Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  He frowned deeper, thinking. “It’s possible. But until yesterday he didn’t know they were the same person. I shouldn’t have told him.”

  Mateo looked flushed, shiny with sweat. He held a vodka bottle by the neck. The caption said they were on Coney Island where an abandoned roller rink had been converted into a dance club for the night. A promoter known only as UnderGregoir was quoted as saying it was just the first of many exciting pop-up clubs planned.

  Merle clicked off the screen. “Wouldn’t it be a breach of protocol to mention Miss Drearie’s other persona to her face?”

  Pascal mulled that as they went back to the kitchen. “Can you take me to the train?”

  “I’m going in to work this afternoon. Can you wait for the ten o’clock train? I’ll go with you.”

  As Merle dressed she called Francie back. “Sorry, I couldn’t get her number. I went by the nightclub last night.”

  “And she obviously was on Coney Island instead.” She sighed. “Keep trying, okay? See you at the skating party tonight.”

  Merle hung up, a bit startled that she’d forgotten about the skating party. Where was her onboard calendar? Pascal had wiped it. Her family had a tradition of ice skating between Christmas and New Years every year, with plenty of cocoa for the children and other beverages for the adults. If the weather cooperated Stasia and Rick flooded their huge yard for an ice rink and decorated it with lights. It was always magical.

  Back in the kitchen she punched the blinking light on the answering machine, a relic from the olden days that Tristan mocked constantly. Aunt Amanda’s voice sputtered and began.

  “Merle? Are you there? Sorry to call so early, you’re probably still in bed. Clifton came back last night. No need to worry any more. He was just out returning some gifts. Everything’s just fine! Bye-bye.”

  What was that about? Amanda sounded weirdly chirpy after her agonizing distress of yesterday. Well, it was good that she had Clifton back. Whatever he was up to, at least they had each other.

  Pascal stood in the doorway, fixing his new scarf around his neck. His hair was still damp, curling over his collar and dripping onto his eyelashes. Merle picked up her briefcase from a chair and felt a rush of affection for him.

  Companionship was not to be overrated, not at this age. She was fifty already, somehow. He would be fifty one day too. Would they have each other then?

  He was looking at her, lip twitching into an almost-smile. “What is it?”

  She put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “You look nice in your new scarf.”

  He laughed. “That is not what your eyes said, chérie.”

  Nineteen

  Pascal waited at the corner near the Alphabet City bar where he was to meet Denis Toulemonde. The area was gentrified, in a way, but kept its gritty face. He liked that about New York, that you could still find authentic corners, places that showed they had lived and survived the worst.

  This bar had seen better days. Pascal took a tour through it earlier to get a lay of the land, as the Americans said. It smelled of beer and cigarette smoke, reminding him of some Paris dives of his own youth. Ripped vinyl seating, scuffed wood floors, and last century’s paint decorated the place.

  With luck he’d see which direction Toulemonde arrived from, maybe even his building. It had to be close, otherwise why pick this place? It could only be convenience. He knew the owner, or frequented it. Pascal fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it with a match. It was a rare indulgence these days and the nicotine hit him like a bolt of lightning. When he looked up again he saw Denis Toulemonde.

  Walking toward him from the far corner the man was dressed conventionally, in gray slacks, a wool peacoat, and scarf. He kept his head down as if trying to evade attention. His bald spot glowed. As he turned to go into the bar he looked nervously down the sidewalk at Pascal then the other way at an old woman with a shopping trolley and a small dog. Apparently neither of them concerned him. He disappeared inside.

  Pascal finished his cigarette, ground it out with a heel, and dropped it in a trash can. He checked his watch. He liked to let subjects sit and worry but it was time now.

  The Frenchman was perched on a stool, talking to a bartender. In front of him was a cup of coffee. Pascal paused inside the door, waiting for him to turn. When he did Pascal nodded toward a booth and slid onto the worn bench seat. Denis still wore his coat. The bar was chilly and they were the only customers.

  Toulemonde settled himself on the seat across the booth. The bartender delivered his coffee and turned to Pascal who waved him off. The sound of the man’s footsteps filled the pause.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Pascal began. The other man sipped his coffee. “My name is Pascal d’Onscon. Do you prefer French or English?”

