Dead in the Dregs

by Peter Lewis

  I dreamt I was searching for something, wandering through a series of cellars, their walls slick with mold, the air clammy. On my first trip to Burgundy years before, I’d visited a domaine that had a glass panel on one end of a barrel so that you could watch the wine fermenting. The image had come back to me in sleep, only this time its contents were bloody and frothing, a trickle of bubbles rising to the surface.

  Jet lag had caught up with me, and by the time I woke up, it was past ten o’clock in the morning. I opened the door of my room, startling a maid who apologized on behalf of the patronne, who had driven into Beaune to buy supplies. She set a pile of towels on a table in the hallway and pulled a slip of paper from her apron pocket. It was a phone message; Rosen had called, asking me to meet them. I decided to pass. I had prepared my own list of domaines, places Feldman and Goldoni visited regularly.

  I showered, needing to rinse away the stale sweat from sleeping fully clothed and the fear that had congealed on my skin. Downstairs, I tried calling several of the vignerons from the front desk, but no one was picking up. The maid offered to make me coffee, but I declined. Out on the highway, I pulled over at a café, ordered a café au lait, and pocketed two croissants for the road.

  I made my way north, retracing La Route des Grands Crus that Sackheim and I had taken south from Dijon, stopping by two or three domaines in each village. It was slow going: spotting the names of winemakers on the small signs that dotted the squares and narrow streets of each town; parking and walking and knocking on doors. I just missed Goldoni in Morey-Saint-Denis, but no one had seen Eric Feldman. Two vignerons—one in Chambolle-Musigny and a second in Gevrey-Chambertin—seemed particularly miffed that Feldman had blown off his appointments with them.

  Around three o’clock, I gave up and took the N74 back to Aloxe. As I entered the common room of Le Chemin de Vigne, the patronne knelt at the fireplace, poking the logs that quickly flared into a crackling blaze.

  “Bonjour, Madame.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

  “Would you care for an apéritif?” she asked. “Un morceau of fruit and cheese?”

  “That sounds lovely, but what I need is to find someone, a young woman who is working at a domaine in Pommard. Beauchamp,” I said.

  “Yes, Domaine Beauchamp. A very fine domaine, but it is difficult to find. I will draw you a map.”

  She returned with pen and paper and placed a kir on the coffee table. I thanked her and drank the apéritif as she drew the map and described how to find Beauchamp. I’d lost Feldman’s trail in a pool of wine. I wasn’t sure where to pick it up. I thought I might have better luck locating Goldoni, and Monique seemed the best place to start.

  Monique Azzine had met Richard Wilson and Jacques Goldoni a few months before Richard was murdered. She’d obviously been upset by Goldoni’s appearance at the restaurant two nights before, a response that made no sense unless something had happened when they’d met in Barsac. Since Goldoni seemed attracted to her, and since I’d blown any chance of getting him to open up myself, I thought it was worth it to see if I could enlist her help. When we’d shared a smoke at the bistro in Beaune, we hadn’t been able to finish our conversation. Still, I knew that I’d aroused her curiosity and that, if only for a moment, we’d connected.

  The narrow streets of Pommard were a labyrinth, and by the time I pulled into the gated drive, twilight had deepened, tinting the sky a dirty purple. The shuttered mansion stood to one side, a neat garden planted at its edge. Pallets of boxes wrapped in plastic were stacked in a perfect square in the graveled yard, composing a post-modern sculpture. A tractor was parked beside the cuverie. A giant wooden door stood open, a faint light spilling from within.

  The first room, an office, sported a desk, a darkened computer, and some lovely antiques hanging on the wall, old winery tools: a pitchfork; an auger for boring holes in barrels; a scythe; and a broad-handled, double-bladed axe.

  I stood still momentarily to get my bearings. I entered a second room. Barrels set two-high lined the walls and ran neatly front to back. I could hear voices from the third cellar. A group of four men stood, glasses in hand, and turned to face me as I came through the door.

