Dead in the Dregs

by Peter Lewis

  “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been here twenty minutes!” he reproached us.

  We ordered from a small outdoor window and took a table inside, sipping beer. Rosen and Goldoni tested each other on where they’d been and what they’d tasted. When the burgers finally came, Goldoni ate with tasteless and unseemly abandon and, not even through one sandwich, hobbled outside to order another and to demand the whereabouts of the pommes frites he’d requested the first time around.

  “Where are you off to next?” Goldoni inquired, his mouth stuffed with a mixture of ground beef, cheese, and potatoes.

  “We have an appointment at Chabosson. And then Thibaut,” Rosen told him.

  “You really have to taste Gauthier,” Goldoni insisted. “His wines are incredible this year.”

  “He’s not my grower,” Rosen said. “But you’re still on for the tasting Friday?”

  “Bien sûr. Who’s coming?”

  “Everybody. The total lineup.”

  “What time do we get started?”

  “Ten. We’ll break for lunch around noon, one o’clock, then finish up.”

  The girl dropped Goldoni’s second burger on the table.

  “Une autre pression, s’il vous plaît,” he called after her, needing another beer to wash it all down. As Goldoni scarfed the sandwich, Rosen and I lit up. The light flooding in from the place filtered through the smoky haze.

  “You were close to Richard,” I said to Goldoni. “Maybe closer than anyone. Who do you think killed him?”

  He looked at me, then at Rosen.

  “What’s going on?” Goldoni said.

  Bayne, who had been uncharacteristically subdued throughout the meal, stared at both of us in turn, suddenly in his element.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” I said. “You don’t seem terribly concerned about it. You’re sitting pretty right about now, aren’t you? The newsletter all to yourself, winemakers kissing your ass. You’re a big, powerful critic.”

  “I don’t like your tone. Or your insinuations,” Goldoni responded, setting the half-eaten burger on the paper plate.

  “Why aren’t you scared?” I said.

  “Scared of what?” Goldoni said.

  “I don’t know. Of being a suspect. Of being next.”

  “If he’s afraid of anything, it’s probably the power he has now,” Rosen broke in.

  Goldoni took an enormous bite of the sandwich. I took a different tack.

  “Did you know that Richard has a child?”

  “Bullshit,” he said. At this, Bayne let out a guffaw. Rosen remained silent but intent on the exchange.

  “He never mentioned it?” I said.

  “Complete, total bullshit. Who told you that?”

  “Eric Feldman. An hour ago.” Rosen now stared at me.

  “And you believe him?” Goldoni rolled his eyes. “Eric would say anything to get back at Richard. He keeps it up, I’ll sue his ass.” He dropped his napkin on the plate, got up, and trundled outside.

  Bayne rose from the table, casting a critical eye in my direction. Rosen stood and crushed his cigarette out.

  “Very delicate touch,” Bayne said. “This your idea of extracting information?” He towered over me. “A word of advice, Stern: You’re supposed to make ’em think you’re their best buddy in the world, be a good ole boy. Get ’em to trust you. Tell ’em a story, and then, when they start correctin’ you, you let ’em spin it out till they trip themselves up. That’s when you go for the jug’lur. They’ll hang themselves, if you let ’em.” His expression changed: the cold, ruthless attorney. “Cross-examination one oh one,” he said and turned. “Count yourself lucky you never went into the law,” he added over his shoulder.

  Rosen scowled and followed him, leaving me to take care of the check.

  By the time I got outside, they’d taken off. My eyes fell on the unwrapped carousel, the horses frozen midgallop in the frigid air, as if time had stopped.

  I had no choice but to pick up the trail where I’d last seen Feldman. I found my way back to the highway and headed toward Nuits. Did it ever occur to you that Richard was murdered not because of what he did but because of who he was? What was that supposed to mean? Aren’t we what we do? And what did Wilson do? He traveled and tasted and judged and wrote about it. He made and destroyed reputations. That’s what he did. And what was he? A wine critic. A preternaturally talented palate. What had Feldman meant? What was he hinting at? What did he know, beyond the astounding fact of Wilson’s having an illegitimate child?