  Startled, Denis gave a chuckle. “I have been here so long. I dream in English.”

  “Good dreams, I hope.”

  “Sometimes.” He glanced at the bartender, a hipster lad who was not coming to his rescue. He pursed his lips then, gathering his annoyance. “What is this about? You are a policier nationale? Can I see some identification?”

  Pascal retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and flashed his warrant card. Denis squinted at it and sat back, satisfied if not happy.

  Putting his wallet away Pascal explained. “I am with wine fraud, monsieur. You are a wine consultant, yes? We have reason to believe you handled some bottles recently. Two, at least, from Frères Celice, ’47. A rare vintage.”

  Denis had a piggish face, round cheeks and hanging eyelids. His beard was cut very close, not a whisker in sight. His brown hair, thin on top, was gray at the temples and cut close. His lips were full and womanly and his nails were manicured. Everything about him was manicured, unsurprisingly.

  He made a sour face. “Frères Celice? A noble estate but I don’t remember handling any of their bottles. When was this?”

  Pascal brought out a small notebook and flipped the pages. “October 18th. You placed a bottle in an auction at Acker. September second, another bottle was sold at Bonhams. That one sold for $7,000, you might recall.”

  “That wasn’t my sale,” he said, folding his arms.

  “According to Bonham’s it was.”

  “They are mistaken. The people there are notorious for their poor records.”

  Pascal smiled. “I examined their records. Very thorough, both on paper and digital. They were most eager to keep their reputation clean. They cooperated fully.” He paused, allowing Denis to reverse himself. His hands were shaking but no words came from his mouth.

  “Your name was attached to that bottle, monsieur. Your name is Denis Toulemonde, is it not? Your company is Wine Toulemonde?”

  He clenched his jaw. “What is it you want? None of this is illegal, or any of your business, whatever your business really is.”

  “My business is wine fraud, monsieur. You have heard of this despicable behavior, I’m sure, selling counterfeit wines, filling old bottles with new wine. There is reason to believe these bottles are not what as represented.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  Pascal caught his eye. “I believe, monsieur, you do.”

  Denis puffed himself up. “Never have I had such outrageous claims leveled at me. My reputation is spotless. I am just the middle man. I do not research the veracity of vintages. I find auctions for customers who wish to remain anonymous.” He scooted to the edge of the bench seat. “I have an appointment.” He stood up. “Au revoir.”

  Pascal followed him. “We will find the seller. They will not stay anonymous. The estate is judicious, even, some might say, vicious in its pursuit of counterfeit vintages. Even now Florentin LeBlond is raging in his Paris apartment, ready to crush someone. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Florentin.”

  Toulemonde’s entire head had turned red and looked like it might burst. His neck pinched against his collar as he sputtered something then ran for the door.

  “How is your French c
itizenship status, monsieur?” Pascal called. “Is there a danger of losing your U.S. visa? The Americans frown on criminal behavior, I’m told. But if you were to cooperate I could put a good word in for you. But perhaps you would like to go back to France and play games with Florentin LeBlond.”

  Eyes bulging, Denis threw himself out the door onto the sidewalk, Pascal at his heels. In the noonday sun the wine consultant began to run, hurdling dog shit and a bag of garbage as he made his getaway down Avenue B, his jacket flapping.

  Pascal smiled, tossing his scarf over his shoulder. The day was still young.

  Twenty

  The skating party was well underway by the time Pascal and Merle arrived at her sister’s house at 8. Tristan had been there all afternoon, helping polish the ice and set up the quaint skate shack complete with lit evergreen swags. Stasia and Rick had dressed the part as well. They wore costumes every year, usually Mr. and Mrs. Santa, but this year the theme was Dickens’ Christmas Carol. Stasia wore a long Victorian dress with a fur hat and muff while Rick wore tails and a top hat with a red bow tie.

  Merle had forgotten about costumes entirely. Stasia, to her credit, only shrugged and handed out more top hats and ear muffs. Pascal squeezed a black top hat with a tartan band on his head and smiled rakishly for the requisite photos.

