Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  Merle swallowed. It was as bad as she suspected. “They want the money.”

  “Oh, sure, but how do you say? That ship has sailed.” He moved over to a chair next to her, leaning in. “It is a winery. One of the big, old Bourgogne estates. They have many tentacles into government, so many friends. When they want something done they just pick up the telephone and—” He snapped his fingers. “Done.”

  “But they want the money. They’re going to try to get it back from me.” She was shaking now as the reality of it all hit her: the lawsuit, the college money. She would lose the house. “They will sue me.”

  “Sue you? No, no, blackbird. They only want information from you, about Weston. You are his relative. They think he left you something that shows he perpetrated a fraud back fifty years ago.” Pascal took her hand. “Stop the worry now, blackbird. I would not let them do that to you.”

  “You have that power?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  She smiled despite her shivering. He was so sure of everything. “Bien sûr,” she whispered.

  “Do not worry about this, blackbird. I have to jump here and there for the envoy but he is a petit officier. It is only because he is in America he thinks he is a big man.”

  “But what — what is this about? What does the winery want?”

  He shook his head. He was going to push her aside again, she could tell before he opened his mouth. “Because I am involved, you know there is a scam. La fraude.”

  “From fifty years ago?”

  “Apparently.” He was rubbing her hands between his, warming them. Distracting her. She stared at him until he looked up.

  “This is my family, Pascal. Can I trust you? I need to know, about you and about Weston. Whatever I feel about him he was Tristan’s grandfather. And you— if we have something, or might have something— ” She stumbled to a stop, the words frozen in her mouth.

  Pascal frowned. “You can trust me, blackbird. Always. I will not hurt you. But, chérie, this is just boring government stuff.”

  She stood up, pulling him up with her. Stepping over to the sofa she sat again, patting the cushion to indicate his place next to her. “Sit down, Pascal. Tell me everything.”

  Thirteen

  Over the next hour Pascal attempted to lay out the evidence that pointed to a scam by Weston Strachie many years before. The winery, Frères Celice, was a venerable estate nearly four-hundred years old, situated in northern Burgundy in an area known as the Gold Coast: Côte d’Or. Within this region was an even smaller one, Côte de Nuits, the home of some of the world’s most expensive land and wines. There, under a limestone ridge facing the sunrise, sits the grand chateau, complete with turrets, and military-straight rows of grapes of Frères Celice.

  The frères, the brothers of old, were gone. Today four cousins ran the company and only one was named Celice, Pascal explained, but they married well and were wealthy beyond imagining. Their grandfather was one of France’s most important politicians between the wars. He had warned the French about the power of resurgent Germany before the invasion in 1940, when no one listened to him. Grand-père became a hero of the Resistance, saving his famous winery from destruction in the process.

  Now the Frères Celice owners, savvy businessmen and friends to presidents and relatives to generals, were incensed. A series of rare bottles of wartime vintages under their estate label had surfaced. They had been sold piecemeal, one at a time, at small auctions or private sales. Before these recent sales no bottles had been sold, or even located, for decades. How could this be? The Celice family suspected fraud.

  “Because nobody had sold any for years?” Merle asked.

  “They keep a very close eye on their stock, new and old. Wine business, and wine fraud, is a high priority in France.”

  Pascal explained that the family, with the help of the French government, had traced the bottles to New York City. No one had actually seen a bottle though, as they all went to private buyers, some for more than $20,000. It was quite possible, the French thought, that these innocent millionaires had bought something very ordinary, not the extremely expensive and famously delicious wine as labelled.

  Quel scandale.

  “How would that happen?” Merle asked, then remembering the winery where she worked as a guide in the Dordogne. They filled bottles with cheap wine and slapped fancy labels on them. “Like my friends at Gagillac?”

  Pascal nodded. “That is the usual. It is so easy now with fancy printers. The labels can be aged in the oven or with a hair dryer. They look authentic in every way. Sometimes they use old paper and glue in case it is analyzed but that is rare. The rich, they don’t care. They drink the wine and toss the bottle away, thinking they are so superior for buying something so expensive.”

