Dead in the Dregs

by Peter Lewis

  By the time I left the store, dusk had fallen. The sky was a flat gray mirroring the expanse of gravel that swept across the square. I asked a woman rushing home for directions to La Bourguignonne. She shrugged and shook her head, but, after wandering around for thirty minutes, I found the alley that led to the little bistro.

  The place was virtually empty. I explained to the young man who greeted me that I’d just arrived, and apologized for not having a reservation. He seated me at a table tucked in a corner of the dining room, by the door to the kitchen. The menu, written in chalk on a blackboard, hung on the wall. I asked for a wine list. It read like a who’s who of the côte, the big names cheek by jowl with the up-and-coming stars of the younger generation I’d seen featured in the wine mags.

  I ordered a plate of petit-gris snails and a bottle of Pommard and sat back. A few minutes later, just as the maître d’ poured me a taste of the Pommard, two unmistakable Americans entered the restaurant. I immediately recognized the shorter of the two—I’d seen a photograph of him in Wine Watcher’s World. It was Frederick Rosen, Biddy’s contact, for whom I’d left a message. He hadn’t returned my call. He had bushy eyebrows that drooped over sweet, dark eyes ringed by sallow folds. A thick moustache followed the sagging line of his lips, which immediately broke into a huge, phony smile revealing a mouth full of nicotine-stained teeth as he greeted the young man who’d suddenly abandoned me—obviously, the chef’s husband and co-owner—and introduced his companion.

  “Gérard, I want you to meet Smithson Bayne, un avocat.”

  The lawyer must have stood six-four and wore ostrich-skin Luccheses, jeans, and a Hawaiian shirt, its tails loose beneath a buckskin jacket. His sandy hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. He stretched out a hand that could have palmed Gérard’s skull and winked.

  “Hey, Jirard, how ya doin’, buddy? Pleasure,” he said, his voice bellowing in the tiny dining room.

  “There’ll be four of us,” his companion reminded the host.

  “D’accord, Freddy. S’il vous plaît.” They were seated at a table in the middle of the room.

  As I waited for the escargots, I watched the two men pass the wine list back and forth. Just then, a young woman entered the restaurant. Her hair, straw streaked, was pinned up in a tight chignon, revealing strikingly beautiful eyes, slightly sunken, that were heavily lined with kohl. Taken separately, her features were a little off: her forehead too broad, the chin too weak, her mouth too wide. She was like a young wine whose elements had not yet come together, but as an assemblage, their effect was startling, an immature first-growth claret wrapped in a brown paper bag for a blind tasting. You had to work hard not to look, and I gave up without a fight.

  “Monique,” Rosen said, rising from his chair to kiss her. “This is Smithson Bayne,” he continued. “This is the young woman I was telling you about, Monique Azzine.”

  “Bone swah, Mamwazell,” Bayne boomed, rising to his full height to shake her hand.

  At the same instant, a new arrival came through the door.

  “Freddy!” he said, heading for their table.

  I watched, fascinated.

  “Jacques Goldoni, Smithson Bayne. And this is Monique.”

  It seemed too good to be true: I was getting a look at Goldoni on my first night in Burgundy, but, as I knew too well, the wine world was small and all too predictable. Eric Feldman was the only one missing. I thought about going over and introducing myself but decided to stay put and watch the evening unfold.

  “Hi, Monique,” Goldoni said, offering an unattractive grin that he undoubtedly fancied seductive.

  “Hello, Jack,” she said, looking at him with barely disguised distaste and making a point of pronouncing his first name Jack. He seemed unfazed and seated himself.

  Goldoni was around my height but had to weigh at least half again as much. He had an immature face, open and clean-shaven, but his eyes darted with a calculating energy as he looked from Rosen to the girl to Bayne. His tweed sport coat, rumpled and devoid of shape, stretched across his back as he sat down. Gérard fussed over them, describing the evening’s specials in detail.

  “So, tell us, how goes the stage?” Rosen inquired.

  “I arrived just in time for the harvest,” Monique said, fiddling with her napkin. Her accent was nearly imperceptible.

  “But Richard said he saw you in Barsac,” Rosen said.