  Out on the ice the teenagers swung each other dangerously, falling and squealing. Merle was happy to see her parents had come this year, not in costume but wearing down coats and huge fur hats purchased on a trip to Russia a few years ago. Merle gave them big hugs then went around to Elise who had returned from skiing just that morning. She regaled them with her exploits on the slopes and looked healthy with a little tan on her cheeks.

  Francie hadn’t brought anyone this time. But she’d put together another massive cheese tray. She just couldn’t get the cheese import business out of her head, she exclaimed. She was planning another trip to France this summer to check out exporters.

  The surprise of the night came later, after cocoa and awkward pratfalls on the ice, just when everyone was thinking they were cold enough to go inside. Annie and Callum arrived, carrying bags of fruit she’d gotten at the office and more wine, of course. They quickly put on elf hats and skates and took turns around the makeshift rink, laughing.

  Pascal sat shivering on a bench made from a snowbank covered with blankets. Callum fell off the ice and declared himself a danger to humanity.

  “Where is the bag I brought, lass?” he called to Annie. He looked desperately at Pascal. “Wine. Urgently.”

  “I have a corkscrew,” Pascal said. “Did you bring a bottle?”

  Unlacing his oversized hockey skates Callum put his boots back on and went in search of beverages. Returning he borrowed Pascal’s corkscrew attached to a pocket knife. With a flourish he popped the cork on a bottle of wine and poured two plastic cups for Annie and Pascal. Handing one to Annie as she glided by on the ice, he poured another for himself. He sat down on the red blanket and ticked cups with Pascal. They each took a long draught, eager for warming effects.

  The wine was deceptively delicious. Pascal stopped shivering and stuck his nose into the cup. Hints of leather, iron, blackberry. He swirled it, took another sip, and held it on his tongue before letting it trickle down his throat.

  He looked at Callum who huddled on the bench, cold and oblivious to the wine.

  “What is this vintage, Callum? It is very fine,” Pascal said, holding his cup to the nearest, rather dim, outdoor light.

  “Is it?” Callum frowned into the plastic cup. “I think it was a wedding gift.”

  “Can I see the bottle?”

  Callum reached down to his feet and picked it up, snow caking its base. “Ah, well, it’s French. No wonder it’s so good.”

  Pascal’s pulse began to pound as he held the bottle, staring at the label. It couldn’t be. But it was. Frères Celice. Grand Cru. 1948. He brushed the wet snow off the label frantically and sniffed the open top. The slight scent of mold did nothing to disguise the delicate mix of old flavors lying over the viscous fermented grape.

  “You know it?” Callum asked.

  “Oui. Yes. It is from a famous estate from Bourgogne. Burgundy.”

  “Have some more, mate,” Callum said. “I’m more a whisky man myself. Wish I’d brought some. It’s freakin’ freezing.”

  Pascal stood up, holding the bottle carefully. He had to preserve the contents. While he had no doubt it was a fine vintage, maybe even 1948, the bottle and the wine must be saved.

  “I think Merle would like some,” he said, turning to Callum. “You don’t mind?”

  “Have at it.”

  He took a step away, looking for Merle. She was out on the ice again, arm-in-arm with two of her sisters, doing some coordinated skate dance and laughing. He turned back to Callum.

  “Where did you say you got this?”

  “At the party, I think. Annie will know.”

  Annie wasn’t on the ice. She stood near her parents as they huddled around a very small bonfire, barely big enough to keep four church mice warm. Pascal moved closer as if searching for warmth. Annie smiled up at his approach.

  “Why, yes, I’ll take some more,” she said, offering her cup.

  He poured a tiny splash and said in a low voice, “I must speak to you about this wine. Over here.”

  Annie wore her elf hat pulled low over her ears, her unruly hair making a cloud over her shoulders. She grinned at him. “Okay, super spy.”

  They stepped away from the bonfire. Pascal leaned close to her. “This wine. Callum said it was a gift at the party. Do you know who gave it to you?”