  “Even the non-rich do that.”

  “Most buyers have no idea if a winery even produced wine in the year on the label. It is incredibly easy to put one over on them.”

  Merle asked, “What does all this have to do with Weston Strachie then? Did he import Frères Celice wine?”

  “Not according to his records. But there is some train of thought that he did, or said he did.”

  “Pretended he did, advertised it, then switched it with cheap stuff?”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  Nothing Weston Strachie had done would surprise her. Not now.

  *

  The talk of wine made them thirsty. Pascal found a bottle of champagne someone had brought for Christmas, the good stuff, the Veuve. He had been eyeing it for days. He popped the cork and poured them each a flute. Merle had missed dinner so she threw together a salad with goat cheese and they sat in the kitchen. Pascal tipped his head, watching her. She chewed a bite of lettuce and swallowed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You said you didn’t trust me.”

  She set down her fork. “Sometimes you make it hard. You don’t tell me anything. My mind goes on hyperdrive. I’m back at the window on the second floor, finding your binoculars. Feeling —”

  “Betrayed,” he said.

  “Like I don’t even know you.”

  “I don’t like that.” He took her hand again, rubbing his rough thumb over the back of it. “You do know me, blackbird. Don’t you?”

  In moments like this the suspicions faded. That was what worried her, that emotion-laden animal side that simply spaced out the memory of bad stuff when Sex-on-a-Stick was close at hand. She hated that her hormones could turn her mind to mush, that he could do that. Could she rationally say she knew him? Knew his heart, his soul? Knew his goodness?

  The last two years had rocked her. She was unbalanced, unsure of what she wanted, what she needed to move forward. Did she need a man? Besides Tristan, probably not, but would that always be the case? Did she need this man, delicious as he was? Was having a transatlantic love affair more trouble than it was worth if it brought unwelcome light onto shady relatives? How would Tristan feel about his hero Pascal finding even more evidence that his grandfather was a first class piece of shit? Bad enough the boy’s father had been unfaithful and left them to clean up his messes. Did she want Pascal to dig deeper? Did she have any choice in the matter?

  Pascal was massaging her hand harder as if to bring her back to the present. Two lines of worry deepened between his eyebrows. He did care about her, for her. Annie said so, she used the ‘L’ word, love. Merle looked down at his big, calloused hand then closed her eyes and tried to peer into her heart.

  Whatever was there was shrouded, dusky in twilight, still worrying about the past while preparing for the future.

  So she did the only thing she could think of: She twisted her hand around to hold his and raised his knuckles to her lips.

  Fourteen

  The French envoy at the Manhattan consulate shot his cuffs, thinking wistfully of the cocktail party tonight at the Met. Antoine Girard loved the magnificent art museum, too much some of his colleagues thought. It wasn’t the Louvre, they sneered. But th
e grandeur of the Egyptian and Greek temples moved him. The prospect of beautiful women, couture gowns, delicious wine, and the adroitly edited donors to a major American philanthropy was almost too much.

  He sighed and sat down at his desk, disturbed by the pile of correspondence his secretary had placed in the center. He checked his watch as he pushed it slightly to the right, out of his line of sight. Two hours to kill before he could dash off to the party.

  Beatrice knocked lightly and stuck her blond head into the room. “A call for you, monsieur. Florentin LeBlond. Line two.”

  He nodded and she disappeared. He licked his lips and took a moment to collect himself. He knew LeBlond of course. Girard had attended the Sorbonne with his younger brother. Everyone knew Florentin, an outsize personality wherever he went, and one of the most dangerous men in the business of wine.

  He lifted the receiver and smiled broadly. “Florentin, allo! Quel surprise.”

  The message was gruff, more a growl than a conversation. It was late in Paris, past dinner, and it was possible many glasses of wine and armagnac had been consumed. Girard was ready with an answer to an inquiry about the investigation. But sadly that wasn’t why Florentin was calling.