  Something, that much was obvious. That’s why he’d made the call to Wilson, whom he otherwise despised and avoided like the plague. Then again, maybe Goldoni was right. Maybe Feldman wanted to get back at Wilson for everything Richard had done to him when he was alive.

  But the revelation that Richard had fathered a child had stunned me. I was sure Janie knew nothing about it, or else she certainly would have told me. I needed to find Feldman, and this time, I promised myself, I wouldn’t let him off so easily. Not until he’d told me everything he knew.

  I drove back to Collet-Favreau. Claudine sat at her computer in the office. She was surprised to see me.

  “Salut, Babe. What do you need? You are not with Freddy?” she said.

  “No, they went on to another tasting. I’m trying to find Eric Feldman.”

  “But I have not seen him. He did not come back today.”

  “No, I realize that. He said from here he was going to see Trenet.”

  “Ah, oui, Domaine Trenet.”

  “It wouldn’t, by any chance, be near here, would it?”

  “Yes, it is very close.” We walked outside. “You go down this road about two hundred meters, turn left and then right. The domaine is on your right. You will see the sign.”

  “Merci, Madame.”

  “Je vous en prie, Babe.” She seemed slightly mystified by the whole thing.

  I followed her directions and parked on the side of the road in front of a low wall. A bronze plaque read DOMAINE G. TRENET ET FILS. A wrought-iron gate stood open, framing a graveled courtyard that contained a tractor, one ancient and one modern wagon, a rusted wheel, and a child’s bike. The place seemed poised to break into motion at a moment’s notice. A black Labrador bitch dutifully rose to her feet, barked once, then circled and flopped in the shade of the archaic wagon, her sagging teats splayed in the dust. At the sound of the dog’s warning, a man emerged from a shed.

  He was an elderly, elfin fellow dressed in the traditional blue work clothes of the countryside, a small beret perched on the crown of his head. His face had been baked by the sun, and his hands seemed carved of wood, as if they were some mysterious human extension of the vines they had pruned for seventy years.

  “I am looking for Monsieur Trenet.”

  “Je suis Trenet.”

  I explained that I’d been with Freddy Rosen and Eric Feldman earlier in the day at Domaine Collet-Favreau and that I was looking for Feldman, who’d mentioned that he was on his way here.

  “Oui” was all he said.

  Did he know where Feldman was going after their tasting?

  He shook his head.

  What about an educated guess?

  He thought for a moment. “Feldman arrived here from Collet-Favreau. It was before lunch. He tasted quickly, took notes.”

  “What did you talk about?” I said. “Did he mention anything about his other appointments? Did you ask where he was going next?”

  Trenet shrugged. “We discussed the usual. And then he left.”

  “But where did he go? Who was he going to meet?” I repeated irritably.

  “He didn’t say. I think he was having lunch.”

  “At a restaurant?”

  “I’m not sure. He was late. He left in a hurry. C’est tout.”

  It was pointless. I was wasting my time, thanked him, and shook hands. He disappeared into the shed.

  Restaurants were probably a dead end. You go to one from your las
t appointment in order to continue the conversation. If you’re met by another grower, it’s because he is the next appointment, the liaison between the morning and afternoon tastings. No one has the time to waste on lunch unless it’s going to result in commerce, and, anyway, it wasn’t possible to stop by every restaurant in the area to try to pick up Feldman’s trail.

  I turned around and drove back to Collet-Favreau. In the courtyard where Rosen had railed against Joubert’s impudence, the vigneron and his wife were standing sharing a cigarette, talking. They looked startled as I came through the gate.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again. You’re quite certain that you don’t know where Monsieur Feldman was having lunch?”

  Claudine looked to her husband.

  “No, I do not know,” he said.

  “Did Eric mention, by any chance, where he was going later?”