  “Oh. Hmm.” She tipped the label to the light and squinted at it, her breath frosty over the bottle. “Let’s see. We didn’t get much wine. It was somebody in the family, I think.”

  Pascal stamped his feet impatiently. “Think, Annie. This is important.”

  “It’s good, isn’t it? You only gave me a gulp.” She held her cup out again. He shook his head.

  “I can’t pour any more. Please, Annie. Who gave it to you? Do you have the paper?”

  She brightened. “I brought it wrapped. Let’s look.”

  They found the two grocery bags of fruit the couple had brought to the party stashed inside the skate shack. “We ought to get these oranges inside anyway, they’ll freeze. Help me, Pascal.” She thrust a bag into his arms and picked up the other. “Come on. It’s too dark out here anyway.”

  The warmth of Rick and Stasia’s kitchen fell on them like a wool blanket. Pascal realized his hands were stiff, frozen, as he set down the bag of oranges on the granite counter. He grasped the wine bottle by the neck. He didn’t want to let go of it but his hands might give out. He set it gently on the wooden table, near a pine-cone Christmas centerpiece, far from the edge. Behind him Annie thumped down the other grocery bag and sighed in relief.

  “God, it feels good in here.” She rubbed her hands together then saw Pascal’s face. “The wrapping, right.”

  She peered into one bag then the other. “Here it is.” She pulled out some torn gift wrap, silver and shiny, a red bow dangling on it. “Now where’s the card? People are always forgetting to attach cards to wedding gifts then nobody knows who gave what and— Ah ha.” She ripped a small rectangle off the paper and read it aloud.

  “Best wishes to Annie and Callum. From the other A & C: Amanda and Clifton.”

  Twenty-One

  The bottle sat on Merle’s kitchen table in an extra-large zip-lock bag, looking like the evidence that it was. Pascal had poured the wine into a jar Stasia gave him, tightened the lid and put it into another bag. They sat in the darkened kitchen and stared at it.

  “What now?” Merle said. “Go shake down Auntie?”

  Pascal frowned. “You think she is just a silly old woman.”

  “But she could also be a wine scammer? Really?”

  He shrugged. The bottle looked genuine and the wine tasted like it. To test the wine he would have to ta
ke it back to France, to the laboratory at the University of Bordeaux. He wasn’t sure the police or the Frères Celice would spend the money for the analysis, especially after they tasted it. The educated palates would say it was real enough. If the bottle and the wine were not counterfeit where did that leave the investigation? The only string left now was the owner of the wine, and its source.

  He let out a long breath. “We must talk to her, no matter what I think.”

  “Of course. Tomorrow.” Merle looked at the clock. “It’s too late to call tonight.”

  “It could be the man,” Pascal offered. “Clifton.”

  “He disappeared for awhile yesterday. Amanda was upset but he showed up again.”

  “What does that mean?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “Lover’s quarrel?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. They met in Florida. She usually spends winters down there.”

  “And summers where?”

  “At the house in Levittown, I guess. I never asked. We aren’t that close. I only see her every so often, once a year at the most.”

  “But you invited her to the party. With the man.”

  Whose idea had that been? Merle figured it must have been hers. “They were in town for once.” She touched his hand. “Can we go to bed now? You can bring the bottle with you.”

  *

  The next morning they rose early and headed for Long Island. It was the weekend but the traffic was still heavy with the holidays. Pascal slumped in the seat as Merle drove, working his phone. He had made calls very late and very early, in French. He had slept for just an hour or two. She was afraid to ask what that meant, but for Amanda it couldn’t be good.

  They hadn’t called ahead. Pascal liked to surprise. When they arrived at her door she was in a purple house dress, a turban on her head and without makeup. Definitely a surprise visit and a bit cruel, Merle thought. Amanda gasped, covering her face, and retreated down the hallway, leaving the door ajar. “You must not see me like this,” she squealed, moving faster than Merle had ever seen the woman go.

  They stepped into her living room and shut the door. The house was quiet. The green Chevy, Clifton’s car, wasn’t in the driveway. In five minutes Amanda returned in a velveteen track suit, hair standing on end, vivid swipes of blue on her eyelids and red on her lips. She was out of breath.