  I introduced myself. One of them, André Guignard, was the winemaker. He was young—maybe in his late twenties—and casually dressed in jeans, a fleece jacket, and sneakers. The second, a Frenchman, was an exporter, and the two others were American, an importer and a distributor who were in town for the auction and the week’s festivities.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” I said. “I’m looking for Monique Azzine.”

  “I am sorry, I don’t know where she is,” Guignard said in heavily accented English, but at that instant she came through the door, wiping her hands on the faded overalls that draped her body. Beneath the floppy bib she wore a tight, long-sleeved, white V-neck T-shirt. As she entered she loosened her hair, which had been pulled back in a ponytail, and shook it like a mane.

  “So, here she is,” Guignard said.

  She was astonished to find me there.

  “I’ve finished for the day.” She smiled at Guignard.

  “Then join us,” he said, pulling a stem from an upended barrel and holding it out to her.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have a dinner engagement,” she explained.

  “Ah. With whom?” Guignard asked.

  “Freddy Rosen,” Monique said.

  The Americans exchanged smiles.

  “Okay. Good-bye. Go!” Guignard said, turning his back on her.

  Monique rolled her eyes. “I can only give you a few minutes,” she told me as she led me back through the cellars.

  Seeing the computer in the foyer, I said, “Do you mind if I check my e-mail?”

  She walked to the desk, shifted the mouse, and stepped back.

  “Help yourself. My room is down the hall on the right.”

  I sat down and navigated the search engine. An utterly compelling and predictable mix: two ads for cut-rate Viagra; an offer of First and Second Growth Bordeaux I’d never be able to afford; and a not-to-be-missed franchise opportunity that would have had me frying chicken and slinging burgers for the rest of my life.

  I passed down a short hallway. Her room was sparsely furnished: a bed, a desk, an armoire. A few books stood on a nightstand. A faded hooked rug covered most of the floor. She was showering, the door of the bathroom left slightly ajar. As she stepped out of the shower, I caught a strip of her body from behind: a shoulder, the length of her torso, one leg. She was built like an athlete. She glanced up and, realizing I was in the room, shut the door.

  “I have to get ready,” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. But it’s true that I’m meeting Freddy.”

  “Where are they staying?”

  “He and the lawyer have a gîte, a small house, that Philippe Frossard owns. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation,” I said. Frossard owned the finest tonnellerie in Burgundy. His barrels cost a small fortune.

  “You must meet him. He’s fantastic.”

  She emerged wrapped in a towel. She really was something.

  “Have you ever been to America?” I said, looking away.

  “No, but I’d like to come. Someday. Freddy says he can find a job for me,” she said, crossing to the closet and closing the door behind her.

  “How’d you meet Richard? You said it was in Barsac?”

  “So, you were listening to me?” She craned her head out the door and smiled. Her neck was exquisite.

  “It was a small restaurant.” I looked contrite, and she laughed. “You met him by accident?” I said.

  “Yes. By accident,” she said, ducking back into the closet. “They came to taste.”

  “‘They,’ meaning Richard and Jacques?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “So, you didn’t know Richard that well?”

  She was shuffling through hangers and
suddenly stopped.

  “No, I didn’t. Why?”

  “I told you, I came here looking for some kind of solution to his murder. You seemed very upset to find Goldoni at that restaurant. I’m interested in the reason.”

  She didn’t say anything. I could hear her slip on some clothes. She emerged from the closet wearing black jeans and a sweater. She held a pair of boots in her hand, dropped them in front of the bed, and walked back to the bathroom.

  “Did Richard ever make a pass at you?” I asked.

  “I thought we were talking about Jacques . . .”

  “Did either of them hit on you?”

  “Unh!” she grunted, exasperated by my impertinence. She turned on a hair dryer, then shut it off.

  “Do you wish to find Richard’s killer, or do you just want to know about my personal life?” she said loudly. She flicked the dryer on again.

  “I saw Eric Feldman this morning,” I said over the noise of the hair dryer. “He told me Richard has a child.”

  She turned the dryer off again and looked at me from the mirror.

  “What did you say?”