  “Yes,” she said, glancing at Goldoni. “I started there. A second growth, third-rate château. Terrible propriétaires. So arrogant. I was very alone. They treated me like a servant. I left before the harvest.”

  “Am I missing something? You two know each other?” Bayne said, showing more perceptiveness than I’d have credited him with.

  “Last spring Jack was with Richard in Barsac” was all she offered by way of explanation.

  “They treatin’ you any better here?” Bayne asked.

  “Well, you know, the Bordelais, they make jokes about Burgundy. ‘They are so primitive. Monkeys. You will hate it.’ But I don’t mind. Anything is better than la fausse noblesse Sauternoise. La hauteur, vous comprenez?”

  “You’re at Domaine Beauchamp, right?” Rosen said.

  “In Pommard,” she nodded.

  “But you’re just about done now, aren’t you?” Rosen asked.

  “Oui. We are finishing up. Another week, maybe.”

  “And what then?” Rosen said.

  “I don’t know. André wants me to stay. I’m going to stick around for the Hospices. Work the tasting. Party.” She said party like a true Valley Girl. “But the wine is laid down. I need to figure out what I’m going to do next. Maybe I should come to America.” She batted her eyes at Rosen. “So, you have to find me my next position.”

  “I’m so hungry, I could eat the ass out of a leather duck,” Bayne interrupted them.

  “Quel délice!” Monique said. “Leather duck ass. One of my favorites.”

  Gérard returned to take their order, then stopped by my table. I decided to insert a course of jambon persillé to prolong the meal.

  When I looked back, Rosen had leaned into the table, and I could hear him counseling Monique about how to further her career. Why not let him try to find her a job as an assistant winemaker in Oregon? He had connections.

  Now excluded from their conversation, Bayne had begun holding forth to Goldoni, obviously enjoying himself as he described how he’d relieved one poor bastard of a client of his entire cellar.

  “I cleaned up on that baby!” the lawyer boasted, stealing looks at Monique to see if she was listening. “Two cases of Gaja, couple o’ mags of Petrus, some ole BV Georges de Latour. Must a been ten, twenty cases in all. Man, he never knew what hit ’im!” he chuckled. Clearly, he’d come up with a creative way of collecting his fees.

  Rosen had ordered their first bottle of wine, and Bayne followed with a request for a Chambertin. I could tell Goldoni, now examining the carte, intended to up the ante with an even more extravagant choice.

  “I’m really sorry about Richard,” Bayne now said to Goldoni. Goldoni nodded without interrupting his appraisal of the wine list. “What do you think happened?” the lawyer said.

  “I don’t know,” Goldoni replied curtly. “They thought they had a Mexican guy, the vineyard manager, but it didn’t hold up.”

  “It’s really unbelievable,” Rosen said. “A wine critic drowned in a vat—it’s like something out of a made-for-TV movie. And Richard? Someone we knew.”

  “Someone I worked closely with,” Goldoni amended, glancing up.

  “But who?” Bayne asked. He sounded like a lawyer, zeroing in on the question they were probably all asking themselves.

  “Well, it’s not like everybody loves us,” Goldoni admitted.

  “I know, but, come on . . .” Rosen pleaded.

  “We’ve murdered a few wines between us. Of course, they deserved it,” Goldoni joked.

  They laughed uncomfortably.

  “So, Smithson. Is that wha
t people call you, ‘Smithson’?” Monique said.

  “Call me anything you like, sweetheart,” Bayne said in his deepest Southern baritone, looking down at her.

  “Smithson, what are you into?” she asked.

  “Me, kid? I’m into new oak and fuckin’ goats!” he howled. “I’m into girls on Harleys and takin’ the cellars off unsuspectin’ clients. Have some more wine, darlin’,” he said, emptying their first bottle into Monique’s glass, pumping its neck in blatant sexual allusion, delighted by his own puerile obscenity.

  “He’s a lawyer. And a collector,” Rosen said.

  “Wine?” asked Goldoni.

  “Wine, women, Harleys,” Bayne said.