  They both hesitated, and she was the one who finally answered, “No, I don’t think so.” She gave me the names of several domaines in the immediate vicinity, all of which I’d seen in his newsletter, then said, “And perhaps you should try Domaine Carrière in Chambolle-Musigny. It would make sense. I know he visits every year.”

  “Do you mind if I call you again? I hate to keep bothering you,” I said.

  “As you wish,” she said. “Au revoir.”

  I could see them in the rearview mirror as I executed a three-point turn. They gazed at me, baffled as to what I was up to. I wasn’t sure I knew, myself.

  I dropped by the domaines Claudine had suggested, only one of which I knew from my former incarnation. Each conversation was a version of the useless exchange I’d had with Monsieur Trenet; none of the vignerons dared to ask Feldman where he was headed next.

  I thought about packing it in, then figured I might as well swing by Domaine Carrière before driving back to the hotel. I had nothing to lose.

  19

  I drove through the twisting, narrow streets of Chambolle. Domaine Carrière was located on the back side of the village set beneath an outcropping of rock. I pulled into the shadow of a brick wall topped with wrought iron. The domaine was beautifully kept, its stone buildings like rustic barns covered in ivy, a willow and lacy pine enclosed in a brick-lined, fenced garden. I crossed the courtyard where a man was stacking cases of bottles sheathed in plastic and asked for the patron. He pointed toward the buildings.

  I crossed the cuverie, its floor and walls concrete, the room outfitted with a row of foudres, a double concrete fermenting tank, and a pair of stainless steel fermenters, and descended to the cave. A small anteroom led to the first cellar, where a man crouched over a barrel with his back to me, topping it off with wine from an unmarked bottle.

  “I am looking for the patron, Monsieur Carrière. Is he here?”

  “Oui,” he said, not looking up from his work. I did a double take. It was Jean.

  “Pitot?” I said. He glanced up from the barrel. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Is this where you work?”

  Panic crept into his eyes. The bottle in his hands shifted and wine spilled across the barrel.

  “Merde!” he muttered. He set the bottle on the ground and stood up. He didn’t move, nor did I. Neither of us knew what to do.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, his chin raised defiantly.

  Nor was I afraid of him. I simply hadn’t expected to run into him there. In my mind, I was on the trail of Feldman and, wanting to exhaust the possibilities of where I might find him, needed to get the conversation with Carrière out of the way.

  “Le patron?” I said.

  He jerked his head to indicate that the winemaker was somewhere farther inside the cave.

  “You and I have to talk,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere.” I turned away and then looked back. Pitot was visibly squirming where he stood, his body language suggesting he couldn’t make up his mind whether to follow me or run for his life.

  Off the first cellar was a second, twenty by forty feet, with two aisles running between three rows of double-stacked barrels. As I entered it, I looked back over my shoulder. Pitot was watching me.

  Cave gave onto cave, each portal linteled by an I-beam set into the stone so low that I had to stoop as I passed from room to room, each chamber smaller than the next but all vaulted, the individual blocks of their construction indiscernible beneath a darkened slick of mold. Electrical conduit ringed each room at regular intervals, and from the zenith of its belt, a white porcelain shade hung like a corona around an oversize bulb that cast a dim light into the gloomy atmosphere. The marcs and sous marcs, wooden struts like train ties that anchored the oak barrels, ran the length of each chamber above pea gravel. The barriques, held in place by wooden chocks wedged beneath them, were topped off so completely that the base of the bungs oozed, the juice leaching across the oak staves like wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding. My boots crunched on the broken stone.

  I turned a corner into the fourth chamber and found Carrière standing alone. He turned suddenly, startled by the sound of footsteps.

  “Monsieur Carrière?” I asked.

  “Oui, c’est moi.” He was built like a prizefighter, dressed in jeans and a heavy charcoal-gray sweater.

  “Forgive me, but do you speak English?”

  “Un peu.”

  “I’m looking for Eric Feldman, the wine writer.”

  “Yes, I know who he is.” He furrowed a thick brow that ran unbroken across his face beneath a crown of dark, curly hair.

  “I was led to believe that he may have come by here this afternoon for a tasting.”