  “Apparently Richard has a child.”

  “A child? Vraiment?” she said, her voice low. She flicked the hair dryer back on and brushed her hair out roughly.

  “You ever meet a guy named Jean Pitot?” I asked loudly.

  She took a moment before saying, “Jean Pitot? Yes, I think so.” She turned the dryer off and emerged from the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But one meets lots of people,” she said, leaning down and pulling her boots on.

  “I could really use your help,” I said. “You don’t seem to have much use for Goldoni, but I’d like you to try and help me find out what he knows.”

  She stood. “It isn’t any of your business. Or mine. Why are you doing this?” It was more plea than question. Please don’t force me to talk about it, to talk to him, her expression said.

  “I was asked to. By Richard’s sister.”

  She searched my face, then said, “I’m late. I told Freddy that I would be there by now.”

  “Is Jacques going to be there?” I asked.

  “I hope not,” she said, grabbing a jacket and purse.

  I followed her into the hallway. As we passed through the foyer, I looked up at the antique implements suspended on the wall above the desk.

  “I guess they didn’t fuck around in the olden days, huh?” I said.

  “They’ve always fucked around,” she said and walked out to the courtyard.

  A slight drizzle glazed the crushed earth. The cube of wine sheathed in plastic looked as if it had been cast in polished steel.

  “You haven’t answered a single question,” I said.

  She stopped and faced me.

  “How should I know any of it?” she said. Then, in a low voice she added, “I didn’t know Richard. He didn’t talk to me.”

  She walked to her car, an old beat-up Fiat, and opened the door. The same panic I’d seen in Pitot’s face suddenly took hold of her features, a mute fear.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  20

  I didn’t know what to make of Monique Azzine. On the one hand, she was like many young professionals I’d met in wine circles, moving from job to job, working her way up the ladder, seeking the next opportunity wherever it presented itself. On the other, given her looks and the powerful attraction she exerted over men, she might sleep her way to the top. I hadn’t seen enough of her to pass judgment on her competence as a winemaker.

  But I was convinced something had occurred in Barsac, between her and Wilson or between her and Goldoni, something she wasn’t letting on about. Like everyone I’d come across so far, she was keeping what she knew to herself. She’d definitely reacted when I mentioned Eric Feldman and his stupefying revelation, not to mention her awkward response to my question about Jean Pitot.

  Could Pitot possibly be Richard’s illegitimate son? Was the phone call Feldman had made to Wilson in San Francisco the favor he’d been asked to do? Maybe that was the reason Pitot had gone to Napa.

  More than ever, I needed to talk to Feldman.

  As I passed through Beaune, I decided to drop by the Novotel to see if I could find him. A different and more congenial attendant stood behind the reception desk. She tried Feldman’s room, but there was no answer. Several messages were folded in his mailbox, and she seemed surprised he hadn’t gotten them.

  “I am sorry. I think he must be at dinner. Would you like to leave him a message?” she said.

  “Non,” I said. “Merci.”

  As I drove north toward Aloxe, I realized I was famished. Passing a little roadside bistrot that seemed charming enough, I pulled over.

  Its walls were artlessly painted with cartoons of the Folies Bergère, preposterous and misshapen figures that resembled toreadors and señoritas enthralled by the tangos of courtship, seduction, and submission, and I pictured the scene unfolding now at Rosen’s farmhouse, with the importer and his sidekick posturing for Monique’s benefit.

  A plump and jovial woman came out of the kitchen to seat me and handed me a menu. There was only one other party in the place, a couple of impossibly large Brits, and, as I examined the menu, I was subjected to their rambling, pompous rehashing of what they’d tasted that day. A carrying case lay at the foot of their table, and as the patronne left me, one of the men asked her to bring a dozen wineglasses so that they could continue to range through the samples they’d been given. I caught her attention and asked her to bring a bottle of Chambolle-Musigny made by Jean-Luc Carrière that was on the list.

  I took my time over the wine. It was supple, luscious, the fruit opulent and fragrant. Black fruits and bacon fat, as muscular as the man who made it.