  “He can’t drink a fraction of what he buys,” Rosen said. “What do you have, fifty thousand bottles in your cellar?” he asked, turning to Bayne. “Last year he dropped a hundred grand on wine,” he added.

  “An expensive hobby,” Goldoni remarked.

  “You rich guys are like that,” Monique said. “You just like to have it around. It’s a prestige thing, isn’t it? Like a pretty girl,” she added. “But why do you like to have him around?” she asked Rosen.

  “Well, as you can see, he’s funny and smart,” Rosen said. “He makes me laugh. Not to mention, he buys a lot of my wine.”

  As their entrées were served, the wine list made the rounds again. Bayne aced out Goldoni, ordering a pricey bottle of Charmes-Chambertin before the other man even had a crack at the list.

  “Ya know,” he said, raising his glass of Chambertin as the patron returned with the next bottle, “Charlopin, in Gevrey, was asked once, ‘What’s the difference between Chambertin and Charmes-Chambertin? ’ An’ he said, ‘You put one finger in your wife’s pussy and another in her bunghole. You take your fingers out and sniff ’em. They’re the same, but they’re a little different. C’est comme ça.’”

  The men exploded in laughter. Monique rolled her eyes.

  “Par-done-ay mwah, Ma’am-wah-zell,” Bayne drawled in apology.

  Monique stood up.

  “Yes, I can see,” she said tartly. “Very funny, very smart. Would you excuse me, please, gentlemen.”

  She tossed her napkin on her plate and walked out. That shut them up. They had no way of knowing I spoke English and didn’t even look up when I stood and slipped out to find her. She was standing outside, kicking the dirt aimlessly. She glanced at me as I pulled out my cigarettes.

  “Want a smoke?” I said.

  “Shit, another American,” was all she said.

  “A little different from them, hopefully,” I protested, lighting her cigarette.

  “You are here for Les Trois Glorieuses?” she asked after a moment, blowing smoke in my direction.

  “No, not really.” I studied her, trying to make up my mind how much to say. “It sounds like you knew Richard Wilson.” Monique didn’t say anything. “You know he was killed? That’s what your friends were talking about,” I said.

  “They are not my friends,” she said. “Yes, of course, I know that he is dead. Everybody knows this. And you? Did you know him?”

  I told myself to keep my mouth shut. I told myself not to reveal anything, to keep the purpose of my trip a secret. And then she took a step toward me, looking me straight in the eye, and her lips parted. She merely tilted her head, and my resolution dissolved.

  “I’m in France to find out who killed him.”

  She shifted her head, and I couldn’t read her eyes.

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “I wish I were. Look, Goldoni’s one of the people I came here to talk to. Maybe you could help me.”

  She inhaled, examining me. Then she exhaled. “I don’t even know your name.”

  I introduced myself as a friend of Wilson’s.

  “How? How do you want me to help you?” Her directness was arresting.

  “Ask him what he knows about Richard’s death. He’s key to understanding what happened. So is Eric Feldman—I’m looking for him, too.” Her expression changed again; now she seemed alarmed. There was no mistaking it. “I’ve upset you,” I said.

  “I can’t . . .” she started but wasn’t able to finish. Rosen appeared at the front door.

  I turned to go back inside, and she started to follow.

  “Hang on, have another with me,” Rosen urged Monique. “Do I know you?” he said to me.

  “Babe Stern,” I said. “I’m a friend of Biddy Teukes. I left you a message a week ago. I was going to try and find you.”

  “Huh, what a coincidence. I was going to call you tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

  “Le Chemin de Vigne, in Aloxe,” I told him.

  “Well, you seem to have met Monique already. Maybe you’d like to meet us in the morning. There’s a tasting at Collet-Favreau. Eric’s going to be there, too.”

  “I know Claudine Collet,” I said. The wine world isn’t just small, I thought; we’re all connected by one degree of separation. “In fact, I called her from the States,” I added.

  I returned to the restaurant, resumed my seat, and settled the bill. Rosen and Monique came back a few minutes later. I stopped by their table on my way out. Rosen introduced me to Goldoni and Bayne, not alluding to the purpose of my trip, which he, if course, was aware of, thanks to Biddy. I was silently grateful for his tact. We agreed to meet at Domaine Collet-Favreau the next morning and to have lunch with Goldoni later on the Place Carnot.