  “Mateo arrives on Air France in the morning. Nine o’clock. You will send a car to JFK.”

  Was an answer required? Apparently not.

  “He will need some supervision. You know how he is. The cousins Celice made a decision and who I am to go against their wishes? We need a man on the ground there to make sure progress is being achieved. Do you understand, Antoine?”

  “Perfectly, Florentin. I will take care of all the details personally.”

  “Mon Dieu, don’t do that. He needs someone to keep tabs on him, avoir l’oeil sur. I don’t need to explain to you, Antoine, do I? You have someone like that? Someone French but with the balls to keep the boy in line?”

  Momentarily stymied, Girard’s mind flitted through the consulate staff: the security guards, the younger staff, the interns who were mostly college girls. Who could handle a personality like Mateo? Then it came to him.

  “There is a policier nationale here on assignment. Working the wine investigation for you.” And for France, he added silently.

  “He is large? You know Mateo, no slip of a girl.” He wheezed, almost a chuckle.

  “He is tall, yes. He comes from the provinces, a rough sort. He knows how to do things.” Girard winced. How did he know what d’Onscon was capable of? He looked the part at least.

  “All right. Keep a watch on the boy, Antoine. He is to send reports when there is something to report. You will give him information as you get it, yes?”

  “Oui, bien sûr, Florentin.”

  The vintner grunted and hung up.

  Antoine sat still, flushed, heart racing. Florentin LeBlond had that effect on people. But would Pascal d’Onscon feel the same way? Did he respect the wealthy and powerful as he should? Would he watch out for Mateo in a way that his father would approve? And more importantly, in a way that would reflect well on Antoine Girard?

  Girard’s hand was still on the telephone. There was only one way to find out.

  Fifteen

  Merle poured herself a cup of coffee and dosed it with milk, idling stirring as she watched the early morning light creep across the backyard, chasing shadows. Pascal had left early in a Town Car. He’d been gone by eight, something about meeting someone at the airport. He wasn’t happy about it. He called the envoy something nasty.

  They stayed up late last night, sifting through all the documents relating to Weston Strachie and his import business. He didn’t do a huge volume, mostly orders for restaurants and a few specialty shops. Wine wasn’t the business then that it is now. Americans drank beer; it was the age of the martini.

  The first letters Pascal showed her were recent. The Frères Celice winery had written to two small auction houses about bottles they were selling, both from a rare 1947 vintage. The language, Pascal said, translating, was stern, even harsh, threatening legal action. Yet there had been no replies. This was in May of this year.

  Merle sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the papers. She slipped the two letters from the winery back in the file folder. The documents that interested her were the old ones, from 1949. Two invoices and one lading bill from the period, each listing cases of wine. Merle laid the two invoices next to the lading bill. Did they match up? Was the bill of lading for one of the invoices? It didn’t appear so, or the documents were forged. Anything was possible. One invoice was dated September 17, 1951, for six cases of wine. From her time in France she recognized the appellations, the wine-growing regions. Pomerol, Graves, St-Emilion. Famous all. But the names on the bill of lading were different, lesser regions. Not top tier. Not premier grand cru or anywhere near. Even though it was dated less than two weeks later.

  Had something been switched? Was this even the correct bill for this invoice? She frowned and took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. It seemed impossible. So little documentation, so long ago. The man had been dead since 1954. His wife died with him. The company died as well, didn’t it? She leafed through the paperwork, looking in vain for anything about the business post-’54. He’d never made a will, he wasn’t even 40 when he died. His sister Amanda had stepped in, taken little Harold, Merle’s Harry, and moved into his house. The import business faded away.

  Merle got more coffee. It was odd that she’d never known about the house. She assumed it was Amanda’s all these years. No wonder the lawyers wanted to warn Amanda. The French thought she might have something hidden there, a stash of old documents, a safe with secrets. Something that showed that Weston had been a wine scammer.