  The meal was simple but sumptuous: a platter of sautéed frog’s legs and côte de boeuf, cooked à point with a cream sauce that floated a small forest of morels. I concentrated on my food and wine, intent on ignoring the two men, but they were too loud and offensive, so I ate quickly.

  I wasn’t ready to head back to my hotel. Staying on the nationale, I drove instead to Nuits, took the turnoff to the east, and found rue Cussigny, where the Pitots lived. I killed my headlights just before I reached the house, and parked at the dead end by the railroad tracks.

  The night air gripped me. A slight wind rustled the crown of a line of poplars. The street felt abandoned. The lights of a TV flickered through the Pitots’ lace curtains. I moved as quietly as I could, tiptoeing to the back of the house. Jean’s motorbike was still gone. I walked into a field that bordered the property and crouched in a furrow between two rows of vines.

  I could see into the kitchen. A man was sitting with his back to me, his shoulders hunched, as Madame Pitot moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. From my vantage point, I could hear her screaming at him, and he seemed to be cowering under the onslaught. Finally, she set a plate down and stood there, glowering. He ate his dinner in silence, shoveling the food. I watched him refill his wineglass three or four times. And then a sudden beam of light arced across the front of the house and cast a yellow glow through the cluttered confines of the carport into the field, just missing me. An engine died, and a minute later Jean entered the kitchen. The woman exploded again.

  I could hear nothing of what she was saying, but the rage that impelled it was clear enough. Her anger seemed uncontrollable, and after venting at her son for several minutes without pausing for breath, she stormed out of the kitchen. Jean sat down at the table to join his father, and at last the two men were able to eat in peace.

  I inched my way back along the edge of the vineyard. There was now a worker’s vehicle—a three-wheeled scooter with a little pickup bed—in the carport. It was too dark, and I was too anxious to get out of there to be able to see very clearly. The only other thing I could make out was a wheelbarrow, like the ones workers used to burn vine cuttings, that stood propped against the tailgate.

  As I drove past the house, I s
aw Pitot and his father enter the carport. Henri held a flashlight as his son opened the back of the diminutive vehicle. Hearing my car, the elder Pitot fanned the flashlight across the street. I hit the accelerator, the crisp, bright odors of earth and rotting fruit still clinging to my nostrils.

  I was somber the next morning at breakfast and decided to limit myself to a café au lait. If Jean Pitot was Richard Wilson’s child and Wilson had rejected him, mightn’t Pitot have wanted him dead? It seemed a perfectly serviceable motive to me.

  I played back the scene at the Pitots’ in my mind. The mother had been ferocious, a tyrant. The men were terrified of her, husband and son both. Jean had left that morning on a motorbike and returned in a work vehicle—not all that strange, since everyone, with the harvest completed, had begun to cut and burn. But the vineyard I’d knelt in was so ill tended that it seemed impossible Jean and his father would have set to pruning it so promptly. Perhaps he’d been pruning Carrière’s vineyards. But if that were the case, why had they needed to go out to the truck right after dinner?

  My musings were interrupted by two nearly simultaneous events: First, a telephone was placed before me on the table, and, a few seconds later, Lucas Kiers, back from his morning jog, made his puffing entrance into the dining room.

  The call was from Rosen. “Where’d you disappear to yesterday? You should meet us this morning,” he said. “I have a big tasting at Domaine Gauffroy in Gevrey at ten. Jacques will be with us. Smithson thinks you ought to give it another crack after your performance the other day. Anyway, it will be interesting. All my growers will be there.”

  Since I was getting nowhere on my own, the invitation was hard to refuse.

  “Sure,” I told him. “À tout à l’heure.”

  “So, where are you off to?” Kiers asked as I set the phone down.

  “Domaine Gauffroy. Freddy Rosen has some major tasting he’s put together. He said that all of his guys would be there.”

  “Gauffroy? Jesus, I wish I could go. I’ve been wanting to revisit them. I didn’t treat them very well when they were first released. You think you could get me in?” he said.