  “Feldman, no, I do not see him,” he said tersely.

  “Absolutely not? You’re sure? He couldn’t have tasted with someone else?”

  “J’en suis certain. He is not here.” His tone was insistent.

  “I know he isn’t here now. I mean earlier today.”

  “I tell you, he is not here. Not now, not before.” He stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “You think I do not know who comes to taste?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry to disturb you. Merci, Monsieur.”

  At the entrance to the second cellar, I stopped and turned around. He was following me out, and I thought he was going to say something. Unexpectedly, there came a creaking noise, a groan of wood, and, suddenly, an explosion as first one, then two barrels broke loose from their struts, rolling furiously and crashing toward me. I leapt just as one of them careened to the floor, knocking me off my feet.

  “Merde!” Carrière shouted.

  Workers, hearing the deafening clatter, appeared out of nowhere and scrambled to stop the barrels’ frenzied rolling. Miraculously, only one had been compromised by the impact. It lay there, its staves cracked, leaking its contents into the gravel.

  “Vite!” Carrière screamed at the men. “Une autre pièce! And some hose!”

  When they had gotten the situation under control, he turned to me.

  “Ça va?” he said, regarding me suspiciously, as if the accident had been my fault.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

  I was standing in a puddle of red wine, the barrels squatting at odd angles at the entrance to the room.

  “Nom de Dieu, what a mess,” Carrière said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I think you are lucky, non?”

  “I guess so,” I said, taking in the scene and feeling my knee. “It could have been much worse.”

  “Worse for you,” the winemaker said.

  “I’m fine. Do you need any help here?” I offered.

  “No, my men will clean up.”

  I walked out to the car. Pitot was nowhere to be seen. I may have been mistaken before about the incident with the arrow near my trailer, but this time it really did look like he had tried to take me out. But with a wine barrel? It was like a bad joke. Or a cruel joke, clumsily delivered.

  The light had turned. Low clouds broke off the Golden Slope, swirling overhead and skimming the vineyards. I crawled through the village, ran d
own through Vougeot, and turned out to the highway. After a few kilometers, I saw a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror scream up behind me at maniacal speed. They were blinding me—I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the mirror—and I panicked. I hit the gas, but within a second my pursuer was again climbing up my ass. I thought whoever it was was going to ram me. And then I saw a familiar sight: a police car and motorcycle parked on the shoulder, a team of gendarmes, their white belts and shoulder straps reflecting the light of the cars’ headlamps, flagging down drivers and demanding that they pull over to perform a sobriety test.

  On an impulse, I pulled in behind the police car. As one of the officers approached the driver’s side window, I saw the car tailing me shift to the center lane and speed past. It was a dark Mercedes. Probably a businessman impatient to get home in time for dinner. I knew I’d been driving too slowly, thrown by what had just happened at Carrière. You really need to get a grip, I told myself.

  “Sorry, it’s a rental,” I said in English to the gendarme. They hadn’t signaled me to pull over, and by the time I produced the contract and my driver’s license, the cop waved me on irritably.

  “Merci, Monsieur,” I said. He’d never understand what I was thanking him for, and it didn’t matter.

  Back at Le Chemin de Vigne, I stole upstairs to my bedroom before I could bump into anyone. I was shaking.

  Sackheim had said that the French cops couldn’t trail anyone because Wilson hadn’t been murdered on French soil. Was it possible that the barrels had broken loose in Carrière’s cave by accident? Would there be any evidence tying Jean Pitot to the incident? The only time I’d ever heard of barrels clattering to the floor of a cellar was when an earthquake had hit Santa Cruz and several dozen had shattered at David Bruce Winery. But now the earth seemed to be shifting under my feet. My knees felt weak, and my nerves were rattled as if I’d just come through an earthquake myself. The car’s lights blinding me in my rearview mirror had completely unnerved me.

  I needed to lie down and, not bothering to undress, crawled under the covers. Wired and exhausted, I quickly fell into a deep and disturbed sleep.