  It made sense. But it would be a miracle if anything incriminating survived. Amanda must have cleaned the closets once or twice in 50 years. And the attic was remodeled completely. No, that was a dead end.

  Weston Strachie had been in the process of being sued when he died. That was news. A distributor outside the City had accused him of delivering inferior goods, or so the meager language on the single page document said. It was the top sheet to the suit, between Strachie Wine & Spirits and Bayside Wholesale Liquor, dated February 4, 1954. What happened between that date and March 2, when the car had careened into an oak tree, was unknown. Jotted in a shaky hand below was the outcome: “Dismissed March 25, 1954.”

  The telephone rang. Merle stood up to get pluck the receiver from the wall.

  “Merle?” Amanda sounded out of breath. “Has Clifton called you?”

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “He’s — gone.”

  *

  Clifton Gillespie had come back from the errand that she’d sent him on the day Merle and the lawyers visited. But he’d seen them on the street and knew Amanda was keeping secrets from him. He confronted her, angry, yelling. She began to cry again, never good at being yelled at by someone who said they loved her. They made up later that night, she said, and he apologized.

  But in the morning his mood was still dark. He was up early, demanding coffee and complaining about the bacon. He grabbed his gym bag and said he was going to the ‘Y.’ He drove off in his green Chevy and hadn’t returned. He wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  “When was this?” Merle asked.

  “Seven o’clock. Hours ago.” It was now nine-thirty.

  “Maybe he’s just taking a steam bath. Did you call the ‘Y’?

  “I don’t even know which one he belongs to.” Amanda gasped. “There’s all those girls at the gym in tight clothes. In Florida they parade around outside. He’s still young, Merle. Why would he want an old woman like me?”

  “Now, Amanda, don’t fret. Just because he’s late coming back from the gym doesn’t mean he’s run off with someone.” She paused, thinking suddenly of Pascal. “How young is he?”

  “Ten years younger than me. That’s a lifetime.”

  Not exactly. “But you get along so well,” Merle said.

  “Do we?” Amanda
sniffed. “As long as his meals are on time,” she added with a touch of bitterness.

  “Has he ever done something like this before?”

  Amanda didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t recall.” Her voice was meek now, tiny. “Sometimes I don’t want him to not come back, Merle. Is that awful?”

  Merle talked to the old woman for another twenty minutes, reassuring her. Clifton would return in time for lunch. He rarely missed a meal. The prospect of turkey sandwiches and dill pickles was a powerful lure. And so on, until Amanda was calm again, eager to get busy with the mayo.

  When she hung up Merle poured herself more coffee and tried to remember what she knew about Clifton Gillespie. He and Amanda had met in Florida, at the retirement village where she’d bought a condo. She’d moved him in pretty fast but why drag your feet when your days no longer seem endless. They’d married last month, Clifton said when Merle called about the party. Amanda hadn’t said anything about a wedding, or a ring, or a ceremony, had she? Merle tended to tune the old woman out. She had to break that habit. It wasn’t polite or respectful or nice.

  In Harry’s office Merle turned on the new computer. Harry’s old one was ancient. It had caused enough headaches as they tried to find all his secrets after his death. A new hard drive, a fresh lease on life. In seconds she was on the internet, searching for information on Clifton Gillespie. She spent ten minutes fooling around. Did she care enough to spring for a background check? Amanda was a grownup. Clifton was no doubt having a beer and a sandwich at home by now.

  Switching gears she searched for wine scams. Lots of newspaper articles popped up about a particularly successful wine consultant who had printed up his own labels, filled bottles with plonk, and swindled some of the most famous men in America. What a racket. As Pascal explained, he sold them bottles of wine that weren’t even made at the wineries in those years, vintages that could have easily been researched in minutes. But the rich guys trusted this super-salesman and forked over millions. The consultant, an Indonesian living illegally in the U.S. and high profile as well, had been caught, his little craft room in the basement full of labels and printers and bottles, a treasure trove of ‘Catch Me if You Can‘ memorabilia.