  As I drove back to Aloxe-Corton, I played back everything I’d witnessed. I hadn’t learned much. Rosen wasn’t tough to read. He was patently happy to play the concerned mentor to a beautiful young French girl, clearly relished being a cosseted regular at Gérard’s restaurant, and enjoyed serving as power broker between Goldoni and Bayne. And then there was Monique. Who was she? How had she met Wilson? And what had so upset her before Rosen interrupted us?

  Impulsively, I decided to call Gio when I got to my room. It was, after all, lunchtime in California.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “In France?”

  “In Burgundy. You wouldn’t believe it. I met the friend of Biddy’s I told you about. And Jacques Goldoni, Richard’s sidekick.”

  “Really? What’s he like?” She sounded disinterested. I couldn’t be sure—it may have been the connection—but she didn’t seem all that thrilled by the call.

  “Just the way Janie described him: overweight and underwhelming.”

  She was even less pleased that I cited Janie’s authority on the subject, and said nothing.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “At the winery. I have to get going. My father’s waiting for me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I lay down in bed. What was I looking for? Why did I continue to believe I was the only one who could figure this out?

  I fell asleep, the questions spinning into oblivion.

  17

  The next morning I went downstairs. The dining room was empty. I took a seat at a table set for breakfast and stared at the ashes in the fireplace. An ember released a wisp of smoke. The woman I’d met the day before came bustling into the room.

  “Ah, pardon, Monsieur,” she apologized. “You have been waiting long?”

  “No, not at all. Just got here.”

  “Ah, bon. Du café ?”

  “S’il vous plaît.”

  A minute later she emerged with a platter. She set down a cup and saucer, a ceramic pot of coffee, and a creamer of steamed milk.

  “Vous voulez le petit déjeuner?”

  “Please.”

  She returned with a basket of croissants, brioches, and bread, ramekins of butter and plum confiture, a plate of prosciutto and melon. I sat and made mental notes on my plan of attack. I’d met Claudine Collet-Joubert, as she now was known, on my first trip to Burgundy. Her family had been vignerons for generations, with extensive holdings. I knew sh
e’d married since I’d last seen her, at the International Pinot Noir Conference in Oregon years before. When I’d called her from the States, she’d told me that her father had died and that she was living with her mother and husband in Nuits-Saint-Georges. I’d begin there with Rosen, then start looking for Jean Pitot at one of the two addresses I’d found.

  As the woman reappeared with a small dish that held a perfectly baked apple, a young man in a jogging suit staggered in, gasping for breath, sweat dripping off his forehead.

  “Pardon, Monsieur,” he heaved. He stood momentarily, his hands resting on his knees, facing the floor to catch his breath. “I’m sorry. Seven Ks around the Bois. I’m really out of shape. Lucas Kiers,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

  It was a name I recognized. I’d read several of his pieces in Wine Watcher’s World, and it struck me that, beyond the reviews of any given vintage, he seemed to specialize in human interest stories, features that delved into families feuding over their property—father against son, brother against brother. There was an off chance he might have stumbled across the Pitot family in researching an article.

  “Aaron Stern,” I said, shaking hands. “Babe.”

  “The Babe Stern?” Kiers said.

  “The same.”

  “I haven’t seen your name in ages. Still in the game?”

  “I dropped out. I own a little bar in St. Helena.”

  “You’re here for the Hospices?” he asked, uncomprehending. It made no sense for the owner of a bar to attend so prestigious an event.

  Having blown my cover the night before with Monique, I figured I had nothing to lose. “I’m interested in the murder of Richard Wilson. He used to be my brother-in-law.”

  That got his attention.

  “I don’t quite get it. It happened thousands of miles away.” He reached over to an adjoining table, took a napkin, and wiped his face. “So, I’m assuming that you have a theory that caused you to hop a plane.”

  “I have too many theories.”

  “So, what do you hope to find out? Assemble the suspects like an Agatha Christie mystery and expect one to confess?”