magical father. Maybe she will even find true love. The poor woman loved her daughter, no doubt about that, but she couldn’t face the music either. She allowed her stepbrother, whom she didn’t even like, to take and incarcerate Lucy when she was struggling with depression.”

  “Her mother was right to honor Hugo’s request that she not reveal his name until…”

  “His death. I think Uncle George was right about Diane. Somewhere along the way she gave up all her power. Was Hugo right to demand secrecy from Diane? He took no responsibility for his part in creating a child. And now he’s wheeling and dealing to keep his kids from finding out. Ever. Do you really think they would abandon him if he told them the truth?”

  “I don’t know.” Anne lit a cigarette. Max couldn’t believe she was smoking.

  After taking another drag, and exhaling slowly, Anne said. “Before you bring it up and try to become a peacemaker…a role that doesn’t suit you, by the way…I think Jean-Claude has been having an affair with Alain’s wife, Yvette. I see her entering his house when he isn’t there, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think she’s stable.”

  “He knows it’s been a big mistake.”

  “I don’t want to hear about that. I’m deeply worried that he’s somehow involved in Yves’ murder, though I can’t imagine his motive.” Max thought of the incriminating photos of Jean-Claude with Yvette, but she didn’t consider that as a motive for him to murder; in fact, she thought he had enough ego to fee
l a wash of pride rather than dismay.

  “None of us should have trusted Yves, I realize that now. I’m sure now that he told Jean-Claude about my attempt to have that piece of land go to Lucy. What I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if you find me murdered next.”

  Max had worked enough crimes to know that in families and among friends, there often came a moment when no one trusted anyone. Max understood because, as a detective, she went through it more than she liked to admit, blaming everyone. “So far he has come across as innocent.”

  “Sadly, none of us is innocent, when you come down to it.” She started the car. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Max saw a sign for Bouzeron, an area twenty minutes west of Beaune that was known for the Aligoté grape, considered a poor cousin to the richer wines of the Côte de Beaune or Côte de Nuits. They were on a winding road, and had only passed one other car. “There is a woman here in this village who is a great producer of Aligoté wine, and a good friend of mine. Her name is Sarah and she is practically a recluse, working her two hectares of vines, and creating wines that are pas mal du tout. Her husband left her when she insisted on making her own wine.”

  They turned onto another winding road that turned out to be a driveway, and climbed steadily upward for half a kilometer before Anne stopped at a small house. A village steeple was visible in the distance. The wind had picked up, though the day remained sunny. A woman of around fifty opened the door and walked out, a smile on her face. “Ah, Anne,” she said, “don’t tell me you’re moving Lucy again.”

  “Meet Hank,” Anne said, “and his daughter, Max. I’ve told you about them.”

  “Yes, of course.” She exchanged a firm handshake with each of them.

  Behind them a girl walked out onto the small lawn, her arm in a sling. “Anne!” she cried. “I’m glad to see you.” They exchanged cheek kisses. “I can’t stop crying over Tim.” Tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Anne pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Of course you can’t.”

  “She hasn’t been eating,” Sarah said.

  Max’s mind went to work summing up the girl. Lucy’s voice was raspy, her figure lithe and strong. Easily, she could be the aggressor or the meek. Again, Max thought of herself at that age, and compassion arose in her. She could recall exactly how it was after her brother died, the well of depression that seemed to last forever, the self-destructive actions that had Hank threatening to “lock her up.”